Place: Amaya Hills. Kandy, Sri Lanka.
Murraya koenigalle, a comfort dish in Sri Lanka, is a red-riceporridge with curry leaves. The dish has a refreshing taste and a mild
finish.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
White Diamond lemon arrak
Made from fermented fruit, grains and sugarcane, arrak is a distilled
alcohol typically found in south and southeast Asia. This particular
arrak, rated at 33% v/v, is imbued with a sappy lemon nose. The taste
is straightforward, with the sweet, refreshing taste of the lemon
masking the alcohol's strong punch. While the finish is short and not
particularly exciting, there is no unfavorable aftertaste. I could see
it as a great mid-afternoon companion, especially under the intense
heat of the summer.
Woodapple juice
Place: Heritance Kandalama. Kandalama/Dambulla, Sri Lanka.
Freshly made woodapple juice at sunset, overlooking Kandalama Lake.Sri Lankan egg hoppers
Place: Heritance Kandalama. Kandalama/Dambulla, Sri Lanka.
My favorite Sri Lankan breakfast: hoppers two-ways and the samboltrifecta (pol sambol, seeni sambol, katta sambol).
Pastries at the Pagoda Tea Room
Place: Pagoda Tea Room. Colombo, Sri Lanka.
Dish: assorted pastries.
baked food. Pagoda Tea Room, a well-regarded institution among Colombo
residents, serves up some of the finest, freshest pastries in town.
For my breakfast, I ordered (clockwise from right): fish cutlets, fish
and egg pastry, and fish roll. Getting to the Pagoda Tea Room is not easy: due to its close proximity
to the presidential compound, the road leading to the restaurant is
completely road-blocked and under severe military surveillance. I am
able to sneak in only after showing my passport and ensuring that all
the destruction I could muster while visiting Pagoda is, by way of
their food's oily excesses, to my health. Humor does help.
Breakfast near Sri Pada
Place: Yellow House. Near the entrance to Sri Pada, Sri Lanka.
After an exhausting overnight hike to the peak of Sri Pada, asumptuous breakfast is on offer: guava juice, guava fruits, papaya,
mango, sour bananas, toasts, two eggs, and coffee.
Fried rice with chicken and a fried boiled egg
Place: The Grand Hotel. Nuwaraeliya, Sri Lanka.
The Grand Hotel, formerly a vacation home for a British aristocrat, isby all means pompous and extravagant. The menu at its restaurant does
not suggest otherwise, with an impressive offering of meats and
seafood dishes prepared in traditional Anglo-French ways. But I
thought I'd stick with local flavors and try their local food. This
fried rice is flavorful, with plenty of juicy bits of chicken and
toasted nuts. The best, however, is the fried boiled egg, which
provides a heavenly conflation of texture upon mastication, with the
crispiness of the fried surface balancing the softness of the egg's
inner core. The floral surface suggests a healthy helping of pepper,
light spices, and salt.
Home-made fish cutlets
Place: a private home. Sri Lanka.
Nip's mom makes the world's best fish cutlets. The Maldive fish isfirst chopped (not ground) and then mixed with potatoes, chopped
onions, ground pepper, curry, and held together by egged breadcrumbs.
It is then fried in flavored hot oil. Upon plating, the fish cutlets
are already inviting, with a shiny surface and a plump shape. Upon
mastication, the cutlets burst with flavors of the sea and of an
accomplished kitchen. Most importantly, each bite effuses warmth and
hospitality -- which makes visitors like me feel instantly at home.
Thank you, Nip and mom!
A Sri Lankan+Indian buffet
Place: Raja Bojun. Colombo, Sri Lanka.
Dish: A hearty buffet platter (x3), with a cold bottle of EGB, a
ginger beer and Sri Lankans' favorite non-alcoholic drink.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Dudamel conducts Bernstein and Mahler in Beijing
This past Friday evening, my friend and I attended a concert by Simón Bolívar National Youth Orchestra of Venezuela, conducted by the 27-year-old phenomenon, Gustavo Dudamel.
Simón Bolívar and Dudamel performed two pieces: Bernstein's West Side Story Symphonic Dances and, after intermission, Mahler's First. The rendition of Bernstein's West Side Story was, for me to put it mildly, less than enthusiastic. The outcome was stiff and uninspiring, and lacked the interplay between jubilance and mellowness, as well as the mischievous energy that was called upon by Bernstein. The performance was sourly disappointing, not least because I was eagerly looking forward to this performance after having read and heard so much about Dudamel, who was to become L.A. Phil's youngest-ever music director starting next (2009-10) season, and the Orquesta Sinfónica Simón Bolívar, one of more than 200 youth orchestras in Venezuela funded by the Venezuelan government with the aim of uplifting poor neighborhoods and children who live in them through structured music education. Simón Bolívar, considered the apex of this wildly successful art and social experiment, has won accolades and praises not just for its narrative as a pioneering, broad-reaching social program but also for its symphonic prowess and artistic balance. Therefore, when we heard something that was more like my high school band than one with multiple DG recordings, at least I was so crestfallen that, before the Bernstein was half completed, my mind was drifting away, not into Manhattan's west side as Dudamel probably had hoped, but to endless permutations of how to salvage this Friday evening if we were to skip after intermission.
After intermission, we went back nevertheless, with her Proustian reminder that, even if we had tried, we couldn't have found a better place to be on a brutally cold Friday night in Beijing than in the embrace of the National Centre for Performing Arts. And boy, we were glad we didn't bail! When the first sets of A chords came out, we knew right away that our concerns were unnecessary - they came out with plenty of force and confidence, projecting one-part of controlled balance and one-part of sensual opulence. The Gesellen passages were superbly rendered with meticulousness -- evoking, rightfully so, memories of listening to the Wayfarer Lieder with Kubelik and Fischer-Dieskau, on which part of the first movement is based. The galore continued with a majestic entrance to the second movement, intermingled with a velvety, triple-time mid-passage. The third movement was spacious but not in any way dragging. The voicing of the Frère Jacques passage was smooth and gleeful, with a perfect relay of windwinds meandering through Mahler's handcrafted dazzle. By the fourth movement, I was wondering how much, during the Bernstein, I had missed under the cloak of my suspicion and unwarranted anxiety. The fourth movement was perhaps the high point of the evening, with monstrous horns, plush strings, and a percussion section that made me feel inadequate.
Without a doubt, Dudamel's baton managed to control all of that artistry with precision, raising Simón Bolívar's spirit and energy as he saw fit. And mind you, Simón Bolívar was not an easy baby to control: it had about 150 musicians for the Mahler and over 200 for the Bernstein. By the time the Mahler was marching towards its grand finale, Dudamel was at his best, unleashing a galloping orchestral splendor filled with dramatic outbursts, ending the evening with a feeling of finality and authority. I have always been a huge fan of Mahler, but always in a subdued, measured kind of way. But the way I reacted to Dudamel's Mahler was alien to me -- it was warm, emotional, and fulfilling. Toasting to that, this Mahler by Simón Bolívar and Dudamel was as good as any Mahler's First I have heard.
Simón Bolívar and Dudamel performed two pieces: Bernstein's West Side Story Symphonic Dances and, after intermission, Mahler's First. The rendition of Bernstein's West Side Story was, for me to put it mildly, less than enthusiastic. The outcome was stiff and uninspiring, and lacked the interplay between jubilance and mellowness, as well as the mischievous energy that was called upon by Bernstein. The performance was sourly disappointing, not least because I was eagerly looking forward to this performance after having read and heard so much about Dudamel, who was to become L.A. Phil's youngest-ever music director starting next (2009-10) season, and the Orquesta Sinfónica Simón Bolívar, one of more than 200 youth orchestras in Venezuela funded by the Venezuelan government with the aim of uplifting poor neighborhoods and children who live in them through structured music education. Simón Bolívar, considered the apex of this wildly successful art and social experiment, has won accolades and praises not just for its narrative as a pioneering, broad-reaching social program but also for its symphonic prowess and artistic balance. Therefore, when we heard something that was more like my high school band than one with multiple DG recordings, at least I was so crestfallen that, before the Bernstein was half completed, my mind was drifting away, not into Manhattan's west side as Dudamel probably had hoped, but to endless permutations of how to salvage this Friday evening if we were to skip after intermission.
After intermission, we went back nevertheless, with her Proustian reminder that, even if we had tried, we couldn't have found a better place to be on a brutally cold Friday night in Beijing than in the embrace of the National Centre for Performing Arts. And boy, we were glad we didn't bail! When the first sets of A chords came out, we knew right away that our concerns were unnecessary - they came out with plenty of force and confidence, projecting one-part of controlled balance and one-part of sensual opulence. The Gesellen passages were superbly rendered with meticulousness -- evoking, rightfully so, memories of listening to the Wayfarer Lieder with Kubelik and Fischer-Dieskau, on which part of the first movement is based. The galore continued with a majestic entrance to the second movement, intermingled with a velvety, triple-time mid-passage. The third movement was spacious but not in any way dragging. The voicing of the Frère Jacques passage was smooth and gleeful, with a perfect relay of windwinds meandering through Mahler's handcrafted dazzle. By the fourth movement, I was wondering how much, during the Bernstein, I had missed under the cloak of my suspicion and unwarranted anxiety. The fourth movement was perhaps the high point of the evening, with monstrous horns, plush strings, and a percussion section that made me feel inadequate.
Without a doubt, Dudamel's baton managed to control all of that artistry with precision, raising Simón Bolívar's spirit and energy as he saw fit. And mind you, Simón Bolívar was not an easy baby to control: it had about 150 musicians for the Mahler and over 200 for the Bernstein. By the time the Mahler was marching towards its grand finale, Dudamel was at his best, unleashing a galloping orchestral splendor filled with dramatic outbursts, ending the evening with a feeling of finality and authority. I have always been a huge fan of Mahler, but always in a subdued, measured kind of way. But the way I reacted to Dudamel's Mahler was alien to me -- it was warm, emotional, and fulfilling. Toasting to that, this Mahler by Simón Bolívar and Dudamel was as good as any Mahler's First I have heard.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
White Castle casserole
White Castle sliders are heavenly. So is anything oven-baked, as I've zestfully attempted many times before, with bacon, cheese and eggs (like a bacon quiche). But I haven't been so ridiculous and comical as to try to combine the two. But now that someone has made a casserole with White Castle sliders with bacon and cheese in a quiche-like bake --with great success I must add -- I think I may just be inspired enough to give it a try soon...
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Serious faux pas at Let's Burger
I have yet another chance to revisit Let's Burger, the burger joint inside The Village at Sanlitun. The food was, as I expected, quite good -- I had an order of its crispy fries and a grilled chicken salad -- the latter I actually found to be quite fantastic. The smoky grilled chicken was augmented with what I believe to be a welcoming honey glaze, and was roughly cut and served over a bed of beautiful greens. The greens were fresh and tossed with just the right amount of sweet Russian dressing. At less than forty yuan, it was a steal.
