Dogs snuffled, frogs croaked, and rabbits, torn from copulation, goggled at the sickle moon.
Our friend, the once upon a time Aussie rock star, smacked his lips, put down his Peregrine pinot, and got all philosophical on us.
''Tell me – what's the difference between you Kiwis and us Aussies?''
I pushed my pork sausage around a puddle of tomato sauce. Perhaps he thought I had particular insights, as I am the bloke who has spent half his life one side of the Ditch, and half on the other.
But then, so many of us do. In any debate on the nature of Kiwiness, we should be careful about our audience. Think of Eleanor Catton, far from home, safely munching curries with the literati of Jodhpur.
She casts off several sentences which are not entirely flattering to the old folk at home, and discovers what it's like to sit on a mad tuatara. She next reacts heatedly, and digs the hole deeper. It's dangerous to bite the land that bred you.
The only pure Kiwi at this table was my partner in trouble, the Duchess. And the Duchess is – not to put too strong a point on it – a Kiwi ultra nationalist with strong views on Aussies.
While many of her friends are Strine, this matters not to her opinion of the others of that race. They are crude and loud, and doubtless break wind in church.
I have tried to soften her views by feeding her favourable tidbits of information about Aussies. Did she know that many of them read and write, and they have a Flying Doctor who does house calls?
They, too, favour sheep, there's a chap from Gunnedah who is kind to his dog, and the Wallabies once beat Italy. We could go on.
For Bazza, the questioning rock star, I began with the history stuff. While European Oz started with convict ships, cruelty, and Catholics, we set out rather differently with whalers, missionaries, and Protestants.
Our first war was between races. Their Eureka Stockade battle was between classes – struggling miners versus the establishment's police.
Australia's main 20th century immigrants were from Europe, but ours from Polynesia. Confidence, versus reticence. Little brother resents big brother. One might leave it at that, perhaps adding a few thoughts about the benefits of butter, but Ms Catton's predicament has set me thinking.
You think more closely about being a New Zealander when away from home. One million of us live overseas, and the individual reasons for which each Kiwi leaves, affect each recollection. We all know home differently.
My experience? I left, aged 23, wanting something bigger, and in hindsight, comically eager to prove a point. (A strong plus for many emigrating Kiwis).
My first Australian achievement was being unemployed, stone motherless broke, and very scared. Then I got lucky.
I took my worldly goods to the pawnshop, bought a suit from the proceeds, and was hired by a larrikin television news producer called Kit de Latour. Kit, who believed in old fashioned management from the pub, also thought the best possible qualification was being trained in New Zealand – as he'd been.
Life was suddenly going swimmingly. And the more it did, the more a New Zealand past seemed small, unimportant, petty, and uninteresting. Yep – classic youthful rejection of upbringing. It took years to understand how this reflected more on me, than on the place I'd been raised in.
Eventually, we learn to be kinder to ourselves and to our pasts. To embrace the sometimes dippy quirks and eccentricities of life in a terrific small country.
Eleanor Catton's Man Booker award was magnificent. She's only 29 and – I hope – enjoying her deserved success.
But the hissy fit tirade about her fellow Kiwis she made in response to a shock jock's nuttiness, became diva ish. I'm sure that one day, a few grey hairs down the track, she'll have the grace to feel embarrassed.
John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.
