Richard Peters -in the Sai Kung Country Park

An Epistle to Hong Kong – Chapter 1 'In the Beginning'

This is the first of three open epistles intended with the heart in mind. In these I make appeal to that which moves a person, the inner stirrings of awareness, conscience and pity. The intention is that my thoughts should strike a resonating chord and provoke discourse and action.

The subject is Hong Kong, our experience here, our expectations and departure. Having thought on these things for a time and, knowing my days in the city are numbered, I have decided to give them form and to cast them, for good or ill, into the electronic ether. It begins with our entry to this far-eastern metropolis.

Our lives in Hong Kong began by fluke. Just before Christmas 1996, on business I cannot recall, we visited the Royal Bank of Scotland in Sandbach, Cheshire. Waiting for the Memsahib, I completed a simple promotional flyer that required a few ticks and a sentence – the prize being £3000 of Thomas Cook Travel Vouchers. The Mem saw this as a waste of time: I shrugged. A few days into the New Year someone claiming to be with the RBS phoned and congratulated me on winning the first prize in the bank’s national competition. Assuming this to be an elaborate wind-up, I came close to slamming the phone down after a few choice words, but hesitated. Days later, smiling for the cameras, we received an enormous cheque and pondered what to do with all that cash.

We concluded we should go to a place we were unlikely to visit again in our lifetime, the place our dear friend Gethyn had recently emigrated and whose concluding words to us was to be sure to come and see him. Our vouchers became two Cathay flights to Hong Kong with cash to spend...

That Chinese New Year week of 1997 was an incredible novelty. Spectacularly flying in over the streets of Kowloon we arrived at the old Kai Tak airport and filled the week doing the touristy things that all wide-eyed visitors do, the Big Buddha on Lantau, the sweaty market in Stanley, the bouncy Star Ferry to Tsim Sha Tsui. Our gracious host took us to view the night city from Stubbs Road and to view a misty China from the Robin’s Nest helipad.  The first trip to be taken without our little girls, we enjoyed the differences of culture and the ease with which we could get around. It was all so very exciting – a noisy and bright world away from the silent and dark streets of Northwich.

We took time out to visit the special needs Jockey Club Sarah Roe School where the Mem’s ex-colleague and friend, the late Jenny Doke, had recently began working. Limbering out of the taxi I peered down the long drive next door to what clearly appeared to be a long-established educational institution, the King George V^th School, its grand Art Deco frontage with clock tower overseeing a green sports field. As a trainee teacher, I thought at the time, if I could teach anywhere then it would ideally be here.

The night of our departure we spent in a Mexican Restaurant in Times Square with a gaggle of English Schools Foundation teachers – a birthday party. With one eye on the clock, we drank salty margaritas and ate nothing but nachos all evening. The party continued and we politely made excuses for our 11 pm plane. No, don’t go! voices clamored. But we have our kids… we replied. Bring ‘em over – we’ll get you a job! This flippant remark was not without weight in the days leading up to the handover of 1997.

At 10:45, and with a “Fi-dee! Fi-dee!”, our host bundled us into the back of a red taxi. Sliding across the back seat, we sped at the highest of speeds through the Central Harbour Tunnel to Kai Tak to the awaiting return flight, but it was all too much and before immigration hot, orange, sticky nachoey sick splashed over my black jeans. Such was my state, the Mem threatened to fly without me if I was refused on board. I promise I'll never drink another!

Such a world had never existed for us: teachers with money, regularly polishing off bottles of wine in a school staffroom after work, regular international travel to hot, sunny destinations – it would surely remain a sparkly dream, a nice idea, but something we would forever want. Before the end of the year the Mem had applied for a post at the very same Sarah Roe School.

Deciding to move to Hong Kong was easy, although saying our goodbyes to friends and family was painful, but the opportunities that quickly arose in the Pearl of the Orient made our first few months a joyful adaptation. Our apartment began to look like an IKEA showroom and we watched DVDs during typhoon days. We began to go native – the English expat native – taking on a domestic helper and enjoying sausage, mash and a pint of Tetleys at the Railway Tavern in Tai Wai (in those days you could get gravy and mushy peas with your pie and chips). We loved giving Chinese New Year red lai see envelopes containing money to employees and children, but perhaps I over-reacted to the slang term for westerners, gwailo – was I really a foreign devil? On my way to work I could see down the entire length of the MTR train: I was the tallest soul anywhere without westerners, something that just ain’t so anymore.

Our landlady, undoubtedly mindful of her losses in the property price crash that accompanied the Asian financial crisis, tried to keep us happy in our 600 square feet Tai Wai apartment (including lift lobby). With her we experienced our first dim sum and hotpot, but the flat’s size and price was our rude awakening to what may be the most over-heated property market in the world. Hong Kong being such a perfectly placed travel hub, we took ourselves off for holidays in Thailand and Bali, but a few weekends in choky Chinese cities made us think twice about the mainland.

The many islands of the New Territories beckoned with gazetted beaches, clean sand, lifeguards, butterflies and cold beers in the cafés. It proved such a great attraction that we couldn’t help but call our poor friends Rachel and Bob to tell them how wonderful it all was. Unfortunately, they failed to share our enthusiasm on a dreary, dark British five o’clock in the bloody morning...

We frequently took to two or even three nights out each week, clubbing, barhopping and dancing our way through the crowds of Lan Kwai Fong. Competing bars would often give away drinks to attract punters. We even took up Salsa! Regularly quaffing champagne on Wednesday ladies’ nights at Carnegies in Wanchai often meant dancing on the bar until well into the wee small hours... only to get up and go to work at 6 the next day. But we thought nothing of it. We had the cash (and the energy), we lived a mere HK$100 taxi ride from Central and we loved it!

It became quickly obvious that Hong Kong was all about money. Any Hong Konger becomes conspicuous only by his or her spending. There’s little else this town takes seriously. Having disposable income can bring a level of transient happiness only dreamed of by the rest: the power to walk into a shop and buy anything – ANYTHING! (well, almost)

The vast majority of people are still relatively poor by comparison, particularly older people and women and trends indicate that the numbers of poor have increased. Only the very richest (and very poorest) have had their lot improved.

But as for us, we spent it all. There couldn't be a better place to live than Hong Kong. Outside work, our lives were almost entirely devoted to pleasures: electronic gadgetry, cinema, clothes, holidays, restaurants and nights out. We must have helped many-an entrepreneur on their way to their current fortunes, and lost ours in the process, but at the time we just didn't care.

And this is where I pause. The next epistle is concerned with day-to-day life in Hong Kong and of Hong Kong people in particular.

From the Republic of Ireland to the Czech Republic

Well, as far as the future is concerned, one thing is about as far in the bag as one can say with certainty – we leave Hong Kong in January 2013.

We've been in the Hong Kong Special Administrative Region (such a politically over-cautious term full of control-driven Chinese socialist idealism) since 1988. For good or ill, back then the territory still had its distinct Anglo flavour. This has diminished through design and disfavour and risen again through style and choice. A pivotal moment came when the MTR announcements were changed from a distinctly clipped British accent to the whiny quasi-Southern Californian that it remains today. On the barricades provocative political kids wave the old colonial flag in the faces of the Beijing masters as much to score a point as to pretend they love the life that probably ended before they were out of nappies.

I will write more about Hong Kong, about working here, the people and the politics on a later occasion. But to wrap up this intro, whether I like it or not Hong Kong is in the blood and unless I'm caught buggering the Chief Executive in LEGCO I'll undoubtedly turn up back here, bad penny-like, again... and again...

What precipitated our oncoming departure is the same thing that brought us here: work. The Memsahib's, to be precise. Back in 1998 she and I travelled by wheezy old British Rail to a job interview with Hong Kong's English Schools Foundation in the Big Stink. Nervous moments passed for me as behind the panelled doors of the St James Club the muffled conversation continued into the afternoon. What I was not to know for quite some time was that the Mem was demanding that her gorgeous, sweet-smelling husband (of Newly Qualified Teacher status) should also be found favourable employ with the ESF. To this firm request they duly and correctly complied and after some brief stints of supply at certain primary schools in the region I obtained a proper job teaching music at Kowloon Junior School.

The cause of our imminent departure is to work in the Czech Republic. But the choice was not simple – Ireland also beckoned with a juicy, fat, Guinness-soaked finger. The only way to make a decision was to visit both countries and this we duly did in mid-December.

Whichever way you cut it, Ireland is a special, not to say amazing, place. There's something beguiling about being at the edge of things – the Atlantic Ocean or Europe, depending on which way you're facing at the time. It was a terrifically important part of the world for the megalithic tomb builders thousands of years ago, the sun's daily death into the western sea had obvious religious and symbolic overtones. The enlightened religious houses of the early medieval period sent many successful missions into the darkened dark age Anglorium and even further afield into Europe. Today, Irish intellectualism (not a cheap gag) is a marvellous green-tinged twinkly thing long interconnected with a host of American, British and European movements. To be connected with it through Limerick University would be exciting, dynamic and future-oriented. With enough beautiful local Guinness in the blood, who knows where it could lead!

Despite driving from Rosslare 'Europort' -such an exciting sobriquet- into the rain-sodden landscape covered in low, misty cloud and puddles nearly as deep as the sea we'd just crossed, it was with happy hearts we stopped at lovely Wexford, a comfortable place of pretty shop fronts on the high street, grey seals in the harbour and fine culinary fayre in the exclusive (not to say expensive) fine-dine restaurants. It's a great little city.