Food experience aside, I witnessed two horrifying incidents inside the open kitchen that would likely kill any desire to go back. I sat at the Robuchon-like dining bar, which had a full and uninhibited view of the kitchen area; I was sat directly opposite the washing station. This area was between a bun toasting station and the pantry, where coffee was brewed and wines poured. This was also the area where I witnessed both faux pas of the evening. The person responsible for toasting all the hamburger buns was standing on the opposite side of the dining bar, just half a meter to my left. He was very good at his job -- he would diligently take out the buns from the plastic wrapper (four buns in a wrapper), meticulously place the buns in their upright positions and carefully slice open the buns, and feed the bun into the conveyor-belt toaster. And that was all that he needed to do all night: slice the buns, place them onto toaster, and hand off the toasted bun to the hamburger dresser. He was so good at his routine that each repetition was nearly identical to the last, so mechanical and perfectly executed as to leave no room for error or criticism. That was the case until, of course, when disaster struck: when he was opening one of the plastic wrappers, some mysterious force was exerted out of nowhere, in such a disastrous direction that one of the buns, instead of staying inside the wrapper or on the cutting table, decided to roll over and into the washing liquid in the sink, at the washing station nearby. It was obvious that he was verily horrified by the unscripted event, but with no time for second thoughts whatsoever, he picked up the bun from the sink and placed it right back on the slicing table. I couldn't tell if it was contaminated with detergent, but by then its top was visibly wet, as evidenced by the wet gloss on top of that naughty bun, as juxtaposed against the three others from the same wrapper that had no such wet gloss. Just as I was hoping that he would give a second thought and decide to throw the bun away, he picked up his knife, and after slicing open the bun, quickly put the bun into the toaster. With the disaster seemingly evaporating into thin air (and the fouled wetness toasting away) and truth that only he and I would know, he briefly looked up, and most certainly had to find my bewildered eyes fixated on his! He looked away, as if nothing happened, and less a minute later, the bun that had earlier found itself touching the washing liquid in the sink was getting bused to the diner at the other side of the restaurant.
Another incident happened a few minutes later, when a tournant was cutting carrots right in front of me. He was also very good at his job...holding and using the knife properly, and making mechanical cuts so precise that, had anyone seen the final result without looking at the process, would have concluded that it was the work of an industrial mandoline. But human mandolines made mistakes: a piece of carrot would eventually fall onto the ground. Like any other diner, I hoped that he would pick up and throw away that fallen piece of vegetable --which he did. Like any other diner, I was also hoping that he would then go about to wash his hands before going back to his station to work on his vegetables --and horrors! his hands were, merely seconds after touching the floor and with no side trip to the tap, now fiddling with other pieces of vegetables. What would happen if those vegetables were not slated for cooking at all but were tossed in a salad?
After these two incidents I could bear to see no more. I promptly finished my meal and left. I am sure many kitchens are like that (I have, to be quite honest, witnessed a few), but this is the first time that I have seen a serious kitchen offense (two, no less) played out, without redress, in an open kitchen. When the proprietor decides to open the kitchen, the reason has to be simple: to key the diners in for a show. It's supposed to be a window to a scripted fairy tale, and not supposed to be a window to the reality of commercial cooking. As a gut check, we all know that live shows would, from time to time, find themselves in an unscripted situation, but any reasonably good director would have a scripted solution to an unscripted situation -- how about: (a) throw away any dirty food, and (b) wash hands after having touched, or even the remote possibility of being perceived to have touched, something dirty? I am prepared to see the dark side if I demand to walk into a closeted kitchen, but I am not prepared to see what I don't want to see if the open kitchen is there for all to see. And when disaster happens, the staff should well know how to go to Plan B. But there was no Plan B; there was only Plan A. Let's Burger still has good food, especially its crispy fries, an outstanding selection of potato dips, a juicy cheeseburger to die for and an excellent grilled chicken salad I mentioned earlier in this post. But for all its greatness, the massive offenses that I witnessed first hand would give me serious second thoughts before I dare to ever venture inside again.
Food experience aside, I witnessed two horrifying incidents inside the open kitchen that would likely kill any desire to go back. I sat at the Robuchon-like dining bar, which had a full and uninhibited view of the kitchen area; I was sat directly opposite the washing station. This area was between a bun toasting station and the pantry, where coffee was brewed and wines poured. This was also the area where I witnessed both faux pas of the evening. The person responsible for toasting all the hamburger buns was standing on the opposite side of the dining bar, just half a meter to my left. He was very good at his job -- he would diligently take out the buns from the plastic wrapper (four buns in a wrapper), meticulously place the buns in their upright positions and carefully slice open the buns, and feed the bun into the conveyor-belt toaster. And that was all that he needed to do all night: slice the buns, place them onto toaster, and hand off the toasted bun to the hamburger dresser. He was so good at his routine that each repetition was nearly identical to the last, so mechanical and perfectly executed as to leave no room for error or criticism. That was the case until, of course, when disaster struck: when he was opening one of the plastic wrappers, some mysterious force was exerted out of nowhere, in such a disastrous direction that one of the buns, instead of staying inside the wrapper or on the cutting table, decided to roll over and into the washing liquid in the sink, at the washing station nearby. It was obvious that he was verily horrified by the unscripted event, but with no time for second thoughts whatsoever, he picked up the bun from the sink and placed it right back on the slicing table. I couldn't tell if it was contaminated with detergent, but by then its top was visibly wet, as evidenced by the wet gloss on top of that naughty bun, as juxtaposed against the three others from the same wrapper that had no such wet gloss. Just as I was hoping that he would give a second thought and decide to throw the bun away, he picked up his knife, and after slicing open the bun, quickly put the bun into the toaster. With the disaster seemingly evaporating into thin air (and the fouled wetness toasting away) and truth that only he and I would know, he briefly looked up, and most certainly had to find my bewildered eyes fixated on his! He looked away, as if nothing happened, and less a minute later, the bun that had earlier found itself touching the washing liquid in the sink was getting bused to the diner at the other side of the restaurant.
Another incident happened a few minutes later, when a tournant was cutting carrots right in front of me. He was also very good at his job...holding and using the knife properly, and making mechanical cuts so precise that, had anyone seen the final result without looking at the process, would have concluded that it was the work of an industrial mandoline. But human mandolines made mistakes: a piece of carrot would eventually fall onto the ground. Like any other diner, I hoped that he would pick up and throw away that fallen piece of vegetable --which he did. Like any other diner, I was also hoping that he would then go about to wash his hands before going back to his station to work on his vegetables --and horrors! his hands were, merely seconds after touching the floor and with no side trip to the tap, now fiddling with other pieces of vegetables. What would happen if those vegetables were not slated for cooking at all but were tossed in a salad?
After these two incidents I could bear to see no more. I promptly finished my meal and left. I am sure many kitchens are like that (I have, to be quite honest, witnessed a few), but this is the first time that I have seen a serious kitchen offense (two, no less) played out, without redress, in an open kitchen. When the proprietor decides to open the kitchen, the reason has to be simple: to key the diners in for a show. It's supposed to be a window to a scripted fairy tale, and not supposed to be a window to the reality of commercial cooking. As a gut check, we all know that live shows would, from time to time, find themselves in an unscripted situation, but any reasonably good director would have a scripted solution to an unscripted situation -- how about: (a) throw away any dirty food, and (b) wash hands after having touched, or even the remote possibility of being perceived to have touched, something dirty? I am prepared to see the dark side if I demand to walk into a closeted kitchen, but I am not prepared to see what I don't want to see if the open kitchen is there for all to see. And when disaster happens, the staff should well know how to go to Plan B. But there was no Plan B; there was only Plan A. Let's Burger still has good food, especially its crispy fries, an outstanding selection of potato dips, a juicy cheeseburger to die for and an excellent grilled chicken salad I mentioned earlier in this post. But for all its greatness, the massive offenses that I witnessed first hand would give me serious second thoughts before I dare to ever venture inside again.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Table 1280
I haven't given much thought on museum dining, but after having recently checked out Table 1280 at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, Georgia, I have found a renewed interest on this sub-genre. Table 1280 serves up elegant, contemporary American cuisine in a hip, contemporary setting. Designed by Renzo Piano, the restaurant has comfortable seating, plenty of sunlight cozying up the interior space through ceiling-to-floor windows, and a precision-meets-elegance aura that fits snugly inside the Richard Meier-designed Museum.
The burger came perfectly cooked to my requirements and laid out in the same sort of geometric elegance that befalls Meier's architecture. Sitting right by the ultra-wide windows, I had an unobstructed view of the High's interior courtyard, and could feel the nurturing, warm hands of the late-autumn sun. My seat was so comfortable that I almost forgot I had a couple of important exhibits to catch (treasures from not only the Louvre but also the V&A).
Due to a tight traveling schedule, I wasn't able to check out Table 1280's elegant bar, which seems to offer an impressive wine list and a hideout for spending time with friends. Nevertheless, I was verily impressed by its delicious food, comfortable environment, and the way in which Piano's inrerior blends perfectly with Meier's exteriors. For any one of those reasons above, I would readily recommend Table 1280. But for all of those reasons, I would even rank Table 1280 on par with some of the great museum dining establishments I've come to love: Seventeen Seventeen, the superior restaurant inside the Dallas Museum of Art; the easy-going Pentimento at the LACMA in Los Angeles; the jaw-droppingly pompous but undeniably impressive The Modern at New York's MOMA; and amazingly hard-to-book but cozy Map Cafe inside the Museum of pre-Colombian Art in Cusco, Peru. Perhaps I'll do a post on these restaurants one day.
The burger came perfectly cooked to my requirements and laid out in the same sort of geometric elegance that befalls Meier's architecture. Sitting right by the ultra-wide windows, I had an unobstructed view of the High's interior courtyard, and could feel the nurturing, warm hands of the late-autumn sun. My seat was so comfortable that I almost forgot I had a couple of important exhibits to catch (treasures from not only the Louvre but also the V&A).
Due to a tight traveling schedule, I wasn't able to check out Table 1280's elegant bar, which seems to offer an impressive wine list and a hideout for spending time with friends. Nevertheless, I was verily impressed by its delicious food, comfortable environment, and the way in which Piano's inrerior blends perfectly with Meier's exteriors. For any one of those reasons above, I would readily recommend Table 1280. But for all of those reasons, I would even rank Table 1280 on par with some of the great museum dining establishments I've come to love: Seventeen Seventeen, the superior restaurant inside the Dallas Museum of Art; the easy-going Pentimento at the LACMA in Los Angeles; the jaw-droppingly pompous but undeniably impressive The Modern at New York's MOMA; and amazingly hard-to-book but cozy Map Cafe inside the Museum of pre-Colombian Art in Cusco, Peru. Perhaps I'll do a post on these restaurants one day.
