So what shall I eat now. A syndrome most commonly brought on by sheer boredom. And no better place for boredom than at an airport. Ramsay’s Plane Food is a welcome change from the usual airport drivel but not enough to compensate for the peculiar horror that is air travel these days. Naturally, lugging a heaving bag or two around does not lend itself to the experience anymore than arriving four hours in advance of your flight does. My eye lashes feel like they’ve got cement clinging to them dragging them down, and my head is begging for 48 hours of death like oblivion. I wonder if the truly wicked ever really feel knackered?
P.S. - The mans picnic offering is outstanding! Only sampled it after arriving in Bombay, but oh my! A cheeky prawn salad, succulent roast beef and apparently a successful caramel, chocolate pecan brownie, all in a very fetching insulated bag (blaring GLUTTON). I'm impressed.
Catnip
That elusive je ne sais quoi that whips little felines into a frenzy. All this packing and moving stuff seems to have triggered of my baser instincts as I lean forward to check for remnants stashed in the coffee table, and my nostrils are assailed by the faint but deeply suggestive scent of a rich mangshoer jhol. I sniff again, and my nose is arrested, the scent zinging its way to my brain, tweaking synapses, demanding attention. I forget why my hand is stretched towards the table and instead, feel the primeval steal over me as my head swivels under the guidance of my nose, eyes making a vague connection with the open slab of pate, but I'm already airborne and pounce on the hapless Brussels paté. Forty seconds later, my tongue sweeps through my mouth crushing any rebellion from escaping bits, and licks my lips as I curl back, non existent tail swishing in satisfaction.
The dotty old bat strikes again...
It seemed like a good idea at the time, sifting through the last bottles in the kitchen, an entire bottle of vegetable oil, three quarters of the extra virgin olive oil, and a smidgen of the virgin... Years of don't waste food when others are starving is so deeply embedded in my psyche, I wind up with an extra bag, but that last bottle of virgin olive oil still stands forlornly on the counter. Luckily, I'm a pragmatic woman, and oil is oil....
7 minutes later, "Uh oh, it's that crazy old Aunty Apara again....wonder what she's done this time" reverberates in my head as I stand in the kitchen in my cow patterned 'Mootiful' girl shorts, wiggling my toes, limbs slick, skin gleaming with the sheen of olive oil, thinking I could've picked a better spot for the impromptu massage... probably should've turned the heating down as well...
Moral of the story: A little Olive Oil goes a long way!
7 minutes later, "Uh oh, it's that crazy old Aunty Apara again....wonder what she's done this time" reverberates in my head as I stand in the kitchen in my cow patterned 'Mootiful' girl shorts, wiggling my toes, limbs slick, skin gleaming with the sheen of olive oil, thinking I could've picked a better spot for the impromptu massage... probably should've turned the heating down as well...
Moral of the story: A little Olive Oil goes a long way!
Domestic Dad returns
Flat no. 10 gets a gorgeous bunch of flowers, but all flat no. 15 gets is eyeballs that hurt and a runny nose. I feel morose as the florist apologies and moves on and my joy (already restrained by the thought of more packing) at the new found knowledge that I can check in another bag turns to frustration as I realise I don't have an appropriate bag as I survey my arsenal of borrowed luggage.
Visions of the trauma brought on by the descent of Domestic Dad! on Sundays back in the day flit through my head as I appraise the solidly packed bag in front of me. I had not anticipated having to unpack it quite just yet. I have no time to mourn my lost Saturday as I sift through the rubble trying to decide what can go back now and what needs to stay. Domestic Dad hovers over me as my hands examine the smoothness of the Icelandic stones I carted back. "Junk" he'd bellow as he'd toss all my prized possessions from my drawers in a cleaning frenzy. I'd always wondered why Ba couldn't just be like the other Dad's, totally oblivious to their offspring and chattels, but oh no! Mine was a domestic goddess and his idea of a fun Sunday was to clean the house, but he certainly wasn't one of those namby pamby solo superheroes. Nope. Domestic Dad always had a trusty sidekick, to hold up the vacuum cleaner as he scoured the highest corners of the room for that doomed spiders web; to hand suitable monkey wrenches, hammers, nails, rags; to write down recipes; to fetch the beer; to hold the stool steady......
