![]() A place where anything goes, especially the chilli if you’re not quick to the queue. Welcome to Catering, Middle-earth, Miramar Studios, Wellington, New Zealand. ![]() More Orcs join their brethren, a small fellow with pointy ears and clown-sized feet wrapped in bin-liners has already got a plateful, and, as if it is the most normal thing in the world (which round here it is), Gandalf the White, Saruman the (formerly) Wise and King Théoden of Rohan saunter across to a table, waving casually to crew members. Then, as if some far-off bell has sounded, the room is suddenly engulfed with all manner of beings. Outside the rain is pouring like the end of the world. The room is, to say the least, ramshackle walls of crumbling brick decorated with ‘Elf’ vandalism reach inconclusively to the corrugated roof. At a corner table, three Orcs are deep in conversation, their gnarled heads leaning close together the ugliest of the trio (this is a thin distinction), whose nose seems to have been riveted several times, sucks idly from a carton of apple juice. Order is everywhere, a hushed expectation of the meal to come. As a prelude to luncheon, a string quartet gently evokes a touch of Bach in a minor key, tablecloths are being straightened and napkins folded, and from an adjoining room spills the aroma of food preparation. DAY ONE: picture, if you will, a scene of such refinement and tranquillity it was surely dreamed up under the porcelain gaze of Merchant and Ivory.
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