Cork is also a magnificent but much bigger town. Feeling more like a regional capital than a provincial town, its shopping crowds testify to the presence of many Euro-weighted pockets, even if the country is said to be permanently on the verge of, if not beyond, bankruptcy. Limerick is its smaller cousin, a little more modest in size and scope. Perhaps it was down to the season of goodwill, but on every corner on every intersection could be heard the jangling of buckets of change, carolling children's choirs and good causes a-plenty fearlessly promoted. The Irish truly have the tenderest of hearts.

Having visited Blarney Castle, the Mem took to her interview whilst I took to finding a suitable place to live. I have mentioned on a previous occasion how much fun it is to sit staring at the sunset and consider living right there in the holiday destination. This was always on the cards as far as this trip was concerned and down by the River Shannon the little village of Killaloe shone out of the County Clare countryside like a beautiful bright new pin – dimmed somewhat with it being the middle of winter. The deserted St Flannan's Cathedral, hitherto completely unknown to me, had an ancient and ethereal attraction matched only by the nave's astonishing acoustics. The Irish countryside is full of old buildings going to rack and ruin: barns, farmhouses and townhouses, the mind raced with fantasies of converting these damp shells into fine, warm, liveable dwellings.

One worrying element to our trip was the tendency, to our eternal shame, to slip into a stereotypical Oirish accent at any given moment, begorrah, with the accompanying Father Ted-esque 'Drink', 'Feck', 'Arse' and 'Girls'! There are times when I needed to be reminded not to shout those expletives before elevated members of the clergy – unless they did it first.

We returned back over the water and hurried to overnight in Stroud, a place we once thought we would make home. Down to the Prince Albert for lovely pints of local ale, the whiff of woodsmoke, live jazz and good company... But the flight to Prague was on the morrow.

This must have been one of the least-planned trips we've ever mounted. Assuming, like expats everywhere, that everyone speaks English, we didn't even know the price of a common-or-garden cab into town! Each capital city is the most expensive element in a country. We were, however, quite pleasantly surprised by the cost of things, being equivalent or marginally less than Hong Kong, the UK & Ireland.

The quality of Czech food also seemed tip-top. But the best was the beer – the ubiquitous Pilsner Urquell as light as spring water and as flavoursome as any tap-poured micro-brewery output can be!

One could, however, happily travel around the Czech Republic on next-to-nothing, stay at very cheap hostels and pensions and merely drink in the architectural splendour of the place. To say it is a jewel is to cheapen it. Even the new central city building work is done in sympathy with its late medieval or baroque surroundings. We were frequently, and pleasantly, open-mouthed at the richness of even the meanest streets. Of course there are whole ghettos of bleak, graffiti-covered communist-era blocks just as in any city, but far removed from any touristy site worth seeing. The low house prices outside Prague are also breathtaking: we could buy a castle with the change in our pocket (well, nearly)!

The little town of Olomouc (pop. 102,000) is somewhere you've never heard of. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, the medieval centre of town is chocolaty-box-cobbledy-street loveliness, or at least it was at Christmastime without the 24,000 student population.

Palacký University has been around since 1573 and has quite a reputation in Theology and Philosophy in addition to Education, Science and Law. The Special Education Department want to become better-known within the English speaking world outside the Czech Republic and have recently printed its first English bi-annual publication. This fits in quite nicely with the Mem's plans for world domination.

Although cold, the people felt warm and friendly. Many spoke English (I suppose that's a good thing). The country feels like it has one respectful and retrospective eye on the values of the past and another, exciting and positive, very much fixed on the future. It is a culturally rich and youthful place. It's got a bit of everything!

So, the deal's done. And it's a good'n! We may be earning less in terms of what can be cleared in London or Kowloon, but koruna-for-koruna (written acronymically Kč, by the way) you can buy more giant pretzels in Moravia -or so we're led to believe.

This is possibly the last (and probably the longest!) blog of the year. If you've kept up this far then you're either a fan, a friend or a masochist! In the new year I may put this blog to bed and begin another more keenly Česká republika-focused on our new doings!

So farewell to 2012 and wherever you are and however you see it in, I wish you all a very Happy New Year for 2013.

A Silver Wedding

Everyone knows that an 18th or 21st birthday is more important than all of those that precede: in a time when it is unfashionable to take ceremony seriously, they are somehow supposed to act as just that –official marks of personal transition from childhood to adulthood. In the UK 16 is the age when taking part in full-blown hot-and-sweaty nooky is no longer illegal. In addition, after such licencious back-of-the-bus-stop bevaviour, said spotty teenage-types can pop down the corner shop or garage to buy 20 fags (if they've got any money left over from buying sweets). At 17 one can obtain a full driving license in order to kill other people as designated driver. It is, however, only at 18 one can buy proper and legal alcoholic drinks at the pub and vote, surely the mature stuff of glorious adulthood. So, I'm not quite sure about what the old 21st celebrates, except that the less spotty youths in question might have just finished college or are now able to get drunk on more expensive drinks in more expensive night clubs.

As a poor youth, my 18th was a lovely time spent at home. But even though I received 18 presents from my lovely new girlfriend (above), I failed to celebrate it in quite the way I might now expect – would then that I could have imbibed delicate champagnes, fine wines and fiery exotic cocktails. The next year I recall the Memsahib spending her 21st at a Italian pizzeria on the Cottingham Road in Hull tossing elastic floury pizza bases high into the air, a skill she never quite mastered (perhaps if she'd devoted more energy to this activity we'd both be in a very different place today!). My own 21st was rather unceremoniously spent at my Aunt Nell's 80th and, because I was driving, didn't touch a drop. I think it's safe to say that since that time I have endeavoured to make up for it on any and every occasion!

Our current year sees two significant events, our 25th wedding anniversary, that occurred this last weekend, and the Mem's graduation next Friday. There are as many approaches to such occasions as there are souls, but being an incurable romantic creature (and a party one to-boot) it is only fitting that these occasions have been correctly and justly celebrated. Our parents were not endowed with either the means or the ability to host big parties, so we have sought to ensure such great occasions are not forgotten.

But how do you celebrate a 25th wedding anniversary? Should the couple go back to the same church –him in a tux, her in white– saying the same comforting words, inviting the same supportive people, eating the same memorable banquet? Are they important and comfortable metaphors of perhaps the most important occasion in life, or over-used clichés and empty talismanic incantations from a day long gone? It stumped us. After all, we're simply not the same people we were 25 years ago.

Back in October 1987, in our early 20s, we took delight in arranging the rings, dress, cake, church, reception, invitations, cars and speeches. It was going to be our day, even though parents were paying. In fact, it was because our parents paid that we had less control over the occasion than we believed. It was a church wedding partly because of our parents' inclinations and partly because we were believed in the solemn sense of occasion. Catering was done by a central London vegan restaurant I previously work at (and no alcohol at all!) – to have done otherwise would have been to court severe disapproval from our elders and betters. It was, nonetheless, a lovely November day – a sunny, autumnal All Saints' Day to be precise. It was the last occasion my mother and father (divorced 20 year previously) were in the same place and the only occasion that particular selection of family and friends were in one location. Everyone went away smiling about the lovely young couple.

That night we went back to our little cottage in the woods in Hawkhurst, Kent, unpacked the car of all the boxes and gifts (mostly glassware, I recall) and went to bed late and completely knackered: no honeymoon–the Mem had work the next day!

Living in Hong Kong for many years has enabled us to come to terms with who we are –warts and all! It has meant we have been able to rearrange our life with a little more certainty and determination. It has also meant we have kept the friends we want. Our 25th anniversary, therefore, had to reflect who we are and what our lives have come to mean now. Our daughter Alys, and her boyfriend Victor, who live here in Hong Kong joined us. We flew in our daughter Rachel, and her boyfriend Tom, from London. Both of my brothers were in town, Mark from the UK and John who lives here with Virgie. And we had to fly in the legendary Craig Ramsay to be our official photographer–his photos will remain a brilliant reminder of a great week.

With family thus united, we began the Nov 1st 25th silver wedding anniversary festivities with a trip to the pictures: Skyfall may be worthy of many-a frothy blog, but let's just say that it was a suitable smashy blockbuster to begin our celebratory weekend. Indeed, I believe it was the first film we'd watched at the same time at the cinema! Our evening finished with cocktails at the stylish Aqua on 1 Peking Road: the spectacular view of Hong Kong harbour from up there never fails to impress. 

 

Friday evening was the family dinner, the chance for us to spoil them. The Mem and meself first visited 1881 Hullett House for dinner earlier in the year, before a wonderful concert by the great Karita Mattila, and both considered it a perfect venue for such an event.

The dinner at St George, the Western restaurant upstairs in Hullett House, is the place to expect the extravagant and the refined (not to mention the expensive!). Accompanied by our favourite champagne, Billecart-Salmon rosé, each course was exquisitely prepared and presented.

It did not disappoint on all accounts. Even the restaurant manager, Gregoire, performed at his best elaborating on each dish and adding a level of informal formality that only French restaurant managers can.

We retired that night to Ned Kelly's Last Stand, Tsim Sha Tsui, the great trad jazz pub with an outback Australian theme that just works together and I don't know why. And so to bed...

