Sunday, December 9, 2007
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
In Safe Hands
Two days ago I visited the Musée d’Orsay.
This place is absolutely humbling. Within hang some of the most famous paintings and sculptures ever known to mankind.
The list is incredible. Here’s a brief—brief—sampling:
* Camille Pissarro — White Frost
* Édouard Manet — Olympia, The Balcony, Berthe Morisot With a Bouquet of Violets, The Luncheon on the Grass
* Edgar Degas — The Parade, also known as Race Horses in front of the Tribunes, The Bellelli Family, The Tub, Portrait of Edouard Manet, At the Stock Exchange, L’Absinthe
* Paul Cézanne — Apples and Oranges
* Claude Monet — The Saint-Lazare Station, The Rue Montorgueil in Paris, Harmony in Blue (Cathedral series)
* Pierre-Auguste Renoir — Bal au moulin de la Galette, Montmartre
* Vincent Van Gogh — Self Portrait,The Church at Auvers, Starry Night Over the Rhone
* James McNeill Whistler — Arrangement in Grey and Black: The Artist's Mother, also known as Whistler's Mother
I walked the halls in sheer astonishment, seeing the very paintings that were in my artbooks at fine arts school, subjects of my art history classes, probably unseen only by a third of this planet, right there in front of my face. I literally gaped in awe.
I mean, Manet’s “Luncheon on the Grass”? Renoir’s “Bal au moulin de la Galette, Montmartre”? Could anyone—anyone—put a price on these paintings? Two hundred million? Five hundred million? A billion?
I was even more astonished, therefore by the fact that they were literally right in front of my very face! Inches away! “Ah,” you say, “inches away through the protective glass barrier.”
No. No barrier. In fact hardly any barrier at all—just an ankle-high black wire about four feet from the wall. I could have stepped over it and in two seconds be feeling the texture of, say, Van Gogh’s “Self-portait.”
This painting alone must be worth over a hundred million dollars. A hundred million dollars.
Okay, there were men with machine guns stationed at every door, or at least beefy security guards with guns in each room.
Try university grads. That’s right, as I type, a university grad is protecting Whistler’s Mother. One in each room, to be sure, but these kids couldn’t guard a Starbuck’s.
But then it hit me in a flash: I knew why this was the case. They had expert reproducers paint from the real painting and have the real ones all locked safely away in a vault in the basement.
That, my friends, is all I can figure.
Maybe I should have stroked Vincent’s face, because he's turning in his grave.
This place is absolutely humbling. Within hang some of the most famous paintings and sculptures ever known to mankind.
The list is incredible. Here’s a brief—brief—sampling:
* Camille Pissarro — White Frost
* Édouard Manet — Olympia, The Balcony, Berthe Morisot With a Bouquet of Violets, The Luncheon on the Grass
* Edgar Degas — The Parade, also known as Race Horses in front of the Tribunes, The Bellelli Family, The Tub, Portrait of Edouard Manet, At the Stock Exchange, L’Absinthe
* Paul Cézanne — Apples and Oranges
* Claude Monet — The Saint-Lazare Station, The Rue Montorgueil in Paris, Harmony in Blue (Cathedral series)
* Pierre-Auguste Renoir — Bal au moulin de la Galette, Montmartre
* Vincent Van Gogh — Self Portrait,The Church at Auvers, Starry Night Over the Rhone
* James McNeill Whistler — Arrangement in Grey and Black: The Artist's Mother, also known as Whistler's Mother
I walked the halls in sheer astonishment, seeing the very paintings that were in my artbooks at fine arts school, subjects of my art history classes, probably unseen only by a third of this planet, right there in front of my face. I literally gaped in awe.
I mean, Manet’s “Luncheon on the Grass”? Renoir’s “Bal au moulin de la Galette, Montmartre”? Could anyone—anyone—put a price on these paintings? Two hundred million? Five hundred million? A billion?
I was even more astonished, therefore by the fact that they were literally right in front of my very face! Inches away! “Ah,” you say, “inches away through the protective glass barrier.”
No. No barrier. In fact hardly any barrier at all—just an ankle-high black wire about four feet from the wall. I could have stepped over it and in two seconds be feeling the texture of, say, Van Gogh’s “Self-portait.”
This painting alone must be worth over a hundred million dollars. A hundred million dollars.
Okay, there were men with machine guns stationed at every door, or at least beefy security guards with guns in each room.
Try university grads. That’s right, as I type, a university grad is protecting Whistler’s Mother. One in each room, to be sure, but these kids couldn’t guard a Starbuck’s.
But then it hit me in a flash: I knew why this was the case. They had expert reproducers paint from the real painting and have the real ones all locked safely away in a vault in the basement.
That, my friends, is all I can figure.
Maybe I should have stroked Vincent’s face, because he's turning in his grave.
Friday, November 23, 2007
New project
Status: relationship
Experiment: glasses of scotch consumed + 7 days in a row + not enough sushi + rapidly losing weight (preliminary clinical weight loss assessment: satisfactory/good)
=
?
Results to be announced.
Experiment: glasses of scotch consumed + 7 days in a row + not enough sushi + rapidly losing weight (preliminary clinical weight loss assessment: satisfactory/good)
=
?
Results to be announced.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Soundtrack of my life?
Since Offramp, Pat Metheny has been pretty steady in being the dude I turn to in the wee hours.
Sorry, Frank.
On another note: I will be spending my 50th (that's so silly as a benchmark--it's the New 70) with my beloved in France. Nope, turning 50 on William Blake's birthday in the company of someone infinitely more beautiful can't be all that bad.
Sorry, Frank.
On another note: I will be spending my 50th (that's so silly as a benchmark--it's the New 70) with my beloved in France. Nope, turning 50 on William Blake's birthday in the company of someone infinitely more beautiful can't be all that bad.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Ear Candy
As a former musician and composer (well, I still compose this and that but don’t play in any pro capacity any more) and furthermore being a recording engineer of sorts, it really struck me tonight just how important the engineering is.
The stereo “spread” . . . well, can I even mention it, being so out of touch these days? Because there’s 5.2 Surround Sound and even 7.0 Surround Sound. That involves seven speakers. I hail from a generation that worshipped quadrophonia and slightly before, eight-track players...
To me it’s always been stereo and headphones. Listening to the Beach Boys’ “Pet Sounds” on my very nice Sony headphones yesterday was an exercise in horror. Even the stereo mix sounds like a pack of wolves — even though the music was fantastic. Goes always to the Beethoven+synthesizer+digital tape deck argument. How much better would they have done it if they’d had the technology . . . I contrasted it with Sgt. Pepper's and was blown away at the technological prowess, literally within a year of the Beach Boys' album, between the two. Sounds like the Beach Boys' crew were a bunch of rubes who'd had too many mint juleps.
But there are some people that seem to delight in producing the best possible stereo mix — literally a Smörgåsbord for your ears. For the iPod generation, this really should matter. This means that the vocals aren’t drowned by the horns or the drums are too loud, or everything is echoey . . . yes, minor concerns, but put yourself on headphones at volume 10 and your brain will quickly jump to hear the music mixed the finest way possible.
And if you know me you’ll know that the benchmark for all this is Steely Dan. And Donald Fagen’s “Morph the Cat” is just an incredible illustration of the finest audio production that can be provided for us poor audiophiles without a $45,000 Bang & Olufsen setup. It sounds like he’s personally in my head, and oh, he decided to bring along a few musicians, and could I maybe serve some St. Emilion for the dudes?
Oh, almost forgot. Yeah, I’m back in Montreal
The stereo “spread” . . . well, can I even mention it, being so out of touch these days? Because there’s 5.2 Surround Sound and even 7.0 Surround Sound. That involves seven speakers. I hail from a generation that worshipped quadrophonia and slightly before, eight-track players...
To me it’s always been stereo and headphones. Listening to the Beach Boys’ “Pet Sounds” on my very nice Sony headphones yesterday was an exercise in horror. Even the stereo mix sounds like a pack of wolves — even though the music was fantastic. Goes always to the Beethoven+synthesizer+digital tape deck argument. How much better would they have done it if they’d had the technology . . . I contrasted it with Sgt. Pepper's and was blown away at the technological prowess, literally within a year of the Beach Boys' album, between the two. Sounds like the Beach Boys' crew were a bunch of rubes who'd had too many mint juleps.
But there are some people that seem to delight in producing the best possible stereo mix — literally a Smörgåsbord for your ears. For the iPod generation, this really should matter. This means that the vocals aren’t drowned by the horns or the drums are too loud, or everything is echoey . . . yes, minor concerns, but put yourself on headphones at volume 10 and your brain will quickly jump to hear the music mixed the finest way possible.
And if you know me you’ll know that the benchmark for all this is Steely Dan. And Donald Fagen’s “Morph the Cat” is just an incredible illustration of the finest audio production that can be provided for us poor audiophiles without a $45,000 Bang & Olufsen setup. It sounds like he’s personally in my head, and oh, he decided to bring along a few musicians, and could I maybe serve some St. Emilion for the dudes?
Oh, almost forgot. Yeah, I’m back in Montreal
Monday, October 22, 2007
Unclear on the concept
Meanwhile, in sunny Talence, France, I decide to stroll the ten minutes or so to get a couple of pizzas at 4:30 p.m. on a Monday. It’s off Boulevard Georges V. There’s a Domino’s, which I’m not very fond of, but another place two doors down that calls itself “Artisanal” . . . that’s always promising. And putting your pizza place two doors down from a Domino’s is pure cojones.
But the place is firmly shuttered with one of those pointless roll-down metal shutters (I can’t see any rioting in this neighborhood in the near future) so I reluctantly decide to go to Domino’s.
Umm, not. It’s firmly closed as well. “18H, m’sieu” says a fellow sitting with a woman on the stoop outside. Hmm . . . he’s got a long wait.
The sign on the door says “Ouvert 7J/7”.
Reminds me of that Stephen Wright joke: man comes up to a store that says “Open 24 hours”. But the owner is locking it up. The man says “But your sign says you’re open 24 hours!”
And the owner says “Not in a row.”
But the place is firmly shuttered with one of those pointless roll-down metal shutters (I can’t see any rioting in this neighborhood in the near future) so I reluctantly decide to go to Domino’s.
Umm, not. It’s firmly closed as well. “18H, m’sieu” says a fellow sitting with a woman on the stoop outside. Hmm . . . he’s got a long wait.
The sign on the door says “Ouvert 7J/7”.
Reminds me of that Stephen Wright joke: man comes up to a store that says “Open 24 hours”. But the owner is locking it up. The man says “But your sign says you’re open 24 hours!”
And the owner says “Not in a row.”
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
More observations
Some more observations about the peculiarities of Bordeaux (at least to me): the stop signs all say “Stop”. “We don’t have a complex like they do in Quebec,” was the way it was explained to me. Indeed, the weekend is “le weekend” and “You’re welcome” is NEVER “Bienvenue” (which actually means “You are welcome to this space/house/place”) but “De rien/je vous en pris/c’est moi qui vous remercie (or just c’est moi . . .)” among other things that would never fly in Quebec.
The cars are all mini-to midsize here
(but not as small as the car pictured above) because otherwise they wouldn’t be able to fit on some of these streets. People park facing either way on the same side of the street. In the residential areas the sidewalks are about three feet/one meter wide here and are usually studded with people’s garbage containers, so it’s almost impossible to walk two abreast.
And it seems most streets, which are wide enough for one car, are two-way. At least Bordeaux is pretty flat, so you can see all the way down to the end of the streets, which seem to have no plan or pattern to them — they aren’t parallel at all but sometimes just come together at strange angles for no apparent reason and you get intersections of three streets or or even four streets . . .
Sundays everything shuts down after noon. Supermarkets close at 8 on weekdays.
Yesterday I got paid for a translation job: 1800 euros (about $2500). So I decided to go to the store for some beer and groceries, but I obviously didn’t want to take all that money with me so I grabbed a 50 from the wad. Got to the store, made my purchase, around nine euros and whipped out my fifty, which was a 500 . . . I blanched and so did the cashier. (I had no idea they’d have a 500-euro note here . . . it’s crazy! Lose that and you’re in big trouble.) Well, the store manager had to be called but everyone behind me in line was highly amused and I was duly given my change.
Other random notes: no one has screens on their windows. And I mean no one. And there is plenty of insect life . . . I have become newly reacquainted with that bane of my African-era existence, Anopheles latens and the extremely large Bordelaisian houseflies.
Yes, I highly recommend Bordeaux, the land where vegetables must be weighed . . .
The cars are all mini-to midsize here
(but not as small as the car pictured above) because otherwise they wouldn’t be able to fit on some of these streets. People park facing either way on the same side of the street. In the residential areas the sidewalks are about three feet/one meter wide here and are usually studded with people’s garbage containers, so it’s almost impossible to walk two abreast.
And it seems most streets, which are wide enough for one car, are two-way. At least Bordeaux is pretty flat, so you can see all the way down to the end of the streets, which seem to have no plan or pattern to them — they aren’t parallel at all but sometimes just come together at strange angles for no apparent reason and you get intersections of three streets or or even four streets . . .Sundays everything shuts down after noon. Supermarkets close at 8 on weekdays.
