Chapter Text
The Life and Times of the Pirates of Blackbeard's Bar and Grill
By Ramona Ross
[EDITOR: well for starters ur not using that title, it's derivative.]
[RAMONA: It's true!]
Blackbeard's Bar and Grill: Other Delicacies and Delights and Fishing Equipment (and Gift Shop) (henceforth to be referred to only as ‘Blackbeard’s’) is the hottest new restaurant to grace the shores of Pōneke.
Only having been open since late January, this pirate-themed place has created a stack of news articles, and not a lot of awards. That’s the thing, though. I’m told the food is fine - much like the food up the road at Taco Bell on Manners St - but people come for the atmosphere. The flavour. The vibes.
The queues stretch all the way down the pavement to Taranaki St every single night, so there must be something to it.
Regardless, it was enough for my editor to let me take a day out to shadow some of the employees and get amongst the place myself. I was almost excited.
Little did I know what I’d come to witness.
[EDITOR: ominous for a positive article. Can you think of a better way to phrase?]
You can see Blackbeard’s from two blocks away - there’s literally a ship hull jutting out high above the pavement, where Cin Cin’s used to be and opposite the outdoor equipment shop. I have no idea the amount of money that must have gone into creating such a staple piece, but it is gorgeous. The name on the hull reads The Revenge.
It’s all very atmospheric.
All I know of the owners is that they go by Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet - yes, that Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet. It seems like the characters have become them, of a sort, because no-one I talk to knows their real names.
Several freshers glare at me as I’m let in. They’re all on their way to a toga party, or coming from one, and scowl as I get to skip the line. The bouncer, a large Samoan man with an effusive smile, notes my press pass and ushers me through a set of dark curtains, his heavy hand a comfort on my back.
The first thing I notice is the decor. It’s rich, and welcoming, and doesn’t look like a facade. It almost feels like we’re actually on a ship in the middle of the ocean. Seagulls cry. Waves splash. I brush the salty sea air from my face and vaguely have a flashback to a past life where I wore leather more often.
It’s… charming. Genuinely.
A brunette, wearing a sort of odd combination of ruffles and velvet rushes over to me before my eyes have even adjusted fully to the candle-lit space. “You’re the reporter, right?” He asks, but barrels on before I can even speak, his English accent coming through quite strong.
I assure him that I am, waving my media pass vaguely in his direction. “Got it.” He says, squinting at it, his nametag balanced precariously on one sleeve. Lucius, it reads. “I’d have you meet the captain and… the captain, but they’re doing a thing-” He gestures sort of grandiosely towards a mast that stretches up… and up… and up, “back there. Won’t be long. Apparently. Who knows at this point.”
“You’ve got a queue down the block out there.”
“That’s part of the charm.” Lucius weaves me through the ship, in and out a few corridors, and into some much less interesting back rooms, full of people in costume, equipment, ropes and freezers. We stop in a dressing room, full of pirates.
“Lads.” He says. “This is our reporter today. Be nice?” He leaves before I can even say goodbye.
“‘m always nice.” The man wearing a seagull on his head says, Scottishly.
“Completely untrue.” The man next to him nestles a hat carefully over his tight-knit curls. “Karl’s the nice one.”
“Hey.” The seagull wearing man clutches at his seagull and winces.
“Stow it.” A greying bearded man emerges from behind a curtain. He’s somehow, inexplicably, wearing cat ears. “You’ll make the people think bad of us.” He holds out a hand. “Wee John.”
“That your name or your character’s name?” I ask, and shake it.
“Little bit of both.”
Wee John
I’d say Wee John is physically imposing. His hand is almost twice the size of mine, and he stands a full foot and a half taller than me. However, the small glasses he slips on as he sits down and the cat ears he’s wearing sort of belie any kind of anxiety I have.
“They’re for the kids.” He says, clearly noting my confused look at the ears. “They like ‘em. Makes me seem a bit less scary, and I like that.”
