Just a dinner at home that i enjoyed making this past sunday. no pictures though - I will leave that for your imagination. =)
amuse bouche: pan-seared scallops served on a bed of morel and porcini mushrooms
first course: slow-cooked salmon with green pea puree and lemon sabayon
second course: beef bourguignon with potato mousseline and dijon cream sauce
quartet of cheeses
sweets: mascarpone icecream; mixed berries compote; cabernet sauvignon reduction
wines:
Meursault 2005, Domaine Jean-Philippe Fichet
Jordan Cobblers Hill 2004, Jordan Winery, Stellenbosch, South Africa
Sauternes 2005, Chateau Suduirut (Berry Bros & Rudd's own selection)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Friday, January 15, 2010
Always on the side of the egg...
This is coming from a speech by my favorite novelist Haruki Murakami, on his acceptance of a literacy prize in Jerusalem last year in the midst of conflicts in Middle East.
I saw a commentary earlier linking this speech to some recent local news events, and I think it's so true. We can always argue whether any actions taken are too naive, whether they are sensible, or justifiable, or effective, but "between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg." (在一堵堅硬的高牆和一隻撞向它的蛋之間，我會永遠站在蛋這一邊。) As long as it's for a noble cause, this is the right thing to do. As a matter of fact, in situation like this, merely standing on their side is the least thing one must do.
Government is that high, solid wall, and we as individuals are the eggs. Who's right? Who's wrong? No one knows. But futile as it might be, stupid as it sounds, we, as fellow "eggs", as individual minds which have every right to express ourselves and voice out against what we've seen as injustice, ought to stay together and stand on the right side.
What a simple statement, yet so powerful and resonant.
Anyway, here's what he said in full:
I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.
Of course, novelists are not the only ones who tell lies. Politicians do it, too, as we all know. Diplomats and military men tell their own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchers and builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, in that no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling lies. Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously he creates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and the critics. Why should that be?
My answer would be this: Namely, that by telling skillful lies -- which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true -- the novelist can bring a truth out to a new location and shine a new light on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth lies within us. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.
Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.
So let me tell you the truth. In Japan a fair number of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some even warned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came. The reason for this, of course, was the fierce battle that was raging in Gaza. The U.N. reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded Gaza City, many of them unarmed citizens -- children and old people.
Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I asked myself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting a literary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would create the impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that I endorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash its overwhelming military power. This is an impression, of course, that I would not wish to give. I do not approve of any war, and I do not support any nation. Neither, of course, do I wish to see my books subjected to a boycott.
Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mind to come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many people advised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend to do the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me -- and especially if they are warning me -- "Don't go there," "Don't do that," I tend to want to "go there" and "do that." It's in my nature, you might say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannot genuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes or touched with their own hands.
And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stay away. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose to speak to you rather than to say nothing.
Please do allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:
"Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg."
Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?
What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them.
This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: it is "the System." The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others -- coldly, efficiently, systematically.
I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring the dignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light upon it. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on the System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls in its web and demeaning them. I fully believe it is the novelist's job to keep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul by writing stories -- stories of life and death, stories of love, stories that make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. This is why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utter seriousness.
My father died last year at the age of 90. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school, he was drafted into the army and sent to fight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him every morning before breakfast offering up long, deeply felt prayers at the Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he did this, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in the battlefield. He was praying for all the people who died, he said, both ally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, I seemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.
My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories that I can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about him remains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on from him, and one of the most important.
I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality and race and religion, fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called the System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall is too high, too strong -- and too cold. If we have any hope of victory at all, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others' souls and from the warmth we gain by joining souls together.
Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses a tangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allow the System to exploit us. We must not allow the System to take on a life of its own. The System did not make us: We made the System. That is all I have to say to you.
I saw a commentary earlier linking this speech to some recent local news events, and I think it's so true. We can always argue whether any actions taken are too naive, whether they are sensible, or justifiable, or effective, but "between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg." (在一堵堅硬的高牆和一隻撞向它的蛋之間，我會永遠站在蛋這一邊。) As long as it's for a noble cause, this is the right thing to do. As a matter of fact, in situation like this, merely standing on their side is the least thing one must do.
Government is that high, solid wall, and we as individuals are the eggs. Who's right? Who's wrong? No one knows. But futile as it might be, stupid as it sounds, we, as fellow "eggs", as individual minds which have every right to express ourselves and voice out against what we've seen as injustice, ought to stay together and stand on the right side.
What a simple statement, yet so powerful and resonant.
