Behind the Plate - No. 1

Cass and I didn't really need an excuse to go back to Sherwood.

The place already has a little piece of our history.

Our first proper date was there.

So when Sherwood received a MICHELIN Star this year, we thought it was a pretty good reason to return.

Not because we suddenly needed Michelin to tell us the place was worth visiting. We had been going there long before that.

It was more because it felt slightly strange - and pretty cool - to have this kind of recognition happening here in Queenstown.

For a long time, at least in my head, eating at a Michelin-starred restaurant meant travelling somewhere else.

Another city.

Probably another country.

Now we could book a table about a week ahead, drive down Frankton Road and have one here.

That still feels a little surreal.

Sherwood became one of the first restaurants in New Zealand to receive a MICHELIN Star when the guide arrived here in 2026.

But this isn't really a story about Michelin.

It's about what happened after we sat down.

Back at the table

We ordered quite a bit.

Terrine. Flatbread. Twice-cooked potatoes. Salt-baked beets. Wagyu. Market fish.

Cass ordered an orange wine.

I went for a Sherwood Hazy.

Some things felt familiar from previous visits, which I actually liked.

Sherwood hasn't suddenly become a completely different restaurant because Michelin arrived.

There was still something recognisable about the place and about the food.

But there was one thing I kept noticing throughout the dinner.

Texture.

More than flavour, strangely enough.

The potatoes had that beautiful contrast between a properly crisp outside and the soft potato inside.

The market fish had a golden exterior that gave way almost immediately to the soft flesh underneath.

And then there was the Wagyu.

It was beautifully seared, with this very thin crust around the meat. You could feel it on the first bite before getting into the soft, juicy centre.

Maybe it is because I spent years working in kitchens, but that contrast gets me.

Crispy and soft.

Charred and juicy.

Something that gives you resistance for half a second and then disappears.

There is a lot of technique hidden inside something that looks quite simple when it finally arrives at somebody's table.

And I think that was probably my favourite part of the meal.

Then the fish did something else

The most interesting moment of the night, though, wasn't really mine.

It was Cassie's.

The market fish arrived sitting in a pale beurre blanc.

Somewhere while eating it, Cass stopped and started talking about Ireland.

The sauce had reminded her of something she used to eat when she lived with her grandmother.

There was apparently always something in the freezer called Cod in Butter.

She would take one out, put it in a bain-marie, let it slowly warm through and then eat it.

And suddenly she remembered that flavour.

Immediately.

And just like that, we weren't really talking about Sherwood anymore.

We were talking about her grandmother's house.

A freezer.

Ireland.

A meal she hadn't thought about for years.

All because of a sauce on a piece of fish in Queenstown.

I loved that.

The Ratatouille moment

Later we started talking about Ratatouille.

There is that famous moment when the food critic tastes the ratatouille and, for a second, he is no longer the intimidating critic sitting inside a restaurant.

He is a child again.

One flavour collapses all the distance between those two moments of his life.

Cass said the fish had made her think about that scene.

And I reckon there is something very true in it.

We talk about food in terms of good and bad all the time.

Was the steak cooked properly?

Was the sauce balanced?

Was it worth the money?

Would you go back?

All fair questions.

But maybe there is another test we don't talk about as much.

Did the food take you somewhere?

Because sometimes a flavour can reach a part of your memory that conversation can't.

You don't consciously decide to remember.

The plate does it for you.

I'm not a Michelin inspector

I'm not particularly interested in sitting here and giving Sherwood a score.

They already have Michelin inspectors for that.

And having worked in kitchens myself, I know enough about hospitality to understand how much work sits behind what eventually looks like a very calm plate arriving at somebody's table.

Food is subjective anyway.

Someone will love something you don't.

Someone will complain about the dish you would happily order again tomorrow.

That's part of eating.

What I can write about is what happened to us at that table.

I can tell you that the textures were excellent.

That I loved that first little crust on the Wagyu.

That the twice-cooked potatoes were dangerously easy to keep eating.

That the fish sent Cass back to Ireland for a few minutes.

And that a restaurant where we once had our first proper date has now become part of another memory.

Maybe that is enough.

Because for me, the characteristic of really good food isn't only that it tastes good.

Sometimes, good food gives something back to you that you didn't realise you had forgotten.

And for one night at Sherwood, that's exactly what happened.

Behind the Plate

Behind the Plate is a Queenstowning series about the food we eat, the people who make it, and the stories that sometimes appear around the table.

Editorial note: This meal was paid for independently. Sherwood did not invite Queenstowning or know that we intended to write about the visit.