Our Saturday involved doing not much until the evening do at Hebe One-O-One, where we chose to include as many as could make it for our celebration of 25 years. We weren't sure if the ground floor would be big enough to cater for the expected number of guests, but our fears were ill-founded. In the event, such was the service that our guests could barely empty their glasses without someone surruptitiously filling them and there was too much food: somewhat inebriated smiles all-round!

It was so enjoyable to see all of our friends and family: such kind support meant, and continues to mean, so much. And as the choir in its cups sang Fools Rush In as the Mem sat between them, I felt we had reached the finale of our celebration; the combination of family and friends, of past, present and future – the cheers were genuine!

I'm not sure that waking up next to the same person for 25 years constitutes any sort of achievement (other than as an unfortunate comparison with others). Sure, we all have our ups and downs, but if living with someone is sufficiently pleasurable then is it not reward enough? As I said in the requisite speech of the night, I couldn't imagine living one day without her then (in 1987) and I can't now.

 

I hope you'll forgive me for waxing on a bit about this weekend –a little bit of self-indulgence, I'm afraid– but I don't suppose we'll do another one! I believe if you're going to do something, then it's better to do it exactly the way you want and do it well. This was what we want, the way we want and by so doing we've made up in whiz and bang what we lacked on all those special occasions of the past.

What Beer Should I Drink?

It's a perennial problem, which comes round again and again, each year, regularly, not to say frequently and repeatedly! Like another beer-based chart I previously highlighted, here's one to help assess the right beer for you.

But worry no longer –for the solution may be here in the handy compact chart below made by the kindly souls at Eating the Road. The only problem, however, are the solutions. Beer is, of course, a matter of taste and great and heated debate inevitably follows the question of the right or best beer –surely it depends upon the circumstances in which it is consumed. Left to your own devises I am sure the solution presents itself upon the first glimpse of the fridge/esky/7-11/bar taps/park bench. I sometimes get a taste for a familiar beer before even entering a watering hole, but in general I'm a sucker for what I see first. Advertising and brewery companies know this and do very well out of their suggestions to the slavish, knavish and stupid... erm...

So, in analysis of the chart, I completely concur with the BrewDog Scottish thing and like the idea that Corona is a little more expensive. I'm glad to see that Beck's and Heine drinkers were no longer living with their parents, but why would a pint of Foster's or Carlsberg made one "wordly". I can only assume this to be a mere North American perspective –drinking the tasteless Foster's in Australia or the UK is a pitiable offence, like having too many sugars in your tea. Few, I'm sure, have suspected Michelob and Bass drinkers for not liking beer. And to think that Harp, a mysterious resurrected Irish beer more popular in the 60s-80s, Heedcrackin' Geordie Nukey Brown Ale and the old 'Wifebeater' Stella must be now associated with recycling is... well, it's a mystery: could somebody please elucidate? The final question mark must surely fall on the inclusion of Double Diamond (also popular in ye olden days of ye 60s) in the 'Loving Beer (but-not-too-much)' category –maybe it really does work wonders! What about Worthington E, Carling Black Label or Watney's Red Barrel? Oh, I don't know –click to enlarge the chart or otherwise simper on Youtube to these nostalgic hop-filled moments.

Vegetable Rights and Peace!

There aren't many days I am genuinely inspired to visit a restaurant. Let's face it, we all want to be wowed by plates of the finest fayre, exotic combinations, dazzling culinary creations that prove the worth of the visionary creator, but the compelling feeling to get up and go to visit a restaurant is usually not one of inspiration. It is usually one of mere need for satiety, both of the stomach and posing variety, or of inquisitiveness –testing out the water, assessing for future visits, bragging rights, etc. But although I was inspired for different reasons to have dinner up the Eiffel Tower,  I was inspired by wholesome and healthy vegetarian zeal to visit the Grassroots Pantry. I was not disappointed.

The Grassroots Pantry is tucked away in Sai Ying Pun -the old residential part of western Hong Kong that used to be called Victoria. It has a history going back to the original 1840s British settlement of the territory although nothing from that era remains apart from the street names. Located at the end of the teensy-tiny Fuk Sau Lane, blink and you'd miss it: remember it's on the corner of Third Street and the winding Pok Fu Lam Road and you'll be all right.

Until recently I didn't get into much of a quiver about a load of old vegetables on a plate, however it would be delivered, but over the past few months the Memsahib and meself have become a tad more vetable-ish. That's not to say that meat hath not crossed our lips, but to use an iTunes analogy, instead of it being in the Most Favoured Playlist, it's now relegated to the Country Music section -rarely if at all visited and more often than not deleted. Actually, just as a warblin' suth'n blue grass tune may appeal most when accompanied by copious amounts of Suth'n Comfort, so also does the cooked flesh of dead animals. This, of course, may also occur at the time of the day when one's culinary judgement may not necessarily be at its best and probably accounts for the prevelance of devilish, late-night, aromatic Kebabery throughout the city centres of the world.

Hence, we have taken a little more consideration regarding our food. To be precise, we have taken a little more consideration with regard to where our food has come from. As a teacher, I thought it my duty to encourage children to make informed decisions about the food they eat, particularly the meat many claimed not to able to live without -perhaps the most obvious philosophical decision they will make on a daily basis –thrice-daily, even. So I would start with the housing and slaughtering of chickens and ducks and the treatment of sows and their unfortunate 'suckling' piglets. Those being the most commonly eaten meats of the general Chinese population here, there was not time to mention lambs and cows, although a short description of the contents of most of the sausages they regularly consume was usually enough to end on a high (or low) point of popular revulsion. Chicken Nuggets? In most cases they simply had not given it any thought. They had almost no idea how the animals were raised, transported or slaughtered and knew even less about how their meat was processed. Check it out here.

In fairness, the Chinese have until recently had a pretty good idea about fresh ingredients, particularly meat. Resembling medieval faires, 'wet markets' display their wares for all to see, animal and vegetable, and it quickly becomes obvious what is safe and what is to be avoided. The first exposure to live chickens and squiggly fishies ready to be dispatched may arrest the casual camera-wielding observer, but in a city of high heat and humidity freshness and food safety has always been ensured. Well, nearly always. Unfortunately, the plague of Bird Flu put a stop to the Mrs Wongs of this fair city blowing on chicken's bums to gauge the health of the bird from the... response, and the plague of Swine Flu threatened to put an end to pork and humankind altogether! Not many now shop exclusively in wet markets: as enjoyable as it is, most people simply haven't got the time.

So, with inspirational, high-minded quasi-Buddhisty thoughts of animal welfare, we visited the lovely Grassroots Pantry for our daughter's birthday lunch. It is exactly how a restaurant of this kind should be with the focus on good food and on about as much of a bohemian experience of thoughtful veggy life money can buy. And I must say, it ain't that bad. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it was one of the best vegetabalist lunches I've had. It even smelt right!

Vegetarian food is often of a folksy, home-made quality, where the chef has obviously undertaken a course in macrobiotics and left the paying customer with chunky soups, unadventurous salads and not much more. Unfortunately, it sometimes looks like a pile of vegetably vomit. At the very least, the chefs at Grassroots Pantry have thought not only about the ethics of eating, but also of the taste, texture and even the presentation of their dishes. It's not cheap, but neither should it be.

The hand-made menu is hand-written with cute hand-drawn illustrations of each hand-made dish. The starters were tasty, if a little small, and the mains were rich, if similarly portioned. The smoothies were delicious and filling and the deserts a little heavy and in need of the excellent Ethiopian coffee to make its way stomach-side. I had good reports from Alys and Victor of the Blueberry Cheesecake.

Utilizing their philosophy of local, sustainable and mostly organic foodstuffs, they aim to serve 'nutritious, homemade, plant-based world dishes'. And Peggy Chan (far right in photo), their chief chef, clearly knows her stuff having served in many excellent locations in Canada, Switzerland, Tokyo and Hong Kong. Her love of vegetarian food and of how good it can be is evident in each dish. They also host culinary schools of various hues –I might just take advantage of their next wine dinner. As well as a lovely shop-front patio area, they also have a larger room for hosting parties around a long table upstairs.

I knew it would be an excellent restaurant lunch –even without any sort of alcoholic nuances. We left full but not bloated, thoroughly sated but not soporific. If this is healthy eating, then I'll be coming back for more. And it's not only me that's inspired -check out this lovely girly review. Inspirational!

The Joy of Beeryness [a blatant copy and paste]

I wouldn't normally do this sort of thing, but someone (thanks, Diana, whoever you may be) was kind enough to send me the link to this info-graphic. I think it will be of use to those of us that try to defend the indefensible -justifying the consumption of something that we all know really isn't ultimately good for us but brings us such... happiness. Cheers!

 

Source: FrugalDad.com

Easter Hols and Lethal Booze

'Tis but one day away until the school holidays -yippee!!

We of the chalk-dusted teaching profession, like everyone else, cannot help but count down the days -the release of tension on the last day of term is clearly palpable! Bye-bye kids (at least for two weeks).

As a kid, the Easter holidays was always a bit of a strange fruit -obviously a welcome relief from teachers, times-tables and sums, but it always seemed a 'reasonless' holiday. Yes, we'd all feel sad when listening to the story of 'pore Geesis hoo died... nailded on the cros... four are sins...' but I could never quite work out the necessity of these two weeks off school.