Burgers in Korea
As I research more about burgers, I found this awesome post on burgers in Korea by Daniel Gray, the man behind Seoul Eats, a great blog for chowhounds in search for a good plate in Korea. Don't miss the post and the blog!
Sunday, October 26, 2008
In search of the best burger in Beijing
A mundane burger often reminds me of those years when I lived in America, when I often had to subsist on mass-produced burgers that I'd imagine tasted like dirty socks soaked in sewage-diluted ketchup. A great burger, however, reminds me of the good times I've had, mainly in two places: Texas, and California. Texas' burgers are memorable because the beef is always fresh and flavorful, and often charcoal-grilled with cracking mesquite wood that gives an additional layer of sweetness. Californian burgers are great because they dare to be inventive: new ingredients (e.g. organic greens), new sauces (e.g. sweet aioli, jalapeño-flavored salsa), and new ways of ordering (e.g. secret menu, at In-N-Out).
The Mission
Burger is not something that pops into my mind when I talk about my foodie experience in Beijing. While many Beijing hotels have coffee shops that can offer a decent burger, albeit at exorbitant prices, I have yet to find, until now, a burger joint that I could confidently recommend to others. Hooters, Durty Nellie's and Paddy O'Shea's serve up good burgers as pub grubs, but I recommend those places with reasons that are far more important than, say, to get a half-decent burger. Therefore, I decided to undertake a mission to find the best burger, as I know it, in a town better known for roast ducks wrapped with steamed pancakes than beef patty on a bun -- with one additional requirement: that any restaurant's burger must be the #1 reason why I, or anyone to whom I pass on my recommendation, would want to go to that restaurant. Therefore, places like Durty Nellie's and Outback Steakhouse won't count. With some input from some well-fed Beijingers, I tried out twelve burger joints in a little under five weeks, and came up with four good recommendations, below.
The Taste Test
Tim's Texas BBQ (Guanghua Road)
Tim's offers an all-American Border burger laden with bacon, cheese, jalapeños. The beef patty was supremely grilled with a dense, robust flavor. The bacon had a nice, smoky nose and a chewy texture. The winning ingredient was the pungent jalapeños, which nicely cut into the excess fat of the beef and the bacon and provided that extra zing. Tim's also serves up a superb chopped beef brisket sandwich, which by itself is worthy of a separate visit (or, if self-indulgence shall be forgiven, of a same-visit, side-by-side burger-sandwich face/off).
Exploit: one Border burger, one frozen margarita: ￥80.
One East on Third (Hilton Hotel Beijing)
With foie gras, black truffles and Waygu beef, the Waygu burger oozed more pomp and circumstance than cheeses and mushroom juices. It was tough for me not to feel a little pugnacious after shelling out ￥325 just so that I got to feel like an aristocratic jackass for half an hour. Nevertheless, I have to admit that, strictly in terms of taste, the burger was actually more than just a garbled pile of dollar signs; I would freely admit that it was not too far away from the majestic double truffle burger royale that I had at Daniel Boulud's joint in New York two years ago.
Exploit: one Waygu burger, one glass of Californian red wine, one expresso: ￥420.
Let's Burger (The Village at Sanlitun)
This is a straight-up, burger-only joint that serves up some juicy patties in a bistro environment. My order: an Australian double burger with six ounces (by my estimate) of ground sirloin. The Australian was amply dressed with lettuce, tomatoes, two fat slices of bacon, and a fried egg. I felt like my life was ticking away as the burger was being devoured. The only thing that kept me from putting the burger down and calling it quits was the devil in me, reminding me that if my blood vessels were to clot and if I were to drop dead on the spot, I would still die a very, very happy man. On my first visit, the patties were a little disappointing because they were overcooked, bland, and devoid of beefy flavors, but on my second visit (revisiting the exact same order), the patties came to life with all the beefy aromatics and succulent juices. The fries were hand-cut and well-fried, with a crunchy shell and a soft, starchy body. A winning feature at this joint was the impressive array of dipping sauces (over ten of them!), including two that I would recommend in a heartbeat (if I still have one): a creamy remoulade and a flavorful wasabi mayonnaise.
Twice exploited: The Australian, one order of hand-cut fries, one glass of house red: ￥150 per exploit.
25 Degrees (Hotel G)
Named after the temperature (in Celsius) between a raw and a well-done burger, 25 Degrees provides the diner an art-meets-science flavor to the burger experience. One can design and build one's own burger with dozens of a la carte toppings to choose from, or pick from three excellent preset choices. My choice on my first visit (preset #1) was a ground-sirloin burger dressed with carmelized onions, arugula salad, thousand island dressing and a wedge of Gorgonzola cheese --this combination reminds me of Father's Office burger in Santa Monica, California, which has a nearly verbatim rendition, except the bun: Father's Office uses a fluffy and long French baguette, while 25 Degrees uses a round, wheat/rye bun. This resemblance of taste, however, is not entirely accidental, as 25 Degrees is an aspiring burger concept originated in Los Angeles, a stone's throw away from Father's Office. In any case, 25 Degrees' burger was a protein-carb-veg juggernaut with a good balance of flavor (juicily beefy but not oily), taste (the Gorgonzola danced merrily with the caramelized onion), and texture (the crispiness of the arugula salad jazzed perfectly with the softness of the onions and the chewiness of the beef). Like the original joint in Hollywood, the lettuces, tomatoes and sliced pickles were served on the side and readily available for the truly ambitious table-side burger engineers. The French fries were generously sprinkled with sea salt and thyme, and arrived at the table crispy and piping hot.
I got to build my own burger on my second visit: one identical to preset #1 except that I chose Gruyère over Gorgonzola. The result was equally impressive, and the taste was not materially discernible from the original in Hollywood. I mean, why mess with the battle-tested recipe when the original is already working brilliantly well? I also got to check out the wine list, which in my opinion was slightly excessive (in price) for a burger joint but nevertheless impressive given its geographical and varietal depth.
Twice exploited: one preset #1: ￥175; one build-my-own burger, one half-bottle of red wine (shared with two other friends): ￥180.
Conclusion
25 Degrees. Taste notwithstanding, 25 Degrees wins the ambiance test too. It has a hip but unassuming decor, and superior music. By contrast, the bistro-style dining and Henry Mancini-esque music at Let's Burger are just a tad too formal. With a knowledgeable staff and attentive service, 25 Degrees also has the best service among the final four.
With pac's Strictly 4 My N.I.G.G.A.Z. album playing in the background, my mind drifted, momentarily, back to the yesteryear when, after a burger at the original 25 Degrees, I would drive on Hollywood Blvd., with my windows rolled down, Cali. rap music blaring from the Cadillac in front and multiple Louboutin clogs clicking away on the sidewalk. That reconnection to the past, attentive but unobtrusive service, and plain ol' good food are the reasons why 25 Degrees has my vote for the best burger in Beijing.
The Mission
Burger is not something that pops into my mind when I talk about my foodie experience in Beijing. While many Beijing hotels have coffee shops that can offer a decent burger, albeit at exorbitant prices, I have yet to find, until now, a burger joint that I could confidently recommend to others. Hooters, Durty Nellie's and Paddy O'Shea's serve up good burgers as pub grubs, but I recommend those places with reasons that are far more important than, say, to get a half-decent burger. Therefore, I decided to undertake a mission to find the best burger, as I know it, in a town better known for roast ducks wrapped with steamed pancakes than beef patty on a bun -- with one additional requirement: that any restaurant's burger must be the #1 reason why I, or anyone to whom I pass on my recommendation, would want to go to that restaurant. Therefore, places like Durty Nellie's and Outback Steakhouse won't count. With some input from some well-fed Beijingers, I tried out twelve burger joints in a little under five weeks, and came up with four good recommendations, below.
The Taste Test
Tim's Texas BBQ (Guanghua Road)
Tim's offers an all-American Border burger laden with bacon, cheese, jalapeños. The beef patty was supremely grilled with a dense, robust flavor. The bacon had a nice, smoky nose and a chewy texture. The winning ingredient was the pungent jalapeños, which nicely cut into the excess fat of the beef and the bacon and provided that extra zing. Tim's also serves up a superb chopped beef brisket sandwich, which by itself is worthy of a separate visit (or, if self-indulgence shall be forgiven, of a same-visit, side-by-side burger-sandwich face/off).
Exploit: one Border burger, one frozen margarita: ￥80.
One East on Third (Hilton Hotel Beijing)
With foie gras, black truffles and Waygu beef, the Waygu burger oozed more pomp and circumstance than cheeses and mushroom juices. It was tough for me not to feel a little pugnacious after shelling out ￥325 just so that I got to feel like an aristocratic jackass for half an hour. Nevertheless, I have to admit that, strictly in terms of taste, the burger was actually more than just a garbled pile of dollar signs; I would freely admit that it was not too far away from the majestic double truffle burger royale that I had at Daniel Boulud's joint in New York two years ago.
Exploit: one Waygu burger, one glass of Californian red wine, one expresso: ￥420.
Let's Burger (The Village at Sanlitun)
This is a straight-up, burger-only joint that serves up some juicy patties in a bistro environment. My order: an Australian double burger with six ounces (by my estimate) of ground sirloin. The Australian was amply dressed with lettuce, tomatoes, two fat slices of bacon, and a fried egg. I felt like my life was ticking away as the burger was being devoured. The only thing that kept me from putting the burger down and calling it quits was the devil in me, reminding me that if my blood vessels were to clot and if I were to drop dead on the spot, I would still die a very, very happy man. On my first visit, the patties were a little disappointing because they were overcooked, bland, and devoid of beefy flavors, but on my second visit (revisiting the exact same order), the patties came to life with all the beefy aromatics and succulent juices. The fries were hand-cut and well-fried, with a crunchy shell and a soft, starchy body. A winning feature at this joint was the impressive array of dipping sauces (over ten of them!), including two that I would recommend in a heartbeat (if I still have one): a creamy remoulade and a flavorful wasabi mayonnaise.
Twice exploited: The Australian, one order of hand-cut fries, one glass of house red: ￥150 per exploit.
25 Degrees (Hotel G)
Named after the temperature (in Celsius) between a raw and a well-done burger, 25 Degrees provides the diner an art-meets-science flavor to the burger experience. One can design and build one's own burger with dozens of a la carte toppings to choose from, or pick from three excellent preset choices. My choice on my first visit (preset #1) was a ground-sirloin burger dressed with carmelized onions, arugula salad, thousand island dressing and a wedge of Gorgonzola cheese --this combination reminds me of Father's Office burger in Santa Monica, California, which has a nearly verbatim rendition, except the bun: Father's Office uses a fluffy and long French baguette, while 25 Degrees uses a round, wheat/rye bun. This resemblance of taste, however, is not entirely accidental, as 25 Degrees is an aspiring burger concept originated in Los Angeles, a stone's throw away from Father's Office. In any case, 25 Degrees' burger was a protein-carb-veg juggernaut with a good balance of flavor (juicily beefy but not oily), taste (the Gorgonzola danced merrily with the caramelized onion), and texture (the crispiness of the arugula salad jazzed perfectly with the softness of the onions and the chewiness of the beef). Like the original joint in Hollywood, the lettuces, tomatoes and sliced pickles were served on the side and readily available for the truly ambitious table-side burger engineers. The French fries were generously sprinkled with sea salt and thyme, and arrived at the table crispy and piping hot.