Personally, I thought it never built any character in a sidekick, but I would have gladly traded a couple of hours curled up in bed to trail in Domestic Dad's wake as long as he stayed away from my room and the precious contents of my drawers. But superheroes have no mercy.... and I'd watch in horror as entire drawers would be laid on the floor, the frame a cowering skeleton as he rummaged through them, roaring his disbelief at the strange collection of items within and the battle would ensue. "No!" I'd yelp, snatching at an odd assortment of objects. "But Mud (to rhyme with good), they're junk.... what will you ever do with them?". Do? Do?? What on earth does he mean? What does one do with anything? KEEP THEM! "Do you even use this?" receives an outraged, "Of course I have!". An annoyed "For what?" encounters a livid "I use it!!". Increasing decibel levels reluctantly invoke She Who Keeps Us From Killing Each Other, and her pained expression is lost on the superhero/sidekick duo as she tries to keep the peace and my possessions, before boredom sends her wafting out the room whence she came.
Many moons have since passed, and I have become a lot more ruthless. My wardrobe has an average age of 4 years (skewed by this one ensemble from the 80's... and perhaps a few remnants of the 90's... but I believe in style!) and my shoes even less. I am able to even toss away books with nary a quivering lip (OK, so they're crap), and shrug off trinkets amassed from foreign shores. So how is it that I am inspecting 3 large suitcases of just 'stuff'. Grappling with the paralysing question of whether my little boxes should be put in the second bag or just left behind. I stem the urge to burst into tears as I take stock of my choices:
1. Throw the damn stones
2. Keep them while you're in London
3. Lug 'em back
I bite my lip, torn by indecision...... and it occurs to me. There must be a God. Who else would have a twisted cosmic sense of humour as to heap endless packing upon those that hate it the most?
Visions of the trauma brought on by the descent of Domestic Dad! on Sundays back in the day flit through my head as I appraise the solidly packed bag in front of me. I had not anticipated having to unpack it quite just yet. I have no time to mourn my lost Saturday as I sift through the rubble trying to decide what can go back now and what needs to stay. Domestic Dad hovers over me as my hands examine the smoothness of the Icelandic stones I carted back. "Junk" he'd bellow as he'd toss all my prized possessions from my drawers in a cleaning frenzy. I'd always wondered why Ba couldn't just be like the other Dad's, totally oblivious to their offspring and chattels, but oh no! Mine was a domestic goddess and his idea of a fun Sunday was to clean the house, but he certainly wasn't one of those namby pamby solo superheroes. Nope. Domestic Dad always had a trusty sidekick, to hold up the vacuum cleaner as he scoured the highest corners of the room for that doomed spiders web; to hand suitable monkey wrenches, hammers, nails, rags; to write down recipes; to fetch the beer; to hold the stool steady......
Personally, I thought it never built any character in a sidekick, but I would have gladly traded a couple of hours curled up in bed to trail in Domestic Dad's wake as long as he stayed away from my room and the precious contents of my drawers. But superheroes have no mercy.... and I'd watch in horror as entire drawers would be laid on the floor, the frame a cowering skeleton as he rummaged through them, roaring his disbelief at the strange collection of items within and the battle would ensue. "No!" I'd yelp, snatching at an odd assortment of objects. "But Mud (to rhyme with good), they're junk.... what will you ever do with them?". Do? Do?? What on earth does he mean? What does one do with anything? KEEP THEM! "Do you even use this?" receives an outraged, "Of course I have!". An annoyed "For what?" encounters a livid "I use it!!". Increasing decibel levels reluctantly invoke She Who Keeps Us From Killing Each Other, and her pained expression is lost on the superhero/sidekick duo as she tries to keep the peace and my possessions, before boredom sends her wafting out the room whence she came.