Yesterday I got paid for a translation job: 1800 euros (about $2500). So I decided to go to the store for some beer and groceries, but I obviously didn’t want to take all that money with me so I grabbed a 50 from the wad. Got to the store, made my purchase, around nine euros and whipped out my fifty, which was a 500 . . . I blanched and so did the cashier. (I had no idea they’d have a 500-euro note here . . . it’s crazy! Lose that and you’re in big trouble.) Well, the store manager had to be called but everyone behind me in line was highly amused and I was duly given my change.
Other random notes: no one has screens on their windows. And I mean no one. And there is plenty of insect life . . . I have become newly reacquainted with that bane of my African-era existence, Anopheles latens and the extremely large Bordelaisian houseflies.
Yes, I highly recommend Bordeaux, the land where vegetables must be weighed . . .
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Still here
Okay, I’m not sipping a Bordeaux, but I am in Bordeaux. This place is magical. Cool, in a way that Paris isn’t. Yesterday went to the wine country and walked around Smith Haut Lafitte winery — the perimeter, that is (you need reservations for a tour). It took a full hour.
I’m still trying to figure things out. Grocery stores (maybe all stores?) close at noon on Sunday and are only open till 8 on weekdays. There are no 24-hour places here. The first time I went to the local grocery store (Atac, in Talence) I tried to get a cart but found that they were all chained together. Then I noticed that you had to put a euro in a slot on the handlebar to unlock the cart, so I did. Fair enough, thought I — a euro for a cart.
When I was done with it I left it outside so someone else could use it without paying a euro. The next time I came, a woman was wheeling her cart back to the cart place. I said, “Are you done with that?” She looked at me like I’d just stepped off a flying saucer. I said, “I’ll take it if you’re done with it.” She said, making an “O” with her thumb and forefinger, “You’ll take it if you have one of these.”
Puzzled, I held up a euro. “But I do,” I said, but she just rolled her eyes and kept pushing the cart. Turns out the euro is just to get the cart out, not to rent it. You get the euro back when you put the cart back. That’s two carts I left out with euros in them. They got a free cart plus a euro.
And then I went to the cash with my haul. Ten people behind me, and when he came to the first of my many vegetables he said “You have to weigh this before you come to the cash.” Huh? Turns out there’s a weighing machine that you put your vegetables on and buttons with each vegetable portrayed on a panel and you have to push the right button and it spits out a label with a barcode that he scans. Who knew. No vegetables that day.
Anyway, Bordeaux is great. Following are some pics that have no captions, as I don’t know how to make them. But check out the St. André's Cathedral, that makes the Oratory look like a shed behind your house.
I’m still trying to figure things out. Grocery stores (maybe all stores?) close at noon on Sunday and are only open till 8 on weekdays. There are no 24-hour places here. The first time I went to the local grocery store (Atac, in Talence) I tried to get a cart but found that they were all chained together. Then I noticed that you had to put a euro in a slot on the handlebar to unlock the cart, so I did. Fair enough, thought I — a euro for a cart.
When I was done with it I left it outside so someone else could use it without paying a euro. The next time I came, a woman was wheeling her cart back to the cart place. I said, “Are you done with that?” She looked at me like I’d just stepped off a flying saucer. I said, “I’ll take it if you’re done with it.” She said, making an “O” with her thumb and forefinger, “You’ll take it if you have one of these.”
Puzzled, I held up a euro. “But I do,” I said, but she just rolled her eyes and kept pushing the cart. Turns out the euro is just to get the cart out, not to rent it. You get the euro back when you put the cart back. That’s two carts I left out with euros in them. They got a free cart plus a euro.
And then I went to the cash with my haul. Ten people behind me, and when he came to the first of my many vegetables he said “You have to weigh this before you come to the cash.” Huh? Turns out there’s a weighing machine that you put your vegetables on and buttons with each vegetable portrayed on a panel and you have to push the right button and it spits out a label with a barcode that he scans. Who knew. No vegetables that day.
Anyway, Bordeaux is great. Following are some pics that have no captions, as I don’t know how to make them. But check out the St. André's Cathedral, that makes the Oratory look like a shed behind your house.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
That's All, Folks
At least from Montreal. I'm outta here tonight, not to be seen for at least . . . well, a while.
Next post will be from Bordeaux sipping a Bordeaux.
Ciao
Next post will be from Bordeaux sipping a Bordeaux.
Ciao
Make Way For Noddy
Make way for Noddy. Everyone does in his neighborhood, as he drives down Main street in Toyland Village in his delivery car, targeting the terrified citizens with his drug deals, accompanied by a scowling, unshaven Big Ears for backup muscle.
Watch as Jerky Clockwork Clown shoots up in an alleyway with HIV-positive Jimmy Giraffe, scanning the horizon nervously for Mr. Stumps, to whom he owes $36.
Then get ready for Tinky-Winky, the abused-as-a-child gang leader, as he extorts the villagers of Teletubbyland in various schemes, usually accompanied by his thuggish coterie, Dipsy, Laa-laa “Nails” Ianuzzi, and Po.
These are the twisted fantasies of a first-time parent, as I am forced to watch, along with my toddler, the inventions of an army of children’s programmers, day in, day out, ad infinukem.
I am hoping that the theme-song writer for Noddy sleeps well, because at three o’clock in the morning as I toss and turn, the words to “Make Way for Noddy” sear their way through my dendrites and axons, always punctuated with the sharp “Prrp-prrp-prrp” of the car horn and the tuneless bark of “Noddy!” that crops up every second line while my toddler always mindlessly chimes in with a parrot-fashion, semidemiquaver late “Noddy!” in response.
In this Sisyphusian world of children’s daytime programming I am forced to inhabit a twilight existence, continually pushing a boulder up a hill to the strains of the Barney Song, eternally suffering the wrath of Hades as I stumble and we all roll back to the bottom and do it all again.
Couldn’t these people have thought things through a little better? Just piping the Thomas The Tank Engine song repeatedly through a circular array of Bose DeepSound speakers to the inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay would elicit scores of confessions within a smattering of hours, with many possibly offering personal jihad within minutes.
When one is forced to actually sit and watch every excruciating moment of “Between The Lions”, one’s nearness to God becomes much, much closer. Because if there happened to be a shotgun nearby, I would be Tinky-Winkying out of existence before even one bar of the theme song was over.
Even Bugs Bunny’s “Kill the Wabbit” would be sheer gold to the ears compared to some of the stuff churned out by contemporary kids’ show composers. One knows that the absolute bottom is reached when one hears some innocuous “educational” program’s theme song burst spontaneously into Rap, with that faux hip-hop charade that’s become all too familiar these days in promotions to packaging, minus of course the downward devil’s horn hand gestures and brutish mugging for the camera. Oh, and flying bullets.
It’s bad enough that we, as parents, should be forced to sit through this stuff. When I was a kid, waaay before that goddamn Sesame Street green frog burst like a blossoming Kudzu Triffid onto the world scene, I thrilled to the Donna Reed Show and Leave it To Beaver. Hell, Cerberus aside, that sly Leave it To Beaver theme song was positively life-affirming. I can summon it today again in a wink without a shred of horror.
If I were a kids’ show composer, I would try to mirror the reality of the world in which we now live. Say, for instance, instead of upbeat major chords and perky lyrics such as “I love you/You love me/We’re a great big family” of the Barney song, we would have “What is wrong with existence/When I and my son/Are forced to sit through/This crap every day”.
One can even find the hijacked original lyrics to the Barney “song” on the Internet: “This Old Man/number one/He played knick-knack on my thumb.” This simple line is several orders of magnitude more original than the hack ripoff “With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you/Won’t you say you love me to!” (sic)
If one bothers to extrapolate (as I often do, given the enormous blocks of time spent trying to concentrate on work while Barney jabbers in the background) one finds it extraordinary that a large, stuffed purple mannequin vaguely resembling a bowling pin can spew so much invective as he sweeps through Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, scything neighbors’ houses clean with rocket-propelled grenades and cluster bombs, also targeting . . . whoops, lost track for a moment.
“That’s Mr. Rogers!” I say, hopefully, to the toddler on my knee. “Taking off his sweater is totally normal, with no sexual undertones—really!”
Meanwhile, in my tired brain, the Sesame Street set is a scene of chaos, with Elmo senselessly stabbed in the groin by a jealous Count as Big Bird, Bert and Ernie look on in mute horror, and Mother Skittle frantically dials 911 only to get a busy signal.
Make way for Noddy.
Watch as Jerky Clockwork Clown shoots up in an alleyway with HIV-positive Jimmy Giraffe, scanning the horizon nervously for Mr. Stumps, to whom he owes $36.
Then get ready for Tinky-Winky, the abused-as-a-child gang leader, as he extorts the villagers of Teletubbyland in various schemes, usually accompanied by his thuggish coterie, Dipsy, Laa-laa “Nails” Ianuzzi, and Po.
These are the twisted fantasies of a first-time parent, as I am forced to watch, along with my toddler, the inventions of an army of children’s programmers, day in, day out, ad infinukem.
I am hoping that the theme-song writer for Noddy sleeps well, because at three o’clock in the morning as I toss and turn, the words to “Make Way for Noddy” sear their way through my dendrites and axons, always punctuated with the sharp “Prrp-prrp-prrp” of the car horn and the tuneless bark of “Noddy!” that crops up every second line while my toddler always mindlessly chimes in with a parrot-fashion, semidemiquaver late “Noddy!” in response.
In this Sisyphusian world of children’s daytime programming I am forced to inhabit a twilight existence, continually pushing a boulder up a hill to the strains of the Barney Song, eternally suffering the wrath of Hades as I stumble and we all roll back to the bottom and do it all again.
Couldn’t these people have thought things through a little better? Just piping the Thomas The Tank Engine song repeatedly through a circular array of Bose DeepSound speakers to the inhabitants of Guantanamo Bay would elicit scores of confessions within a smattering of hours, with many possibly offering personal jihad within minutes.
When one is forced to actually sit and watch every excruciating moment of “Between The Lions”, one’s nearness to God becomes much, much closer. Because if there happened to be a shotgun nearby, I would be Tinky-Winkying out of existence before even one bar of the theme song was over.
Even Bugs Bunny’s “Kill the Wabbit” would be sheer gold to the ears compared to some of the stuff churned out by contemporary kids’ show composers. One knows that the absolute bottom is reached when one hears some innocuous “educational” program’s theme song burst spontaneously into Rap, with that faux hip-hop charade that’s become all too familiar these days in promotions to packaging, minus of course the downward devil’s horn hand gestures and brutish mugging for the camera. Oh, and flying bullets.
It’s bad enough that we, as parents, should be forced to sit through this stuff. When I was a kid, waaay before that goddamn Sesame Street green frog burst like a blossoming Kudzu Triffid onto the world scene, I thrilled to the Donna Reed Show and Leave it To Beaver. Hell, Cerberus aside, that sly Leave it To Beaver theme song was positively life-affirming. I can summon it today again in a wink without a shred of horror.
If I were a kids’ show composer, I would try to mirror the reality of the world in which we now live. Say, for instance, instead of upbeat major chords and perky lyrics such as “I love you/You love me/We’re a great big family” of the Barney song, we would have “What is wrong with existence/When I and my son/Are forced to sit through/This crap every day”.
One can even find the hijacked original lyrics to the Barney “song” on the Internet: “This Old Man/number one/He played knick-knack on my thumb.” This simple line is several orders of magnitude more original than the hack ripoff “With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you/Won’t you say you love me to!” (sic)
If one bothers to extrapolate (as I often do, given the enormous blocks of time spent trying to concentrate on work while Barney jabbers in the background) one finds it extraordinary that a large, stuffed purple mannequin vaguely resembling a bowling pin can spew so much invective as he sweeps through Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, scything neighbors’ houses clean with rocket-propelled grenades and cluster bombs, also targeting . . . whoops, lost track for a moment.
“That’s Mr. Rogers!” I say, hopefully, to the toddler on my knee. “Taking off his sweater is totally normal, with no sexual undertones—really!”
Meanwhile, in my tired brain, the Sesame Street set is a scene of chaos, with Elmo senselessly stabbed in the groin by a jealous Count as Big Bird, Bert and Ernie look on in mute horror, and Mother Skittle frantically dials 911 only to get a busy signal.
Make way for Noddy.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Come Together
There are very few times in the history of humanity — admittedly, a short one, as these things go — that one finds a SuperBeing, someone who transcends the drudgery of being merely human and crosses into almost SuperHumanism.
And what’s funny is that said SuperHuman would be the first to deny, deny, deny. Not superhuman, just an ordinary bloke. And he’d deny it till the cows came home and the pubs were closed.
But John Lennon was that creature, a person perhaps many of you only have a vague memory of, of “Uh, yeah, he was in the Beatles?” and don’t feel the same pain as I when the world erupted on that December 8 as he was gunned down by some asshole with mental problems.
Mercurial and not without his controversies, John Lennon was a world-changing guy, and how many of us can write, say, Across The Universe?
I listen to the Beatles’ early catalogue and I marvel. Such talent will be a long time returning . . .
And what’s funny is that said SuperHuman would be the first to deny, deny, deny. Not superhuman, just an ordinary bloke. And he’d deny it till the cows came home and the pubs were closed.