Anyway, here's what he said in full:
I have come to Jerusalem today as a novelist, which is to say as a professional spinner of lies.
Of course, novelists are not the only ones who tell lies. Politicians do it, too, as we all know. Diplomats and military men tell their own kinds of lies on occasion, as do used car salesmen, butchers and builders. The lies of novelists differ from others, however, in that no one criticizes the novelist as immoral for telling lies. Indeed, the bigger and better his lies and the more ingeniously he creates them, the more he is likely to be praised by the public and the critics. Why should that be?
My answer would be this: Namely, that by telling skillful lies -- which is to say, by making up fictions that appear to be true -- the novelist can bring a truth out to a new location and shine a new light on it. In most cases, it is virtually impossible to grasp a truth in its original form and depict it accurately. This is why we try to grab its tail by luring the truth from its hiding place, transferring it to a fictional location, and replacing it with a fictional form. In order to accomplish this, however, we first have to clarify where the truth lies within us. This is an important qualification for making up good lies.
Today, however, I have no intention of lying. I will try to be as honest as I can. There are a few days in the year when I do not engage in telling lies, and today happens to be one of them.
So let me tell you the truth. In Japan a fair number of people advised me not to come here to accept the Jerusalem Prize. Some even warned me they would instigate a boycott of my books if I came. The reason for this, of course, was the fierce battle that was raging in Gaza. The U.N. reported that more than a thousand people had lost their lives in the blockaded Gaza City, many of them unarmed citizens -- children and old people.
Any number of times after receiving notice of the award, I asked myself whether traveling to Israel at a time like this and accepting a literary prize was the proper thing to do, whether this would create the impression that I supported one side in the conflict, that I endorsed the policies of a nation that chose to unleash its overwhelming military power. This is an impression, of course, that I would not wish to give. I do not approve of any war, and I do not support any nation. Neither, of course, do I wish to see my books subjected to a boycott.
Finally, however, after careful consideration, I made up my mind to come here. One reason for my decision was that all too many people advised me not to do it. Perhaps, like many other novelists, I tend to do the exact opposite of what I am told. If people are telling me -- and especially if they are warning me -- "Don't go there," "Don't do that," I tend to want to "go there" and "do that." It's in my nature, you might say, as a novelist. Novelists are a special breed. They cannot genuinely trust anything they have not seen with their own eyes or touched with their own hands.
And that is why I am here. I chose to come here rather than stay away. I chose to see for myself rather than not to see. I chose to speak to you rather than to say nothing.
Please do allow me to deliver one very personal message. It is something that I always keep in mind while I am writing fiction. I have never gone so far as to write it on a piece of paper and paste it to the wall: rather, it is carved into the wall of my mind, and it goes something like this:
"Between a high, solid wall and an egg that breaks against it, I will always stand on the side of the egg."
Yes, no matter how right the wall may be and how wrong the egg, I will stand with the egg. Someone else will have to decide what is right and what is wrong; perhaps time or history will decide. If there were a novelist who, for whatever reason, wrote works standing with the wall, of what value would such works be?
What is the meaning of this metaphor? In some cases, it is all too simple and clear. Bombers and tanks and rockets and white phosphorus shells are that high, solid wall. The eggs are the unarmed civilians who are crushed and burned and shot by them.
This is not all, though. It carries a deeper meaning. Think of it this way. Each of us is, more or less, an egg. Each of us is a unique, irreplaceable soul enclosed in a fragile shell. This is true of me, and it is true of each of you. And each of us, to a greater or lesser degree, is confronting a high, solid wall. The wall has a name: it is "the System." The System is supposed to protect us, but sometimes it takes on a life of its own, and then it begins to kill us and cause us to kill others -- coldly, efficiently, systematically.
I have only one reason to write novels, and that is to bring the dignity of the individual soul to the surface and shine a light upon it. The purpose of a story is to sound an alarm, to keep a light trained on the System in order to prevent it from tangling our souls in its web and demeaning them. I fully believe it is the novelist's job to keep trying to clarify the uniqueness of each individual soul by writing stories -- stories of life and death, stories of love, stories that make people cry and quake with fear and shake with laughter. This is why we go on, day after day, concocting fictions with utter seriousness.
My father died last year at the age of 90. He was a retired teacher and a part-time Buddhist priest. When he was in graduate school, he was drafted into the army and sent to fight in China. As a child born after the war, I used to see him every morning before breakfast offering up long, deeply felt prayers at the Buddhist altar in our house. One time I asked him why he did this, and he told me he was praying for the people who had died in the battlefield. He was praying for all the people who died, he said, both ally and enemy alike. Staring at his back as he knelt at the altar, I seemed to feel the shadow of death hovering around him.