Many moons have since passed, and I have become a lot more ruthless. My wardrobe has an average age of 4 years (skewed by this one ensemble from the 80's... and perhaps a few remnants of the 90's... but I believe in style!) and my shoes even less. I am able to even toss away books with nary a quivering lip (OK, so they're crap), and shrug off trinkets amassed from foreign shores. So how is it that I am inspecting 3 large suitcases of just 'stuff'. Grappling with the paralysing question of whether my little boxes should be put in the second bag or just left behind. I stem the urge to burst into tears as I take stock of my choices:
1. Throw the damn stones
2. Keep them while you're in London
3. Lug 'em back
I bite my lip, torn by indecision...... and it occurs to me. There must be a God. Who else would have a twisted cosmic sense of humour as to heap endless packing upon those that hate it the most?
I give great advice...
....pity I don't take it myself! Why is that so damned difficult to do? Or more to the point, why do I lapse when it comes to myself. I can get glowing testimonials from friends for listening, doling out a much needed perspective (or a smack on the head) and general handing them Eureka! moments. Pithy little gems like 'the only thing we have to fear is fear itself' spew from my repetroire of classic clichés... Yet, when it comes to my own life, I regress into a blithering, emotionally incompetent ass of the first order. Still, shaking Somya like a rag doll in the jaws of a playful mastiff has done wonders towards lifting the shroud of confusion that was holding me in thrall. Who said violence never solves anything????
The two C's
Victory at last!
My mother and I have had a running argument about life and how one makes compromises, especially in relationships. At least, that's what she's always said, and I've vehemently disagreed. Life isn't about compromises, it's about choices. Potato, potato? Hardly. A compromise suggests giving something up, a concession, agreeing to a middle ground... it's a defensive stance, a conciliatory one. Choice is active. You pick one over another, you don't settle to keep the peace... it's an aggressive decision willing to deal with the ramifications. The former implies if you don't do it, you are nothing but stubborn or narrow minded, unable to see beyond your blinkers. The latter, is after you've weighed what the options are, you've decided which one you want more. There's nothing passive about it. Even inertia is a choice.
So many lives in limbo, potential unfulfilled, absence of joy blamed on the circumstances surrounding one's life. It's not easy to change, but not being easy, doesn't make staying any less a choice. I can sympathise with difficult circumstances, but I can't empathise. If I'm that unhappy with them, I do have a choice, to accept it, and live it with grace, or rail against it kicking and screaming till I can change it. It's partly about persona, but a lot of it is just attitude.... they way you've been taught to think... about what's right, and what's not... the belief that it's meant to be vs. the power of making your life what you want it to be.
The woman agrees with me. Hallelujah! Thaarty nine years to success!!
My mother and I have had a running argument about life and how one makes compromises, especially in relationships. At least, that's what she's always said, and I've vehemently disagreed. Life isn't about compromises, it's about choices. Potato, potato? Hardly. A compromise suggests giving something up, a concession, agreeing to a middle ground... it's a defensive stance, a conciliatory one. Choice is active. You pick one over another, you don't settle to keep the peace... it's an aggressive decision willing to deal with the ramifications. The former implies if you don't do it, you are nothing but stubborn or narrow minded, unable to see beyond your blinkers. The latter, is after you've weighed what the options are, you've decided which one you want more. There's nothing passive about it. Even inertia is a choice.
So many lives in limbo, potential unfulfilled, absence of joy blamed on the circumstances surrounding one's life. It's not easy to change, but not being easy, doesn't make staying any less a choice. I can sympathise with difficult circumstances, but I can't empathise. If I'm that unhappy with them, I do have a choice, to accept it, and live it with grace, or rail against it kicking and screaming till I can change it. It's partly about persona, but a lot of it is just attitude.... they way you've been taught to think... about what's right, and what's not... the belief that it's meant to be vs. the power of making your life what you want it to be.
The woman agrees with me. Hallelujah! Thaarty nine years to success!!