I got to build my own burger on my second visit: one identical to preset #1 except that I chose Gruyère over Gorgonzola. The result was equally impressive, and the taste was not materially discernible from the original in Hollywood. I mean, why mess with the battle-tested recipe when the original is already working brilliantly well? I also got to check out the wine list, which in my opinion was slightly excessive (in price) for a burger joint but nevertheless impressive given its geographical and varietal depth.
Twice exploited: one preset #1: ￥175; one build-my-own burger, one half-bottle of red wine (shared with two other friends): ￥180.
Conclusion
25 Degrees. Taste notwithstanding, 25 Degrees wins the ambiance test too. It has a hip but unassuming decor, and superior music. By contrast, the bistro-style dining and Henry Mancini-esque music at Let's Burger are just a tad too formal. With a knowledgeable staff and attentive service, 25 Degrees also has the best service among the final four.
With pac's Strictly 4 My N.I.G.G.A.Z. album playing in the background, my mind drifted, momentarily, back to the yesteryear when, after a burger at the original 25 Degrees, I would drive on Hollywood Blvd., with my windows rolled down, Cali. rap music blaring from the Cadillac in front and multiple Louboutin clogs clicking away on the sidewalk. That reconnection to the past, attentive but unobtrusive service, and plain ol' good food are the reasons why 25 Degrees has my vote for the best burger in Beijing.
Monday, August 18, 2008
On Liu Xiang's pull-out...why didn't he just walk towards the finish line?
The most important and obvious news today is that Liu Xiang has pulled out of 110m hurdles, meaning that the most anticipated moment in this Beijing Olympics -- a showdown between the national hero and Dayron Robles of Cuba -- will not transpire.
Liu Xiang did and will continue to inspire millions of young athletes in China, and many around the world. His performance in Athens was a watershed moment in Asian sports history, not least because he delivered on his promise that Asians can beat the best sprinters in the world.
Liu Xiang will always have his place in Chinese sports history, but by comparison, today's episode makes Li Ning's (李寧) 1988 appearance even more special and endearing. By the time the Seoul Games began, Li was way past his prime. Li sustained an ankle injury but he endured Seoul because China gymnastics had no up-and-comers (接班人) at that time. He may have fallen, but he got up, finished his routines, and smiled for the whole world to see. He wasn't made any less of a champion by falling, only more so because he got back up, because he smiled with dignity. In that respect, Li Ning is the true hero of the people (人民英雄). Nobody needs to finish first all the time; it is the spirit that matters.
I believe in what Liu Xiang's coach, Sun Haiping, said when he announced on TV that Liu Xiang's injury was serious. But I also wonder, if it were all that serious, why couldn't Liu just skip the race, return to the stadium in street clothing and address the crowd regarding his health condition? If Liu felt that he was fit enough to be present at the lanes, couldn't he have at least walked to the finish line? I wish he did. Because that would have been a class act, just to cross the finish line even knowing that he had no hopes of winning. I wish he did, because tomorrow's newspapers would have been adorned with this image: Liu Xiang crossing the finish line, despite having limped through the distance, with two fists in mid air, full showing that he would refuse to quit. That would have been the Olympic spirit. That would have been THE moment for the Games. That would have been the image that Li Ning conveyed to us back in 1988. Now, tomorrow's newspapers would likely be plastered with Sun Haiping's tear-soaked face and the dreadful image of Liu walking into the darkness of the stadium interior. No matter how anyone spun it, today's episode was still a quitter's act. Liu Xiang may still come back (though, by my judgment only, not likely), but his act today would have left an indelible mark in the psyche of Chinese people -- the same kind of mark that, if you shall allow me, Li Ning could have left if he had fallen from the rings and, neither smiling nor bowing out with grace, walked straight to the changing room amidst spectators' bewilderment and confusion.
I wish Liu Xiang could have walked to the finish line. He would not have delivered a winning time, but he would have delivered a lot more.
Liu Xiang did and will continue to inspire millions of young athletes in China, and many around the world. His performance in Athens was a watershed moment in Asian sports history, not least because he delivered on his promise that Asians can beat the best sprinters in the world.
Liu Xiang will always have his place in Chinese sports history, but by comparison, today's episode makes Li Ning's (李寧) 1988 appearance even more special and endearing. By the time the Seoul Games began, Li was way past his prime. Li sustained an ankle injury but he endured Seoul because China gymnastics had no up-and-comers (接班人) at that time. He may have fallen, but he got up, finished his routines, and smiled for the whole world to see. He wasn't made any less of a champion by falling, only more so because he got back up, because he smiled with dignity. In that respect, Li Ning is the true hero of the people (人民英雄). Nobody needs to finish first all the time; it is the spirit that matters.
I believe in what Liu Xiang's coach, Sun Haiping, said when he announced on TV that Liu Xiang's injury was serious. But I also wonder, if it were all that serious, why couldn't Liu just skip the race, return to the stadium in street clothing and address the crowd regarding his health condition? If Liu felt that he was fit enough to be present at the lanes, couldn't he have at least walked to the finish line? I wish he did. Because that would have been a class act, just to cross the finish line even knowing that he had no hopes of winning. I wish he did, because tomorrow's newspapers would have been adorned with this image: Liu Xiang crossing the finish line, despite having limped through the distance, with two fists in mid air, full showing that he would refuse to quit. That would have been the Olympic spirit. That would have been THE moment for the Games. That would have been the image that Li Ning conveyed to us back in 1988. Now, tomorrow's newspapers would likely be plastered with Sun Haiping's tear-soaked face and the dreadful image of Liu walking into the darkness of the stadium interior. No matter how anyone spun it, today's episode was still a quitter's act. Liu Xiang may still come back (though, by my judgment only, not likely), but his act today would have left an indelible mark in the psyche of Chinese people -- the same kind of mark that, if you shall allow me, Li Ning could have left if he had fallen from the rings and, neither smiling nor bowing out with grace, walked straight to the changing room amidst spectators' bewilderment and confusion.
I wish Liu Xiang could have walked to the finish line. He would not have delivered a winning time, but he would have delivered a lot more.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Kunqu: Copper Coins
I just came back from a Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe's production of Copper Coins (十五贯) at the National Centre for Performing Arts. Copper Coins is easily one of my favorite Kunqu operas, mainly because, with a heavy comedic element, it is less dry than many other Kunqu operas, where philosophical dream scapes and imminent deaths are often the norm. The protagonist was played by the indefatigable Ji Zhenhua (计镇华), arguably the grand master of old masculine Kunqu characters (老生). I had the fortune of attending one of master Ji's performance a month earlier, when Shanghai Kunqu Opera Troupe was in town for a one-time only scintillating performance of 邯郸梦 at Changan Theatre.
For the evening, the singing was superb, but the acting was even better. Master Ji's each and every gesture exuded the kind of regal authority befitting immortals just as other mortals on stage and off looked on in awe. The night, however, belonged to Liu Shenglong (刘昇龙), the clown figure who provided the comedic and playful counteraction to master Ji's mastery and control. The performance flowed with a rhythmic consistency and a sinusoidal intensity, tossing between Ji's tenacity and Liu's mischief. It was drama at its best.
For the evening, the singing was superb, but the acting was even better. Master Ji's each and every gesture exuded the kind of regal authority befitting immortals just as other mortals on stage and off looked on in awe. The night, however, belonged to Liu Shenglong (刘昇龙), the clown figure who provided the comedic and playful counteraction to master Ji's mastery and control. The performance flowed with a rhythmic consistency and a sinusoidal intensity, tossing between Ji's tenacity and Liu's mischief. It was drama at its best.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Anne-Sophie Mutter in Beijing
Anne-Sophie Mutter has never moved me to tears. Until yesterday.
I have heard ASM a handful of times, most recently a few years back in the U.S. before her repertorial shift to focus more on pre-Romantic string works. By most accounts, she has few peers when it comes to nailing down the technicality and artistry of Romantic-period and Impressionist works, including Tchaikovsky's marvel, and Sarasate's lyricism. But with her technical achievements so flawless and her performance so consistently, emotionally juiced, I wonder if she could also rise as a star on the other side of the spectrum of great violinists: the kind who has the cerebral clarity and intellectual acumen to tackle the subtleties hidden in classical period pieces. Sure, Vivaldi's Four Seasons was exuberant (and it was one of two pieces she performed last night; the other was Bach's Magnificat, BWV1042 ), but it seems best amplified when performed (at least also) with the kind of intellectual seriousness that, for example, the legendary Isaac Stern would bestow upon his each and every melodic phrase, and in it, each and every played note -- bringing a composition so alive as to genuinely connect with the audience.
Obviously, I went into the concert hall with trepidation, knowing that anything other than an exceptional experience would be a disappointment. Like any great violinist would do, she imposed her authority on her chamber players as soon as she basked in her spotlight. Soon enough, Bach's notes gracefully filled the Concert Hall of the National Centre for Performing Arts, each with determination and nobility. Her string work was luxurious, with neither a slight feeling of decorative impurity nor excessive oomph. The only flaw was perhaps that she looked, it seems to me, a little stiff going into the glissando passages in the middle of Allegro non troppo. But as ASM worked through the Bach, she more than redeemed herself, ending before intermission with a joyous, jubilant Allegro assai that galloped towards a rapturous applause.
ASM looked noticeably pleased after her Bach, and that seemed to build onto her confidence in her post-intermission Vivaldi. ASM tackled the Four Seasons with the same elegance, care, and grace that she so effortlessly displayed ever since she was a teenage phenomenon. A few absent notes notwithstanding, she was magnificent and, more importantly, in full control of the Vivaldi and Trondheim Solistene, the excellent Norwegian chamber orchestra. Her expression with Winter's Largo provided ample evidence that ASM is not just a technically masterful violinist, but an expressive and intellectual artist that renders each note into part of a lyrical conversation with her audience.
Her composure was a sign of her experience, not of her age (she will be 45 in June). Considering that she was somewhat handicapped by a majority Chinese audience who was not exactly respectful: ringing cellphones, what seemed to be cameras hitting stubbornly onto the hall's wooden floor (and why were they being fidgeted in a place that prohibited photography, anyway?!), and what seemed to be a bizarre, one-second-long dog howl (don't get me started on why and how it happened), I have no doubt that she delivered her goods.