My father died, and with him he took his memories, memories that I can never know. But the presence of death that lurked about him remains in my own memory. It is one of the few things I carry on from him, and one of the most important.
I have only one thing I hope to convey to you today. We are all human beings, individuals transcending nationality and race and religion, fragile eggs faced with a solid wall called the System. To all appearances, we have no hope of winning. The wall is too high, too strong -- and too cold. If we have any hope of victory at all, it will have to come from our believing in the utter uniqueness and irreplaceability of our own and others' souls and from the warmth we gain by joining souls together.
Take a moment to think about this. Each of us possesses a tangible, living soul. The System has no such thing. We must not allow the System to exploit us. We must not allow the System to take on a life of its own. The System did not make us: We made the System. That is all I have to say to you.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Simple + Elegant = Cafe Gray Deluxe
香港的dining scene可愛之處, 就是每一年總有一兩間新餐廳, 令人充滿著期待. 今年我的no 1 choice, in terms of anticipation, 必定是Gray Kunz在這間新建成位於金鐘的精品酒店頂層的餐廳. Gray Kunz可能不是美國最享負盛名的廚師, 但論才華, 是絕對可以和那些Who's Who相提並論. 記憶中, 能夠被Ruth Reichl - 這位曾經被譽為紐約最具影響力的食評家 - 評為最高級別的紐約時報4星餐廳, 真的屈指可數, 當年Gray Kunz打理的Lespinasse就是其一 (其他的, 還包括了Daniel Boulud和Jean-Georges Vongerichten以自己為名的餐廳) 後來, 他在可能是全世界米芝蓮星星最密集的地標Time Warner Center裡面, 開了Café Gray, 也曾獲得了米芝蓮一星的評價. 早幾個月, 風聞Gray Kunz會回歸香港, 那時候已經開始數算著幾時可以第一時間品嘗. 所以, 10月份酒店一開幕, 已急不及待立刻訂位.
踏進這間名為Café Gray Deluxe的餐廳, 有點兒回到紐約的感覺 - 餐廳就在酒店的頂層, 一面是hotel lobby, 另一面穿過走廊就是餐廳. 豪華但不耀目的裝修配上casual的furniture和tableware, 很切合"deluxe cafe"的風格. 餐廳的一旁是半開放式的廚房; 另一旁就是長長的酒吧; 看到餐廳盡頭從高處望下去中環及維港的夜景, 才頓時把我從紐約的midtown拉回來. Décor typical但舒服, 一點也不uptight, 高貴而不花巧.
Menu是短短的兩頁紙 - first plate, second plate, dessert, 只此而已. 簡單的餐牌, 從來都不是個問題, 能不停轉換就成了 - 姑且看看這裡能不能做得到. 驟眼望上去, menu上大都是french bistro的典型菜式- beef tartare, crab bisque, coq au vin, foie gras, 還有其他. 跟Jean-Georges Vongerichten一樣, Gray Kunz早年也在亞洲待過好些日子(包括香港), 所以很多時都會用上亞洲菜常用的香料, 很subtle的fusion cooking style. 相反, wine list是厚厚的一本, 以old world為主, new world反而選擇較少, price range也十分friendly - 由300多元, 簡單的beaujolais到$30000的一瓶DRC La Tache都有, sommelier 也十分helpful. 麵包配上了aioli, 不過還是喜歡用回傳統的牛油.
前菜我們分別點了foie gras和crab bisque, 另外主菜是lamp chops with carrot emulsion, 和braised short ribs with polenta和 meaux mustard sauce. 點了菜不久, 前菜已經準備好奉上 - to our surprise. Crab bisque配上了crouton和crab salad, 湯是席前才從壺中倒到碗子上, 熱呼呼的, 頓時濃香撲鼻. Presentation, 味道... absolutely nothing to complain about. 主菜的燜燉牛小排骨是傳統的做法 - 醬汁很甜, almost like Korean, 看來不只是carrots, shallots, tomatoes 之類一般的材料 - 去了骨的牛小排早已燜煮得快要化開和入味, 配上輕盈的polenta和grainy的芥末忌廉汁, 正好中和了牛小排骨的濃味, 份量也不多不少. 據說, 這一味braised short ribs是chef kunz在Lespinasse年代已經是他的Signature Dish, 怪不得. CYY對她點的羊架, 看來也十分滿意 - lamp chops加carrot emulsion並不是平常的配搭, 再略加上咖哩的香味, 不過聽說也做得好.