Death on Facebook
The transition between one generation to the next is as subtle as it is compelling. No more obituaries in The Times, it's Facebook that delivers the news of the loss of a loved one. Twice now, I've found out about the death of a parent online. The first time was deeply upsetting as I couldn't understand why you'd have to resort to a social networking site instead of a call or email to those closest to you. While I can appreciate it's the fastest way to reach the widest audience, I find myself inexorably sliding into that generation that relies on other people that magically materialise to take the mundane away from you as you battle with your grief. Family and friends are told, hearses arranged, funerals organised, obituary written, food appears, phones are answered, questions fielded and life around you goes back to normal..... as friends, cousins, uncles, aunts, maids, drivers, in-laws, random friends of relatives, neighbours congreggate offering you their sympathy and support abdicating you of that simple yet unthinkable task of letting the world know.
Oddly ironic, but as I reach out to a friend who's lost his mother, its a heads up from another friend that drives me to Facebook and the 27 messages already posted in response to his annoucement. I don't understand it, but I'm still glad I can leave my support online.... gladder still that Anaheeta managed to find his number.
Oddly ironic, but as I reach out to a friend who's lost his mother, its a heads up from another friend that drives me to Facebook and the 27 messages already posted in response to his annoucement. I don't understand it, but I'm still glad I can leave my support online.... gladder still that Anaheeta managed to find his number.
Style over substance
While every woman of a certain age must be desirous of finding a suitable husband, how likely is it that a man will strike a woman from the list for a lack of style?
I use the word 'style' loosely. Coming from a desi male living in a loft in Manhattan, it is only understandable he confuses style with fashion. I believe men are far more superficial than women, and despite swathes of studies confirming my sexes genetic disposition towards shoes and handbags, I have yet to meet a woman (apart from peculiar English ones in their second bloom) who would fail to see beyond a pair of Gucci loafers. I will admit, that there may indeed be such women, but there seem to be more men littering the arena! I will also admit, that the propensity of being smug in the belief that they will change him is significantly greater amongst the female of the species. A compelling argument for why women are less obsessed about a suitable mans wardrobe. Why worry about something you will dispose of anyway? It's ironic to be part of a gender that's vilified for being superficial by the one that is clearly veneer deep.
Does a woman familiar with Vogue imply a better breeder? Or perhaps its the lure of designer babies? Does the desire to be surrounded by pretty things obliterate the potential for boredom? I like stylish men. Very much as a matter of fact. I could make a hobby of looking glamorous and going out in style with a man. But would I do it a second time if he bored me silly? Or if he came across lacking any generosity of spirit? or was devoid of principles? Assuredly not (I like saying that). Most assuredly not. One does not make a silk purse out of a sows ear, so why are men willing to trade in leather for rexine? Or is that what being metrosexual means and I'm just to jaded?
Its befuddles the mind to think that there are people who would discard an interesting companion for a pair of high heels, when it comes to defining 'suitability' for a mate. How do you sustain something that changes with the seasons? Is this trophy wife syndrome, to be encountered for those willing to throw in their hats for round two, or sheer stupidity? That's what you want to be able to say to your kids, "Aren't you proud of how superbly stylish Momma is?" (you can rest assured [it's the perfect word of the day!] that Round two will result in progeny, whether Daddy dearest likes it or not...). But what if it's not round two????
Style is eternal. Fashion is an accessory. People are strange.
I use the word 'style' loosely. Coming from a desi male living in a loft in Manhattan, it is only understandable he confuses style with fashion. I believe men are far more superficial than women, and despite swathes of studies confirming my sexes genetic disposition towards shoes and handbags, I have yet to meet a woman (apart from peculiar English ones in their second bloom) who would fail to see beyond a pair of Gucci loafers. I will admit, that there may indeed be such women, but there seem to be more men littering the arena! I will also admit, that the propensity of being smug in the belief that they will change him is significantly greater amongst the female of the species. A compelling argument for why women are less obsessed about a suitable mans wardrobe. Why worry about something you will dispose of anyway? It's ironic to be part of a gender that's vilified for being superficial by the one that is clearly veneer deep.
Does a woman familiar with Vogue imply a better breeder? Or perhaps its the lure of designer babies? Does the desire to be surrounded by pretty things obliterate the potential for boredom? I like stylish men. Very much as a matter of fact. I could make a hobby of looking glamorous and going out in style with a man. But would I do it a second time if he bored me silly? Or if he came across lacking any generosity of spirit? or was devoid of principles? Assuredly not (I like saying that). Most assuredly not. One does not make a silk purse out of a sows ear, so why are men willing to trade in leather for rexine? Or is that what being metrosexual means and I'm just to jaded?