I mean, the summer holidays were made for you to go away to Margate, Weston-super-Mare or Hastings, and Christmas holidays were so that you had enough time to play with your toys. Easter, however, remained a bit of a mystery. It was always too muddy in the garden to do an  easter egg hunt, so was it made for us to shed tears watching Robert Powell playing a poor, suffering Jesus of Nazareth? Was it for scoffing Easter eggs or roast legs of lamb? Was it for going to church -a whole holiday so we could go to church even more? Blimey -a grim prospect! I'd rather be back at school...

Whatever the real reason, we blissfully entertained two fun-filled weeks with the Six Million Dollar Man without early get-ups, much as we as adults do now. Given the chance, I'd like to have the option of remaining in bed a few more hours. In truth, even if I have the option to stay in bed I rarely do so beyond 6.30, unless a taxing evening's enjoyment preceded and therefore precludes it. I think you call that ageing.

Easter remains a sweet time of year, especially here in Hong Kong. By now many of the trees have flowered and even a short walk will fill the nose with a blend of really delicate perfumes. I simply adore it!

Back in the UK it was about this time each year I used to make Beech Leaf Noyau -an astonishingly strong alcoholic concoction from the pages of Richard Mabey's excellent Food for Free. This old French recipe is so easy:

• Pick very young beech leaves (so young that they are practically transparent)
• Place in sweety jar with a lot of good gin
• Steep for a few weekx (three is best, or untiil  it turns a luvley green)
• Strainnn off the gin
• Boill sugar in water to make a sryrup
• Add a glash (or two) of brnady
• Bottle -if theresss abny of the sthuff lefft

S'lufffffly!!

Karita Mattila, Lieder and 1881

In some concerts it is immediately obvious from the first note that you are in the hands of professionals; that you are about to hear musical precision, understand intellectual excellence, fine artistic nuances. Such was Karita Mattila's recital in the lied tradition last night at the Cultural Centre.

Accompanied by fellow Fin, Ville Matvejeff, the much celebrated opera star poured out the delicacies and exigencies of lieder from Brahms, Debussy, Richard Strauss and Alban Berg from within a sparkly shimmer of an silvery evening gown. Each piece performed with such mastery, the audience instantly responded with great admiration and warmth. Indeed, no-one clapped between the pieces in the cycles (unusual for an HK audience) and only one phone went off during the entire performance -must be something of a record!

 

 

I thought the opening songs from Alban Berg, taken from the Jugendlieder (such as this one), were challenging -the Shoenberg-esque atonal influences forming an incredible, meandering, early 20th-century landscape through which I thought the Hong Kong audience might not have easily travelled thereby becoming alienated. They were, instead, enraptured by Karita's scandinavian hand upon the tiller and Matvejeff's fearless support.

 

The Debussy, Brahms and Strauss were, perhaps, a little more to the liking of the mixed audience -I was sat next to two well-behaved school chaps who had obviously been given tickets as part of the 40th Hong Kong Arts Fest's outreach to the next generation. Not sure what they made of it, but they were back in the 2nd half for more from the Finnish soprano. Perhaps they were waiting for her to get her gear off as she did portraying Salome in New York in 2004 (now available on DVD!).

If I had one criticism, it would not have been with the artist, the choice of lieder, the accompaniment or even the eye-blinding showy one-piece dresses, but rather with the venue. The Cultural Centre is best-suited for big orchestral and choral events -there's even a dirty great organ at the back of the hall! But I would have preferred to hear these songs in the intimacy of a much smaller room, as lieder is wont. One can only suppose that such is Mattila's international operatic fame she must always be brought to such a large hall in order to meet demand.

 

As wonderful as this evening had been, it ended on very high notes indeed with Strauss's Frühlingsfeier (utilizing Heine's poem The Rite of Spring), where Karita's enthralling near-hysterical full throttle finale of "Adonis! Adonis!" teetered on the edge of insanity and could so easily have descended into bizarre spectacle.

 

 

Our evening's entertainment, however, began a little earlier with a little light dinner at The Parlour restaurant at Hullett House. Found within 1881 Heritage, the ex-marine police headquarters, first constructed in 1884 and now turned (at no small expense by those cheeky chappies Cheung Kong Holdings) into Tsim Sha Tsui's finest entertainment complex, the meal, ambiance, music, service and even the website were all excellent. And that got us to finking...

 

 

The Memsahib and meself've bin togevva naah for nigh-on a quarter sentry, cor-blimey! This might just be the place to host a do to celebrate such an event. Keep your eyes open and your ears peeled for more news nearer the time.

 

Lovely Camellias, Lovely Tea

 

If you go down to the woods today you're sure of bumping into some camellia sinensis. This is the famous ancient chinese tea bush from which all kinds of lovely chinesey tea is made. There are, of course, a myriad of naturally-occuring camellias in Hong Kong and we even have our very own purply-flowered hongkongensis varietal, but I've yet to spot it here.

I suppose I ought now to blog on about tea and all its marvellous benefits, the growing and oxidation and extraction procedures that enable an unpromising 'erb to discolour perfectly good hot water with the addition of copious bitteryness, but I'll spare you. That is, after all, why Wikipedia is so popular, but you don't need all that: just get walking -it's out there in thum thar hills.

The best tea ever to pass my lips was Sri Lankan. It was more than 10 years ago and I can't remember the name of the plantation, but the tasting occurred using freshly fermented black tea, pure mountain water and no milk -absolute stunning bliss! It needed nowt else (sugar/lemon/milk) and I swore that if I could have that every day I'd need little else in life. Well, It was a nice thought...

Hong Kong has its fair share of tea vendors. If you're passing through, then pop in to one of these venerable institutions for a quick cuppa, but don't expect anything more than a mere sip of the stuff.

If you like your tea strong -and I mean STRONG- then you need to visit your local dai pai dong (that's a local café to you, 'squire) and ask for Hong Kong-style milk tea: it'll cement a few millimetres of plaquey stain onto your teeth enamel and you'll be awake for days (it will also take that long to get the evaporated milky flavour out of your mouth).

The Hong Kong Tea Museum (Museum of Tea Ware) is actually more interesting than it sounds. Those stuck for a half-hour or so or who cannot bear being inside Pacific Place a moment longer may pop up the escalators into Hong Kong park where the delicate late regency Flagstaff House awaits.

Tea used to be grown all over Hong Kong and abandoned tea terraces can be found on some of the higher mountainsides. It is, apparently, still grown on Lantau Island. Just down the road from the Big Buddha is a little shack called the Tea Garden Restaurant where it is served to those wot know. Strange things happen when you drink the brew, as this YouTube link demonstrates, but if you like it enough you may then pick up a packet of the local variety and then rub the strangest tea urn in the world.

All this talk of tea has made me need a cuppa.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Christmas has always dominated the end of the year: it's all twinkly and sparkly, all jolly and presenty. As a kid, nothing could beat it -not even a birthday!

I know that we always tut-tut about Christmas in the shops arriving earlier and earlier, and some of us may hark back to a time when decorations were put up quite late in the season (for the Memsahib it was Christmas Eve!), but according to the liturgical calendar those Christian festivities have to begin at a much earlier date than most of us might be comfortable with. In our medieval hitherworld, when festivities were the true punctuation marks of the year, festivals meant something. For the poor, it was a chance to take part in a whole-community event where they could avail themselves of some decent grub and grog. For the wealthy, it was a time to shine and gain merit through benevolence.

Let's begin with All Saint's Day (November 1st -the wedding anniversary day of the Memsahib and meself) which is included in the winter festival category. It is a day to recall the bond between those in purgatory, in heaven and on earth. Over time it became, at least in the west, a solemn commemoration. In Mexico and the Philippines, however, it is a bit more of a party known as the Day of the Dead Día de Muertos and Todos Los Santos/Undas/Araw ng mga Patay respectively.

Advent, the four weeks that lead up to Christmas, for me will always be the time for opening the chocolatey advent calendar doors and trying yet again to build that tinsley Blue Peter coat hanger advent crown. More recently, child-orientated Christingle Services have been established in churches sometime in advent. These modern ceremonies are another pretty way to introduce to kids some nicey-nicey Christmassy Christianness -one lit candle lighting all the other candles in a darkened church is an obvious symbolic reference even the smallest child can understand. 

Saint Nicholas Day, or Sinterklaas, remembers the great bishop of Myra who cured pickled boys in Asia Minor and paid the dowry for poor girls to avoid their being driven into prostitution. From him, of course, we obtain our Santa. One the most popular saints of Christendom, his feast day is still celebrated with vigour, particularly by the Dutch who look forward to his coming up river on a special boat from somewhere exotic (like Spain) with cheeky attendants, the Black Peters (Zwarte Pieten) who enjoy handing out presents and placing them in the children's clogs. We have even celebrated this fun-packed event here in the little Anglo-Dutch enclave of Ko Tong Ha Yeung!

Of course, other religions also have winter festivities at this time. It begins on the day before All Saints Day (Hallowe'en) with Samhain, the first official day of winter for the Celts and neo-pagans. It is the ritual end of harvest time and an occasion to remember the dead. Diwali and Hanukkah, the Hindu and Jewish festivals of light, appear a little later. Bodhi Day, on which Buddhists celebrate the Buddha's great enlightenment, is also in early December. Chinese New Year then usually falls on the second new moon after the winter solstice. Of course, the 31^st of December, New Year's Eve, is non-religious but is steeped in rich tradition, particularly in the form of Hogmanay. New Year's Day, once the start of the medieval Feast of Fools, was also a day where Lords of Misrule elected from the populace parodied the high offices of official religion. What larks…

Christmas Eve precludes the eventful next day, but has itself been eventful enough. It was the day in 1914 on which the Christmas truce in the trenches began and, in 1969, the day on which the Apollo 8 astronauts viewing the earth from the orbit of the moon awkwardly read from the Book of Genesis "In the Beginning…" -the most watched televised event at the time.

