I haere ahau ki Logan Brown i Pōneke i te rā tuatahi o tōna tūnga whetū Michelin, ā, i tino hira ahau

Tuesday, 7 July 2026

Joel Maxwell (Te Rarawa) is a senior journalist.

Kua whakamāoritia tēnei pūrongo e tētahi hinengaro rorohiko, ā, kua hihiratia e te kaiwhakamāori a Puna, a Joel Maxwell, nāna te pūrongo i whakapai hoki i mua i te whakaputa hei pūrongo reorua. Nā Straker me Microsoft te hinengaro rorohiko i whakawhanake.

This story, originally in English only, was translated into reo Māori by an AI tool then checked and edited by Stuff kaiwhakamāori Joel Maxwell before publication as a bilingual news story. The AI tool was developed by Straker and Microsoft.

HUATAU: I haere ahau ki Logan Brown i Pōneke i te rā tuatahi o tōna tūnga whetū Michelin, ā, i tino hira ahau.

OPINION: I went to Logan Brown in Wellington on the first day of its Michelin star status and felt very important.

Read this story in English here. / Pānuitia tēnei i te reo Pākehā ki konei.

Ko te tikanga, he oruatanga noa iho: I tāpuia e au te tēpu i ngā wiki ki mua mō tētahi āhuatanga tino whakahirahira, engari i muri iho ka mōhio ahau me tuhi ahau mō te kai i tētahi wharekai whetū o Michelin mō te wā tuatahi.

Actually, it was pure coincidence: I’d booked the table weeks ahead for a very special occasion but I realised afterwards I should write about what it’s like to eat at a Michelin star restaurant for the first time.

Mai i waho ka whakamahara tonu mai te wāhi ki tētahi pēke tawhito, mai i roto i taku manuhiri hapa i kī mai he āhua rite ki te whare karakia. Kotahi tonu te tēpu i roto i tētahi ruma o runga e tata huna ana me te tirohanga ki te papa matua i noho ai mātou. Kāore au i te mōhio me pēhea koe e piki ai ki te rohe VIP, engari i whakaaro ahau i a Andrew Little i reira me te napikena i panaia ki tōna kara, e horomi ana i ngā tagliatelle al ragu me te mātakitaki i te Love Island hei wā whakatā i runga i tana iPad koromatua.

From the outside the place always reminded me of an old bank, from the inside my dinner guest said it looked a bit like a church. I spotted a single table upstairs in a nearly hidden alcove with a view of the main floor where we sat. I don’t know how you ascend to the VIP zone but imagined Andrew Little up there with a napkin shoved in his collar, slurping down tagliatelle al ragu and watching Love Island on his mayoral iPad to unwind.

Kātahi ka tae mai te wā kia kōwhiri i tā māua kai. He karohuarehe ahau, he mate nati rākau tōku nā reira he iti noa iho ōku kōwhiringa.

Then it was time to choose our meal. I’m vegan by the way and have a raging tree nut allergy so I had a somewhat limited menu.

Heoi anō, ka tīmata taku manuhiri hapa ki te whakamātau i te rihi waitohu 30 tau o te wharekai, he ravioli pāua i roto i te kīnaki pata raima me te kōhanga manu rīwai reka i runga. I te tapahi o te maripi ki tua o te parāoa rimurapa, ka hū te mīhini pāua ki roto i te pata. He tino pai te maoa o te parāoa rimurapa, he tino pai te pāua, he reka hoki te kīnaki.

My dinner guest however started with a taster of the restaurant’s 30-year signature dish, a pāua ravioli in lime butter sauce with a bird’s nest of crunchy sweet potato on top. As the knife drew across the pasta the dark pāua mince erupted into the butter. The pasta was cooked perfectly, the pāua was excellent, and the sauce delicious.

I tīmata ahau ki ngā harore kongakonga o tētahi momo, ki runga i ngā harore shitake e whakaaro ana ahau. He uaua ki a au te arotahi ina whakaahuatia e te tuari te kai i mua i te kai. E hiahia ana ahau ki te kai.

I started with crumbed mushrooms of the regular kind, on top of shitake mushrooms I think. I find it hard to focus when the waiter describes the food ahead of eating it. I just want to eat.

Mā tēnei ka pātai mai pea koe mehemea kei te moumou te kai pai ki a au.

Āe, kāo, engari āe. Ehara ahau i te mātanga kai - he poaka noa iho e aroha ana ki te kai pai, nā reira oink, oink, ka hiakai te poaka!

In this way you might ask if fine dining is wasted on me. Yes and no, but yes. I’m no foodie - just a pig who loves good food, so oink, oink, piggy needs feeding!