我的甜品是meringue配以紅酒浸煮過的草莓加籃莓和crème anglaise, 也不是甚麼創新的菜式不過味道口感就一流, 每一層都帶出不同的味道, 有時間在家也可試弄一遍; CYY點的甜品, 是用中式竹籠蒸的chocolate gateau, 像糯米雞般包在荷葉裡蒸, 賣相固然帶著驚喜, 而出來的效果就像如心太軟蛋糕般, 不過用蒸的煮法, 外面的質地更為軟綿綿也較濕潤. 在menu中也看到數款chilled sweet soup加sorbet的組合 - very obvious of asian influence - 下次必定要試一試.
甜品過後, 移到了隔璧的lounge, 原本躋在那兒的客人們早已散了, 我們倆選了個僻靜的角落, 坐下來倚著窗望著海景, 慢慢享受餘下的紅酒... i think we have found a perfect chill-out spot.
回家看了一下其他人放在網上的分享, 有人評論說 - "簡單是美", 雖然是老生常談, 但一點也不錯. Café Gray Deluxe的selling point, 就是這種simplicity加elegance. 老實說, 兩者分開, 做得到的好餐館也很多; 但加在一起而又令人回味的, 在這城市中, 沒有多少間. 據聞Gray Kunz是個完美主義者, 這個晚上, 我們絕對是這種性格的beneficiaries.
details:
when? october 13 2009
where? cafe gray deluxe, 49/f, the upper house, pacific place, hongkong
occasion? birthday dinner
menu highlights? Braised Short Ribs of Beef. Polenta. Meaux Mustard Sauce
drinks? Domaine Michel Magnien Morey St Denis 1er Cru 1999
踏進這間名為Café Gray Deluxe的餐廳, 有點兒回到紐約的感覺 - 餐廳就在酒店的頂層, 一面是hotel lobby, 另一面穿過走廊就是餐廳. 豪華但不耀目的裝修配上casual的furniture和tableware, 很切合"deluxe cafe"的風格. 餐廳的一旁是半開放式的廚房; 另一旁就是長長的酒吧; 看到餐廳盡頭從高處望下去中環及維港的夜景, 才頓時把我從紐約的midtown拉回來. Décor typical但舒服, 一點也不uptight, 高貴而不花巧.
Menu是短短的兩頁紙 - first plate, second plate, dessert, 只此而已. 簡單的餐牌, 從來都不是個問題, 能不停轉換就成了 - 姑且看看這裡能不能做得到. 驟眼望上去, menu上大都是french bistro的典型菜式- beef tartare, crab bisque, coq au vin, foie gras, 還有其他. 跟Jean-Georges Vongerichten一樣, Gray Kunz早年也在亞洲待過好些日子(包括香港), 所以很多時都會用上亞洲菜常用的香料, 很subtle的fusion cooking style. 相反, wine list是厚厚的一本, 以old world為主, new world反而選擇較少, price range也十分friendly - 由300多元, 簡單的beaujolais到$30000的一瓶DRC La Tache都有, sommelier 也十分helpful. 麵包配上了aioli, 不過還是喜歡用回傳統的牛油.
前菜我們分別點了foie gras和crab bisque, 另外主菜是lamp chops with carrot emulsion, 和braised short ribs with polenta和 meaux mustard sauce. 點了菜不久, 前菜已經準備好奉上 - to our surprise. Crab bisque配上了crouton和crab salad, 湯是席前才從壺中倒到碗子上, 熱呼呼的, 頓時濃香撲鼻. Presentation, 味道... absolutely nothing to complain about. 主菜的燜燉牛小排骨是傳統的做法 - 醬汁很甜, almost like Korean, 看來不只是carrots, shallots, tomatoes 之類一般的材料 - 去了骨的牛小排早已燜煮得快要化開和入味, 配上輕盈的polenta和grainy的芥末忌廉汁, 正好中和了牛小排骨的濃味, 份量也不多不少. 據說, 這一味braised short ribs是chef kunz在Lespinasse年代已經是他的Signature Dish, 怪不得. CYY對她點的羊架, 看來也十分滿意 - lamp chops加carrot emulsion並不是平常的配搭, 再略加上咖哩的香味, 不過聽說也做得好.