Here in Hong Kong, Christmas is a time to reflect on the Battle of Hong Kong 1941. This year will be the 70th commemorative anniversary of those dark days. No doubt aware of the atrocities being meted out on the citizens of the colony, Governor Young walked into the Japanese Headquarters at the Peninsula Hotel on Christmas Day and surrendered the territory. The heroism of the doomed defenders and the medical staff of the hospitals is tragic and legendary. What is less known, perhaps, is that of Gander, the Newfoundland mascot for the Canadian Royal Rifles, who died defending the wounded by carrying out a thrown hand grenade towards the oncoming Japanese. He is now recognised and has been posthumously awarded the PDSA's Dickin Medal.  

Christmas contains the 12 Days of Christmas or Twelvetide: beginning with Christmas Day, with the Feast of St Stephen on Boxing Day, Childermas (the Feast of the Innocents) and ending in Twelfth Night or Epiphany, these were supposed to be days to lighten the hearts during the longest nights of winter. There was little farm work to be done, so the ordinary folk made merry together.

In recent years we have celebrated a few Twelfth Nights  –massive feasts which have required carefully planning: twelve sets of guests, twelve courses and twelve wines (which have to be paired). These all had to be co-ordinated so that each was unique and would flow in a good and palatable sequence. So enormous was the gargantuan event, that even though the portions were quite small, we had to request the guests did not eat at all that day. Each course was previously prepared and sent out on the half-hour, the providers of that dish also bringing the paired wine. Once served, the providers then finally wash up the dishes in preparation for the next course. We began at 6 and ended at 12, although by then most guests were beyond the unbuttoning waistcoats stage and had dozily retired to sofas or were viewing the stars from around hot braziers on the roof. Making sure the food was hot enough, or sufficiently chilled, or that the soufflés had risen or that the garnish was right took a little organisation (not to say pride on my part as far as the soufflées are concerned) and the result was a stupendous banquet hard to forget and which genuinely brought folks together.

Below is the first and possibly the simplest menu from 2007: 

Starter	6.00	Crudités & Canapés	Cocktails
Soup	6.30	Butternut Squash	Sauvignon Blanc
Fish	7.00	Salmon	Asti Spumanté
Salad	7.30	Yam Sommo	Gewürztraminer
Eggs	8.00	Soufflé	California Pink White
Veg	8.30	Paneer Makhana Curry	Pinot Gris
Sorbet	9.00	Lemon	Semillon
Red Meat	9.30	Pork Meatballs	Zinfandel
Fruit	10.00	Poached Pears	Sherry
Fondue	10.30	Fondue	Chianti
Pudding	11.00	Cake	Sauternes
Ice Cream	11.30	Meringue	Muscat

It was to this particular even that our friend Kay Pike brought the meat dish. Earlier this year we sadly heard of her sudden death in the Channel Islands.

Christmas may be all about family fun and an opportunity to celebrate life, but it is also a poignant time to remember those that are no longer with us. That, I suppose, is inherent in festivals: we celebrate, commemorate, remember and look forwards -experiencing all those emotions is draining, but it must be why we do it every year.

Cheesy Rice

It's recipe time!

This is so simple, a bit like soufflés (my favourite eggy menu item) and risottos (my favourite ricey menu item) but doesn't require any of the soufflé planning or risotto patience. Should take about an hour from start to finish, but you could prepare it the day before. Or that morning. And you could bake it up and save it in the freezer for another occasion (although I don't think we've ever managed to do that because it's so yummy and cheesy and it gets finished off sharpish).

Unfortunately, I can't give you quantities, just the gist of it, so this is a rubbish recipe for those who keep the cookbook at hand and worryingly weigh it all out. I mean, try a few things out, for God's sake -make some mistakes and learn!

Cheese. Get some. Lots. But make sure it's proper STRONG, not weak and mild namby-pamby nonsense otherwise it'll taste of nothing. Extra mature cheddar is fine (and is probably the cheapest thing available for most of us). Add gruyère, stilton or other stinkyness if you prefer that really strong tang, a bit of mozzarella if you like it stringy. Make sure you've got a good layer of parmesan on the top.

Here are the easy steps:

1. Cook rice. Although not essential, it's probably best done in advance so that when you combine the ingredients before baking the hot rice won't scramble the eggs.

2. Bung the oven on. Hottish.

3. Get choppin' -garlic, onions, mushrooms, capsicums, bacon (unless strictly veg), anything else you might want to add (this is all a question of preference -not tried fish yet). Sweetcorn and cashews are nice. Thought about grated sweet potato tonight too...

4. Begin the sizzly bit. Sauté the veggy mix -I prefer to use olive oil, adding crushed peppers first and a bay leaf or two.

5. Whilst softening veg, grate the cheese. Crack a few eggs in a large mixing bowl: one per person is usually enough although I often add one for luck. Add a spoonful of mayonnaise if you like to keep the cooked mix a bit moist.

6. Stir in eggs and cheese with cooked rice, then add cooked veggy mix. Place in casseroley-type dish.

7. Straight in the oven for about half-hour or so (longer if you want to make sure eggs are well cooked).

There you have it: about as simple as you like. Bung a load of cheesy ingredients together with eggs to bind then bake.

Truth is, this was all me mother-in-law's invention. There's a bit of a debate in the house as to whether you use raw ingredients in the eggy-ricey mix and let it all cook much longer. Talking about it tonight, I find out that Alys (and Rachel most probably) has already started making this herself so the recipe now spans three generations -awww!

Accompanying wines -pretty much anything you like! Tried it tonight with both a cheap chilly NZ Sauvignon Blanc and a Coonewarra Shiraz (Majella -one of the best, most fruitiest Shiraz I've tasted, btw) and both went well, although the Shiraz was much better.

Financial News: 3% Depreciation in the ₤GB - ₤Stroud Exchange Rate!

Microfinance has always been a great idea: poor people across the world are financially assisted through low interest loans (chiefly to women) that may enable them to buy seed, fertilizer or even an animal such as a cow. This can also keep them out of the clutches of ruthless loan sharks and becomes a merciful hand-up out of grinding village poverty. That this scheme also seems to be so simple and effective one may wonder why it has not been extended further. 

Unfortunately, not all has been rosy in the microlending garden and considerable criticisms have been made, particularly against the ethics of poorly managed microcredit lending at 24-36%, where it appears borrowers are little better off than they were with the loan sharks who lent anything between 36-72%. Loans are easily foistered on poor needy villagers, but each hard-earned interest payment disappears back to the cities. Thus it is that the money doesn't stay locally with the people who generate it.

Unless you live too far from a bank, are amongst the ranks of the long-term unemployed, have a serious gambling habit or otherwise occupy some nether-region that bars access to the marvellous world of banking, then there is probably no reason why you would need services such as these. But there are regions, even in developed countries, where access to finance, particularly cash, can be limited (and failure to pay your loan shark will result in loss of the telly, microwave or kneecaps). One of the luxuries of living in Hong Kong is the ease of accessing finance for domestic, business and investment purposes. Until quite recently one could even borrow unsecured money in China to use buying stocks -no wonder the Chinese market has boomed and boomed! 

Thus in the Gloucestershire town of Stroud it is possible to obtain Stroud Pounds. This is not really a form of microfinance, but it is a way of keeping locally-earned money local and a small-scale method of stimulating the local economy. One of the side-effects of a global banking industry is that quite a lot of banked money goes to pay for the bank's global activities, which is fine if you have investments in an international bank, but of no interest if you simply own a wool shop or a pub or fix lawnmowers in your town.

Stroud pounds are good for keeping locally-generated finance circulating in the Stroud area. Launched in 2009, they are really a system of vouchers or complementary currency and are not intended to replace the British pound. Indeed, they could not -there are only 3,612 of them.

What is admirable about this system is that it is intended to be used to pass on trade using these pounds. Thus, a gardener will be paid in Stoud Pounds who will then pay for coffee in a cafe with Stroud Pounds the owner of which will then have her hair done and pay for the service with the same Stroud Pounds. The circulating money stays in the locality. There is a depreciation (or demurrage) of 3% which occurs twice-yearly, but this is is intended to keep the currency circulating. The big chain stores, therefore, won't accept them so they can only benefit local people or organisations. Any profits go to charity.

Thus it is today that this morning I bought three CDs with Stroud Pounds and tonight will buy a few Stroud Brewery beers at the Prince Albert pub. Hmmm... I'm sure my smug community worthyness, lefty-leaning self-satisfaction and insufferable self-righteousness will accumulate with each pint. 

A Night with Jules Verne up the Eiffel Tower

The Parisians may be accused of being a little proud, arrogant and even downright rude, but they are rightly proud of their city -it is magisterial in pomp, rich in history and brilliant in scintillement bourgeoise. That they think they have the best city in the world is obvious and is the sort of pride that would get right up a proletarian Anglo-Saxon's nose. Bloody posh frogs...

But as one wanders along the boulevards humming La Marseillaise one is drawn to the conclusion that they might actually have something. A bit of mis-spent tax-payer's money here, a conniving maire's vote-winning preferment there, et voilà -the city looks très attractif! In our close adherence to the principles of fair play and honesty of government we have overlooked the spectacular benefits of self-aggrandisement and our cities are a little more drab.

