Robert Stone

Jul 16

After having watched Heston Blumenthal’s Christmas special for In Search for Perfection, I can now say that there are actually people out there who are making things I cannot make. I am neither in possession of a BBC tv contract, nor possess enough heavy machinery, nor monetary funds, to duplicate the meal he served up in that show. It is easily the most decadent thing I’ve seen in ages. For craps sakes, frankinscence tea poured over a gold flaked dehydrated langoustine consomme, served over little bits of perfect something or another?!?! It was all a bit over the top, though I was happy to see that plain ole chestnut and goose soup with mash on the bottom was the dish that got them to shut it. It gave me hope that excellent home cooking could still be achieved without buying scientific equipment. Still, along with the River Cottage series, this is my favourite food program.

Jul 15

Revenge against the liver

Oh… my body hates me again. Or more like my brain takes official walkabouts because it’s made a revenge pact against my liver. Whose dingbat idea was it to go for drinking and jumping about anyway? Stolly’s, then Cha Cha’s, then Firemen, then Tambour, where Y almost got in a fight! The skin around my eyes is puffy and I’m almost done drinking a liter of unsweetened grapefruit juice. Thank goodness Lor made a great lunch otherwise I’d still be moaning and tossing about lethargically in bed, complaining about geopolitics and politician’s hairdos.

Last night makes it almost 9 nights in a row I’ve willingly submitted myself to this bodily outrage. If only detox came in a bottle.

Jul 7

“You can destroy one racket. You can destroy a chair. But you can’t destroy a racket and a chair in the same match. There has to be a limit. Otherwise this is the tennis of a sick person.” Marat Safin

Jul 6

It’s a testament to my love for tennis that I can forego dinner for a game. Nevertheless, Nadal-Federer in the final of Wimbledon, I’m not sure there was even a question. Sometimes around eleven, breathless and still full of wonder, my hunger kicks in. So, soba noodles with fine baby zucchini, young chives and sweet baby lettuce. Fab, and an baby tribute to Nadal, the young new champion.

Jul 5

A big bowl of ketchup, and hold the chutney/coulis

There’s a restaurant I frequent where the food is pretty decent and inventive. Their duo brunch options, terre and mer, are both very prettily laid out, while their poached eggs are almost perfect (marks off for insufficiently drippy yolk). However, in yet another episode of foodies fucking it up, I was flustered by their great ketchup dilemma. For you see, they serve something that looks and tastes remarkably like ketchup, but refuse to call it so. Somehow, in the mess of things, ketchup became chutney, then coulis.

Here are the definitions for you. Chutney is an anglicisation of a Hindi word for a type of condiment usually consisting of fruits or vegetables crushed together with spices and seasonings. It does not need to contain vinegar, and does not need to be thick nor smooth in texture. Ketchup, in its current incarnation, is a smooth paste made from tomatoes, vinegar, onions, and seasonings. Ketchup, however, used to be a word you could apply to any slightly spicy sauce with a vinegar base.

There was a time when ketchup was exotic, a term borrowed from the sailors in their travels across the British Empire. The image of spices and strange sauces made from chillies and fish sauce sent strange perfumes in the air from tropical lands. Kechap is a Malaysian word for a kind of hot sauce.

These days, we are probably more familiar with the North Americanisation of the word. Ketchup, thanks to Heinz, is red, thick, more sweet than sour, and great with french fries.

Which brings me back to Urbane, the restaurant that was giving me definition indigestion regarding their reddish sauce made from tomatoes. My eating partner was keen to say it was a chutney. However, I know the difference between chutney and ketchup and the texture was most certainly closer to ketchup than chutney. As was the taste. When I asked the waitress whether the red sauce on my plate was ketchup, she not only felt the need to label the unfortunate sauce chutney, but to define (incorrectly !) what chutney was.

“It’s a sauce made from chopped fruit, slightly bitter.”

Chopped fruit, yes. Bitter, no.

Now, many explanation present themselves for this error but my bad temper is inclined to think that the ketchup just isn’t pretentious enough for the aspirations of this restaurant. From their onsite DJ to their amuse-bouches, the chefs are certainly not aware of what’s considered hip to have in a restaurant. This is a mistake.