我的甜品是meringue配以紅酒浸煮過的草莓加籃莓和crème anglaise, 也不是甚麼創新的菜式不過味道口感就一流, 每一層都帶出不同的味道, 有時間在家也可試弄一遍; CYY點的甜品, 是用中式竹籠蒸的chocolate gateau, 像糯米雞般包在荷葉裡蒸, 賣相固然帶著驚喜, 而出來的效果就像如心太軟蛋糕般, 不過用蒸的煮法, 外面的質地更為軟綿綿也較濕潤. 在menu中也看到數款chilled sweet soup加sorbet的組合 - very obvious of asian influence - 下次必定要試一試.
甜品過後, 移到了隔璧的lounge, 原本躋在那兒的客人們早已散了, 我們倆選了個僻靜的角落, 坐下來倚著窗望著海景, 慢慢享受餘下的紅酒... i think we have found a perfect chill-out spot.
回家看了一下其他人放在網上的分享, 有人評論說 - "簡單是美", 雖然是老生常談, 但一點也不錯. Café Gray Deluxe的selling point, 就是這種simplicity加elegance. 老實說, 兩者分開, 做得到的好餐館也很多; 但加在一起而又令人回味的, 在這城市中, 沒有多少間. 據聞Gray Kunz是個完美主義者, 這個晚上, 我們絕對是這種性格的beneficiaries.
details:
when? october 13 2009
where? cafe gray deluxe, 49/f, the upper house, pacific place, hongkong
occasion? birthday dinner
menu highlights? Braised Short Ribs of Beef. Polenta. Meaux Mustard Sauce
drinks? Domaine Michel Magnien Morey St Denis 1er Cru 1999
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Tuesday, October 6, 2009
A dazzling star
It's a surprise that a pianist of such caliber has attracted so little publicity prior to her debut recital performance in hong kong last week - let alone for one that's thought to be the most promising chinese prodigy in the circle. I am talking about the Yuja Wang's Piano Recital held in the City Hall just before the National Day holiday.
As far as solo performance's concerned, I always prefer the more cozy City Hall than the one across the harbor in the Cultural Centre - at least you can have a good view of the performers and their expressions as they play the pieces. The program commences with a quartet of sonatas by domenico scarlatti and concluded with the sonata no 6 in a major by prokofiev - gee she made them look so easy. Her style's been subtle yet full of youthful energy, with facial expressions that shows confidence and passion without pretentions or arrogance. Finesse usually is the word rarely used to describe a young artist but on this occasion, it seems to be a perfect one. It's hard to believe this is only her first year on tour since graduating from Curtis in 2008.
Too bad we were slightly distracted by a family of nouveau riche in the front row whose kids keep talking, moving around and making funny faces for the entire hour as if they were on a merry-go-round in the amusement park, with the helpless maid accompanying them. We found ourselves lucky not sitting right behind them and definitely won't blame the couple behind that were for walking out after the intermission. Well, as our city was desperately seeking a share of their new money with knees down and open hands, we would have to bear with that for a while, I suppose.
During her triple encore, it's hard not to be impressed by Yuja's magical touch on a "paraphrased" piece of Mozart's Turkish March. It's the same version featured on her CD as a bonus track, but seeing her moving the fingers around the keyboard as smooth as silk is simply jaw-dropping. This is probably the best version I have ever heard of this familiar - almost cliché - piece of music.
Anyway, an absolutely delightful evening - and hopefully she will continue to rise for stardom. If you have missed it, no worries - she's coming back at the end of HKPO's current season, in June 2010. In the meantime, run for her first CD - you won't regret it.
As far as solo performance's concerned, I always prefer the more cozy City Hall than the one across the harbor in the Cultural Centre - at least you can have a good view of the performers and their expressions as they play the pieces. The program commences with a quartet of sonatas by domenico scarlatti and concluded with the sonata no 6 in a major by prokofiev - gee she made them look so easy. Her style's been subtle yet full of youthful energy, with facial expressions that shows confidence and passion without pretentions or arrogance. Finesse usually is the word rarely used to describe a young artist but on this occasion, it seems to be a perfect one. It's hard to believe this is only her first year on tour since graduating from Curtis in 2008.
Too bad we were slightly distracted by a family of nouveau riche in the front row whose kids keep talking, moving around and making funny faces for the entire hour as if they were on a merry-go-round in the amusement park, with the helpless maid accompanying them. We found ourselves lucky not sitting right behind them and definitely won't blame the couple behind that were for walking out after the intermission. Well, as our city was desperately seeking a share of their new money with knees down and open hands, we would have to bear with that for a while, I suppose.