But John Lennon was that creature, a person perhaps many of you only have a vague memory of, of “Uh, yeah, he was in the Beatles?” and don’t feel the same pain as I when the world erupted on that December 8 as he was gunned down by some asshole with mental problems.
Mercurial and not without his controversies, John Lennon was a world-changing guy, and how many of us can write, say, Across The Universe?
I listen to the Beatles’ early catalogue and I marvel. Such talent will be a long time returning . . .
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Ginger Beef
This is a great, very easy-to-make "Asian" dish — not sure where it comes from — that you can literally put together in 20 minutes. I garnish it with red serrano chilies from my balcony but then again I have a steel tongue.
Ingredients:
1/2 onion chopped in square slices as if for stir-fry
1 large chile (serrano, jalapeño, habanero or to taste,) diced
3 cloves garlic
2 tablespoons grated ginger
1/2 pound sliced Boston Steak (what they call it in Montreal), or good-quality sirloin--slice as for Stroganoff
Shiitake mushrooms, sliced (10-15 mushrooms)
1/2C chicken broth
Lemon juice
Mirin
Chinese chili sauce (Kum-kee chili-garlic comes to mind)
Stir-fry powder
Cornstarch (if needed)
Cilantro for garnish
Method:
Sauté steak in canola or peanut oil on high heat, 1 minute each side; set aside (add few shakes pepper + garlic salt while sautéing).
Add a little oil, sauté mushrooms until they lose all their water--they will first get very liquidy and then start to dry up. Set aside.
Add more oil. On high heat add onions, chile, ginger. Stir constantly, turn to medium high, 4-5 minutes. Add garlic, cook one minute.
Add 1/4 cup Mirin (Japanese sweet cooking rice wine), stir well. Add 1/2 cup chicken broth, stir in . Add splash Schezuan sauce (or other Chinese-style hot-pepper sauce) and a few shakes Chinese stir fry powder (or similar powder--thickens the sauce.) Add mushrooms, stir well. Add splash lemon juice. Now add beef, stir in, cover, simmer on low. Serve in 10 minutes.
If not thick enough, add 1 tsp. cornstarch. If too thick add a little chicken broth. Serve on long-grain rice with cilantro garnish.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
The Horror, the Injustice
If you live in Montreal, no doubt you’ve heard of the strike by the people who maintain the Notre Dame des Neiges cemetery. Basically, it’s around 129 people who do the tough stuff — mow the weeds of vast tracts of meadow on state-of-the-art tractors while listening to their iPods (I’ve seen it; I’m not exaggerating) and otherwise trundle around the cemetery in their oversized vans at a leisurely pace, all for the penurious sum of $24 an hour.
The horror, the injustice of having to slave so much for so little.
I literally live across the street from the cemetery and I’ll have to say these motherfuckers know how to be assholes. Not content with camping out in front of the gates of the Decelles entrance and eyeballing everyone who walks in (they’ve closed the gates and put barriers up on the roads so cars can’t get by) they’ve plastered the fences and map post with their stupid, childish, very-difficult-to-remove stickers. As if anyone besides themselves gives a shit. But someone is going to have to clean all their puerile shit up — these are the types of stickers (thousands upon thousands of them) which tear immediately when you try to remove them. Read: ten years of having to look at the aftermath. This is not to mention the acres of waist-high weeds someone is going to have to cut — and you and I are going to pay for.
$24 an hour. 129 selfish bastards. The math just doesn’t seem to add up.
The above is a shot of my son playing in the cemetery today. Think we could make room for 129 new plots?
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Words to Not Use in Restaurant Reviews
Yes, "yummy" and "to die for" are definite no-nos, and "scrumptious" is execrable. But I'd also add a couple of other words that should never be used, for any reason, in any article about food: "Rotten", "rotting", "spoiled", "fabuloso", "edgy", "brave." Oh, and let's not forget that despicable "delish".
But there is an entertaining list at grumpygourmetusa.
But there is an entertaining list at grumpygourmetusa.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Talent? Or Just Practice
It’s really, really hard to write. No, I didn’t exactly mean that, but to write well.
Of course, you can’t just generalise like that — obviously, writing a technical manual is a far different skill than writing a speech.
No, I mean writing to entertain without being boring, pedantic or wordy. But how do some writers work a word like “exigencies” into a passage where it fits like a glove and I can’t?
I’m reading The Science Fiction Hall of Fame Volume 1 and some of it is just astoundingly good writing. I guess a great start is getting the vocabulary, but that cannot be all. You have to know exactly when to use a hard word without it sounding out of place. Of course I know what "exigencies" means, but why doesn't it come to me when I'm writing?
I’m in California at the moment and I went to a session with three other musicians and I finally appreciated, after years of playing, that a cascade of notes does not equal Good. They have to all be in the right place at the right time. Okay, so a lot of people like Al di Meola (the guitarist) or Allan Holdsworth, but many also find their incredibly fast noodlings to be just a useless waste of sound waves. So now I choose my notes instead of just mindlessly trying to play them as fast as I can. (Ah, the joys of middle age.)
But this should not be confused with a musician who just can't play quickly as opposed to one who can but chooses not to, just like a person with an arsenal of vocabulary who doesn't necessarily drop it like flyspecks on every page or, say, Picasso, who could paint realistic paintings like a champ but chose not to. All these things have to be done judiciously, precisely so, or you’ll lose the listener or the reader or the looker.
So maybe, this is where the talent comes in. The magician can't just pull a pigeon from his sleeve without it pecking him to death without a large amount of talent (and a heavy dose of practice.)
Obviously, false notes, like typos, are the real place to start, but once that’s cleared up it becomes another thing, something that has to be refined to an enormous degree in order to be called truly “good.”
I hope the practice I’ve done on my Thai curry will please the troops tomorrow. I'll need every spice in my arsenal to be exactly correct.
Of course, you can’t just generalise like that — obviously, writing a technical manual is a far different skill than writing a speech.
No, I mean writing to entertain without being boring, pedantic or wordy. But how do some writers work a word like “exigencies” into a passage where it fits like a glove and I can’t?
I’m reading The Science Fiction Hall of Fame Volume 1 and some of it is just astoundingly good writing. I guess a great start is getting the vocabulary, but that cannot be all. You have to know exactly when to use a hard word without it sounding out of place. Of course I know what "exigencies" means, but why doesn't it come to me when I'm writing?
I’m in California at the moment and I went to a session with three other musicians and I finally appreciated, after years of playing, that a cascade of notes does not equal Good. They have to all be in the right place at the right time. Okay, so a lot of people like Al di Meola (the guitarist) or Allan Holdsworth, but many also find their incredibly fast noodlings to be just a useless waste of sound waves. So now I choose my notes instead of just mindlessly trying to play them as fast as I can. (Ah, the joys of middle age.)
But this should not be confused with a musician who just can't play quickly as opposed to one who can but chooses not to, just like a person with an arsenal of vocabulary who doesn't necessarily drop it like flyspecks on every page or, say, Picasso, who could paint realistic paintings like a champ but chose not to. All these things have to be done judiciously, precisely so, or you’ll lose the listener or the reader or the looker.
So maybe, this is where the talent comes in. The magician can't just pull a pigeon from his sleeve without it pecking him to death without a large amount of talent (and a heavy dose of practice.)
Obviously, false notes, like typos, are the real place to start, but once that’s cleared up it becomes another thing, something that has to be refined to an enormous degree in order to be called truly “good.”
I hope the practice I’ve done on my Thai curry will please the troops tomorrow. I'll need every spice in my arsenal to be exactly correct.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Hiccups
What asshole designed the vagus nerve, I’ll never know. Dante?
At any rate, I’ve had the hiccups for about 9 hours. It ain’t pleasant. It gets old real fast. And then it gets into Urban Legend territory . . . am I going to be the one who hiccups for 34 years nonstop?
But—speaking of Urban Legends . . . I just HELD MY FUCKING BREATH FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE and, sweet, sweet glory. (A glass of Chardonnay may have helped)
Sometimes, just goes to show.
At any rate, I’ve had the hiccups for about 9 hours. It ain’t pleasant. It gets old real fast. And then it gets into Urban Legend territory . . . am I going to be the one who hiccups for 34 years nonstop?
But—speaking of Urban Legends . . . I just HELD MY FUCKING BREATH FOR AS LONG AS POSSIBLE and, sweet, sweet glory. (A glass of Chardonnay may have helped)
Sometimes, just goes to show.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Love Story
Okay, people, it doesn’t happen often. And my age, I’ve seen it maybe once. So we’re lucky if it happens again.
But a love story like this . . . it’s one for the books.
She was my sister’s best friend in New York in 1970. Her apartment was across the street from ours. Her elder sister became my elder brother’s intense girlfriend. Her elder brother was my eldest brother’s best friend — you know the 70s. Beatles, Stones, guitars, long hair.
Her parents were wanderers — you know who you are. So when I moved to Africa, she moved to Spain . . . and we wrote those ridiculous things called aerogrammes to each other all the time. I can’t recall what we wrote, but no doubt it was whatever two slightly nostalgic kids who secretly were in love but weren’t allowed to be, by fate, by age, by circumstance would pen . . .
And then she disappeared. Slowly, as our lives diverged. She went there, I went to other places. We got old, slowly. So, when I got a phone call in 1985 I thought I’d seen the last of Virginie. But it wasn’t so. I was in San Francisco and so was she.
As a huge obstacle, I was living with someone at the time. It was almost operatic. We went out to dinner, with my elder brother at the wheel, whose previous love, Virginie’s sister, was to go on to become a doctor, then tragically commit suicide with her own prescribables. But we didn’t know that then.
And we held hands like kids in the back seat on the way to where she was staying, my brother being like an unwilling taxi driver.
And so we dropped her off and I went home and I was a tiny bit crazy with love. I wrote her a long letter that I intended to mail the next day — a day in which I was flying to Montreal. So I put the letter in carefully with my ticket and passport.
And went to sleep.
And somehow, the person I was living with saw it her mind to make sure I had my ticket and passport all in order . . . and guess what she found.
Needless to say, that was the end of that.
But then, I went off to climes like Japan and Virginie wandered and had a husband and kids that I didn’t know anything about because I was doing my stuff . . . and then two years ago she somehow found me on the Internet. And we began a near-constant email exchange . . . but nothing happened (she lives in France) until she decided to buy a ticket to come to Montreal. And it wasn’t until we’d been in the taxi from Dorval five minutes that I knew that I was going to be with this woman forever. You have been informed. Trust me, this doesn’t happen often.
Montreal will always be a priority for me but now France seems likely to be my new home. No firm plans, but . . . ya can’t stop love.
But a love story like this . . . it’s one for the books.
She was my sister’s best friend in New York in 1970. Her apartment was across the street from ours. Her elder sister became my elder brother’s intense girlfriend. Her elder brother was my eldest brother’s best friend — you know the 70s. Beatles, Stones, guitars, long hair.
Her parents were wanderers — you know who you are. So when I moved to Africa, she moved to Spain . . . and we wrote those ridiculous things called aerogrammes to each other all the time. I can’t recall what we wrote, but no doubt it was whatever two slightly nostalgic kids who secretly were in love but weren’t allowed to be, by fate, by age, by circumstance would pen . . .
And then she disappeared. Slowly, as our lives diverged. She went there, I went to other places. We got old, slowly. So, when I got a phone call in 1985 I thought I’d seen the last of Virginie. But it wasn’t so. I was in San Francisco and so was she.
As a huge obstacle, I was living with someone at the time. It was almost operatic. We went out to dinner, with my elder brother at the wheel, whose previous love, Virginie’s sister, was to go on to become a doctor, then tragically commit suicide with her own prescribables. But we didn’t know that then.
And we held hands like kids in the back seat on the way to where she was staying, my brother being like an unwilling taxi driver.
And so we dropped her off and I went home and I was a tiny bit crazy with love. I wrote her a long letter that I intended to mail the next day — a day in which I was flying to Montreal. So I put the letter in carefully with my ticket and passport.
And went to sleep.
And somehow, the person I was living with saw it her mind to make sure I had my ticket and passport all in order . . . and guess what she found.
Needless to say, that was the end of that.
But then, I went off to climes like Japan and Virginie wandered and had a husband and kids that I didn’t know anything about because I was doing my stuff . . . and then two years ago she somehow found me on the Internet. And we began a near-constant email exchange . . . but nothing happened (she lives in France) until she decided to buy a ticket to come to Montreal. And it wasn’t until we’d been in the taxi from Dorval five minutes that I knew that I was going to be with this woman forever. You have been informed. Trust me, this doesn’t happen often.
Montreal will always be a priority for me but now France seems likely to be my new home. No firm plans, but . . . ya can’t stop love.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Gino
I’ve written about Montreal being cool. Come on, people, I’m not even Canadian. But one of the coolest Montrealers, and I risk being hilariously out of date — is Gino Vannelli. As Montrealers, you should be very proud of him.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Screw you . . . maybe.
There used to be letters. You’ll remember them; they were written on paper and then mailed in envelopes. Okay, maybe you don’t remember them.
