More than just a place to drink, The Ram on Cuba Street does everything a pub is meant to and so much more.
Table Service is a column about food and hospitality in Wellington, by Nick Iles.
In 1946, George Orwell published an essay called The Moon Under Water. In it, he posited a manifesto for his ideal drinking house – the perfect pub. He dreams of a place that “drunks and rowdies never seem to find”, and while there are no hot meals served, “there is always the snack counter where you can get liver-sausage sandwiches”. Perhaps a bit of fun from an otherwise serious man, yet his wish that “the barmaids know most of their customers by name, and take a personal interest in everyone” speaks of someone who truly understands the significance of the pub. More than just a place to drink, done properly it is a vital third space where one can escape the real world.
Since moving here some years ago, I’ve made countless attempts to define my perfect pub, and work out whether Wellington truly has any (it does). I have spent time thinking about the little details: it would be mostly made out of wood; the seats would be at different heights, from low tables in intimate nooks to stools at the bar where you can end up chatting to random people; there must be multiple beers on tap and a few decent wines in the fridge; there should be random pictures and objects pinned to walls that meant something to somebody at some point. Maybe even a fireplace.
When in a pub, you should have to huddle at the bar for service and not form a single-file line; chip packets are to be opened entirely and laid flat in the middle of the table for sharing; you do not have to eat any food and can sit there as long as you want; it is always quiet enough to talk, but noisy enough to never be overheard; most importantly you always feel safe, but there is the promise of potential chaos at any time.
When The Ram first opened, I took all of this into account and decided that it probably wasn’t, on reflection, my pub. It seemed too structured, too neat. Too gentle and polite.
To arrive at The Ram is certainly to see a pub. There is wood, and lots of it. Dark, half-height panelling runs the length of the space and high-top tables mingle in with lower seating. The deep booths at the back of the room are dangerous – like the event horizon of a black hole, the gravitational pull of “just one more” grows exponentially with each passing minute. Behind the bar, you’ll find draft taps with a rotating list of exciting Aotearoa beers, one allocated to incredible local organic cider makers Fruit Cru, and one dedicated to a particularly lethal negroni. There is also an impressive wine list littered with exciting bottles from the likes of Halcyon Days, Amoise and Three Fates. Most importantly, there are stools. Plenty of them.
You can also eat if you want, but you really don’t have to. Though, can I suggest that you do, even just a few bits? Take a little look at the menu at least. It’s really quite remarkable. It does this thing where the longer you look at it, the more exciting it becomes. Naturally, your eyes are drawn to the big traditional pub items: the steak, the burger or the lamb. But then you look closer, and you realise the steak is a generous porterhouse cut with a Café de Paris butter, served on the bone and neatly seared with that signature crust you hope to see on a piece of meat of this quality, the curried butter already melting into a viscous, spiced pool across its surface. All this accompanied by a generous pile of perfectly seasoned skinny fries and a well-dressed, sharp salad.
The burger may read as a standard pub burger, but the reality is far more impressive. It is a house-made patty of brisket and bacon, topped with American cheddar, a fistful of pickles and a house-made special sauce, all on a fresh brioche bun. It’s somehow what I always imagined when thinking of the perfect burger – there are no frills and nowhere to hide when doing something this simple. And though I hesitate to veer into cliché, it has genuinely ruined other burgers for me. It’s available at lunchtime with fries for $20. Remarkable.
The rest of the menu reads better than any other in the city. Salt ‘n’ vinegar fried oyster mushrooms are delicate and crisp, rich with umami and spiked with heat and sourness from a Japanese tonkatsu curry sauce. The kingfish ceviche is cut thick and laid flat across the plate, with red kiwifruit dotted across its surface, providing sharpness, and a herby crème fraîche bringing a real sense of luxury. The lamb ribs are piled daintily, sticky and sweet in all the right places. They come with a small pile of za’atar to dust at will and are about as elegant a plate of ribs as you are ever likely to find. These dishes change frequently and are not a fluke.
Over the past year and a half of going to The Ram, I have been forced to recalibrate my definition of the dream pub. It is still predominantly wooden, and there are still seats at different heights. I can still sit at the bar having a drink, and I am under no obligation to order food. But rather than having to battle through that horrible scrum at the bar while the bigger boys get their drinks first, at The Ram the friendly and professional staff circulate the room, seemingly taking a genuine interest and making sure I am never left without a drink. I’ll usually start with a beer, then move on to a glass of something low-intervention and exciting. And instead of eating my weight in crisps, we will order a few nibbly bits for the table. We’ll then decide that we could probably all handle a main course. At that point, someone will suggest a bottle, and the night will flow onwards. Possibly for quite some time.
So no, The Ram is not exactly the pub I thought I wanted. It’s better. Now, when people ask me what my dream pub is like, I don’t bother to describe it. Instead, I just tell them to go to The Ram.