So it is with the Eiffel Tower. Commissioned as nothing more than a spectacular gateway for the International Exhibition of 1889 to commemorate the Revolution's centenary, Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel's design won over 700 others (one in the form of a giant watering can, another as a giant guillotine to honour the victims of the revolutionary terror). The design immediately ran into veciferous local opposition by the Committee of Three Hundred -one member for each metre: how, they asked, could anyone allow this iron monstrosity to emerge forever "over the city of Paris still vibrant with the genius of so many centuries... spreading out like a blot of ink, the shadow of this disgusting column of bolted tin"?

The Exhibition, like the three before it, was expected to lose money and the wily government would not put up more than a third of the cost -less so for the tower. Besides, it was not clear whether anyone would come to an event based around celebrating a violent revolution. In the end, it was an astonishing financial success and every major nation's manufacturing sector, irrespective of their government's political opinions, was presented. Monsieur Eiffel astutely acquired independent investment to finish the tower (agreeing to cover any losses) and recouped his money within the first year thereby aquiring boucoup des richesses. 

The 'giant spike', it was thought, would give the Exhibition something special -a signature feature. The design was exclusively bought by Eiffel who then persuaded the committee to accept his design. The exposed ironwork was considered too vulgar, too modern. Garnier, who designed the beautiful yet traditional Paris Palais Opera house, claimed even after the tower's completion, "They have only erected the framework of this monument. It has no skin." Eiffel the experienced builder of bridges was exact in his technical specifications and included these in the design's proposal. It seemed only natural, therefore, upon successful completion to attach his name to the tower's title. So there you have it, the Tower reflects la gloire d'un homme.

There are plenty of marvellous statistics about the ole Tower, but that's not the point of this entry. The Memsahib and meself had left off visiting the place all week. Eating at various wonderful Parisian cafés and other discoveries such as Le Soufflé, we had found cuisine in the French capital to be generally good but no better or expensive than elsewhere: quality of ingredients appeared to be the determining factor. I knew about the restaurants on the Eiffel Tower and had booked a table at Le Jules Verne before leaving Hong Kong. Back in 2007 Alain Ducasse took over the restaurant bringing with him the determination (and much of the menu) seen in Spoon at the Intercontinental Hong Kong.

Arriving by cab, we took ourselves to the entrance of the splendid restaurant named after the fine French futurist and author. Escorted in a private little elevator to the Tower's second stage, we smiled as we left the underprivileged hoi-poloi below in long snaky queues eagerly waiting to ascend the four big lifts. There must have been move than 10 people that meeted-and-greeted us somewhat tiresomely before we even got to sit down: it felt like a security detail. One maître d' (and this may have been the experienced Francis Coulon mentioned in the on-line blurb) was particularly pleased to greet us utilizing what can only be described as Parisian Cockney.

We settled down with our Manhattan cocktails to 'study' the menu and wine list -that's such a poncey term, particularly in this case when there are only 19 items à la carte (25 including the set menu). The sommelier, in our case Amar Chebrek, was keen to offer advice, but perhaps a little too ready to agree with our preference -a difficult line for anyone to walk. A friendly bloke, at least he wasn't as snooty as some of the bloody waiters. 

We began with slow cooked veg and snails for me (we're in France after all), both served with a pouring of little separate sauces. Exquisite: beautifully presented. I must also mention the bread which without doubt was the finest I have ever tasted -ever. A freshly-baked salted brioche swirl sounds so simple, yet a meal of this light bread alone would have been worthy of praise. It was a pity the Memsahib could not taste it, but the restaurant was happy to accommodate her wheat intolerance, at least to begin with.

Billecarte-Salmon rosé champagne, being our favourite, went very well with all our choices. The pigeon was, by the Memsahib's account, delicious and the steak was perhaps the best I've had -the knife literally fell through the meat. I'd been saying all week how I wanted to have steak-frites in Paris, it now being the national dish, and here it was in its' fully glammed grandeur. The accompanying pommes soufflés, thin slices of potato fried once and left to cool then fried again at a very high temperature so that the insides puff up, were parfait! 

Accompanied by a glass of sensuous Maury, the chocolat framboise and abricots rôtis were further examples of high quality this time under the direction of renowned pâtissier-chocolatier-glacier Christophe Devoille. Light and full of delicate nuances, each dessert had the right balance of sweetness and flavour, although I took so long eating mine it degenerated at the end into bowl of school canteen mush-up. The restaurant is run by teams, one for each of the three restaurant sections (the kitchens being on the fourth corner). Along with the few couples at table, there were a number of large parties eating at the restaurant, each with accompanying decorative femme fatales and their somewhat outshone opposite numbers, femme attrapées -of which there were more: clearly, one hosts at the Jules Verne to create the right impression.

Coffee and choccy petits four came on, but we were stuffed and there was obviously some wheatflour in the framboise and it was beginning to tell on the Memsahib. But it was past 10.30 and we'd been throroughly enjoying the food, wines and ambiance for three hours. The view, of course, is the reason for this particular restaurant surpassing in comparison practically any other eatery in the world. Our table overlooked Paris from the Champs-Élysées and Montmartre all the way to the Orly airport and bands of rain could be seen wafting across the cityscape and then clearing away to the south. 

 

Upon our leaving the waiters asked if we wanted to take in the city view of which they were rightly proud. The City of Lights spread before us did indeed glimmer with all the bourgeouisee it could muster. We descended the elevator with a little sadness: the Jules Verne experience had been, as Alain Ducasse wished on his website, "the most beautiful place in Paris to enjoy the pleasure of a contemporary and accessible French kitchen." He may be happy to hear that I have to concur.

'Oui!' to 1000 Years of Annoying the French

I have always loved France –close enough to home to be accessible, far enough away to be different, holidays there were fun and full of the nicest things possible; cheeses, wines, meats, restaurants, boulangeries, beaches, interesting and helpful locals –well, maybe not the last one. One year we were holidaying in Languedoc,went to la plage and set about frolicking in the sea, tanning on the sands and trying not to peer too long at the topless French ladies –fwoarr! With a keen eye for a quick franc, the local supermarket had set up a stall in the car park for waffeur-thin steak et frites and we happily queued. Grabbing my newly fried frites, I proceeded to cover them all in lovely French tomato ketchup only to summarily squirt the biggest massive splurge of said red sauce all over the poor seller’s crotch (much to his severe annoyance): the container having just been refilled, the nozzle pointed away from my lovely chips.

Such an unfortunate incident, I think, properly illustrates our trans-marche relationship. More often than not, les anglais have squirted their tomato ketchups (and worse) onto the noble Gallic crotches (and other tender parts) and this has led to war. And just as jobbing steak frites sellers have cursed the holidaying rosbifs, so the kings, emperors and presidents of the nation of franks have cursed their cousins across the water: the last 1000 years have been punctuated with at times incredibly violent international relations. But we are the best of friends now, n’est-ce pas?

Stephen Clarke has made this slightly weighty (517 pages) romp through history about as entertaining as a English-type who lives and works in France could. What’s catchy is the way in which each well-known Franco-British historical scene is set up with the usual accompanying myths and legends only to have them re-examined and re-explained from the perspective of our divergent yet mutual histories. Beginning with the wicked exploits of William the Conqueror (who was not French actually, but Norman –about as French as the next Dane) and concluding at the right royal diplomatic faux pas of 2008 meted out on Nicolas Sarkozy which involved showing him lots of pictures of Waterloo (the battle, not the station), the book is a joy to read. It’s obvious that he’s used up his two years compiling these stories in lots of reading. Each chapter, however, has that I’ve-just-read-a-few-books-about-this-topic-therefore-I-will-write-about-it feel to it and the book occasionally seems a little formulaic.

Here’s a few of Clarke's important historical observations:

·      William the Conqueror died whilst fighting the French

·      Joan of Arc was tried and sentenced by the French

·      The Burghers of Calais were not executed by the English (or even at all)

·      Mary Queen of Scots was, to all intents and purposes, a French princess

·      France lost America because of a cow

·      The English invented champagne

·      The guillotine was invented in Halifax

·      The stormed Bastille contained only 7 prisoners –four forgers, two lunatics and one count accused of helping his sister run away from her husband

·      Napoleon nearly became an English mariner

·      The French did not invent croissants, baguettes or steaks grillés

·      The innocent sounding WWI song, ‘Parley-vouz’, is about patriotic French Mademoiselles who serviced British soldiers hundreds at a time

·      de Gaulle took part in the D-Day landings 8 days later with only 177 French soldiers

In short, the French view the past through Tricolore-tinted glasses, but then don’t we all with our histoires? The English love and admire French style and elegance and early morning hot chocolate croissants from le boulangerie du village, the French love and admire English pop culture, cool Britannia and decent packets of biscuits.

Stephen Clarke’s other book, A Year in the Merde, plods the well-worn track of The Innocents Abroad, a Mark Twain novel, has become an international best-seller, printed in France as God Save La France. He has said of living in Paris, "I love France because here you are working for a living and not vice versa". Ah, the wisdom of it.

We get on now because it’s in our interests. But, as Stephen Clarke says in a France 24 interview, our mutual past has a habit of rearing itself up and interrupting the best of intentions with troublesome recollections. So it is that each Frenchy that descends onto the platform of Waterloo Station is unhappily reminded of Napoleonic defeat and national chagrin.