But now it’s email. Could the “e” stand for “evil”? Because it’s just so oh-disposable. Free. No effort, just type whatever ur thinking at the time and it becomes chat, another perversity of the online wrld.
Until you get the blowoff, the online equivalent of “You’re out of my social circle, dude.” This is not conducted civilly, as it might be by a polite rejection letter of old times, but just by silence. Silence is the new rejection letter. And your increasingly anxious attempts to keep in touch are treated with increasing contempt, or, even worse, nothing at all.
There is no excuse for this cowardly behaviour. I don’t go around my life making friends idly. Every single one is a large investment in time and emotional energy. I’m not just fucking around.
People, please pay close attention to the people in your life who pay attention to you, and don’t blow them off. They might be the only thing holding you to this planet in the end.
But now it’s email. Could the “e” stand for “evil”? Because it’s just so oh-disposable. Free. No effort, just type whatever ur thinking at the time and it becomes chat, another perversity of the online wrld.
Until you get the blowoff, the online equivalent of “You’re out of my social circle, dude.” This is not conducted civilly, as it might be by a polite rejection letter of old times, but just by silence. Silence is the new rejection letter. And your increasingly anxious attempts to keep in touch are treated with increasing contempt, or, even worse, nothing at all.
There is no excuse for this cowardly behaviour. I don’t go around my life making friends idly. Every single one is a large investment in time and emotional energy. I’m not just fucking around.
People, please pay close attention to the people in your life who pay attention to you, and don’t blow them off. They might be the only thing holding you to this planet in the end.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Hot Air
It was appropriate that yesterday Kalli Anderson of CBC Radio called me and asked if I would pundit (not sure it's a verb, but if it ain't, I just created it) for a segment on Daybreak about tipping. Appropriate because today is the hottest day of the year so far, and hot air was probably what was going to come out of my mouth.
I like being a pundit, but especially when I don't even have to be a talking head — just a telephone head. Because I have Taishi with me, there was no way I could make it downtown at 7 a.m. for a nine-minute segment, but Kalli was most accommodating and it was agreed I could phone it in.
It's amazing how contentious the issue of tipping is. I've already referred to it but there are definitely two entrenched camps here in the Americas, and I'll wager no one is going to budge from their position any time soon.
On this segment, my co-pundit was Suzanne, a bartender from West Island (I think) who commented on the behavior of various tribes of tippers (or non-tippers.) The verdict? Europeans often pretend ignorance that the tip is not calculated into the final tally and that all one can do is shrug if they leave nothing, and that Americans are good tippers, contrary to popular belief.
But that Quebecers were the best tippers of all.
Further reading
I like being a pundit, but especially when I don't even have to be a talking head — just a telephone head. Because I have Taishi with me, there was no way I could make it downtown at 7 a.m. for a nine-minute segment, but Kalli was most accommodating and it was agreed I could phone it in.
It's amazing how contentious the issue of tipping is. I've already referred to it but there are definitely two entrenched camps here in the Americas, and I'll wager no one is going to budge from their position any time soon.
On this segment, my co-pundit was Suzanne, a bartender from West Island (I think) who commented on the behavior of various tribes of tippers (or non-tippers.) The verdict? Europeans often pretend ignorance that the tip is not calculated into the final tally and that all one can do is shrug if they leave nothing, and that Americans are good tippers, contrary to popular belief.
But that Quebecers were the best tippers of all.
Further reading
To Not Do List
Well, you can scratch Bistro Continental and Buffet Maharaja from your "must visit soon" list.
They both burned to the ground in separate incidents this week. Continental, I will mourn. Great steak-frites, and a good competitor to L'Express down the road.
Buffet Maharaja . . . no comment.
They both burned to the ground in separate incidents this week. Continental, I will mourn. Great steak-frites, and a good competitor to L'Express down the road.
Buffet Maharaja . . . no comment.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Facing the Music
If you’re even a remote fan of music, any kind of music, and you live in Montreal, you absolutely need to catch Philippe Bélanger playing the massive organ at L’Oratoire St. Joseph on Sundays at 3:30 p.m.
I stumbled upon a performance two weeks ago and was transfixed by the absolutely awesome sounds that echoed through the Basilica. No Yes, Pink Floyd or Genesis concert in any venue has ever even come close to the majestic sounds that I encountered in those short 20 minutes.
I took the liberty of recording today’s performance with my video camera and uploading it (copyright holders need never worry—the quality is atrocious) — but in actuality the sound reverberating though the Basilica, manipulated through the masterful ministrations of M. Bélanger, will literally blow circuits in your brain if you go and listen to it in person. There was some asshole couple talking a few rows behind us in loud voices that totally ruined the recording (you'll hear us leaving the vicinity for a much quieter, and thus less interesting experience) but hopefully this will give you an inkling of the performance. (And I can't discount the frequent "I want to's" from my tiny son as a distraction, though the finale soon kept him and everyone else quiet.)
I know I’ll be there next Sunday.
I stumbled upon a performance two weeks ago and was transfixed by the absolutely awesome sounds that echoed through the Basilica. No Yes, Pink Floyd or Genesis concert in any venue has ever even come close to the majestic sounds that I encountered in those short 20 minutes.
I took the liberty of recording today’s performance with my video camera and uploading it (copyright holders need never worry—the quality is atrocious) — but in actuality the sound reverberating though the Basilica, manipulated through the masterful ministrations of M. Bélanger, will literally blow circuits in your brain if you go and listen to it in person. There was some asshole couple talking a few rows behind us in loud voices that totally ruined the recording (you'll hear us leaving the vicinity for a much quieter, and thus less interesting experience) but hopefully this will give you an inkling of the performance. (And I can't discount the frequent "I want to's" from my tiny son as a distraction, though the finale soon kept him and everyone else quiet.)
I know I’ll be there next Sunday.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Words
I know you guys are out there, but the term “lurker” is so perjorative. I’ve been a lurker so many times, but who wants to be suspected as some kind of Peeping Tom, someone who reads, digests, and goes away with opinions but never lets you know? It’s kind of like eavsedropping on the Party Line of yore. Ethel’s fucked up, she’s totally ignoring Jack, and I think Dan’s seeing her in the evenings. Okay, Ellie, so what do you want me to do about it?
I guess I’ll have to come to terms with the word “lurking,” though it always makes me uneasy, and also the word “blog,” which seems to have been forced on all of us by some shithead with access to a typewriter.
I guess I’ll have to come to terms with the word “lurking,” though it always makes me uneasy, and also the word “blog,” which seems to have been forced on all of us by some shithead with access to a typewriter.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Risk
What is it about risk that bothers me? One look at ClimbRocker's Blog reminds me that riding a bike is risky. Why would any sane person mount a bike in this city? But that’s me. I’m averse to risk but fascinated by people who take risks. I’m the first to latch onto a program like “I Shouldn’t be Alive.”
No, you shouldn’t be alive, you asshole, because you wandered up into some wilderness not telling anyone where you were going, and furthermore brought your ten-year-old son.
But people still bungie-jump, parachute from airplanes and climb mountains, seemingly totally oblivious to one fact: when you die, it’s all gone; no more swimming in the Great Barrier Reef patting manta rays — just the great chasm of death.
Risk. Yes. Risk. But the eternal gamble, against the ultimate price: is it truly worth it? For you? Guess what, everyone around you is affected when you plunge down the rock face and get severe head injuries. You’re just the poor apologising schmuck in the hospital bed going through months of rehabilitation.
Same goes for the idiot that gets in a car and drag races someone, or rides a motorcycle without a helmet.
Come to think of it, every time I see a daredevil crash his plane at an air show, I think, wow, kid, you finally did good.
No, you shouldn’t be alive, you asshole, because you wandered up into some wilderness not telling anyone where you were going, and furthermore brought your ten-year-old son.
But people still bungie-jump, parachute from airplanes and climb mountains, seemingly totally oblivious to one fact: when you die, it’s all gone; no more swimming in the Great Barrier Reef patting manta rays — just the great chasm of death.
Risk. Yes. Risk. But the eternal gamble, against the ultimate price: is it truly worth it? For you? Guess what, everyone around you is affected when you plunge down the rock face and get severe head injuries. You’re just the poor apologising schmuck in the hospital bed going through months of rehabilitation.
Same goes for the idiot that gets in a car and drag races someone, or rides a motorcycle without a helmet.
Come to think of it, every time I see a daredevil crash his plane at an air show, I think, wow, kid, you finally did good.
Get this man some air
When I lived in Osaka on the 11th floor of an apartment building smack downtown, there would often be a brown haze over everything. Okay, well, duh. But this brown haze translated into this weird, dusty film that would affix itself to everything. Plus, you’d sometimes be sitting in your apartment and take a breath — on the 11th floor — and be astonished to breathe in a whelp of unmistakable car exhaust.
When I went back to my birthplace, Calcutta, India, in 1997, I was astonished by the brown cloud, hour after hour, visible from my plane as I approached the city.
And now I live on the 8th floor of an apartment building in downtown Montreal.
I like to read books on the balcony on good days, and I leave them outside. But every time I pick them up the next day they’ve got that ugly, slightly sticky grime on them, and I say to myself, this is what I’m sitting on the balcony for? To get a breath of fresh air?
When I went back to my birthplace, Calcutta, India, in 1997, I was astonished by the brown cloud, hour after hour, visible from my plane as I approached the city.
And now I live on the 8th floor of an apartment building in downtown Montreal.
I like to read books on the balcony on good days, and I leave them outside. But every time I pick them up the next day they’ve got that ugly, slightly sticky grime on them, and I say to myself, this is what I’m sitting on the balcony for? To get a breath of fresh air?
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Trivial Pursuit at home
When I started montrealfood.com I just kind of thought of it as a miscellaneous food resource — obviously the focus being on restaurants at which we spend our hard-earned cash, but also as a resource to just find out about food. Food in Montreal, of course, but also any food anywhere else.
It’s been seven years, and now I’m discovering that the food reviews need to be not necessarily at restaurants, but people’s homes. Like, I review the dinner I had at Bob and Marie’s. Because restaurants are artificial creations; kind of like going to the theater instead of playing Trivial Pursuit at home. Home-made creations are always humble and proud at the same time; as the cook, you never want to be seen as being overly pretentious but the object is to satisfy everyone, often with the most common comfort food, not fussy piles of ingredients and flavors that will have little impact on the average diner.
Restaurants definitely have their place, but a dinner at Joe Beef will never equal a dinner at my place.
And that’s a rock-solid guarantee.
It’s been seven years, and now I’m discovering that the food reviews need to be not necessarily at restaurants, but people’s homes. Like, I review the dinner I had at Bob and Marie’s. Because restaurants are artificial creations; kind of like going to the theater instead of playing Trivial Pursuit at home. Home-made creations are always humble and proud at the same time; as the cook, you never want to be seen as being overly pretentious but the object is to satisfy everyone, often with the most common comfort food, not fussy piles of ingredients and flavors that will have little impact on the average diner.
Restaurants definitely have their place, but a dinner at Joe Beef will never equal a dinner at my place.
And that’s a rock-solid guarantee.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Montreal
I’ve been listening to the decidedly old-fashioned music of Gino Vannelli—specifically, the album “Live in Montreal.” More specifically, the song that goes “When I think about my nights in Montreal . . . “
Well, I do think about my nights in Montreal. We in Montreal should always think about our nights in Montreal, because they’re good ones. I’m not Canadian, but I am a glommer and I recognise a good place when I find one. That would be Montreal.
People don’t bother me. No, that would be California, where in the shop they say “Howya doin’?” Not here. They just say “Merci, m’sieu”, even though they’ve seen you shop there 10,000 times. I like to be left alone, even after 10,000 times.
But Gino Vannelli brought back to me why I’ve always been drawn to this city. People, our city is quite possibly the coolest in the world.
Well, I do think about my nights in Montreal. We in Montreal should always think about our nights in Montreal, because they’re good ones. I’m not Canadian, but I am a glommer and I recognise a good place when I find one. That would be Montreal.
People don’t bother me. No, that would be California, where in the shop they say “Howya doin’?” Not here. They just say “Merci, m’sieu”, even though they’ve seen you shop there 10,000 times. I like to be left alone, even after 10,000 times.
But Gino Vannelli brought back to me why I’ve always been drawn to this city. People, our city is quite possibly the coolest in the world.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Cuy and books
Okay, I have a cat, but he probably wouldn’t taste very good. He’s old (14) and scrawny and a bit stinky because he’s neurotic and spends a lot of time visiting his box.
No, Iggy probably wouldn’t taste very good if I slaughtered him, skinned him and roasted him in a 400-degree oven slathered in red wine, some garlic, onions, maybe carrots and potatoes too, but maybe some cuy would.
In case you didn’t know, cuy are popular treats in South America. They’re what we call guinea pigs, though according to the book I’m reading, they can be as big as small dogs; imagine a guinea pig the size of a Yorkshire Terrier. And apparently, they’re delicious — somewhere between a rabbit and a chicken.
The book is Hungry Planet, and it’s one of two I’ve been recently reading with fascination.
When I lived in Zaire, Africa, we had several guinea pigs. We named one Adolf, because he was the biggest and a bully, lording it over the other pigs. Then one day we came home from school to find them all gone, and it was only years later that we found out that my mother, tiring of their mess, had given them to the help, no doubt to be cooked up in a nice sauce of red wine, some garlic, onions, maybe carrots and potatoes too. But I digress.