Its befuddles the mind to think that there are people who would discard an interesting companion for a pair of high heels, when it comes to defining 'suitability' for a mate. How do you sustain something that changes with the seasons? Is this trophy wife syndrome, to be encountered for those willing to throw in their hats for round two, or sheer stupidity? That's what you want to be able to say to your kids, "Aren't you proud of how superbly stylish Momma is?" (you can rest assured [it's the perfect word of the day!] that Round two will result in progeny, whether Daddy dearest likes it or not...). But what if it's not round two????
Style is eternal. Fashion is an accessory. People are strange.
Going home
7 hours and 48 minutes. Questions, some answers, more questions, no answers playing the entire gamut of indecision, certainty, fear, boldness, curiosity, confusion, longing, laughter, clarity, sobriety, uncertainty, justifications, questions, resolution.....
An agreement on whether we are expatriates or immigrants, and what that means to our lives. What that makes us. What we want to be. Who we want to be. A resounding gavel attack as well as a hung jury. Just goes to show what happens when you leave two hungry women to fix the world. We did spend about 32 minutes rehearsing for what will be Somya's assertive I'm in charge meeting tomorrow and a critique on the slur cast upon her lack of style (by a man who wears brightly coloured socks that match neither his trousers or his shoes...).
Tally - 1 landslide, 1 counting in progress. I think we did a pretty damn good job.
An agreement on whether we are expatriates or immigrants, and what that means to our lives. What that makes us. What we want to be. Who we want to be. A resounding gavel attack as well as a hung jury. Just goes to show what happens when you leave two hungry women to fix the world. We did spend about 32 minutes rehearsing for what will be Somya's assertive I'm in charge meeting tomorrow and a critique on the slur cast upon her lack of style (by a man who wears brightly coloured socks that match neither his trousers or his shoes...).
Tally - 1 landslide, 1 counting in progress. I think we did a pretty damn good job.
Pffffft!!!!
I have only now realised that all my cover photos for Chile have slipped to the last slot, and none of the them are in order!! After all those captions, shifting around the order, making it flow, re-uploading...!!! GAH!
Tuesday!
Here's a tip. Do NOT wait till the nth moment to sort out your birthday gifts! I feel like toast and a scant few hours of sleep over the weekend is entirely responsible for this deplorable state of affairs. Bleary eyed page layouts and proofing at 4 am is not the stuff ooooh gifts are made out of! Yet, that's what I'm desperately hoping it'll turn out to be. I also think I've completely lost all my sense of syntax (not to mention my spelling!). Must be that deadly combination of no sleep, packing, glass noodles are not softly pliant, a regurgitated RFP from a client shooting ourselves in the foot, that Hoisin duck wrap, 8 pairs of chopsticks, Darjeeling tea and stress about getting the book before I leave and praying (in an aetheistic manner, naturally) that it actually looks good....
On the bright side (quite literally), the Saturday sunshine has gone from being a fleeting rumour to a well established pnpc fest! It's been flaunting itself ever since and the thermometer has valiantly crept (ugh! I actually wrote creeped!!!!) up to hit double digits for at least part of the day! YAY!!
On the bright side (quite literally), the Saturday sunshine has gone from being a fleeting rumour to a well established pnpc fest! It's been flaunting itself ever since and the thermometer has valiantly crept (ugh! I actually wrote creeped!!!!) up to hit double digits for at least part of the day! YAY!!
An interesting question.. or two
Who are the 10 people in the world that loved you best, and who are the 10 be on the list of who you love best?
I'd never really thought about it like that, but now that I was asked the question.... for a moment, I was blank... you weren't allowed your parents or siblings. This certainly deserved some serious consideration. The first couple rolled of the tongue before my brow furrowed evaluating my choices and then suddenly, the list started growing. You realise there are those you love and are loved by unconditionally, but equally, there are those that are not constant or predominant in your life for whom you care about greatly as well, and still others you are even more fiercely protective about than you'd imagined.