But delivering her goods was not why I went to an ASM concert, and certainly not why I was so moved as to shed a tear. After a regurgitation of Summer's Presto as a cookie-cutter, uninspiring encore, I was ready to call it a night and leave. But after the sixth curtain call (and the third after the first encore), ASM walked up to the stage, and hinted to the concertmaster as if she was going to dictate something unusual. And she did. She turned to the audience, and, with her flawless English and terse to the point, she dedicated Bach's Air (Suite No. 3, BWV1068 ) to the victims of the Sichuan earthquake. At that very instance when she finished her dedication, there was a slight commotion in the audience (with probably a few, unable to understand her, trying to get/guess what ASM just said). Soon thereafter, she engaged into Bach's monumental, albeit perennially overplayed, Magnum Opus. Overplayed always, but not last night. The majestic tranquility of ASM's air almost betrayed (or perhaps faultlessly portrayed?) the subject matter to which the piece was dedicated. The legato was one of the longest in my musical experience, not least because, as ASM ran with her fingers, a seemingly neverending surge of sad, somber images came rushing through my mind. I could also, right at that beginning moment, recall a Dallas Symphony concert I attended soon after 9/11, when the mood was similarly dreary, but because Maestro Andrew Litton picked DSCH's 11 to reflect President Bush's resolve, that night's audience could not help but felt a little resilient and upbeat with DSCH's faithful chimes and glorious symphonic march to the symphonic finale. Had ASM played something along the lines of DSCH 11's majestic, monumental ending, her effort would have been valiant, and almost entirely predictable (and in fact, that was what I was expecting, given the not-to-be-soon-forgotten hindsight of the Chinese audience's preference for big, optimistic endings, such as DPRK's performance last month). But not Bach's Air. And ASM's Air started where it ended -- morne et sombre, tranquility as an inevitable prelude to death, picture perfection as an antonymous juxtaposition to a harrowing episode of human tragedy. Bach's Air described Sichuan in a way that Litton's DSCH did not, in a way that, as it seems to me, was humane, genuine, and so calm as to condense the enormity of thousands of lost lives into three minutes of haunting stillness. I was totally plugged into that imagery. And right there, she nailed me.
And that was the very reason why I shed a tear.
I have heard ASM a handful of times, most recently a few years back in the U.S. before her repertorial shift to focus more on pre-Romantic string works. By most accounts, she has few peers when it comes to nailing down the technicality and artistry of Romantic-period and Impressionist works, including Tchaikovsky's marvel, and Sarasate's lyricism. But with her technical achievements so flawless and her performance so consistently, emotionally juiced, I wonder if she could also rise as a star on the other side of the spectrum of great violinists: the kind who has the cerebral clarity and intellectual acumen to tackle the subtleties hidden in classical period pieces. Sure, Vivaldi's Four Seasons was exuberant (and it was one of two pieces she performed last night; the other was Bach's Magnificat, BWV1042 ), but it seems best amplified when performed (at least also) with the kind of intellectual seriousness that, for example, the legendary Isaac Stern would bestow upon his each and every melodic phrase, and in it, each and every played note -- bringing a composition so alive as to genuinely connect with the audience.
Obviously, I went into the concert hall with trepidation, knowing that anything other than an exceptional experience would be a disappointment. Like any great violinist would do, she imposed her authority on her chamber players as soon as she basked in her spotlight. Soon enough, Bach's notes gracefully filled the Concert Hall of the National Centre for Performing Arts, each with determination and nobility. Her string work was luxurious, with neither a slight feeling of decorative impurity nor excessive oomph. The only flaw was perhaps that she looked, it seems to me, a little stiff going into the glissando passages in the middle of Allegro non troppo. But as ASM worked through the Bach, she more than redeemed herself, ending before intermission with a joyous, jubilant Allegro assai that galloped towards a rapturous applause.
ASM looked noticeably pleased after her Bach, and that seemed to build onto her confidence in her post-intermission Vivaldi. ASM tackled the Four Seasons with the same elegance, care, and grace that she so effortlessly displayed ever since she was a teenage phenomenon. A few absent notes notwithstanding, she was magnificent and, more importantly, in full control of the Vivaldi and Trondheim Solistene, the excellent Norwegian chamber orchestra. Her expression with Winter's Largo provided ample evidence that ASM is not just a technically masterful violinist, but an expressive and intellectual artist that renders each note into part of a lyrical conversation with her audience.
Her composure was a sign of her experience, not of her age (she will be 45 in June). Considering that she was somewhat handicapped by a majority Chinese audience who was not exactly respectful: ringing cellphones, what seemed to be cameras hitting stubbornly onto the hall's wooden floor (and why were they being fidgeted in a place that prohibited photography, anyway?!), and what seemed to be a bizarre, one-second-long dog howl (don't get me started on why and how it happened), I have no doubt that she delivered her goods.
But delivering her goods was not why I went to an ASM concert, and certainly not why I was so moved as to shed a tear. After a regurgitation of Summer's Presto as a cookie-cutter, uninspiring encore, I was ready to call it a night and leave. But after the sixth curtain call (and the third after the first encore), ASM walked up to the stage, and hinted to the concertmaster as if she was going to dictate something unusual. And she did. She turned to the audience, and, with her flawless English and terse to the point, she dedicated Bach's Air (Suite No. 3, BWV1068 ) to the victims of the Sichuan earthquake. At that very instance when she finished her dedication, there was a slight commotion in the audience (with probably a few, unable to understand her, trying to get/guess what ASM just said). Soon thereafter, she engaged into Bach's monumental, albeit perennially overplayed, Magnum Opus. Overplayed always, but not last night. The majestic tranquility of ASM's air almost betrayed (or perhaps faultlessly portrayed?) the subject matter to which the piece was dedicated. The legato was one of the longest in my musical experience, not least because, as ASM ran with her fingers, a seemingly neverending surge of sad, somber images came rushing through my mind. I could also, right at that beginning moment, recall a Dallas Symphony concert I attended soon after 9/11, when the mood was similarly dreary, but because Maestro Andrew Litton picked DSCH's 11 to reflect President Bush's resolve, that night's audience could not help but felt a little resilient and upbeat with DSCH's faithful chimes and glorious symphonic march to the symphonic finale. Had ASM played something along the lines of DSCH 11's majestic, monumental ending, her effort would have been valiant, and almost entirely predictable (and in fact, that was what I was expecting, given the not-to-be-soon-forgotten hindsight of the Chinese audience's preference for big, optimistic endings, such as DPRK's performance last month). But not Bach's Air. And ASM's Air started where it ended -- morne et sombre, tranquility as an inevitable prelude to death, picture perfection as an antonymous juxtaposition to a harrowing episode of human tragedy. Bach's Air described Sichuan in a way that Litton's DSCH did not, in a way that, as it seems to me, was humane, genuine, and so calm as to condense the enormity of thousands of lost lives into three minutes of haunting stillness. I was totally plugged into that imagery. And right there, she nailed me.
And that was the very reason why I shed a tear.
Monday, May 12, 2008
You know you're a nerd when...
...you see computer icons wherever you go. Case in point: I was awaiting my flight at Beijing's new airport terminal Saturday morning, when I suddenly found myself looking at a familiar icon: the Gmail icon. Am I hallucinating, or is the nerd in me manifesting himself?
Do you see the Gmail icon?
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Digesting 長生殿
長生殿 is a Kunju piece I don't know much about, so it was a giant leap of faith to subscribe myself into four consecutive evenings of its performances, 3+ hours each evening. That surely complicated my already jam-packed schedule with 8+ hours in the office and another 3-4 hours manning other non-profit stuff I'm active with.
But then, this was not just another rendition of 長生殿. According to the program notes, 長生殿 has not been staged in Beijing in its entirety in the past 300-plus years, and the art politburo made it a point that 長生殿 was to return to the Imperial City in its monumental glory in the year when modern China is to open for the whole world to witness (rumors had it that Shanghai Kunju Troupe, the company staging the Kunju, was politely asked to move its performance schedule in Beijing to coincide with the pre-Olympics art schedule). In any case, to play up 長生殿's return, the entire cast was even arranged to present themselves in a lavish ceremony at the Imperial Granary to pay homage to 老郎神, the assumed spiritual guardian of Chinese dramatic arts.
After four intense evenings of performances, I must say I am, more than ever, intrigued by the art form, but would probably stop short of saying that I am safely a lifelong convert. Nevertheless, I am quite hooked by its complex singing style, its elaborate costumes and makeups, its adroit limp artistry, and its tremendously efficient motion-as-metaphor stage arrangements. I find the stage in Kunju a bit more thoroughly exploited than the stage in Jingju, especially the use of diagonal movements, counter movements, mirroring juxtapositions, and other tricks that render the experience more fulfilling, dynamic, and wholesome.
I will regret making the following analogy in haste, but I'll attempt so anyway: if Peking Opera is a fast ride on a Porsche that promises a rush of adrenaline and a taste of emotive exuberance, Kunju is an elegant experience in a Jaguar, not merely entertaining and not out-of-bounds, but comfortable, comforting, and feeling just like home.
But then, this was not just another rendition of 長生殿. According to the program notes, 長生殿 has not been staged in Beijing in its entirety in the past 300-plus years, and the art politburo made it a point that 長生殿 was to return to the Imperial City in its monumental glory in the year when modern China is to open for the whole world to witness (rumors had it that Shanghai Kunju Troupe, the company staging the Kunju, was politely asked to move its performance schedule in Beijing to coincide with the pre-Olympics art schedule). In any case, to play up 長生殿's return, the entire cast was even arranged to present themselves in a lavish ceremony at the Imperial Granary to pay homage to 老郎神, the assumed spiritual guardian of Chinese dramatic arts.
After four intense evenings of performances, I must say I am, more than ever, intrigued by the art form, but would probably stop short of saying that I am safely a lifelong convert. Nevertheless, I am quite hooked by its complex singing style, its elaborate costumes and makeups, its adroit limp artistry, and its tremendously efficient motion-as-metaphor stage arrangements. I find the stage in Kunju a bit more thoroughly exploited than the stage in Jingju, especially the use of diagonal movements, counter movements, mirroring juxtapositions, and other tricks that render the experience more fulfilling, dynamic, and wholesome.
I will regret making the following analogy in haste, but I'll attempt so anyway: if Peking Opera is a fast ride on a Porsche that promises a rush of adrenaline and a taste of emotive exuberance, Kunju is an elegant experience in a Jaguar, not merely entertaining and not out-of-bounds, but comfortable, comforting, and feeling just like home.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
A follow-up to a night at the opera
Using my Nokia 6280, I managed to take a couple of photos inside the opera house. Of course, the photo quality was mediocre but my phone camera was all that I had at the time. The first photo was taken during the final curtain call after nearly three hours of singing, and the second photo was taken when the percussionist was packing up her snare drum. As far as I can tell, she could rip a mean snare:
A different kind of opera
Last weekend I attended a production of "Flower Girl”, an opera staged at the National Theatre by a North Korean opera troupe.