Hungry Planet is a book with great writing (think National Geographic meets Cook’s Illustrated) and great photos of what families worldwide purchase and eat in a week. It’s a real eye-opener.
The other book that has occupied at least a month in daily reading is A Mediterranean Feast, which is an amazing compendium of history and recipe book that I’d had sitting on my shelf for years until I decided to read it. If you’re at all interested in history and food, this one will keep you glued to every page, and Clifford Wright doesn’t mess around — his recipes can be really tough (but never too tough — you’ll never be asked to roast “Deboned breast of camel”).
On his Amazon blog I pleaded for him to write “An Asian Feast” but he replied: “Sadly, I don't believe either I or anyone else will be able to write a book such as "An Asian Feast" in these times of dumbed-down cookbooks and lowest-common-denominator cooking. Publishers seem particularly uninterested as they increasingly watch their bottom line. On top of which, it's an enormous commitment on the writers' part to undertake such a task. Every time I flip through Mediterranean Feast I think ‘was I nuts.’”
Yes, he was nuts, and you will be the beneficiary.
No, Iggy probably wouldn’t taste very good if I slaughtered him, skinned him and roasted him in a 400-degree oven slathered in red wine, some garlic, onions, maybe carrots and potatoes too, but maybe some cuy would.
In case you didn’t know, cuy are popular treats in South America. They’re what we call guinea pigs, though according to the book I’m reading, they can be as big as small dogs; imagine a guinea pig the size of a Yorkshire Terrier. And apparently, they’re delicious — somewhere between a rabbit and a chicken.
The book is Hungry Planet, and it’s one of two I’ve been recently reading with fascination.
When I lived in Zaire, Africa, we had several guinea pigs. We named one Adolf, because he was the biggest and a bully, lording it over the other pigs. Then one day we came home from school to find them all gone, and it was only years later that we found out that my mother, tiring of their mess, had given them to the help, no doubt to be cooked up in a nice sauce of red wine, some garlic, onions, maybe carrots and potatoes too. But I digress.
Hungry Planet is a book with great writing (think National Geographic meets Cook’s Illustrated) and great photos of what families worldwide purchase and eat in a week. It’s a real eye-opener.
The other book that has occupied at least a month in daily reading is A Mediterranean Feast, which is an amazing compendium of history and recipe book that I’d had sitting on my shelf for years until I decided to read it. If you’re at all interested in history and food, this one will keep you glued to every page, and Clifford Wright doesn’t mess around — his recipes can be really tough (but never too tough — you’ll never be asked to roast “Deboned breast of camel”).
On his Amazon blog I pleaded for him to write “An Asian Feast” but he replied: “Sadly, I don't believe either I or anyone else will be able to write a book such as "An Asian Feast" in these times of dumbed-down cookbooks and lowest-common-denominator cooking. Publishers seem particularly uninterested as they increasingly watch their bottom line. On top of which, it's an enormous commitment on the writers' part to undertake such a task. Every time I flip through Mediterranean Feast I think ‘was I nuts.’”
Yes, he was nuts, and you will be the beneficiary.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Music
I don’t know about you, but to me, music ain’t what it used to be. I may just be jaded and naive, but popular music, at least what I get to hear — believe me, I don’t go out of my way — is scarcely distinguishable from the stuff you hear on car commercials.
I’m not sure, but I would imagine 50 Cent’s oeuvre is not going to live very long in the Hall of Legendary Rock Music. Or Eminem. God, don’t let me get underway: Blink 182? Is that their name?
There is a word: music. It involves people qualified to actually deserve a name of “musician.” Sure, there were the Sex Pistols, who actually sought to defy the conventional term of music, but even they, despite their no-doubt eternal protestations, were good, even great musicians. Too bad we can’t say the same thing of the current, even twenty-year old crop.
If you want true musicianship — even though it might be of the fuddy-duddy generation, you can download a true masterpiece, Kansas’s Leftoverture, on my server. Be sure to delete it afterward and do yourselves a favor and get the CD — it’s more than worth it. And don't spend more than 50 cents on 50 Cent.
I’m not sure, but I would imagine 50 Cent’s oeuvre is not going to live very long in the Hall of Legendary Rock Music. Or Eminem. God, don’t let me get underway: Blink 182? Is that their name?
There is a word: music. It involves people qualified to actually deserve a name of “musician.” Sure, there were the Sex Pistols, who actually sought to defy the conventional term of music, but even they, despite their no-doubt eternal protestations, were good, even great musicians. Too bad we can’t say the same thing of the current, even twenty-year old crop.
If you want true musicianship — even though it might be of the fuddy-duddy generation, you can download a true masterpiece, Kansas’s Leftoverture, on my server. Be sure to delete it afterward and do yourselves a favor and get the CD — it’s more than worth it. And don't spend more than 50 cents on 50 Cent.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Ingredient Conundrum
I was thinking of making this recipe this weekend, but was having some trouble finding some of the ingredients. My dad worked for the International Civil Aviation Organisation on Sherbrooke in the 70s and 80s (right opposite McGill) and it seems they put out a book of recipes, called “The Flying Gourmet.” It’s not much — made by toiling employees and bound by a copy-store ring binder, but I thought you might help me find some of these ingredients. Maybe at Jean-Talon or Atwater Market.
Stuffed Camel
1 whole camel, medium size
1 whole lamb, large size
20 whole chickens, medium size
60 eggs
12 kilos rice
2 kilos pine nuts
2 kilos almonds
1 kilo pistachio nuts (de-shelled)
110 gallons water
5 lbs. black pepper (or to taste)
2 lbs kosher salt (or to taste)
Method:
Skin, clean and trim the camel, lamb and chickens. Boil until tender. Cook rice until fluffy. Fry nuts until brown and mix with rice. Hard boil and peel the eggs. Stuff the chickens with half the eggs and rice/nut mixture. Stuff the lamb with five chickens and some more rice mixture. Stuff the camel with the lamb and more rice. Broil in a large oven or near a gas flame until brown. Spread the remaining rice/nut mixture on a tray and place the camel on top. Place remaining stuffed chickens around the camel. Decorate with boiled eggs and nuts. Serves a friendly crowd of 200. You’d better make two, so your guests won’t fight over the hump.
Stuffed Camel
1 whole camel, medium size
1 whole lamb, large size
20 whole chickens, medium size
60 eggs
12 kilos rice
2 kilos pine nuts
2 kilos almonds
1 kilo pistachio nuts (de-shelled)
110 gallons water
5 lbs. black pepper (or to taste)
2 lbs kosher salt (or to taste)
Method:
Skin, clean and trim the camel, lamb and chickens. Boil until tender. Cook rice until fluffy. Fry nuts until brown and mix with rice. Hard boil and peel the eggs. Stuff the chickens with half the eggs and rice/nut mixture. Stuff the lamb with five chickens and some more rice mixture. Stuff the camel with the lamb and more rice. Broil in a large oven or near a gas flame until brown. Spread the remaining rice/nut mixture on a tray and place the camel on top. Place remaining stuffed chickens around the camel. Decorate with boiled eggs and nuts. Serves a friendly crowd of 200. You’d better make two, so your guests won’t fight over the hump.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Spring rolls at home
The spring rolls (egg rolls, harumaki) that one gets at Asian restaurants can be really awful: tired, greasy, limp and old.
But you can make them yourself. It really is not very hard. One tends to become intimidated by the long list of ingredients and the prospect of deep frying, but in reality, it’s not such a long list and the deep frying involves maybe two cups of oil and a small saucepan. The frying is over in five minutes, at most.
The most tedious aspect of making homemade spring rolls is the chopping of the ingredients, but again, a lazy afternoon in front of the kitchen TV or conversation with a friend can take care of this.
You can put pretty much anything you want in a spring roll. The only thing you have to remember is that you want a nice crunch of fresh vegetables to contrast the crispiness of the wrapper and the softness of the other fillings.
Here’s a recipe for chicken spring rolls, but you can substitute pork or shrimp or even leave it vegetarian.
A couple of things I consider essential to a good spring roll are:
Bean sprouts
Carrots
Garlic
Green onions (scallions)
All the rest is just gravy.
So, let’s assemble the ingredients:
Bean sprouts, washed
Carrots, julienned as finely as you can make them
Garlic, diced very finely
Grated ginger (freeze and then Microplane)
Green onions (scallions) sliced in thin rings
Snow peas/mangetouts, washed, with spine thread and both ends removed, then julienned
Red serrano chiles, julienned (optional)
Shredded cabbage (optional)
Shiitake or other non-supermarket mushroom, julienned
Boneless skinless chicken
Salt to taste
Spring roll wrappers
Peanut oil
The reason I haven’t given quantities is because it’s totally up to you — it’s like making a pizza. You can omit or add as you like.
In a nonstick frying pan, sauté ingredients in sesame or peanut oil in a rough order of which takes longest to cook, ie. chilies, carrots first, followed by mushrooms and snow peas. You basically just want them to fry for about 4-5 minutes total. The bean sprouts, green onions, cabbage and ginger can literally be thrown in last for about a minute just to warm them over. They’ll get cooked further during the deep fry.
Sauté the meat in sesame or peanut oil, if you’re using, separately until done. With chicken, brown all over and cook through. Same with pork. Cook shrimp (completely shelled) all the way through. Then fine-chop all.
Mix all the ingredients together and let cool to room temperature.
Your spring roll wrappers (they should be about 6” square) will be frozen. Bring the whole package up to room temperature. It will take about 30 minutes.
Put on the oil. To save oil, use a smallish pot, not a wok or a saucepan. I suggest a two-quart pot. Use enough oil to cover one spring roll, and preheat to upper medium-low — about 7 o’clock on your stove dial. It will take about ten minutes to get up to temperature, so now get to work making the rolls.
In a small bowl, mix a teaspoon of flour with about a couple of tablespoons of water. You want to make a runny paste. Have a pastry brush at hand. You can also use an egg, beaten slightly.
Peel off a spring roll wrapper. They will be quite sticky and hard to peel off, but if you have the right wrappers, they will be remarkably resilient and won’t tear, provided you do it very slowly.
Arrange the wrapper so it’s a diamond. Place some filling, perhaps half a cup to 3/4 cup, in the rough middle. Now fold the bottom corner over the filling and slightly tuck it in on the other side. Now fold in the sides as if you’re making an envelope. When they’re folded in, brush the top of the wrapper triangle with some flour-water, and roll the whole package like a cigar over the top.
You just made a spring roll.
With tongs, drop the roll into the oil. Chances are that the first one will cook very quickly — maybe only 30 seconds. But then the oil temperature will come down and the others will be easier to control.
If you want, cook them partially and then refrigerate. They’ll reheat well in a toaster oven. Serve with soy or garlic-chili sauce. They’ll be the best spring rolls you ever tasted — and you made them yourself.
Things you can add to a spring roll:
Bamboo shoots (thanks for reminding me, Naoko)
Asian noodles (glass or rice)
Mint
Cilantro
Parsley
Ham
Beef
Squash
Tofu
Salmon
Tuna
Crab
Lobster
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Latest painting from photo
Okay, this is the latest from the folks at Europic art, the outfit in Xiamen, China, that produces these spectacular oil painting from your photos for only $110 US for a 20 x 24” canvas.
They took a low res photo that I sent them, one that was flash-lit, badly exposed but hell of cute, and produced this painting. You’ll notice in the original, my son’s foot was cut off—they put it back.
Apologies for the quality of both photos—the flash reflected horribly—but I think you can get the drift. Look at the detail in the wood floor! (Click on the picture for a larger version)
They took a low res photo that I sent them, one that was flash-lit, badly exposed but hell of cute, and produced this painting. You’ll notice in the original, my son’s foot was cut off—they put it back.
Apologies for the quality of both photos—the flash reflected horribly—but I think you can get the drift. Look at the detail in the wood floor! (Click on the picture for a larger version)
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Who Knew II
“Gawwwwwddddd soiiiive thaaaah Queeeeeeen!!!!!!!!”
Betcha don’t remember that. Most of you blogging punks were in diapers when the Sex Pistols changed the face of music, and, ultimately, the world.
I was in a heavy metal band at the time, 1977, and I rebelled at the suggestion of the drummer that we cover that song. Absolute crap, I said, was punk, in all its forms. Rabid, three-chord, noisy, mindless crap. I was into Santana, Yes, Chick Corea, Pink Floyd.
See where that got me.
Sid Vicious died in a nasty spiral of death that involved his girlfriend. Vomiting on audiences became something that was no longer fashionable. Johnny Rotten, the lead singer, the hate-spewing, vitriolic maniac, faded away.
So imagine my surprise when I turn on the TV and come across John Lydon's MegaBugs.
The funny thing is, he’s good. He’s really, really good.
Betcha don’t remember that. Most of you blogging punks were in diapers when the Sex Pistols changed the face of music, and, ultimately, the world.
I was in a heavy metal band at the time, 1977, and I rebelled at the suggestion of the drummer that we cover that song. Absolute crap, I said, was punk, in all its forms. Rabid, three-chord, noisy, mindless crap. I was into Santana, Yes, Chick Corea, Pink Floyd.