While the top 10 is something I'd never consciously thought about, I did realise a little while ago, that there are only two people in this world whose deaths will leave me feeling utterly bereft. My mother and my bebous.
I'd never really thought about it like that, but now that I was asked the question.... for a moment, I was blank... you weren't allowed your parents or siblings. This certainly deserved some serious consideration. The first couple rolled of the tongue before my brow furrowed evaluating my choices and then suddenly, the list started growing. You realise there are those you love and are loved by unconditionally, but equally, there are those that are not constant or predominant in your life for whom you care about greatly as well, and still others you are even more fiercely protective about than you'd imagined.
While the top 10 is something I'd never consciously thought about, I did realise a little while ago, that there are only two people in this world whose deaths will leave me feeling utterly bereft. My mother and my bebous.
Second best sucks
You hear the voices droning on, but your entire being is focused on the disappointment. So strong, you can taste it. Filling you, driving everything else out of your mind. All your energies channeling into that single pin point of hollowness, crashing all around you. It robs me of my ability to join Guy in his pithy swearing. He's packing up and heading home. I'm already home. All those hours... for nothing. Life may not be a destination, but there are times when the journey just doesn't cut it. Not if you can't continue with it. There will be different journeys, but so far 2010 has turned out to be debilitating. Left standing spinning your wheels, all around, everywhere. Work, home, life. Looks like this might be the year I should've just stayed in bed... :(
Faintly metallic, in case you were wondering...
Faintly metallic, in case you were wondering...
Quizzed!
Apparently, my parents should have named me Olivia, my best sexual position is Standing, my soul mate has Dance, my eyes come across as Innocent and I think my future lovers initials will be CL. Oh, and I think my writing style is feminist like Germain Greer (or thereabouts..., my memory is very short term!). I contemplate my future with my new found knowledge as I gnaw on my now cold bhutta... this might actually explain a lot of things...
Perhaps I ought to go back on Facebook and trawl through all the remaining inane quizzes on offer and fix my life real good! This calls for red meat and a Martini Bianco... who knows what I might be :D:D:D
Perhaps I ought to go back on Facebook and trawl through all the remaining inane quizzes on offer and fix my life real good! This calls for red meat and a Martini Bianco... who knows what I might be :D:D:D
Strength
Of character, heart, mind and body. All animals seek it. Even those that eschew Darwinism. Sometimes lost, a gentle word (or the threat of solitary confinement!) can set it free again, welling deep within you like distant storm clouds, gathering force, healing, rejuvenating, reminding you again of what is important. Love. Trust. Respect.
1,000 to 1
Flat hunt. Packing. Falling sterling. Liquidity crises. Living out of suitcases. Men. Work. Sub-zero temperatures. Hole in the wall. Ruined nails. 2010 strategy. Obviously, not enough to justify the burgeoning silver highlights (blessedly straight) on my head... so now, not only do I have to conjure up the perfect gift for a very special woman who will toast her 1,000 poornima (a worthy cause indeed), I now need to clear my head and April bags in the search for the perfect present in celebration of a merry, fat cheeked little baby girl turning 1. A landmark moment, across generations.
Told you so
There is nothing more galling when your mother is right. I lie. It is galling beyond belief when Aashish is right. Twice. What Shakespearean foible is it that makes someone who knows you better than anyone else and someone you're likely to kill the same person? I'm fairly certain that I have mentioned elsewhere on this blog that my stupidity knows no bounds. Having the female parent resoundingly endorse it makes it even less palatable. But she's right. I really should learn to listen to the man. Or perhaps confine my adrenalin junkie tendencies to the likes of white water rafting on the Zambezi and abseiling down the canyons at Victoria Falls. Or, I could studiously work at eradicating my drama queen tendencies. Given that I hung up on Mim the last time we spoke because she was in full melodrama mode, something tells me that's not going to be so easy. Plan A. Listen to they who are always ****ing right.
Incidentally, these days women read 'romance' novels for pornographic content (and I am shocked I tell you by the proliferation of threesomes in the midst of all the love). I also need to get my Catholics praying for the pound sterling to steady so I fall by the Enron route.....