Ah well –plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose…

Flowers in the Park

It's a lovely warm Saturday morning , the twirds are bittering and the shun is sining so the obvious thing to do is get out there and exercise those legs.  Thus a little doggy-led tramp took us from home to the gate at Pak Tam Chung. Of course, it didn't start off like that. Half-way there (at the bus stop at Pak Tam Au) the Memsahib turns to me and complains that we've (meaning "I've") already changed the destination of the walk three times. Hmmm: she might just have a point...

Getting over the hump

Between the paradise that is Ko Tong Ha Yeung and the-rest-of-the-world where ye mortals dwell is the big ole hill crowned with municipal toilets that perhaps has the Best Views in all of Hong Kong (down Long Harbour to Tap Mun Island and China in the distance). This is the point where the Maclehose Trail #2 ends and #3 begins the awful stepped ascent of Ngai She Shek Shan which ends at the peak of Ngam Tau Shan. Most people get off the bus and either turn left or right here, but if you go a little way down the hill back in the direction of Sai Kung a hidden gem of a path opens up on your left. One of my favourite walks, this shady track will take you on its winding course back to Pak Tam Chung away from the road and clear from all man-made noise. 

Did you know there were over 200 varieties of bauhinia?

Descending the rocky path some beautiful vistas open up: deep green valleys full of nothing but cicada-filled trees, darkened bamboo glades that conceal babbling brooks, broken-limbed red pines strutting out onto exposed ridges. It caused the Memsahib to remark,

"This could be anywhere: Spain -anywhere in the world!"

Observe This!

On the right can be spotted the white round dome of the Lady Maclehose Holiday Village iObservatory (did you even know there was one?). On a good night I reckon that from here I could get a good view of the rings around Uranus.

Just before Pak Tam Chung is the river crossing to Sheung Yiu (folk museum) village. It's a great little walk which begins and ends besides a café-cum-dai pai dong right next to the Wong Fuk Hing bridge where none other than Bruce Lee fought in Unicorn Fist!

This is one of my favourite spots in the world. The old guy that runs this place doesn't speak a word of English, but makes sure the beers are served cold, in frozen metal mugs and that as you sit taking in an evening by the river the Tsingtao is left with you in ice containers -blocks of ice with an aperture for the chilly bottle. Bliss!

Jumping Squid

Finally, at Pak Tam Chung we walk through the barrier and get a green taxi home. A hot slathery Squiddly decides now's the time to sit with the slightly nervous taxi driver and attempts a clamber over the front seat leaving dirty paw prints everywhere. Good doggy!

Eins, zwei, drei -leere Ihr Krug! (One, two, three -empty your pitcher!)

Well, there it is -another first (surely can't be too many of those in life left?) in a German Bierfest.

The Hong Kong Marco Polo Hotel German Bierfest is in its' 19th year. It has the air of something not quite right for Hong Kong -a tent full of beer swilling foreign devils singing gwailo oompah...

Except, of course, the tent appeared to be full of locals (and a few of their paying bosses). Maybe it's a sign of how far (or low) things in the Territory have come that it is considered acceptable or even normal for ordinary Chinese folk to be swilling beer-jau with the foreign devils and singing along to the gwailo's dreadful oompah. Whatever next -will the Chinese begin emulating western-style elections with one-man-one-vote? Surely not.

 

Sitting with a contingent of decent Hong Kong Welsh Choristers, Bren was suitably attired in dirndl and skirt. Next year I must get me some proper Bavarian lederhosen complete with Bollenhüte unt edelweiss.

You can imagine the evening -beer, lots of questionable meats, beer, pretzels, red-faced chaps showing their knees, beer, alpenhorns, beer and... beer.

Brenda won the alpenhorn-blowing competition. I swelled (and continue to swell) with pride at her excellent blowing skills. This is a side to Bren that has not had enough airing. Prepare to hear the sound of the alpenhorn wafting across the Sai Kung hills.

Belfast Ale (and past Belfast Ails)

August 7^th Day something

Belfast Ale

Beatrice Kennedy restaurant, Botanic Avenue, Belfast

Having eaten lots… and I mean lots… over the past few days, the thought of going out to eat more would have seemed greedy, if we did not have some flimsy excuse to justify our piggishness: so to Beatrice Kennedy’s, a mere amble down the road from the Ibis Hotel, for an “exciting range of dishes”.

This standard Victorian house has been traditionally decorated in period dark greens and reds, landscape pictures hung and the odd ornament here and there, all of which conveys that established semi-antiquarian feel. The publicity write-ups were good and the menu, although short (six starters and six mains listed), covered all bases: certainly the steak and salmon were well prepared and, although not spectacular, certainly hit a mark (burp!).

We considered a wine to accompany, but were, as said earlier, just not hungry enough. The Belfast Ale was therefore a welcome diversion. A short head on a weak cola-coloured clear ale, the presence was initially understated, but in tasting filled a full and pleasant palate. The lasting effect was of a strong hoppity-hop accent and extremely maltyness –almost to the point of malt extract. It went down quite well and, if I had chosen a lighter course I think I would felt contented, but like a fool I ordered another and, on top of the steak and truffle mash, suffered for it: So much for my pursuit of Epicureanism through wanton noshing at the trough –perhaps a simple salad would have sufficed (and then a jog home and yoga and meditation and…)

Staying in Belfast has been interesting (and a wee bit chilly). Ostensibly we have been here so that Brenda could attend the Inclusive and Supportive Education Congress conference held at Queens University. But what has been of nearly as much interest has been exposure to Northern Irish culture, and perhaps working class NI culture at that, with the attendant outwards displays of ire and identity, tribal tattoos and inflexible invective. “Fair do’s to ‘em!”

I think it’s fair to say that most English-types (and many expats in HK for that matter) have created distance from our religious and tribal origins. There are few of us willing to lay down our lives to defend our identity as Wessex men and women, or East Anglians, Mercians or Northumbrians. Perhaps only those whose national identities have been threatened, such as the Irish, Welsh or Scots, have defended them as ferociously (although there are undoubtedly similar thoughts held by some Cornish, Cumbrians and the inveterate Yorkshiremen). Let’s not kid ourselves; English history is one of conquest. But despite the embarrassing World Cup St George’s bunting fluttering from Astras and Escorts throughout the land (as a kid the flag was always the Union Jack), few English would take to the streets to protest anything and none but those on the maddest radical racialist fringe would get fired up against their Irish Catholic or Scottish Protestant neighbours. Few would raise anything more than an eyebrow (at most a frosty few lines to The Times) in order to defend the Church of England, the established religious institution of the land with the Queen as head. Some might find time in the pub to voice disapproval of the prevalence of Mosques, but they wouldn’t dream of burning them down or knee-capping their Muslim neighbour’s teenagers. We have our freedom of speech and our tolerance for others, our love for eccentricities and delight in exotica. We had an Empire and direct threats of obliteration, barring the menace of Hitler, did not occur since the times of Napoleon. Perhaps, if the few extremists amongst the Muslim minority would get fired up, take direct action and cause a bit of mayhem, at most we’d call for greater police protection, but for now English sectarianism is wholly unpalatable.

This hasn't, however, always been the case. Popular English violent protests against anything Papish took place during the 16-18^th centuries, but perhaps took on more racist overtones following the large immigration of Irish Catholics at the onset of the industrial revolution. They came to work in the new factories, they helped build canals, roads and then railways. Their wave of immigration, of course, was one of many: such a regular occurrence since these Islands were first detached from mainland Europe, there is about as much chance of finding an 'indigenous Brit' as there is the Loch Ness Monster. For many it is a matter of interest alone, and perhaps not a little pride, that some may have Catholic Irish or Scottish Presbyterianism or even Jewish blood coursing through their veins. The last great wave of Irish immigrants, however, that arrived during the catastrophic peaceful decades that following the Napoleonic wars heralded a great change in British demographics, but to no more effect than shuffling cards. The Irish, Scots, Welsh and the English are a common people with different histories, accents, literature and power. And it is, as far as I’m concerned, the last point which holds most true.

That power is held in London is accidental. Had the Romans been defeated, or the Saxons or Normans for that matter, then perhaps the British capital might be Oxford, Winchester or even Slough: imagine that and be grateful!

I have great sympathy with those who have been denied power or the access to it: the world is full of such as these. And perhaps that is why the tenuous Belfast Agreement has held since 1998: it finally addressed the genuine grievances of a sizeable section of the community that had little satisfaction through the instruments of established British government.

It may have taken a thousand years to bring about union of English, Scots, Welsh and Irish, and this has undoubtedly come partly through economic pressure and partly through the sword. As much as an Independent Scotland and a United Ireland may bring out the William Wallace or the Michael Collins in many, the truth is that cash walks when bullets fly. Belfast is clearly prospering and long may it continue to do so. The defensive working class agendas proudly on display may hark back to a strong siege mentality, but growth can only occur with freedom. Perhaps the freedom from the demons of the past can be summed up in two lines I saw on the side of the Garrick Bar in the city centre:

 

“A nation that keeps one eye on the past is wise.

A nation that keeps two eyes on the past is blind.”

 

 

Beer and Nostalgia

July 20th, Day something...