See where that got me.
Sid Vicious died in a nasty spiral of death that involved his girlfriend. Vomiting on audiences became something that was no longer fashionable. Johnny Rotten, the lead singer, the hate-spewing, vitriolic maniac, faded away.
So imagine my surprise when I turn on the TV and come across John Lydon's MegaBugs.
The funny thing is, he’s good. He’s really, really good.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Chicken Jalfrezi
This is a great and dependably consistent dish that can be made scorchingly hot or mild as Butter Chicken. Its name means “dry fry.” This recipe, due to the long ingredient list, looks more complicated than it actually is.
Stage 1
1 medium onion, finely chopped
3-6 cloves garlic, finely chopped
2 T ginger, grated (this is easiest to do if frozen and grated with a Microplane)
3-5 serrano chiles, chopped (optional)
8 skinless, boneless chicken thighs, brined if possible
3 T turmeric
1 T chile powder
1 T salt
Ghee (clarified butter. It’s really the best, but if you can’t find it use peanut oil.)
Stage 2
28 oz. can diced tomatoes
3 T ground coriander
3 T ground cumin
2 T tandoori powder (optional)
1 T garam masala
1/2 C chopped cilantro (fresh coriander)
Method
In a large saucepan (nonstick is fine) melt about a tablespoon of ghee and fry the onions, chilies and ginger on medium heat until onions are translucent, about 6 minutes. Add the garlic and fry 2 minutes more.
Remove from pan and add another tablespoon of ghee, bring up to temperature and add the chicken. Brown on both sides for about 3 minutes, then add the turmeric, chile powder and salt. It will look like a powdery mess, but this is normal. Stir the chicken around to coat thoroughly with the mixture and fry on medium heat for ten minutes. Add back the onion mixture.
Now add the tomatoes, mix thoroughly and cook covered at a medium simmer for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Uncover and simmer 10 minutes more.
Now add the coriander, cumin, tandoori powder (if using), garam masala and garlic salt and cook at a medium simmer for another 20 minutes or so. If the sauce becomes too thick, add chicken broth to thin. It shouldn’t be a soup, but it shouldn’t be a paste.
Stir in the cilantro and mix well.
At this stage you can turn off the heat and go on to other things until ready to serve (reheat gently before serving) or serve immediately on basmati rice with sprigs of cilantro for garnish.
Monday, June 4, 2007
A River Runs Through it
At 14, I lived in Kinshasa, Zaïre, a two-minute walk from the Congo river, at its mightiest point. The other shore, Brazzaville, in the then communist (and permanently troubled) Congo, was so far away that only on very clear days could you see it. But when the rains came, the sky across the river dimmed to almost black, the winds picked up, and you knew it was coming.
The rain would fall almost in sheets, as in a washing machine, not drop-by-drop like in Montreal. The river, being pounded by the rain, would also turn black.
Although there wasn’t what you would call a winter in Zaïre, it cooled somewhat in the middle of the year (the opposite from here) but the river never changed. There would be rafts of water hyacinths that would inundate the river, stretching as far as the eye could see, and the fishermen in their impossibly tiny pirogues could be seen at all times, navigating through the green sea.
But upon approaching the river, down at the shore, a slight hike down a small hill, one truly appreciated the immensity of the river and its awesome power. So many dragonflies flew that you could almost catch them with your hand. Tiny fish could clearly be seen nuzzling at the banks. Incredibly colorful butterflies fluttered back and forth in front of you.
Crocodiles swam here, and further up, where the river narrowed, were “The Rapids.” These were a fearsome stretch that will be familiar to any viewers of “extreme boating” programs, but to me they were amazing. And I swam in them, only later learning the danger from water-borne parasites such as Schistosomiasis and other nasties. How I came out of Africa unscathed is a mystery to me, but the massive Congo river will always be in my dreams as a huge, moving beast of nature until my dying day.
The rain would fall almost in sheets, as in a washing machine, not drop-by-drop like in Montreal. The river, being pounded by the rain, would also turn black.
Although there wasn’t what you would call a winter in Zaïre, it cooled somewhat in the middle of the year (the opposite from here) but the river never changed. There would be rafts of water hyacinths that would inundate the river, stretching as far as the eye could see, and the fishermen in their impossibly tiny pirogues could be seen at all times, navigating through the green sea.
But upon approaching the river, down at the shore, a slight hike down a small hill, one truly appreciated the immensity of the river and its awesome power. So many dragonflies flew that you could almost catch them with your hand. Tiny fish could clearly be seen nuzzling at the banks. Incredibly colorful butterflies fluttered back and forth in front of you.
Crocodiles swam here, and further up, where the river narrowed, were “The Rapids.” These were a fearsome stretch that will be familiar to any viewers of “extreme boating” programs, but to me they were amazing. And I swam in them, only later learning the danger from water-borne parasites such as Schistosomiasis and other nasties. How I came out of Africa unscathed is a mystery to me, but the massive Congo river will always be in my dreams as a huge, moving beast of nature until my dying day.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Gang theory and Iraq
Okay, so I was wrong. Democracy ain’t the best thing at certain times in certain places. Sometimes an unruly, mixed population needs — even wants — some asshole to detain, torture and kill for the sake of stability.
Yes, believe it or not, some cultures actually want to be ruled with an iron fist. This actually makes absolute sense when you’re trying to juggle the needs and necessary “requirements” (can you say “Reasonable accommodation”?) of many tribes forced to live together in one area, often within an arbitrarily-created borderline.
I call it “gang.” Just: “gang.” What is religion? A gang in fancy dress. Some remote master figure who calls all the shots. You’re fucked if you fuck up (Hell) or, if you're good, you get the fifty virgins (Heaven.)
This can be broken down very easily. Human beings tend to assemble into groups. It’s natural. You live in Montreal, and you happen to be Armenian. You give the Montreal Armenia society a call. You go to a couple of tea gatherings, and all is well, unless you gather to curse the Turks.
And therein lies the problem: the treehouse mentality. “It’s mine and I built it and if you don’t join the club you can’t come in.” This is not to mention the toy mentality, writ large: “You have something that will make my life better and I want it.”
Which brings us back to gangs. According to my theory, we form gangs (you can also interpret this as “tribes” for the less aggressive) that encompass groups from three individuals (two can’t be a gang) to billions, in order to evolutionarily prevail.
Thus, Christianity is just a huge gang. Look: it has all the gang hallmarks; the rituals, the mumbo-jumbo that will keep you hooked and pay to support the blood-sucking entrepreneur/con men who used to be a bit more useful at marketing Oil of Snake. Let’s not put into the mix the rampant sexual abuse which is tolerated, even protected, in the Catholic branch of the gang. (Tribe mentality 101).
Compare it to the ‘hood dude who signs you up and requests that you prove your faith by going through some ongoing weird hazing process. This isn't much different from Confession, which is just a gang ritual meant to intimidate but be salacious at the same time. It's one of many hallmarks of the Catholic faith, among them being ceremoniously dressed for sexual favors as an Altar Boy, or any number of mechanisms to oppress the victims with threats (Hell) enticements (Heaven) and always, always the threat of the wrath of God. Threats, benificences; it’s always the Church’s MO.
The gang theory, at least in my thinking, can be illustrated by the extrapolation of tiny gangs (three dudes about to rob a convenience store) all the way up to the Pope, head of one of the largest gangs in the world, pontificating on abortion. But I digress.
There is a more understandable way of examining the concept of the “gang” being the least common denominator of humanity and also its greatest if we look at a mandlebrotian situation; one in which the part of the tiniest is just a mere enabler of endlessly growing repetitions of the initial module, the initial module in this case being the most compact form of the “tribe” or the “gang” — that non-divisible number being three.
Gangs, large or small, are a recurring aspect of humanity. I fear they will never disappear. The Star Trek fantasy will never take place. The benign ruler will prosper, but only in a society that tolerates him. Otherwise, you have to just oppress. Oppression is the weapon of the rulers of the people who can only operate by being oppressed. Saddam ruled with an iron fist, Uday just went nuts, Stalin went even more nuts, but some people still pine for the old days.
Go figure.
Yes, believe it or not, some cultures actually want to be ruled with an iron fist. This actually makes absolute sense when you’re trying to juggle the needs and necessary “requirements” (can you say “Reasonable accommodation”?) of many tribes forced to live together in one area, often within an arbitrarily-created borderline.
I call it “gang.” Just: “gang.” What is religion? A gang in fancy dress. Some remote master figure who calls all the shots. You’re fucked if you fuck up (Hell) or, if you're good, you get the fifty virgins (Heaven.)
This can be broken down very easily. Human beings tend to assemble into groups. It’s natural. You live in Montreal, and you happen to be Armenian. You give the Montreal Armenia society a call. You go to a couple of tea gatherings, and all is well, unless you gather to curse the Turks.
And therein lies the problem: the treehouse mentality. “It’s mine and I built it and if you don’t join the club you can’t come in.” This is not to mention the toy mentality, writ large: “You have something that will make my life better and I want it.”
Which brings us back to gangs. According to my theory, we form gangs (you can also interpret this as “tribes” for the less aggressive) that encompass groups from three individuals (two can’t be a gang) to billions, in order to evolutionarily prevail.
Thus, Christianity is just a huge gang. Look: it has all the gang hallmarks; the rituals, the mumbo-jumbo that will keep you hooked and pay to support the blood-sucking entrepreneur/con men who used to be a bit more useful at marketing Oil of Snake. Let’s not put into the mix the rampant sexual abuse which is tolerated, even protected, in the Catholic branch of the gang. (Tribe mentality 101).
Compare it to the ‘hood dude who signs you up and requests that you prove your faith by going through some ongoing weird hazing process. This isn't much different from Confession, which is just a gang ritual meant to intimidate but be salacious at the same time. It's one of many hallmarks of the Catholic faith, among them being ceremoniously dressed for sexual favors as an Altar Boy, or any number of mechanisms to oppress the victims with threats (Hell) enticements (Heaven) and always, always the threat of the wrath of God. Threats, benificences; it’s always the Church’s MO.
The gang theory, at least in my thinking, can be illustrated by the extrapolation of tiny gangs (three dudes about to rob a convenience store) all the way up to the Pope, head of one of the largest gangs in the world, pontificating on abortion. But I digress.
There is a more understandable way of examining the concept of the “gang” being the least common denominator of humanity and also its greatest if we look at a mandlebrotian situation; one in which the part of the tiniest is just a mere enabler of endlessly growing repetitions of the initial module, the initial module in this case being the most compact form of the “tribe” or the “gang” — that non-divisible number being three.
Gangs, large or small, are a recurring aspect of humanity. I fear they will never disappear. The Star Trek fantasy will never take place. The benign ruler will prosper, but only in a society that tolerates him. Otherwise, you have to just oppress. Oppression is the weapon of the rulers of the people who can only operate by being oppressed. Saddam ruled with an iron fist, Uday just went nuts, Stalin went even more nuts, but some people still pine for the old days.
Go figure.
Friday, June 1, 2007
Bugs
Insects are the bane of my existence. I absolutely despise every single one of them, except for butterflies and moths.
This is completely aberrational, as I was born in India and lived there for ten years surrounded by every hopping, flying, crawling, biting thing known to man. And to top it all off, I followed with three years in Zaire (now the Congo) with moths as big as sparrows, spiders the size of dinner plates, things in the yard that stung you anonymously so that all you could do was scream and run, and just bugs — bloody bugs everywhere, all day, all night, in your room, in your bed, on your wall, in your face. Rats, snakes — bring ‘em on! Just keep away the fucking bugs.
Well, I and my siblings fought back. There were ant trains the width of four inches that would march onto the terrace and try to invade the house. They were the small type of red ants, but it didn’t make it any less pleasurable to take a spray can — I can’t remember what was in it — and lift a Zippo lighter to it and flay them all to tiny shriveled hulks in seconds. Fun, but very dangerous. I don’t know how we survived, but I’m glad they didn’t.
And then there were the cockroaches. You’d be blown away by coming into your bedroom and seeing one on the wall — sometimes up to four inches long, so old and almost blond that we dubbed them "Grandaddies."
But they could fly, they could crawl up a perpendicular wall and even on the ceiling. Not a good recipe for a sound night’s sleep.
We had a small pantry area where the cook kept the potatoes in bags. Dark, dank, just the place cockroaches like.
I had an air gun that I’d bought in England. I’d run out of the BB pellets, so we rolled tin foil very very tightly into balls, and got ready. We’d swing open the door and the fuckers would begin scuttling from the potato sacks and then we’d shoot them. I was a good shot, but they just weren’t in a hurry to die. It was a mess.
Then there was the summer that the Things came. I still don’t know what they were but they were about half an inch long and flew and were black or red, always a bad sign. They would land on you and if somehow you tried to brush them off they would leave some kind of acid on you that wouldn’t go away — they’d land on your forearm and you’d brush them off and then touch your upper arm with your forearm and there would develop two identical screaming, burning rashes. I was lucky that I never got attacked but there were hundreds of cases that I later heard were near fatal.