Incidentally, these days women read 'romance' novels for pornographic content (and I am shocked I tell you by the proliferation of threesomes in the midst of all the love). I also need to get my Catholics praying for the pound sterling to steady so I fall by the Enron route.....
It's the little things...
...that matter. But only if the big things are right. Without the big things, the little things are well, just things. Beguiling. Captivating. Enthralling. Like wisps of lions mane swept away on a breath. It's easy to lose yourself in their charms, and sometimes, the big things aren't enough to hold it together without the little things. But only sometimes. The little things can seem big when they fill your heart, but the vacuum left by bigger stuff can never really be erased. And when the little things go... all that's left is an aching emptiness like a gaping hole.
That's why I want it all. The big things, the little things and all the medium sized things as well. Everything.
That's why I want it all. The big things, the little things and all the medium sized things as well. Everything.
Mayhem mongering mother
My mother has expressed a desire to keep me in my room and lock the door so I can’t get out… open it ever now and again to feed me and then shut it firmly and lock it. Apparently, she is not impressed with my emotional competence (good thing I don't tell her everything!!), and has gone so far as to call me a sadist. I think what she means is a masochist, but I know better than to stop the woman when she is in full flow. She has also threatened to set in motion the hunt to find me suitable matrimonial companionship – after all if that Gargi is getting married tomorrow (finally), her superlative daughter is a shoo in..... I won't even need an ad!
This, I can't wait to see...
This, I can't wait to see...
London Fashion Week??
I sincerely hope the man is colour blind, and my mouth is not unbecomingly agape. There is train wreck carnage and then there is a picturesquely dressed Englishman. My eyes disobey the commands of my brain (that is still reeling from the first cursory inventory) and gape in as surreptitious manner as possible at the vision next to me.
Tall, bony, sideburns and unlikely to be sold at any but a most deprived (deprIved!) slave auction, a second glance is demanded by the sheer discordance of a muted colour scheme that bizarrely trails off into loud socks. My second visual incursion makes me head swivel in denial, but it's there in mostly monochrome for all to see.... a sickly brown jumper reminiscent of blah, yawns at the neck to reveal a denim blue collar, which provides no more enhancement that the oddly jarring note the blah jumper plays against charcoal grey trousers. Trousers sadly revealing more lanky leg than permissible in polite society, and pale skin fades into insignificance against a theatrical violet that gives way to a parrot green, ultimately shod in tan shoes.
Apparently, ensembles requiring ultraviolet interference a la Aamir Khan's screamingly yellow classic in Rangeela, isn't the only way for a man to dress offensively. I rack my brains to think of another instance when a collection of muted shades has had such a profound effect on my equilibrium and instead, my sympathies transfer to this partner, and I send up a little prayer hoping she/he is colour blind.... and shudder to think what might lie beneath....
Tall, bony, sideburns and unlikely to be sold at any but a most deprived (deprIved!) slave auction, a second glance is demanded by the sheer discordance of a muted colour scheme that bizarrely trails off into loud socks. My second visual incursion makes me head swivel in denial, but it's there in mostly monochrome for all to see.... a sickly brown jumper reminiscent of blah, yawns at the neck to reveal a denim blue collar, which provides no more enhancement that the oddly jarring note the blah jumper plays against charcoal grey trousers. Trousers sadly revealing more lanky leg than permissible in polite society, and pale skin fades into insignificance against a theatrical violet that gives way to a parrot green, ultimately shod in tan shoes.
Apparently, ensembles requiring ultraviolet interference a la Aamir Khan's screamingly yellow classic in Rangeela, isn't the only way for a man to dress offensively. I rack my brains to think of another instance when a collection of muted shades has had such a profound effect on my equilibrium and instead, my sympathies transfer to this partner, and I send up a little prayer hoping she/he is colour blind.... and shudder to think what might lie beneath....