Stroud Brewery Budding

Swaledale Cheese

Well, the chance of two beer festivals slipped by; Chelmsford would have been nice, but I was ill, and Plymouth would have been interesting, but it was such a busy time that a quick pint in a student pub doesn’t really qualify. I love real ale festivals: you go with your mates and get halves of each one you like the name of, none of which you can remember within five minutes, never mind in the morning.

Hats off, then, to a bottle of Stroud Budding! A nut-brown, nutty, light and frothy full-flavour Pale Ale. Energetic and with a mildly-effervescent effect on the mid-tongue, the superb rounding of rich barley flavours: no surprise that it received “Champion Beer of Gloucester 2006 & 2008. Named after a certain native of Stroud, Edwin Beard Budding, the inventor of the lawn mower. What would we have done without such an invention –sheep? In a word, superb!

The Swaledale worked nicely in combination, a fatty cow’s cheese, but without the intense fattiness of something like a cheddar. A local cheese might have been more… fitting, but this one worked nicely.

*

Chelmsford was my home until at nine years old Mum upped sticks and we moved from a small hotel to Mayfair in London where she sent me to the Purcell School of Music (of which I've written more on another occasion). Those formative years were small-scale and domestic. Just how small-scale was brought home to me only the other day when, with an hour or two to spare, I wandered around Oakland’s Park. The scene of hundreds of walkies with Jenny the dog to “do jobs”, this place nevertheless had elevated status as a place of open spaces, learning (the museum is still there), mystery and play. I walked back looking for now-missing flower beds, paths and trees, knowing what should be there and eying suspiciously what had replaced them.

Modelled on the then-Queen’s Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, it was the proud Victorian residence of a very wealthy coal and timber merchant. Inside the museum I found the great, stuffed, growling brown bear was still upright in his case in the hall, the noisy bees were still in their hive and the giant’s breakfast bowl was now in the Dutch ceramics section. The rest had been nicely modernised and I was pleased to see that the Essex Regiment section has been updated to a more narrative style. It was there the security guard asked me to leave at 5.15. I must say I was a little lost in nostalgia for a while, but this was the kind of nostalgia you can touch and see directly and was all the more moving for it.

The Sevastopol Canon, a trophy from the Crimean war, always seemed staggeringly enormous (I was always terribly impressed with other kids who could happily edge to the end of the barrel) and is still impressive!

Plymouth, on the other hand, was the last place my mother lived and died. A noisy place, it became all the noisier with our new roles as painters and decorators. My mother’s house has been a student let for a while now, but was sorely in need of a lick of paint and a few new decorative additions. With John, my brother, and Alys, Bren and I managed to paint a good deal of it and will get it finished by next week.

*

So there you go, good beer and good memories often go hand-in-hand, but not necessarily in the same place.

Red City, Red Wine

July 5^th Day 7

Café Arabe, Marrakech

Chateau Roslane, Meknes Les Coteaux de l'Atlas rouge

The great red city of Marrakech is a busy, if not mad place. I don’t think it’s possible to have a nice quiet walk down the street. Not that there’s much to see unless you enjoy street after street and row after row of scarves, leather slippers, leather pouffes, djellebas in all sorts of garish colours, tin lampshades, really, really bad paintings and silvery lady ornamentation.

Thus it is that behind the little shops (and some of them really are not big enough to turn around in) and through some unlit and uneven alleyways can be found the riads. These are literally oases of calm, the perfect antidote to the desperate pestering and exuberant adolescent haggling on the street. The riads are still.

Morocco really is a youthful society, with 30% under 14 years of age. They all want mobile phones and mopeds and they all seem to have them and often ably use both at the same time. Some of the older citizens have clearly had worse luck and it shows in their beggar’s rags and lowly occupations. Such is the vitality of the new populace that they all seem keen to establish a better future for themselves. None seem too discouraged by the meagre profits to be made selling the same old tat to the same old tourists: there’s a quick buck to be made and they’ll gladly do it.

So when a place like the Café Arabe opens its’ doors to the western crowd, those with sufficient disposable income and un-Islamic propensities to enjoy such things as alcoholic beverages and pork, the trail blazed must surely be enviably copied. Is this not where all societies lead? Maybe, but this is so very obviously a Muslim society where the mosques are crowded 5-times daily and social mores are still kept. It is difficult to imagine a British society where 98% profess Christianity and the churches are packed on a daily basis.

Still, Brenda and I arrive at the riad-cum-restaurant quite hungry for Moroccan fayre done well. We are the first to occupy the cosy downstairs dining area, the top floor terrace being full with those that like their beers cooled by the evening’s breeze. After ordering tajines, I enquire about the best wines. The waiter/sommelier obviously does not want to be modest nor boastful about something he may not have sampled. He mentions the Coteau de l’Atlas and he readily agrees: at 450 dirhams (£33/HK$398) per bottle he’s not going to pass this one up.

The Chateau Roslane Coteau de l’Atlas is full-bodied, being an obvious blend of Cab Sauv, Merlot and Syrah. It’s made to French standards (and this was premiere cru) and aged for 5 months –one or two too long for my palate.

The wine was well served and immediately soothed the palate. No rough edges. Overwhelming blackcurrant and blackberry notes really ticked the wotnots. It went very well with the warm aubergine salad starter and even better with the lamb and vegetarian tajines mains. At this point, however, the wine began to oxidise rapidly and mid-way through those mains the oaky tannins were very marked. By the time we’d finished eating I was struggling and Brenda was on the water. I wouldn’t say it was a bad wine by any means, but it had to be drunk rapidly to enjoy the full mid-range flavours. Best in youth? Possibly, but I drank some excellent Tunisian wine in restaurants in Tunis and Sidi bou Said and was excited by the feeling of the North African stuff most of which, I’m sad to say, stays home.

And so a lazy stagger back through some dark, empty medina alleys brought us to the intense quietude of our very own sleepy riad –us being the only, but quite grateful guests.

Bikinis and Stroud Brewery Tom Long

July 2^nd Day No 4

Centurion Vintners, 16 George St, Stroud, Gloucestershire 

Stroud Brewery Tom Long

Website Hype:

3.8% ABV

Silver at SIBA National Beer Competition, Champion Bitters (up to 4.0%)

Amber session beer with spicy citrus aroma. Good body for low ABV. 

Tom Long, 3.8% is an amber coloured bitter with a spicy citrus aroma. This beer won Overall Champion for the West of England and Wales, 2008 in the Society of Independent Brewers Awards.

Highwayman

Tom Long is named after a mythical highwayman hung at Tom Longs Post on Minchinhampton Common, near Stroud.

Another derivation of the name is found in the Canting Dictionary [thieving slang], 1736. This is a collection of words and terms, both ancient and modern, used by Beggars, Gypsies, Cheats, House-Breakers, Shop-Lifters, Foot-Pads and Highway-Men.

TOM-Long, tedious; as Come by Tom Long the Carrier; of what is very long a coming.

Having wearily traipsed around Stroud disappointed after a-lookin' for a decent bikini (a market opportunity for sure), Brenda and I found ourselves walking in circles; "Had we been to this shop? Were the ones in here only for teenagers? Can we manage with what we have?" Bikini shopping certainly ain't what it used to be...

Of course, although I have a fine figure, the bikini is for Brenda (just in case you were wondering).

"Shall we get a drink?"

"Oh, yes!"

"In a pub or shall we take home?"

"Hmmm... How about we look in here?"

And so we enter Centurion Vintners, an oft-visited place of wines and spirits, some of which I haven't found elsewhere. I asked for anything local or even English. The proprietor answered that they normally carry these, but didn't even have a bottle of Three Choirs because the weather last year was so bad there was a meagre crop and very little worth bottling. Ah well...

And so we went in search of skimpy lady parts coverings and returned with a half-gallon of Weston's Herefordshire Perry (a treat for the kids, ya know) and three bottles of Stroud Brewery's amiable beers. Brenda remarks that we have often gone shopping for her only to return with things for me!

Eeny-meeny... I opened the Tom Long first, named after a notorious legendary highwayman hung at Minchinhampton Common near Stroud. As all Stroud Brewery's beers are organic, have a Warranty of Origin and contribute their brewing waste to feed local Tamworth piggies, I feel a certain sense of self-righteous eco-warrior coming over me, but I shake that off with the first taste.

The un-chilled ale is nut brown, clear with a heavy hopped aroma. The head is soft and does not hold for long (a good sign). First tasting is dark with long and rich spicey maltings, so much so that Brenda's sister said she didn't like it. Probably one best served beside the fire on a miserably wet winter evening. The beer achieved a silver and gold medal. Not a bad beginning.

The brewery has excellent business ideals -not wishing to sell to supermarkets because they appear to stamp their increasingly negative mark on everything in this country, and encouraging local pubs and businesses. Below is an extract from their website:

Stroud Brewery - we'll sidestep the supermarket 

The man behind a leading Stroud brewery has pledged that none of his beers will ever appear in major supermarket chains. Greg Pilley, who owns Stroud Brewery, is making the stand because he claims cheap supermarket beer is the biggest threat to the traditional British pub, as well as being a chief cause of binge-drinking.

"It may mean that I miss out on a big market but I've made a conscious decision not to sell our beer through the supermarkets," he said. "I do not wish to undermine my core business, which is the local pubs. These places are often the hearts of villages. I want to see that tradition continue."

Worthy indeed.

Because the memsahib and meself is off to Morocco (ooh, what a palarva), I have yet to sample the other two in the trilogy, the Budding and Woolsack. I fear their careless consumption before our return.