One day we somehow managed to rescue a chameleon from a snake park (zoo) in Kenya, and we flew him home. We named him Ollie. He was none too happy being flown to Zaire, turned positively black, but once we got there he was in chameleon heaven (and turned bright green.) And so were we. We staged daily fly raids, where we’d hold him up to some asshole fly on a wall and he’d blast it with his tongue. He never missed. Hundreds of flies went down. Sadly, he was so slow-moving that he wandered off someone’s arm on the terrace and into the garden, unnoticed. I will have to say that without question, he was best pet I ever had. How many of yours work for a living?
Flash: Montreal, tonight. I’m settling down in my 8th floor apartment with the A/C on and I feel a tiny crawl on my arm. A fucking ant.
Then I look in horror at the ghastly scene: there’s a huge swarm of the little assholes on the tatami around a bag of corn chips I was just eating from ten minutes ago, with Dave's Gourmet Insanity Salsa, which is one of the hottest in the world. I was wondering why it tasted particularly good tonight and now I know. I must have gone back to the salsa jar and refilled and kept munching at least twelve times in the dark. Those little fuckers were mixing with the salsa and stinging my tongue.
Fucking bugs make my skin crawl. But they taste good. That’s my sweetest revenge.
This is completely aberrational, as I was born in India and lived there for ten years surrounded by every hopping, flying, crawling, biting thing known to man. And to top it all off, I followed with three years in Zaire (now the Congo) with moths as big as sparrows, spiders the size of dinner plates, things in the yard that stung you anonymously so that all you could do was scream and run, and just bugs — bloody bugs everywhere, all day, all night, in your room, in your bed, on your wall, in your face. Rats, snakes — bring ‘em on! Just keep away the fucking bugs.
Well, I and my siblings fought back. There were ant trains the width of four inches that would march onto the terrace and try to invade the house. They were the small type of red ants, but it didn’t make it any less pleasurable to take a spray can — I can’t remember what was in it — and lift a Zippo lighter to it and flay them all to tiny shriveled hulks in seconds. Fun, but very dangerous. I don’t know how we survived, but I’m glad they didn’t.
And then there were the cockroaches. You’d be blown away by coming into your bedroom and seeing one on the wall — sometimes up to four inches long, so old and almost blond that we dubbed them "Grandaddies."
But they could fly, they could crawl up a perpendicular wall and even on the ceiling. Not a good recipe for a sound night’s sleep.
We had a small pantry area where the cook kept the potatoes in bags. Dark, dank, just the place cockroaches like.
I had an air gun that I’d bought in England. I’d run out of the BB pellets, so we rolled tin foil very very tightly into balls, and got ready. We’d swing open the door and the fuckers would begin scuttling from the potato sacks and then we’d shoot them. I was a good shot, but they just weren’t in a hurry to die. It was a mess.
Then there was the summer that the Things came. I still don’t know what they were but they were about half an inch long and flew and were black or red, always a bad sign. They would land on you and if somehow you tried to brush them off they would leave some kind of acid on you that wouldn’t go away — they’d land on your forearm and you’d brush them off and then touch your upper arm with your forearm and there would develop two identical screaming, burning rashes. I was lucky that I never got attacked but there were hundreds of cases that I later heard were near fatal.
One day we somehow managed to rescue a chameleon from a snake park (zoo) in Kenya, and we flew him home. We named him Ollie. He was none too happy being flown to Zaire, turned positively black, but once we got there he was in chameleon heaven (and turned bright green.) And so were we. We staged daily fly raids, where we’d hold him up to some asshole fly on a wall and he’d blast it with his tongue. He never missed. Hundreds of flies went down. Sadly, he was so slow-moving that he wandered off someone’s arm on the terrace and into the garden, unnoticed. I will have to say that without question, he was best pet I ever had. How many of yours work for a living?
Flash: Montreal, tonight. I’m settling down in my 8th floor apartment with the A/C on and I feel a tiny crawl on my arm. A fucking ant.
Then I look in horror at the ghastly scene: there’s a huge swarm of the little assholes on the tatami around a bag of corn chips I was just eating from ten minutes ago, with Dave's Gourmet Insanity Salsa, which is one of the hottest in the world. I was wondering why it tasted particularly good tonight and now I know. I must have gone back to the salsa jar and refilled and kept munching at least twelve times in the dark. Those little fuckers were mixing with the salsa and stinging my tongue.
Fucking bugs make my skin crawl. But they taste good. That’s my sweetest revenge.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Making Waves
Watching a program tonight I was reminded of something that happened to me. We tend to think of these monstrous earth events, like hurricanes or earthquakes, as stuff that always happens to “them.”
But in 1975, in Dakar, Senegal, it almost happened to me, and I still don’t have an explanation for it. I was 18 and we had an apartment three minutes’ walk from the totally cool beach. Our favorite pastime was body surfing in the three or four-foot waves that came in at around 30 degrees Celsius.
God knows how many times I almost broke my youthful neck tumbling in the surf, but we never thought about it.
Until one day when the waves came. Maybe it was a tsunami — I’ll never be sure. Records at the time say something of an earthquake in November, but they mention mainly Hawaii being hit.
All I know is, the day I went down to the beach for my daily sunbathe I was in for a large shock. I know you’ve all seen those videos of the 2004 tsunami but I was not prepared for the sight I saw that day (and for about two days after.)
Waves that were obviously 40 feet or more were rolling in — just giant behemoths roiling with sand and mud and foaming all the way to the top, making a noise like a jumbo jet. If you had been caught in one of those, you would have been simply erased from the face of the Earth; crushed and separated like a mosquito in a washing machine.
And I knew what the walls of water could do: I’d had some bad tumbles in 7 or 8-feet high waves while body-surfing; you never knew which way was up and everything was all just green and white and even though your eyes were used to being open under salt water you just never knew what was going to happen next. Death was just seconds away. This is called being young.
I huddled with the local fishermen at the very lip of the beach while I watched them come in, wave after wave, impossibly high — words can’t muster the description of the incredible walls of water hurtling in on a perfectly clear day. After about an hour, I totally lost my nerve and beat a hasty retreat. It was just too goddamn scary -- the waves were almost reaching our feet, and we were at least 400 yards from where the shore used to be.
Later I watched more from my 18th-storey apartment as the waves continued to roll in. They consumed 90% of my familiar beach and almost rose onto the highway adjacent.
Jesus. Let us never underestimate the power of nature. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a 40-foot wave coming at you at 30 miles an hour.
But in 1975, in Dakar, Senegal, it almost happened to me, and I still don’t have an explanation for it. I was 18 and we had an apartment three minutes’ walk from the totally cool beach. Our favorite pastime was body surfing in the three or four-foot waves that came in at around 30 degrees Celsius.
God knows how many times I almost broke my youthful neck tumbling in the surf, but we never thought about it.
Until one day when the waves came. Maybe it was a tsunami — I’ll never be sure. Records at the time say something of an earthquake in November, but they mention mainly Hawaii being hit.
All I know is, the day I went down to the beach for my daily sunbathe I was in for a large shock. I know you’ve all seen those videos of the 2004 tsunami but I was not prepared for the sight I saw that day (and for about two days after.)
Waves that were obviously 40 feet or more were rolling in — just giant behemoths roiling with sand and mud and foaming all the way to the top, making a noise like a jumbo jet. If you had been caught in one of those, you would have been simply erased from the face of the Earth; crushed and separated like a mosquito in a washing machine.
And I knew what the walls of water could do: I’d had some bad tumbles in 7 or 8-feet high waves while body-surfing; you never knew which way was up and everything was all just green and white and even though your eyes were used to being open under salt water you just never knew what was going to happen next. Death was just seconds away. This is called being young.
I huddled with the local fishermen at the very lip of the beach while I watched them come in, wave after wave, impossibly high — words can’t muster the description of the incredible walls of water hurtling in on a perfectly clear day. After about an hour, I totally lost my nerve and beat a hasty retreat. It was just too goddamn scary -- the waves were almost reaching our feet, and we were at least 400 yards from where the shore used to be.
Later I watched more from my 18th-storey apartment as the waves continued to roll in. They consumed 90% of my familiar beach and almost rose onto the highway adjacent.
Jesus. Let us never underestimate the power of nature. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen a 40-foot wave coming at you at 30 miles an hour.
Logoland
Okay, so you have a vague idea that I actually work, have a job. That has yet to be determined. I'm one step away from being Serge Tremblay with a cup on the corner. Just kidding.
But I do work as a graphic designer/video editor. Just wanted you to check out these logos I did for a firm called Freestyle; ie. FS. They were all rejected.
I am from the school of the European design. Hard-edged, able to be reproduced and read at all sizes in multiple colors. A great example of this is the FedEx logo. You won't at first notice it, but if you look closely you'll see a clear arrow between the "e" and the "x".
This is what I live for as a designer. Subtlety and elegance, hidden in a tiny shadow so that once it's pointed out to you, you go "Jesus! I didn't see that! Now I do!"
So for this company the task was to do "FS" in an innovative, easily reproducible way.
The results are this one or this one
Just out of curiosity, which one would you pick? Look for birds and other Escher-like devices. I hope I think outside the box.
But I do work as a graphic designer/video editor. Just wanted you to check out these logos I did for a firm called Freestyle; ie. FS. They were all rejected.
I am from the school of the European design. Hard-edged, able to be reproduced and read at all sizes in multiple colors. A great example of this is the FedEx logo. You won't at first notice it, but if you look closely you'll see a clear arrow between the "e" and the "x".
This is what I live for as a designer. Subtlety and elegance, hidden in a tiny shadow so that once it's pointed out to you, you go "Jesus! I didn't see that! Now I do!"
So for this company the task was to do "FS" in an innovative, easily reproducible way.
The results are this one or this one
Just out of curiosity, which one would you pick? Look for birds and other Escher-like devices. I hope I think outside the box.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Alla Historia
Okay, pezzanovantes, tu sei pazzos, what’s the best mob film ever made?
Is it Goodfellas or is it Godfather? Is it Mean Streets or is it Casino?
Whichever it is, it always involved food. Lotsa food. Hail Mary on that.
Is it Goodfellas or is it Godfather? Is it Mean Streets or is it Casino?
Whichever it is, it always involved food. Lotsa food. Hail Mary on that.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Idolic Americans
Cindy Sheehan makes the point that more Americans care who’s going to be the next American Idol rather than how many Americans are being killed and injured in Iraq.
I don’t normally take sides; although I’m American myself, I originally thought getting that fucker Saddam Hussein out was worth whatever it took. (Bush has always been an asshole, so that equation doesn’t figure here — he’ll be properly judged by history.)
But everyone deserves the luxury of changing their minds.
She’s fucking spot on about American Idol.
I don’t normally take sides; although I’m American myself, I originally thought getting that fucker Saddam Hussein out was worth whatever it took. (Bush has always been an asshole, so that equation doesn’t figure here — he’ll be properly judged by history.)
But everyone deserves the luxury of changing their minds.
She’s fucking spot on about American Idol.
Listen up
Listen, ya schlubs, the trendy place to be is montrealfood.com headquarters.
Pick up your cool clothing 'n' stuff here. It's premium quality and you'll look cool anywhere in the world, even though you'll still be just a schlub.
Trust me. I'm the biggest schlub in the universe. And I spent a long time earning it.
Pick up your cool clothing 'n' stuff here. It's premium quality and you'll look cool anywhere in the world, even though you'll still be just a schlub.
Trust me. I'm the biggest schlub in the universe. And I spent a long time earning it.
Hey, Pandora's been replaced with last.fm
What are blogs, but online diaries? I’ve never been comfortable with the pressed-into-active-service trendy term “blog” but I guess it’s something we have to live with, along with terms along the lines of “P2P” or some other acronym of the day. I guess this is called “handing over to the next generation.” But fuck, I’m not dead yet, you little assholes.
However, it's kinda fun anyway to be able to type whatever the fuck you want and have a potential audience of twelve million, isn't it?
But putting your life out there for anyone — terrorists, child molesters, what have you — to read about . . . is that a Good Thing? I don’t have a MySpace or FaceBook page but it seems incredibly irresponsible to expose your personal details online, available to trillions of search engines.
Not to mention common sense.
However, it's kinda fun anyway to be able to type whatever the fuck you want and have a potential audience of twelve million, isn't it?
But putting your life out there for anyone — terrorists, child molesters, what have you — to read about . . . is that a Good Thing? I don’t have a MySpace or FaceBook page but it seems incredibly irresponsible to expose your personal details online, available to trillions of search engines.
Not to mention common sense.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Before youtube
I don’t know about your youthful exploits, but for me, the guitar and bass guitar were kind of a hobby. I made a few bucks here and there, including in Japan, where us white dudes stood out from the crowd.
But one gets older, and one regards one’s previous shenanigans in new lights, so to speak.
It’s been so long since I picked up a guitar that maybe a hair or two has gone grey, but when I listen to it it just blows me away that my younger self could have done that. Not just played it it, but invented it.
I’m not trying to brag. I just can’t figure out how my younger self actually managed to do all this shit. Christ, when I consider the mechanics of not only composing this stuff, but then dutifully recording it extremely laboriously on four-track magnetic tape, I might be forgiven for bowing down in worship mode to what I actually achieved. You can go on youtube and see Korean guitar gods but I was doing this in 1979.