Of course we want our food refined but what exactly is that? Sophistication is not necessarily more pearls and gold, or the liberal usage of truffles, nor the bandying around of foodie terms. These ornamentations are as arrivistes-advertising as an overtanned cougar toting five handbags out of the Versace store. Being refined is less but the best, is a healthy dose of spartan sensibility, paying attention to details, and not ever calling ketchup chutney in the mistaken idea that one term is too pedestrian for fine dining. For heaven’s sakes, even Heston Blumenthal makes ketchup !

Jul 3

heh… rather long-winded comment got posted on the Guardians minute by minute coverage of Wimbledon. Ace number 2!

hurrah! Asked three questions to Radio Wimbledon and all of them got answered! I’ve already asked questions on Radio Aussie Open and had them answered, so that’s two Grand Slam Opens I’ve contributed to… (ok, small potatoes but happy all the same!)

Jun 28

The day after

Just starting to sober up. Realize that last night might have been the party of the year… so far! What madness. Royal Monceau Demolition Party… fun! Will write more about it later… right now, more water, ciggies and books.

Jun 25

Hey Turkey, karma's a bitch

Tonight’s semi-final between Germany and Turkey was interrupted three times. Power failures in Vienna interrupted world-wide signal distribution of the game. During the second interruption, the Germans managed to score, putting them one goal up. Luckily the signal held out long enough for us to watch Turkey equalize, and then Germany take them out for a late goal. Instead of goal, I wanted to yell RRRRRRRRIIIIIOOOOTTTT!

“It’s yellow, it’s ugly, it doesn’t go with anything, but it can save your life.” Lagerfeld, biting it for public safety.

Jun 19

NBA Finals Priceless (via Da Nes)

Jun 18

Art critics at the games

Delightful article featuring art critics from the Guardian following sporting events. The video of the theatre critic, Judith Mackrell, at the races is wonderful and makes me want to hug her.

* Like their English counterparts, the French often bastardize our language. I, however, much adore their typo. It lends an air of desperation to these two comic geniuses.

______________________

So it’s the day after, the day here we’re all supposed to feel rather glum and wilted after dousing our sorrow last night after the game. Except I’m feeling quite well, thank you very much.

For one thing, I barely watched the game since I was barraged by all the work that happens behind a sportscast. Surrounded by those who did watch the game, I saw first hand the anxiety, then the anguish, and finally the resignation that marked last night’s audience. It left me apathetic. For you see, as I am quickly learning, working in sports rearranges the molecules in your brain.

Well, in rather a more benign fashion than any drug, working in sports dulls oneself to the intense drama of most sporting events. And sporting events, with their cast of branded names, their own storyline and storied rivalries, are theatrical. The lights are on, the setting is clear, and now the actors must prove their mettle to decide clear villains and heroes.

But subjecting oneself to drama, night after night, day after day, like seeing JR get killed on a daily basis, dilutes the importance of these great moments.

Mind you, there’s nothing surprising about the outcome. For anyone minorly acquainted with international football, the French team’s sluggish game against Romania was a harbinger of woeful things to come. France’s Euro drama died in that somnolent parade. So, before last night’s grudge match, pitting the World Cup finalists head to head, most of the football cognescenti were already proclaiming their distaste for the team.

Which brings me to my final meandering thought. What is the drama of sports if it is not the improbable win? For the Greeks, the Gods were tricksters, willful and capricious. They were capable of turning great men into fools. The source of Western drama has not changed. If we continue to watch sport, it is to see the underdog, the little men, come out tops.

However, France and Italy are two aged teams, two recent in their successes to fit the bill. France’s team never stepped up to the stage, and their drama was ill-written, to say the least. Domenench willingly played the fool to a comedy nobody wanted to watch. Nothing to lose. Wrong. No one at home, is more like it. Bleeeeeuuuuugghhh.

Jun 11

Laying football and sports aside for a moment, I am soooooo looking forward to the rest of the week. Pramil, Umami-an and (hopefully), Spring laid out for the rest of the week. If nothing else, my belly shall be satisfied! Incidentally, I am going to Umami-an with the delightful Umami.

Jun 9

In case people forgot, here’s why the Italian team are winners in most women’s (and some men’s) eyes. Yum!