Pirate cat? Cat pirate? I mean, there was a pirate flag with a cat hanging from the mast when I came in, but even so…
[EDITOR: pics or gtfo?]
[RAMONA: Literally walk down there and see for yourself, Jess, it’s two blocks away.]
Wee John’s known most of the rest of the crew for years. He’s an actor, though he says not all of the others are, and he finds the job thoroughly enjoyable. “In what other world do you get to make believe every day? For most of us, it’s not just a costume.”
‘Not just a costume
for us
’
[EDITOR: dude, come on, sort your phrasing] seems to be the theme of the day as I continue my way around the pirate ship.
Frenchie & Buttons
Frenchie’s finished pinning his hat to his head when I turn back to him and his pal. I squint at him for a moment, vaguely recognising his face… “Wait a minute. I’ve seen you busking up on Cuba St.”
“That’s me.” He says, and winks. “Not many people in this town can play the lute.”
“Not many people in this town can’t read either, but you’re one of the lucky few.” Buttons snarks, gazing into the dressing room mirror with a pensive flair. He straightens the seagull on his head.
“Hey, I can read.” Frenchie shoves him.
The plastic seagull… taped (?) to Buttons’ head wobbles precariously. “Can you?”
“Yeah, I can actually. You’re just ableist.”
[EDITOR: ableist?]
[RAMONA: Frenchie was dyslexic, he told me later. Didn’t know if I should include it?]
[EDITOR: we’ll talk about it later.]
The pair squabble for a moment, playfighting around all the seats in the room. The seagull makes a bid for freedom, crashing to the ground after a particularly theatrical right hook, and the pair stop immediately.
Buttons squats down, cupping his hands around the bird. “You’ve killed Karl.”
“Karl’s fine.” Frenchie reaches out and helps him pin the seagull carefully back onto his head.
Clearly, they’ve both forgotten that I’m here. I don’t mind, though. There’s something so nice to being back around actors.
I find the honesty and connection to be significantly more welcoming than interviewing businessmen
.
[EDITOR: ram, you can’t just say that, do you want more interview work in the future?]
[RAMONA: It’s true though.]
I ask them why they chose to work for Blackbeard’s.
Frenchie just shrugs.
Buttons says, “Always wanted to be a pirate.”
Not much of an answer, but I do almost get it. There’s something oddly comforting about this place, with all its nooks and crannies.
Lucius
My media pass lets me wander the building, provided I stay out of the way, but I run into Lucius nearly as soon as I step out of the dressing room. He’s changed now, still wearing the same mix of eclectic clothing, but in varying different shades.
“Hey.” He says, “Wanna watch a show?”
Sure. Absolutely. That’s what I’ve come here for.
I’m not solely sure why I’ve been allowed the run of the place - from what I’ve heard from other journos, they’ve had very minimal chances to take a look inside Blackbeard’s restaurant but I can come and go as I like.
[EDITOR: really?]
[RAMONA: Look, I’ll explain it in a bit.]
Lucius leads me up a strange mess of back corridors and stairwells, and we emerge out onto the crows nest at the very top of the ship. The interior of the building is huge, I realise, and I’m certain that this place is used, but maybe not at the moment.
Looking down, there’s a table set out ‘on deck’, where about twelve guests are chatting, enjoying what looks like a full and varied meal. If I squint I can see a variety of dishes, and what looks like a… whole goose?
“They’re rich.” Lucius whispers, settling down next to me. He sticks his legs through the slats at the top of the nest. “It’s all vegan too.”
“No way.”
It looks so real.
“Yeah, I hate to say it, but Roach’s pretty good at cooking.” Lucius leans his head out across into the air. “Baffling behaviour considering how recently he got into it. And also because his name is literally Roach.”