During her triple encore, it's hard not to be impressed by Yuja's magical touch on a "paraphrased" piece of Mozart's Turkish March. It's the same version featured on her CD as a bonus track, but seeing her moving the fingers around the keyboard as smooth as silk is simply jaw-dropping. This is probably the best version I have ever heard of this familiar - almost cliché - piece of music.
Anyway, an absolutely delightful evening - and hopefully she will continue to rise for stardom. If you have missed it, no worries - she's coming back at the end of HKPO's current season, in June 2010. In the meantime, run for her first CD - you won't regret it.
Friday, August 14, 2009
The Concourse is Our Playground
There used to be an ad slogan by Nike that says "The World is my Playgound". Well, if MTR has to use a new one, it may as well be "The concourse is our playground", judging from what I saw this morning on my way to work.
I don't commute by public transport much these days - spoiled by the option of driving - but today's one of those rare occasions that I felt too lazy to be behind wheels in the rain, and never did I realize it's actually fun watching people commuting like sheep being herded from one place to another. It is really quite a scene that is worth mentioning on any Hong Kong travel guides - well, talking about the Rough Guides!
Then I started to wonder, with the East Asian Games coming to town this December - "You are the Legend", we were told, whatever that means - I am surprised the organizer didn't consider putting our MTR concourse to be the sporting ground for some of the events and have a separate category of "MTR Commuters" to compete against the world's best (at least the best from the East Asian side of the world).
Take 100m sprint for example, I can see many people have been training hard day in and day out on the concourse on Admiralty station, at the Tsuen Wan Line-Island Line interchange on their way to work and back, and from what I saw, many of whom are definitely up to par with the professionals, finishing the race in less than 10 seconds. I am sure they would have done even better if they didn't don their suit or dressed to the nines with high heels to do the run. How about race-walking? I was told I am a speed walker myself too, but nothing compared to those who can walk from Hong Kong Station to Central Station (a 500m walk, according to information from Google) in less than 2 minutes, including the time wasted to avoid the not-so-fast crowd that often cram on the moving walkway.
The organizer can even consider having new events in MTR - well, I figure since ballroom dancing has become a competitive event at the Games, what can't be? How about dancing to iPod music on a moving train for a change? It's a combination of art and balancing skills, you know, and we can even get sponsorship from Apple. Or newspaper picking - like those old ladies outside the station? Hey that requires endurance, physical strength, patience and a little bit of charm and luck - everything that is needed for any competitive sports. Or even "People Dodging" - having 2 teams facing each other at a narrow Mongkok Station entrance and team members have to reach the other side without being bumped by any one of the opposing team. Trust me, I tried, but I can never accomplish that.
See, commuting can be fun if you start day-dreaming!
I don't commute by public transport much these days - spoiled by the option of driving - but today's one of those rare occasions that I felt too lazy to be behind wheels in the rain, and never did I realize it's actually fun watching people commuting like sheep being herded from one place to another. It is really quite a scene that is worth mentioning on any Hong Kong travel guides - well, talking about the Rough Guides!
Then I started to wonder, with the East Asian Games coming to town this December - "You are the Legend", we were told, whatever that means - I am surprised the organizer didn't consider putting our MTR concourse to be the sporting ground for some of the events and have a separate category of "MTR Commuters" to compete against the world's best (at least the best from the East Asian side of the world).
Take 100m sprint for example, I can see many people have been training hard day in and day out on the concourse on Admiralty station, at the Tsuen Wan Line-Island Line interchange on their way to work and back, and from what I saw, many of whom are definitely up to par with the professionals, finishing the race in less than 10 seconds. I am sure they would have done even better if they didn't don their suit or dressed to the nines with high heels to do the run. How about race-walking? I was told I am a speed walker myself too, but nothing compared to those who can walk from Hong Kong Station to Central Station (a 500m walk, according to information from Google) in less than 2 minutes, including the time wasted to avoid the not-so-fast crowd that often cram on the moving walkway.
The organizer can even consider having new events in MTR - well, I figure since ballroom dancing has become a competitive event at the Games, what can't be? How about dancing to iPod music on a moving train for a change? It's a combination of art and balancing skills, you know, and we can even get sponsorship from Apple. Or newspaper picking - like those old ladies outside the station? Hey that requires endurance, physical strength, patience and a little bit of charm and luck - everything that is needed for any competitive sports. Or even "People Dodging" - having 2 teams facing each other at a narrow Mongkok Station entrance and team members have to reach the other side without being bumped by any one of the opposing team. Trust me, I tried, but I can never accomplish that.
See, commuting can be fun if you start day-dreaming!
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