"Flower Girl" focuses on the plight of a Korean family whose fortunes were ravaged by the selfish behavior of a landowner and his family, saved only at the end by the glory of the revolution (i.e. the Marxist-Lenin communist revolution). Without a doubt, "Flower Girl" was designed to be a partisan, propagandist surrogate whose message was simple and easy to understand. By the time the opera ended, the only question left unanswered, as it seems to me, was how soon (or not!) the supposedly inspired audience would arm themselves and join the revolution.
According to the program notes, the opera was commissioned by and written in the 30s by Kim Il-Sung, the founding father of the DPRK and father of North Korea's current leader, Kim Jong-Il. The Chinese public got their first taste of the opera through a film version of the opera, which was briefly released in the mainland in the early 70s and was well received. Since then, the opera has made various rounds in the mainland, playing mainly for small, strategically selected crowds (i.e. the PLA, young communist brigades etc.). It seems to me that while the opera has gained Chinese fans over the years, but because it has never been widely staged, it has never gained widespread prominence in the country's psyche. Over the years, the opera has been reedited by and for its chief patron, the Kim family, probably to perfect its underlying proletarian and revolutionary messages. To me, such messages were unmistakable: the landowners are(were) evil, Jesus Christ offers(-ed) no helping hand, and the proletarian revolution is(was) every Korean's ultimate salvation. The surtitles would punch out verses upon verses that sing the virtues of proletarian values, all the while ripping apart property rights and capitalistic misadventures. I felt like a cliff-side rock, looking helplessly as rapturous waves of such messages soldiered towards me in an endless repetition, finally engulfing and obliterating me, as if obliging me to accept its imminent and inevitable victory.
Politics aside, the opera was, strictly speaking, not an opera, because the main singers were given microphones to sing with. Unusual in an opera, a non-acting choir located on both sides of the orchestra sang not only the chorus, but more significantly the part of the heavenly voice seeking to explain everything to the audience -- for example, who to blame for all the poor people's plight (the landowner) and who to get credit for saving the poor (the revolution). Without a sliver of a doubt, Kim Il-Sung was to live vicariously and eternally through the united voice of the choir --an arrangement that, in itself, was a fitting, if not accidental, metaphor. Operatically, it was somewhat difficult to pinpoint exactly where "Flower Girl" would fit. The music was comprised of a chain of short tunes, each of which was tonally structured like a romantic aria, but each also woven with more sincere philosophical discourse and less floral sentimentality. "Flower Girl" is, thus, as it seems to me, Wagnerian in its content but romantic in its delivery. The singing was superb, despite the horrifying presence of the microphone. The production direction was amply satisfying, especially a prison scene whereby prisoners, understood to be locked down by the autocratic class, thumped through the prison ground as if they were laboring mindlessly in Fritz Lang's Metropolis. In the end, I was convinced that the mezzo soprano (the protagonist) and probably a few others could have sung their entire roles without the help of any electronics. Another mezzo soprano (the protagonist's mother) also sang superbly, and I found it somewhat tragic that her role was small and limiting.
The highlight of the evening was at the end, when I made my way to the orchestral pit and shook hands with a couple of musicians. I could hardly speak Korean (and I would assume they could hardly understand a word of Chinese --though I could be wrong), but I found no such need to communicate verbally. We exchanged smiles in a way that spoke a thousand words: theirs, being appreciative of a keen audience and the sincerity of those who chose to stay behind to greet and thank the musicians; and ours, being thankful for a lovely spring evening imbued with fine music, talented singing and, most importantly, the North Korean's rare but priceless presence. For different reasons, the night was special to each involved. I couldn't help but felt the urge to summarize the evening with a tinge of romantic sentimentality: that while the exchange of human warmth was a small gesture between a few men (and women), it was a giant gesture for all of mankind, in an act that verily shows how humanity by way of musical and facial proxy can transcend language, politics, ideology. No word needed spoken, for music and facial gestures cultivated the seeds of understanding and mutual admiration. That moment was, to me, the singularly most heartwarming and unique experience I have ever had in an opera house.
"Flower Girl" focuses on the plight of a Korean family whose fortunes were ravaged by the selfish behavior of a landowner and his family, saved only at the end by the glory of the revolution (i.e. the Marxist-Lenin communist revolution). Without a doubt, "Flower Girl" was designed to be a partisan, propagandist surrogate whose message was simple and easy to understand. By the time the opera ended, the only question left unanswered, as it seems to me, was how soon (or not!) the supposedly inspired audience would arm themselves and join the revolution.
According to the program notes, the opera was commissioned by and written in the 30s by Kim Il-Sung, the founding father of the DPRK and father of North Korea's current leader, Kim Jong-Il. The Chinese public got their first taste of the opera through a film version of the opera, which was briefly released in the mainland in the early 70s and was well received. Since then, the opera has made various rounds in the mainland, playing mainly for small, strategically selected crowds (i.e. the PLA, young communist brigades etc.). It seems to me that while the opera has gained Chinese fans over the years, but because it has never been widely staged, it has never gained widespread prominence in the country's psyche. Over the years, the opera has been reedited by and for its chief patron, the Kim family, probably to perfect its underlying proletarian and revolutionary messages. To me, such messages were unmistakable: the landowners are(were) evil, Jesus Christ offers(-ed) no helping hand, and the proletarian revolution is(was) every Korean's ultimate salvation. The surtitles would punch out verses upon verses that sing the virtues of proletarian values, all the while ripping apart property rights and capitalistic misadventures. I felt like a cliff-side rock, looking helplessly as rapturous waves of such messages soldiered towards me in an endless repetition, finally engulfing and obliterating me, as if obliging me to accept its imminent and inevitable victory.
Politics aside, the opera was, strictly speaking, not an opera, because the main singers were given microphones to sing with. Unusual in an opera, a non-acting choir located on both sides of the orchestra sang not only the chorus, but more significantly the part of the heavenly voice seeking to explain everything to the audience -- for example, who to blame for all the poor people's plight (the landowner) and who to get credit for saving the poor (the revolution). Without a sliver of a doubt, Kim Il-Sung was to live vicariously and eternally through the united voice of the choir --an arrangement that, in itself, was a fitting, if not accidental, metaphor. Operatically, it was somewhat difficult to pinpoint exactly where "Flower Girl" would fit. The music was comprised of a chain of short tunes, each of which was tonally structured like a romantic aria, but each also woven with more sincere philosophical discourse and less floral sentimentality. "Flower Girl" is, thus, as it seems to me, Wagnerian in its content but romantic in its delivery. The singing was superb, despite the horrifying presence of the microphone. The production direction was amply satisfying, especially a prison scene whereby prisoners, understood to be locked down by the autocratic class, thumped through the prison ground as if they were laboring mindlessly in Fritz Lang's Metropolis. In the end, I was convinced that the mezzo soprano (the protagonist) and probably a few others could have sung their entire roles without the help of any electronics. Another mezzo soprano (the protagonist's mother) also sang superbly, and I found it somewhat tragic that her role was small and limiting.
The highlight of the evening was at the end, when I made my way to the orchestral pit and shook hands with a couple of musicians. I could hardly speak Korean (and I would assume they could hardly understand a word of Chinese --though I could be wrong), but I found no such need to communicate verbally. We exchanged smiles in a way that spoke a thousand words: theirs, being appreciative of a keen audience and the sincerity of those who chose to stay behind to greet and thank the musicians; and ours, being thankful for a lovely spring evening imbued with fine music, talented singing and, most importantly, the North Korean's rare but priceless presence. For different reasons, the night was special to each involved. I couldn't help but felt the urge to summarize the evening with a tinge of romantic sentimentality: that while the exchange of human warmth was a small gesture between a few men (and women), it was a giant gesture for all of mankind, in an act that verily shows how humanity by way of musical and facial proxy can transcend language, politics, ideology. No word needed spoken, for music and facial gestures cultivated the seeds of understanding and mutual admiration. That moment was, to me, the singularly most heartwarming and unique experience I have ever had in an opera house.
Monday, April 21, 2008
CCTV idol
I am not a huge fan of reality TV, though when I was still living in the U.S. I used to watch Dancing with the Stars and The Apprentice. My viewing habit hasn't changed much since moving to China, although I would watch reality shows from time to time, to catch a break from my otherwise mundane schedule. But I jumped at the chance when I was offered to sit in a live broadcast of a nation-wide singing competition produced by CCTV.
CCTV is not mainly known for its reality TV shows: the champ goes to Hunan Television, for its brazen copycat (but immensely popular) American Idol-like shows. But there is no doubt that CCTV's 青歌赛 (Youth Singing Competition --my translation) is influential. Winners are often given spots to sing at one of those Spring Festival shows watched by every one and their mother during Chinese New Year --attaining the kind of prestige and glory that are hard to quantify. Equally importantly, these winners (and many contestants with a coattail of bulletin-board buzz long after the show) carry on by performing in public events, for regional television stations etc. Doors are open by virtue of "having made it" on CCTV.The show is divided into various categories, including pop singing and ethnic music. There's a category that is difficult to translate: 民族唱法, which I would liberally translate as anything that has something to do with Chinese culture (most contestants choose to belt out a nationalist song; many others sing songs that praise China's nature, abundant resources, kind people etc. -- you get the idea). I was invited to two live studio broadcasts over the past week, and I must say while there was nothing out of the ordinary, it was memorable, if only because I got to see the inside of CCTV's headquarters in the west side of town before they move to the new OMA building in Chaoyang.
The format is not similar to American Idol --for one, there is no heart-ripping, reality-checking speeches by Simon Cowell. Contestants would come out and sing their song, and then would go through an interactive session whereby contestants are either asked to tell a story (from a selection of topics), answer a few culture-related questions, and/or do melodic dictation --all in front of a live television audience. For the singing, the contestants are judged by 10 judges, each of whom would give a maximum of 99 points. A maximum of one point would be given for a contestant's performance during the interactive session. Needless to say, no serious contestant would spend his/her life trying to ace this interactive session, although it is this part that seemed to glue the television audience, if not for the heart-warming stories (a lot were about how contestants wished to thank their deceased mothers or fathers or teachers) or for the comic responses (especially in melodic dictation, where a seemingly good dictation would deteriorate into something between a jazzy improvisation and a melodically challenged fiasco) then certainly for the cultural commentator's incisive social and cultural commentary. Most contestants are serious contenders (no pretenders or jokers), although my sampling points were skewed because I went at the final elimination rounds (the competition would begin at regional TV stations, who would then send their winners to Beijing for a final round of competition). Since the competition is only held once every two years, it is considered to be the Olympic of Chinese singing competition (if not for the follow-on lucrative commercial contracts, then certainly for the glory of winning a CCTV competition and the opportunity to be invited to sing at the Chinese New Year TV bash). A closer look at the contestants certainly reveals that while a majority of them were sent to the final round by regional television stations, many others were sent by government agencies (the "danwei"s), including the army, the navy, various music/art universities etc.My conversation with a friend who has intimate knowledge about the show (and the necessary connection to sneak me in) revealed that many of these "danwei"s would send their representatives to these competitions mainly for bragging rights. She said that "danwei"s actually make a big deal out of a winner sent from their cohort. When I asked my friend why there was no representation from private enterprises, she explained that they just didn't have to privilege of bypassing the "regionals" to go straight to the finals, as would be the case for those representatives from "danwei"s. While the arrangement may seem patrician and patronizing, she defended the practice by saying, to which I agree, that the competition within the "danwei"s to search for a winner is, by most standards, even more, not less, strenuous than the competition at a regional competition, simply because of the military-style training and the resources. Private companies simply don't have the time and effort to train and nurture a final-ready contestant, and one may argue that "bypassing" the regionals is not by itself patronizing because the "bypassed" alternative is probably even more, not less, strenuous. And then there's the dreaded cultural reality: face -- a "danwei" simply can't just send a mediocre contestant up for embarrassment on the national stage. Good enough is simply not good enough for these "danwei"s, and the superior quality of their representatives is the number one and only necessary testament that my friend's explanation was adequate to me.