I’m sure I’ll meet this Roach (?) later, but for now, I just take a little bit of enjoyment from watching Lucius as down in the set a fight breaks out between a bunch of pirates, who dance around the customers, still eating at their table. Their sword fighting looks… really real. It’s genuinely impressive how they manage to do fights like that without hitting the customers or themselves.
I note that to Lucius, who winces. “Yeah, there’s a reason I’m up here rather than down there. I was terrible, you have no idea.”
“Not a gymnastics background?”
“Our fight director was fab, I just wasn’t.”
Lucius is Stede Bonnet’s biographer, and affectionately calls himself one of the ‘comic relief’ people on the set. “There’s a bunch of different biographers.” He explains. “We write the show as it happens. Most of it is improv, but there’s a few things we come back to.”
Improv?
“Yeah.” He says. “Like… that group down there. They’re paying a lot to be here, so we dress it up. Make it look more realistic. Give them a bit of a show. Be dickish “authentic” pirates. Arguing and playing the fool. The fighting is staged, but the rest isn’t.”
I ask him what he’d do for a crowd that’s perhaps paying a little less.
Instead he chooses to give me a bit of history. “You know why I think people like coming here? Honestly? Ignoring the rich fucks. I think people like coming here cause they see themselves in the crew.”
I gesture for him to go more into detail, because I still don’t quite get it.
“Did you know pirate crews were - historically - super queer? The English had all their sodomy rules and laws and all that, but on pirate ships there was nothing like that. Everyone just did what they pleased. No-one owned each other.”
That was something I didn’t know actually, at the time, but Lucius was right then. I’ve done my research since, and he’s right. A parade of openness and diversity. It’s almost touching.
[EDITOR: your tense is all over the place.]
[RAMONA: You try writing in first person.]
“Pōneke’s probably the queer capital of New Zealand, and Cuba St is the queer capital of the city.” I say, instead. They’re just down the road from the Ivy, from S&Ms, from buildings that historically housed bars catering to men of a certain persuasion… Blackbeard’s has truly settled into Wellington’s queer lifestyle. “You’ve picked a good place.”
Lucius just laughs. “Ed’s done his research. Thoroughly. If you know what I mean.”
I definitely do.
“Our crews are made up of real people and we don’t discriminate our casting based on age, gender, sexuality - whatever.” Lucius shrugs. “I dunno if you could find anywhere else in the city that looks more real than us. Circa wishes they were us.”
I've had my own problems with Circa, so I decide to head that train of thought off at the quick. “Not a lot of… women, though.” I say, squinting down at the carefully-organised chaos below. A balding man is fencing a person with long dark hair, knocking empty plates off one end of the table. “Or any.”
“Oh, there’s women on this crew, you’ve just not seen them.” Lucius says. “But we’ve got a bunch of crews. We alternate gigs. Spanish Jackie… she’s a hit. So scary. So many incredible women with her. And honestly, there's something about Mary too. We've gotta talk about her as well.”
Huh.
“Do you have someone - amongst… all this?” I ask. It’s not great journalism, but I’m interested. This place seems like a lot of work. I don’t know if I’d be able to maintain much of a life outside of it.
“Oh yeah.” Lucius looks vaguely surprised. “Pete - down there.” He points at the balding man. “His character’s called Black Pete which might be a little problematic but everyone eats it up. We’ve been together for… uh, a yearish now?”
I suppose it must help if one’s partner is also part of this whole… beautiful, chaotic scheme. I almost wish that I had that connection, that joy of a place to come back to.
[EDITOR: melancholy]
[RAMONA: yeah in hindsight a bit wanky eh]
Lucius looks down at his partner fondly, watching him swing the sword high, but then he nudges me in the arm. “Look.” He hisses. “Blackbeard’s here.”
And he’s right. Rising out of a massive cloud of smoke - I briefly wonder how much of Blackbeard’s monthly budget goes into dry ice - is Blackbeard himself.
“Avast ye - me hearties!” He cries, and draws his sword.
And to my absolute shock, I recognise his voice.