I am officially in awe of my younger incarnation. How many people can say that?
But one gets older, and one regards one’s previous shenanigans in new lights, so to speak.
It’s been so long since I picked up a guitar that maybe a hair or two has gone grey, but when I listen to it it just blows me away that my younger self could have done that. Not just played it it, but invented it.
I’m not trying to brag. I just can’t figure out how my younger self actually managed to do all this shit. Christ, when I consider the mechanics of not only composing this stuff, but then dutifully recording it extremely laboriously on four-track magnetic tape, I might be forgiven for bowing down in worship mode to what I actually achieved. You can go on youtube and see Korean guitar gods but I was doing this in 1979.
I am officially in awe of my younger incarnation. How many people can say that?
Friday, May 18, 2007
Japanese Thaw
I wonder if I'm the only guy in the universe who simultaneously loves Japanese women and Annie DeMelt.
Weird juxtaposition and a definite hindrance on the dating scene. Maybe if Annie DeMelt became a geisha, or I met a female Japanese TV reporter (no, no, no, not Mutsumi Takahashi.)
I'll ask the therapist next time.
Weird juxtaposition and a definite hindrance on the dating scene. Maybe if Annie DeMelt became a geisha, or I met a female Japanese TV reporter (no, no, no, not Mutsumi Takahashi.)
I'll ask the therapist next time.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Monday, May 14, 2007
Toddlers' Truce
Very interesting page about early TV in Britain (around when I was in boarding school there.) Here's an excerpt:
"In the 50s, the hours people watched television were tightly controlled - the 24 hour broadcasting of today was unheard of. The Postmaster General stipulated how many hours of television could be shown each week. In 1956, for example, the BBC was allowed to broadcast television on weekdays between 9am and 11pm, with not more than 2 hours before 1pm. There was also a period between 6pm and 7pm when no television was broadcast. This period was used by parents to trick young children into thinking that the evening's television had finished so they would go to bed without complaint - it was known as the 'toddlers' truce' -imagine that today! At the weekends, the rules were no more relaxed. A maximum of eight hours broadcasting was allowed on Saturdays and 7 3/4 hours on Sunday. On Sunday another anachronism reigned - television shown between 2pm and 4pm was intended for adults - children were meant to be at Sunday School! Gradually the rules on broadcasting hours were made less strict. The 'toddlers' truce', for example, was dropped in 1957."
Wish they had a "toddlers' truce" today. Or at least a one-hour break on all channels. Christ, I might actually have to listen to the radio.
"In the 50s, the hours people watched television were tightly controlled - the 24 hour broadcasting of today was unheard of. The Postmaster General stipulated how many hours of television could be shown each week. In 1956, for example, the BBC was allowed to broadcast television on weekdays between 9am and 11pm, with not more than 2 hours before 1pm. There was also a period between 6pm and 7pm when no television was broadcast. This period was used by parents to trick young children into thinking that the evening's television had finished so they would go to bed without complaint - it was known as the 'toddlers' truce' -imagine that today! At the weekends, the rules were no more relaxed. A maximum of eight hours broadcasting was allowed on Saturdays and 7 3/4 hours on Sunday. On Sunday another anachronism reigned - television shown between 2pm and 4pm was intended for adults - children were meant to be at Sunday School! Gradually the rules on broadcasting hours were made less strict. The 'toddlers' truce', for example, was dropped in 1957."
Wish they had a "toddlers' truce" today. Or at least a one-hour break on all channels. Christ, I might actually have to listen to the radio.
L’Express Raviolis Maison
I’ve always loved the Raviolis Maison at L'Express, but they cost around $16 for five. Now I know why. I decided to try to duplicate them. I was lucky enough to get a recipe of the dish by Joël Chapoulie, the chef of L’Express, through my friend Shelley, and set about trying it out. It was pretty close, and now you can do it too. Note: although I made the ravioli pasta from scratch, you can use wonton wrappers to make the ravioli. And also note: this is a picture of MY raviolis, not L'Express's! Don’t bother making the raviolis from scratch unless you have a pasta machine; they’ll be too thick.Freeze the raviolis after you make them and you can resurrect them on demand. About 5 or 6 with the sauce will make a full meal.
L'Express Raviolis Maison
For the filling (this step can be done the morning of the meal or the night before, but you want it cold before making the raviolis.):
1 lb mixture of ground veal, ground pork and ground beef
2 large shallots, minced finely
4 cloves garlic, minced finely
1/2 C Italian flat-leaf parsley, chopped
1/4 C white wine
1/2 C veal stock
1T flour
Salt
Cracked black pepper
Oregano
Thyme
1 1/2 C finely grated Parmigiano Reggiano (do NOT use pregrated cheese from a container. Using a Microplane grater is highly recommended.)
Sauté the meat in a little bit of olive oil on medium heat, taking care to chop it with a wooden spatula so that it becomes a fine mince. When it has browned and the liquid boiled away (about ten minutes) add the wine and let that reduce until it has been absorbed by the meat.
Remove the meat from the pan and add some more olive oil. Sauté the shallots on medium heat until glassy (about 3 minutes) and add the garlic. Add the meat back to the pan. Liberally sprinkle salt and black pepper. Add oregano and thyme (either fresh or dried); about a tablespoon for each, but you can eyeball it.
In a container, mix the flour and the veal stock until smooth. Add to the meat mixture. Add the parsley and stir well.
Now add the parmesan, making sure to distribute it evenly; you don’t want little clumps of Reggiano in the middle of the filling.
Taste frequently, adding salt as needed (a teaspoon of sugar will help round it out.) You want to end up with a fairly thick, glossy filling that when cold will be easy to shape and not crumble when you make the ravioli. The Reggiano will help as a bonding agent for this and will create great flavor.
When the cheese is thoroughly incorporated throughout the mixture, remove from heat and put the filling into a container in the refrigerator. If it is completely cold it will be much easier to handle as a filling for the ravioli.
The goal in making the filling is that it should taste good enough to be eaten on its own, but provide a burst of flavor when cooked in the ravioli, so adjust seasonings constantly and taste constantly.
Raviolis
1 1/2 C unbleached flour
1 1/2 C durum semolina
5 large eggs
4-5 cloves crushed garlic (optional)
Whisk eggs and garlic together in bowl, add to flours. Mix thoroughly with fork. Knead in bowl with hands until firm enough to transfer to cutting board. Knead until smooth, about 12 minutes, into a ball. Wrap with plastic wrap and let rest for thirty minutes.
Divide into 4 and run sections through pasta machine until the last setting (five on an Imperial pasta machine.)
Cut pasta sheets into approximately one-foot sections, flouring liberally.
For each section, place about one teaspoon of filling per two inches on the bottom half of the pasta sheet.
With a pastry brush, moisten the top half of the pasta sheet with water. Fold over the fillings and carefully press out any air between each filling. Cut out the raviolis with a pastry wheel and trim any excess. Flour liberally and freeze immediately.
To cook, drop frozen ravioli into boiling, salted water. Bring again to boil and remove with a sifter after 8-10 minutes (don’t dump them into a colander.)
Mushroom sauce
10-12 Shiitake, cêpes or other good-quality mushrooms, sliced thinly
2 1/2 cups veal stock
1/2 C sherry
2 shallots
4 cloves garlic
4 T unsalted butter
1 T flour
Salt and pepper to taste
Sauté mushrooms on medium-high heat in two tablespoons butter until they give off their liquid and begin to brown. Add shallots, garlic, sauté for 2-3 minutes. Add sherry; with kitchen match, set alight and flambé.
Add veal stock and reduce for about thirty minutes until syrupy. Add remaining butter and stir well. If still too thin, stir flour into tablespoon of water and add to sauce. Adjust sauce with salt and pepper to taste.
Serve over raviolis with chopped parsley and Parmigiano Reggiano.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Yeccchh.
An idea whose time has come.
But it does remind me that my 5-year-old boy had no problem alternating between ice cream and spicy nacho chips. Dipping the chips in the ice cream might even had been acceptable; thank God I didn't give him the idea.
Or that my favorite food as a kid was spaghetti and ketchup.
But it does remind me that my 5-year-old boy had no problem alternating between ice cream and spicy nacho chips. Dipping the chips in the ice cream might even had been acceptable; thank God I didn't give him the idea.
Or that my favorite food as a kid was spaghetti and ketchup.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Proof
Iggy, my 14-year-old Siamese cat, thought that he could get away with walking on my black damask sheets with impunity.
But the proof is now in front of you! Deny, deny, deny, Iggy, but here it is! A brief trial will ensue while I open a new tin of cat food. Maximum sentence? I will move your sun carpet two inches to the left.
Revised
Okay, here’s my revised good guys/bad guys list:
Martin Yan
Charlie Trotter
Ming Tsai
Bobby Flay
Tony Bourdain
Mario Batali
Alton Brown
Emeril*
Giada de Laurentiis
= good
Rachael Ray
Paula Deen
Ina Garten
Curtis Stone (that obnoxious Australian pretty boy)
Ricardo (that obstreperous Québecois dude by virtue of only having one name)
= evil
*Recently upgraded due to sheer perseverance!
Martin Yan
Charlie Trotter
Ming Tsai
Bobby Flay
Tony Bourdain
Mario Batali
Alton Brown
Emeril*
Giada de Laurentiis
= good
Rachael Ray
Paula Deen
Ina Garten
Curtis Stone (that obnoxious Australian pretty boy)
Ricardo (that obstreperous Québecois dude by virtue of only having one name)
= evil
*Recently upgraded due to sheer perseverance!
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Bam!
Words from the wise to chef/ restaurant owner wannabes.
The book I'm reading at the moment (quite sloppily written--reads more like a hardcopy blog) says that after goods, food and wine costs (approx. 35%), labor (35%) overhead (rent, utilities etc., 20%) you're left with 10% profit, which usually goes back into the restaurant.
So it looks like you're fucked if you want to be a chef and you're fucked if you want to be a restaurant owner.
Bam!
The book I'm reading at the moment (quite sloppily written--reads more like a hardcopy blog) says that after goods, food and wine costs (approx. 35%), labor (35%) overhead (rent, utilities etc., 20%) you're left with 10% profit, which usually goes back into the restaurant.
So it looks like you're fucked if you want to be a chef and you're fucked if you want to be a restaurant owner.
Bam!
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Blown Away Part II
Well, here it is, as promised: the latest portrait of my son as provided by Jack Lee, of Europic-Art.com.
It's astonishing, as usual. It stills reeks of oil paint and it has a great surface texture; no machine did this. I can't wait to get it mounted and up on the wall.
Do me a favor and get out your cameras and take a portrait of your loved one and then send it to Jack for "processing." They will truly be as blown away as I am. It's weird, like looking at your son with another mind's eyes. Blown away. The photograph of the painting just doesn't do it justice.
It's astonishing, as usual. It stills reeks of oil paint and it has a great surface texture; no machine did this. I can't wait to get it mounted and up on the wall.
Do me a favor and get out your cameras and take a portrait of your loved one and then send it to Jack for "processing." They will truly be as blown away as I am. It's weird, like looking at your son with another mind's eyes. Blown away. The photograph of the painting just doesn't do it justice.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Blown Away
I’m just blown away. Speechless.
Last year I ran across a website that was offering paintings. Paintings from whatever you wanted.
In about 2003 I’d heard that there were artists in China that were absurdly classically trained; can you say “Oil-paint acrobat”? It was on a 60 Minutes segment, and at the time I wanted desperately to find out who these people were. I graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts with a major in drawing and I immediately recognised their incredible talents. Imagine having someone take a treasured photo and transform it into a genuine work of art. Not a cheesy knockoff, but something rivalling anything only a truly talented artist could create.
Reimagine it costing only $120 or so for a 20” x 24” oil-on-canvas painting delivered to your door within a month.
Christ alive, I’d charge $1000 just to do a bloody sketch of the thing. Just to LOOK at the thing.
But here it is.
My new best friend is Jack Lee, of Europic-Art.com, a treasure to deal with. He always delivers. I’m on my third painting and I’m far from finished. Below is a picture taken of my parents and the resulting painting, which I requested in an “Impressionistic” style. Bravo, Jack and especially, bravo, one masterly painter.
Last year I ran across a website that was offering paintings. Paintings from whatever you wanted.
In about 2003 I’d heard that there were artists in China that were absurdly classically trained; can you say “Oil-paint acrobat”? It was on a 60 Minutes segment, and at the time I wanted desperately to find out who these people were. I graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts with a major in drawing and I immediately recognised their incredible talents. Imagine having someone take a treasured photo and transform it into a genuine work of art. Not a cheesy knockoff, but something rivalling anything only a truly talented artist could create.
Reimagine it costing only $120 or so for a 20” x 24” oil-on-canvas painting delivered to your door within a month.
Christ alive, I’d charge $1000 just to do a bloody sketch of the thing. Just to LOOK at the thing.
But here it is.
My new best friend is Jack Lee, of Europic-Art.com, a treasure to deal with. He always delivers. I’m on my third painting and I’m far from finished. Below is a picture taken of my parents and the resulting painting, which I requested in an “Impressionistic” style. Bravo, Jack and especially, bravo, one masterly painter.
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