Ahakoa rā, ka ringihia e te weita he hupa, he momo wairenga umami rānei ki runga i nga harore, he pai te reka. Ka haere atu a ia me te ipu kīnaki hāwhe pēnei i te whiu. Kāore he hupa mōu. I ētahi wā e āwangawanga tonu ana ahau ki te aha i pā ki taua hupa.

Anyway the waitress poured a splash of soup or some kind of umami broth over the mushrooms, which tasted good. Unfortunately she walked away with the half-filled sauce jug like a punishment. No more soup for you. I still sometimes wonder about whatever happened to that soup.

I kōwhiria e taku manuhiri he wheke tunutunu rākau me te puku poaka me te tōnipi reka. I inoi ahau ki a ia kia whiriwhiri i tētahi atu mea mō te wheke, e mōhio ana ahau he momo tino mōhio. E ai ki taku manuhiri, he tino reka te kawekawe, engari he iti rawa te ātete ngaungau - he nui noa iho hei hoatu i ētahi pizazz reka me te puku poaka. Ki tētahi karohuarehe, he rite tēnā ki te whakamihi i ngā tāwara i tangohia mai i te ringa reo waitohu pōturi te tunu o Koko te makimaki.

My guest picked an entree of wood grilled octopus and pork belly with sweet turnip. I begged them to pick something else for the sake of the octopus, which I understand is a very intelligent species. The resulting tentacle was, according to my guest, wonderfully tender but with the tiniest bit of chewy resistance - just enough to give it some delicious textural pizazz along with the pork belly. To a vegan that’s like praising the flavours extracted from Koko the gorilla’s slow-cooked sign-languaging hand, but each to their own.

Ko taku rihi matua he motū daikon me te puree kāreti maeneene, ētahi kākāriki wera me te tīhore tōnipi, tērā pea. (Kāore anō ahau i aro atu ki te whakaahuatanga kai.)

My main dish was a daikon steak with smooth carrot puree, some charred greens and a crispy turnip strip, maybe. (Once again I wasn’t paying attention to the meal description.)

Ko te raruraru o te rihi ehara i te mea kāore i te pai te tunua, kāore rānei i te pai te whakamao, kāore rānei i kī i te tāwara, arā. Pēnei i ngā rīhi katoa, he tino mīharo hoki te āhua.

The problem with the dish was not that it wasn’t cooked well, or wasn’t seasoned well, or wasn’t full of flavour, which it was. Like all the dishes it looked amazing too.

Ko te raruraru, he daikon tērā. Ka aha ina kore tō motū e motū? Kāore anō ahau kia noho hei tangata rīhi, ahakoa he maha nga tau e tino hiahia ana ahau i te mīti, nā reira he rite tonu taku pāngia e tēnei taupapatu karohuarehe.

The problem was that it was daikon. What happens when your steak doesn’t steak? I’ve never been a radish man myself, and even after many years really do miss meat, so I’m often plagued by this vegan paradox.

I tonoa e taku manuhiri te hāpuku tunutunu me te tōtiti kōura tora me te pata dashi karameke karepe-whurutu. He tino tika te āhua o te ika, e rere atu ana ki roto i te kīnaki. He hanga waikawa te tāwara te rihi i te haerenga o tana kai, engari he reka kē.

My guest ordered the roasted hāpuku with tora crayfish sausage and a grapefruit caramel dashi butter. The fish looked perfectly cooked, flaking away into the sauce. The sauce became a little too acidic as the dish went on but otherwise it was delicious.

Ko te purini taku tino pai, he keke tiakarete me te rāhipere sorbet; pōuri me te mārama. He rawe, ā, i tāuhiuhia ki aua puawai putiputi iti mārire e pai ana ki a au te kai i ngā wā katoa nā te mea kāore au i te tino mōhio he kai.

Dessert was my favourite, chocolate cake with raspberry sorbet; dark raging against light, or something, you know, contrasty. It was great, and came with those tiny delicate flower petals I always enjoy munching on because I’m not sure they’re even for eating.

I whiriwhiria e taku manuhiri te keke mousse tiakarete karaka me te miraka, a, i arohaina e ia.

My guest picked the orange and milk chocolate mousse cake and loved it.

I a māua e wehe ana i te pēkē-whare karakia, ka haere mai tētahi tangata e mau ana i te tarau poto, e whakaatu ana i te moko kuao waewae, ā, ka whakanohoa. I māharahara māua i mua tērā pea karekau he tika ō māua kākahu.

As we left the bank-church, a man walked in wearing shorts, showing off an ostentatious calf tattoo, and was seated. We’d worried beforehand that we might be underdressed.

Ngā whetū Michelin. Hei aha. Ko tēnei Aotearoa ake tonu. He pai tērā ki a au.

Michelin stars. Whatever. This will still always be New Zealand, which is fine with me.