These idols aren't necessarily commercially viable, especially when what they sing isn't something that someone can hum to or follow through at a karaoke joint (some of these 民族歌 are scored to shock and awe with rapid firing of high notes). But these idols will have attained national fame by standing atop the CCTV stage and, by being there and performing well, will have made whom they represent proud. At the end of the day, anybody can sing, but only a few can sing on the CCTV stage and be given an opportunity to sing to hundreds of millions of people. Now, that's bragging rights commercial success can't buy.Sunday, April 6, 2008
Saturday morning
It was an eerily tranquil Saturday morning in Beijing. As I strolled along one of the less-traversed streets in the Haidian district, I witnessed a peaceful layer of mist floating in mid air, as if persuading me into a slumbering repose.
It was 4:30am, and dawn was still more than an hour away. It seemed that my early morning jaunt was devoid of any purpose, just as my body and mind were drifting away amidst this enormous calmness. All that seemed ideal, well, until I got into a cab, in a moment that reminded me of my purpose: I was going to Tiananmen Square, not merely to witness the raising of the flag (officially at 5:52am), but also to be one of the first few to pay respects to Mao during the Tomb Sweeping long weekend in China.The cab driver was soundly sleeping inside his cab along the curb, before I woke him up by knocking lightly on his door. He woke up, and signaled to me that, whatever good dream of his that I just smashed, he was nevertheless ready to do business. When I told him that I was going to Tiananmen Square, he lifted his head slightly, in a moment of acutely heightened alertness, as if he was not just ready for business but awakened for a purpose. As he started his car and slowly drove off the curb and onto the main road, he asked me, with a solemn but serious tone: "when does our flag go up today?" ("今天我们的国旗是几点钟升啊?")
It was this reassuring first person plural, "our", that made me feel I wasn't too delusional into believing that waking up at 4am to watch the national flag was a serious yet superbly cool idea. The 20-minute cab ride in a hibernating Beijing was accentuated by a nice conversation between me and the cab driver about Mao's politics (idealistic), his place in modern Chinese history (undisputedly secure), and what we thought might happen during the Olympics (probably some isolated protests around the world, but droned out by the spectacle and the media frenzy dedicated to the Event). Sensing that he was probably a Mao fan, I promised him that I would dedicate (and I did) a bouquet of flowers on his behalf at Mao's Mausoleum.The day was cloudy, and the flag raising ceremony was not much different from another one I saw back in October (though that one happened later, around 6:30am). The crowd was noticeably larger --probably because most, like myself, was going for both the flag raising ceremony and a visit to Mao's Mausoleum (for the symbolic tomb sweeping). Not long after the flag was raised, and definitely before 6am, there were already hundreds of people lined up in front of Mao's Mausoleum (it officially opens at 8am). By the time I got in line (I was sidetracked by photo-taking in and around Tiananmen Square) there must be at least a thousand folks ready to get in. The Mausoleum opened a little after 7:30am, ahead of time (probably to adjust for the increased number of visitors during the Qingming Festival), and I got in just before 8am. Seeing Mao (or just the prosthetic Mao) was surreal, not merely because of the earlier cab conversation but because I was there during the Qingming Festival weekend. It was an unforgettable experience to see how patriotic countrymen, some traveling from faraway provinces and others with small children in tow, went in droves to pay respect to a man who singlehandedly founded the modern Chinese psyche, much of which is attributable to Mao's voluminous poetry and general writings.
The enormous crowd also made me wonder what Mao would think of modern China as it exists today: the first thing I saw after leaving Tiananmen Square was a two-story KFC, which would probably be visited by many of those hungry tomb sweepers but to me also represents the kind of foreign commercial invasion that Mao by and large detested. Some of the folks in the crowd probably even love some of the modern extravagance and excess that were once thought to be capitalist vices. Some of these folks walked into Mao's Mausoleum wearing the Vuittons and the Guccis of the world in a stratified society where the rich holds considerable influence, economic and political. Is that the China that Mao envisioned? I certainly didn't see Mao rolling in his grave (or on the Mausoleum bed), but are some of these Gucci-totting visitors (or the modern Chinese in general) ready to revert back to a share-all society steeped with Mao's proletarian values?Saturday, April 5, 2008
Le roi d'Ys
Édouard Lalo is well known for his string compositions, for a good reason: he was an accomplished violin and viola player himself. His Spanish Symphony, a violin concerto, is considered to be an important rite of passage for many aspiring violinists.
His opera compositions, however, are less well known. Le Roi d'Ys, considered to be Lalos' most well-scored and sophisticated opera, is rarely staged. (The Met, for example, staged Le Roi six times in its 120+ years history --and these six were performed in a single season: 1921-1922.) This rarity was the primary reason why I was excited to learn that Le Roi would be staged this week at the National Theatre in Beijing, in a production co-produced by the National Theatre and the Theatre du Capitole de Toulouse.
Last night I went to the second of four Le Roi performances this weekend. Honestly, I don't have much exposure to Lalo's work prior to last night, and I was somewhat surprised by the Wagnerian nature of the composition. By the second Act, I was convinced why Lalo's work remains in the back bin of any company's repertoire: one simply can't market a Wagnerian feature under the banner of a French composer. The two concepts just don't mix...selling Le Roi, as it seems to me, is like selling existential philosophy at a burlesque factory. I am not trying deliberately to make a direct and parallel analogy here: my point, however, is that no easy way exists to fuse the two perceptibly differing concepts into one coherent, marketable product.
But last night's production was as close to achieving something monstrous as I could possibly imagine. Even so, the production was not devoid of misses: the singing, by most standards, was lackluster. The tenor singing the role of Mylio was simply not up for the challenge. His voice was weak and unable to project adequately to all corners of the hall (I sat in a perfectly located orchestra center seat but felt that his delivery was timid, particularly towards the end when Lalo obviously expected Mylio to be brazen and bold). Rozenn, a soprano role, delivered technically but was incapable of establishing any emotional connection with the audience (perhaps she was merely effectuating the role, which was supposed to be simple but oblivious to most of what went on?). It was due to the miscast of both Mylio and Rozenn that I found Margared, a mezzo-soprano role, to be sumptuously fulfilling, perhaps simply by comparison. The villainous role was hardly bel canto in nature (after all, Le Roi is, at least to me, Wagnerian), but the singer was able to deliver a top quality voice that not only danced powerfully with the orchestral score, but invited the audience (or just me?) to feel her villainous rage.
But Margared alone was not enough to save the day. What made Le Roi work, or rather, this Le Roi work was the production stage. The set includes a beautifully painted, two-story stage with plenty of ornamental details and fabulous engravings. The opera also calls for a dramatic flooding scene in the final scene. Common sense would dictate that no production would actually flood the stage with real water, but would only metaphorically do so through stage effects (e.g. blue lighting, and/or dancing ribbons) to falsify an imminent tidal surge. But no, the production designer actually flooded the stage, not merely with a few metaphoric buckets but with gallons upon gallons of fresh water gushing from the top of the two-story stage down a central stair piece and onto the stage floor! (The water was, as it seemed to me, then captured by slits across the stage.) It was as magnificent as real elephants in Aida or marching horses in Khovanshchina, except, of course, that this water design was so much more difficult to pull off not merely because of the logistic nightmare of recapturing the water but also of the #1 issue in any stage design: safety.
According to the production notes, the stage seems to be conceptualized and managed by folks at the National Theatre. If anything, this Le Roi set proves that Chinese production designers are world class, and that the Theatre's mechanics can deliver such a technical marvel, so seemingly unfathomable anywhere else, that the production was saved from mediocrity.
His opera compositions, however, are less well known. Le Roi d'Ys, considered to be Lalos' most well-scored and sophisticated opera, is rarely staged. (The Met, for example, staged Le Roi six times in its 120+ years history --and these six were performed in a single season: 1921-1922.) This rarity was the primary reason why I was excited to learn that Le Roi would be staged this week at the National Theatre in Beijing, in a production co-produced by the National Theatre and the Theatre du Capitole de Toulouse.
Last night I went to the second of four Le Roi performances this weekend. Honestly, I don't have much exposure to Lalo's work prior to last night, and I was somewhat surprised by the Wagnerian nature of the composition. By the second Act, I was convinced why Lalo's work remains in the back bin of any company's repertoire: one simply can't market a Wagnerian feature under the banner of a French composer. The two concepts just don't mix...selling Le Roi, as it seems to me, is like selling existential philosophy at a burlesque factory. I am not trying deliberately to make a direct and parallel analogy here: my point, however, is that no easy way exists to fuse the two perceptibly differing concepts into one coherent, marketable product.
But last night's production was as close to achieving something monstrous as I could possibly imagine. Even so, the production was not devoid of misses: the singing, by most standards, was lackluster. The tenor singing the role of Mylio was simply not up for the challenge. His voice was weak and unable to project adequately to all corners of the hall (I sat in a perfectly located orchestra center seat but felt that his delivery was timid, particularly towards the end when Lalo obviously expected Mylio to be brazen and bold). Rozenn, a soprano role, delivered technically but was incapable of establishing any emotional connection with the audience (perhaps she was merely effectuating the role, which was supposed to be simple but oblivious to most of what went on?). It was due to the miscast of both Mylio and Rozenn that I found Margared, a mezzo-soprano role, to be sumptuously fulfilling, perhaps simply by comparison. The villainous role was hardly bel canto in nature (after all, Le Roi is, at least to me, Wagnerian), but the singer was able to deliver a top quality voice that not only danced powerfully with the orchestral score, but invited the audience (or just me?) to feel her villainous rage.
But Margared alone was not enough to save the day. What made Le Roi work, or rather, this Le Roi work was the production stage. The set includes a beautifully painted, two-story stage with plenty of ornamental details and fabulous engravings. The opera also calls for a dramatic flooding scene in the final scene. Common sense would dictate that no production would actually flood the stage with real water, but would only metaphorically do so through stage effects (e.g. blue lighting, and/or dancing ribbons) to falsify an imminent tidal surge. But no, the production designer actually flooded the stage, not merely with a few metaphoric buckets but with gallons upon gallons of fresh water gushing from the top of the two-story stage down a central stair piece and onto the stage floor! (The water was, as it seemed to me, then captured by slits across the stage.) It was as magnificent as real elephants in Aida or marching horses in Khovanshchina, except, of course, that this water design was so much more difficult to pull off not merely because of the logistic nightmare of recapturing the water but also of the #1 issue in any stage design: safety.
According to the production notes, the stage seems to be conceptualized and managed by folks at the National Theatre. If anything, this Le Roi set proves that Chinese production designers are world class, and that the Theatre's mechanics can deliver such a technical marvel, so seemingly unfathomable anywhere else, that the production was saved from mediocrity.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
José Carreras recital
I almost missed out on a great opportunity to listen to Carreras because by the time I learned about the recital earlier this week, it was already sold out. If I hadn't exhausted all my contacts and traded some favors, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to catch one of the finest living opera singers in my lifetime.
The concert: while Carreras has lost some of his range (the highest note he hit all night, if my pitch hasn't failed me, was a Ab5 --and that was delivered with visible strain), he more than made up with an impassioned, controlled delivery. His intense concentration was amply projected through his voice and, to an even greater extent, his facial emotions. Notwithstanding a few strained high notes, Carreras' voice oozed with a mature, dutiful yet non-threatening perfection. The dramatic highlight of the evening was a superbly crafted encore piece --Verdi's Libiamo ne' lieti calici, together with soprano Po-ching Ip (no, I don't believe Carreras hit the last Bb...but who cares...the capacity audience, including I, went absolutely berserk after a prolonged, rousing third-last note, the G5). In an earlier encore (he did a total of three encores), Carreras first confounded the audience by revealing what seemed to be a hastily scribbled cheat sheet, and then turned the house into a pandemonium when he began singing to the tune of "在那遙遠的地方", in accented (but arguably well spelled-out?) Mandarin Chinese. While Carreras was taking breaks on backstage between his 10 arias of the evening, Ip (who was a classmate of mine at music school in HK, over 10 years ago) filled in with memorable performances, including Puccini's O mio babbino caro and, as an encore, Gounod's Je veux vivre dans ce reve.
To end, a little about the performance venue: it was held at the white-themed Concert Hall at the National Centre for the Performing Arts (or The Egg, as it is affectionately known). Similar to the opera house (which I visited two weeks ago when it first opened), the concert hall's interior is subtly tasteful and, thank goodness, without the kind of excessive exuberance that seems to define the modern Chinese taste. My only complaint: the existence of pieces of glass-like material separating the grid lights from the ambiance. When these grid lights hit the side of this glass-like material, a magnified refraction is casted on the side of the concert hall. Because the grid is suspended through wires from the ceiling, it could move, if ever so slightly, enough to cause the magnified refraction to move, in a musically miscued and visually annoying manner.
To end, a little about the performance venue: it was held at the white-themed Concert Hall at the National Centre for the Performing Arts (or The Egg, as it is affectionately known). Similar to the opera house (which I visited two weeks ago when it first opened), the concert hall's interior is subtly tasteful and, thank goodness, without the kind of excessive exuberance that seems to define the modern Chinese taste. My only complaint: the existence of pieces of glass-like material separating the grid lights from the ambiance. When these grid lights hit the side of this glass-like material, a magnified refraction is casted on the side of the concert hall. Because the grid is suspended through wires from the ceiling, it could move, if ever so slightly, enough to cause the magnified refraction to move, in a musically miscued and visually annoying manner.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Christmas in China (Part II)
As a follow-up to my earlier post, I would only add that while Christmas (as a religious affair) remains a minority's business, Christmas as part of popular culture is alive and well. Many shopping malls in Beijing would blast Christmas music throughout much of December. Company offices were decorated with all kinds of Christmas motifs, ranging from white Santa pin-ups (so far I haven't heard from ethno-nationalists complaining about companies getting too decked out by white faces) to blinking Christmas trees (quite a full circle, considering that China is the world's manufacturer of plastic trees and blinking lights). To be sure, Christmas has become the marketer's gift from God --no pun intended --it provides a preprogrammed, westernized theme according to which products and services are repackaged and marketed. To this day, my local Sichuan restaurant still has a "Christmas special" that includes three dishes and a soup -- a fairly unprovocative combination of beef, pork and vegetables that could allude to anything but, at least to me, Christmas. I mean, could the restauranteur at least have concocted some dishes that are more marginally related to Christmas, or at least have renamed them with a more representative portraiture of the holy day...such as, if you shall bear with me, 白色聖誕, for 水蒸豆腐...much in the same way restaurants would for 春節 dishes, such as 年年有餘? Christmas in China, like Christmas in Hong Kong, is essentially a month-long shopping and dining orgy during which consumers spend and marketers market, all in the name of the holy spirit. I can't help but think that it won't be moral philosophy but 21st century consumerism that will eventually marginalize theology --just as jingle bells get droned out by the endless ringing of the marketer's bloated cash registers.
Christmas in China
“China doesn't celebrate Christmas” is probably as misinforming as “Brooklynite doesn’t swear”. Of course, most mild-mannered folks from Brooklyn don’t swear (at least not in public), and most Chinese don’t celebrate Christmas the way most westerners do in the west. But by most conservative estimates, there are at least 50 million Christians in China, and, while they are merely a fraction of China’s massive population, they are not, in absolute terms, insubstantial.
Yet, their religiosity is mostly masked away, for personal piety or for whatever reason you may think to be related to the Chinese government’s alleged micromanagement of religion in China.
Thus, there are both a mist of romanticism and a tinge of mystique about attending a church service in China, not least on Christmas Eve: romantic, because it is as if one is seeking a forbidden fruit; mystical, because one hears so much about it yet experiences so little. My last church visit was three years ago, also on Christmas Eve, in a little Arizonan town called Flagstaff. I was there because a pastor's child with whom I was road-tripping in the area at that time compelled me to check out Jesus Christ. It wasn’t as if I’ve never checked out J.C. before –I grew up with some family members who are evangelical, born-again Christians, and spent a great deal of my childhood in a high school supervised by the Anglican Church. Yet, I went with my road-tripping buddy anyway because I didn't want to sit in the motel room alone, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels while TV showed Jerry Springer repeats. But I digress. Three years later, I wasn’t trying to deal with solitude, but to find out more about religion in China: thus I found myself sitting inside a church in Beijing, singing Christmas carols in Chinese and observing each and every moving part during the church service. Midway into the church service, its surprising familiarity compelled me to wonder whether, language aside, the same moment could have replayed anywhere else, especially given that I expected a state-sanctioned church service to be drastically different from a non-supervised one, like the one in Arizona. My observation was this: if there were any difference, it was minute. I was told that state-sanctioned churches, where the pastors are pre-screened by the state, forbid pastors from aggressive evangelism and from mustering certain phrases, such as heavenly kingdom (天國) and road to heaven (去天國的路), lest they be contrary to the proletarian ideals. I didn’t believe I heard any of such phrases, or any phrases that I’d imagine could be “smoking guns”. On the other hand, that could also mean that I was simply not paying attention to what the pastor was saying (or that it was impossible, unless after some heavy post facto analysis, to find out what was censored and left unsaid). Anyway, I was honestly too preoccupied romanticizing that surreal moment – the moment where a nonbeliever like me was sitting in a Communist-sanctioned church in China, on Christmas Eve, listening to his brothers and sisters singing Lord-praising phrases in unified choruses – to give much thought about what was said or unsaid. Admittedly, a lot of folks were just like me –they were there to satisfy their curiosity, while others just seized any opportunity to snap digital pictures as if they were bedeviled by Annie Leibovitz’s spirit. But, like that 50 million+ folks in China, the rest was enlivened by the joyous moment, praising the glory of the Lord in a genuine act of faith and dedication to J.C. and his heavenly father.
Yet, their religiosity is mostly masked away, for personal piety or for whatever reason you may think to be related to the Chinese government’s alleged micromanagement of religion in China.
Thus, there are both a mist of romanticism and a tinge of mystique about attending a church service in China, not least on Christmas Eve: romantic, because it is as if one is seeking a forbidden fruit; mystical, because one hears so much about it yet experiences so little. My last church visit was three years ago, also on Christmas Eve, in a little Arizonan town called Flagstaff. I was there because a pastor's child with whom I was road-tripping in the area at that time compelled me to check out Jesus Christ. It wasn’t as if I’ve never checked out J.C. before –I grew up with some family members who are evangelical, born-again Christians, and spent a great deal of my childhood in a high school supervised by the Anglican Church. Yet, I went with my road-tripping buddy anyway because I didn't want to sit in the motel room alone, nursing a bottle of Jack Daniels while TV showed Jerry Springer repeats. But I digress. Three years later, I wasn’t trying to deal with solitude, but to find out more about religion in China: thus I found myself sitting inside a church in Beijing, singing Christmas carols in Chinese and observing each and every moving part during the church service. Midway into the church service, its surprising familiarity compelled me to wonder whether, language aside, the same moment could have replayed anywhere else, especially given that I expected a state-sanctioned church service to be drastically different from a non-supervised one, like the one in Arizona. My observation was this: if there were any difference, it was minute. I was told that state-sanctioned churches, where the pastors are pre-screened by the state, forbid pastors from aggressive evangelism and from mustering certain phrases, such as heavenly kingdom (天國) and road to heaven (去天國的路), lest they be contrary to the proletarian ideals. I didn’t believe I heard any of such phrases, or any phrases that I’d imagine could be “smoking guns”. On the other hand, that could also mean that I was simply not paying attention to what the pastor was saying (or that it was impossible, unless after some heavy post facto analysis, to find out what was censored and left unsaid). Anyway, I was honestly too preoccupied romanticizing that surreal moment – the moment where a nonbeliever like me was sitting in a Communist-sanctioned church in China, on Christmas Eve, listening to his brothers and sisters singing Lord-praising phrases in unified choruses – to give much thought about what was said or unsaid. Admittedly, a lot of folks were just like me –they were there to satisfy their curiosity, while others just seized any opportunity to snap digital pictures as if they were bedeviled by Annie Leibovitz’s spirit. But, like that 50 million+ folks in China, the rest was enlivened by the joyous moment, praising the glory of the Lord in a genuine act of faith and dedication to J.C. and his heavenly father.
I am not ready to say that I was moved by any of the romanticization. My agnosticism aside, however, I am somewhat relieved to see how at least some folks in China genuinely believe in something other than Louis Vuittons and the kind of material comfort that is devoid of non-utilitarian substance.
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