Agnar Sverrisson
The chef genius behind Texture, one of the latest additions to the 2010 Michelin roster. Modern European cuisine with a Icelandic/Scandinavian influence. As I awake with the nasty little men having moved back in my head, I can only heartily agree with Michelin's wisdom in choosing this little gem, just around the corner from my place of industry. Having walked passed it innumerable times, I can see myself walking right back in many more to come.
A comfortably relaxed ambiance, an attentive hostess, a table striking with it's vibrant cover plates, and a menu that makes me smirk in anticipation.... and my dates fate is sealed. We are so going to be indulging in the tasting menu.
Dessert leaves me dubious, so inquire after the possibility of a savoury replacement and am indulged. A tantalising tray of crisp slivers of battered salmon skin, potato, baguette and something else utterly delicious makes an appearance along with our aperitifs, soon to be joined by thick slices of farm brown and a generous pat of butter. But I'm hooked, and the lovely lad brings another tray of munchies which I demolish with abandon, pretending to be interested in Taks' ill fated adventure with the likes of Priya Dutt and whatnot....
A dainty cupful of orange is set before us, and I share his look of dismay. Carrots? How can this be good. A tentative dip of the spoon, and it's edible.. a deeper swirl yields bitty chunks of carrot, combined with a teasing whiff of ginger and a crunch of almonds. Oh my. I make sure to scrape out the bottom leaving no bits unturned. Then, conversation comes to a complete halt as my palate is seduced by the most perfect quail that was ever slayed for my pleasure... Halfway through and I unblushingly ask if I can have that instead of dessert, but apparently, the chef has other plans for me that involved crab and lemongrass.... I think I might weep. This perfectly pink, succulent, flavourful mouthful rimmed with the crunch of sweetcorn is a masterpiece. There is a confit shaped like a slim aubergine on the side, but the innocent, moist breast of that silly bird, was without a doubt, the best bit of quail to have ever passed my lips, and my brain wars with the instinct to prolong the pleasure and the desire to greedily consume it ....the moment passes, and I'm left to exchange leaving maike looks with Taks, womanfully controlling the wobble of my lower lip.
Poached fish, and I gird my loins for well... a bit of bland Icelandic halibut. It arrives in a soup, and I console myself with the bird from heaven the preceded it. The first mouthful is interesting. It's poached to perfection, and the hint of artichoke and something indefinable makes me pick up the spoon.... it's exquisite. Delicate, subtle and delicious. The perfect poach is followed by the grilled ribeye, confit of ox cheek, horseradish, a dollop of something else and home fries :). Wasn't expecting that, but it's delicious, and unashamedly I ask if we can get more.... and we do. While the meat is done just right, it's a poor third, actually, fourth.... in terms of flavour, texture, creativity and just delight to the palate.
By the time the pre-dessert comes around, we've run though South America towards the end of 2010, freaky Beatrice's proclivities and are now debating whether it's just him and not the women he picks... I'm charmed by the wispy smoke that escapes down the sides the bowl, like a magic waterfall in Lord of the Rings. The perfect romantic oooh and aaah getter; dry ice. The last time I'd come across this it had been cunningly embedded in a kettle and the steam pouring out had utterly captivated me. This was even better as ever tilt make new patterns... I stole most of Taks' raspberry granita as mine was too health engendering and then calmed the butterflies in anticipation of the chefs surprise for me. Cornish crab with coconut ice shot through with a hint of lemon grass. Superb. Fragile and fresh, I now know to ask for the chef to replace the beef with the ocean. Taks invites me to try the dessert, and its vibrant, and someone in that kitchen has clearly mastered the use of lemongrass... the sorbet gently reminding you of it, tempering the tartness of mango and passion fruit. A dessert I'd have been happy with!
We're loath to leave, so ask for espresso and a light Darjeeling, both of which arrive with a selection of petit fours. Crisp edged madelines, cinnamon swept meringue, truffles with a hint of cardamom, a caramel brittle spoon and those mini fake burger things whose name escapes me. I should have stopped at the tea... the first cup. By the time we convey our heartfelt gratitude towards the kitchen to the maitre d', say our goodbyes and stagger outside, I feel heartily sick. That however doesn't stop me from wondering who else I can drag to this new discovery. The Dutchman, DDM/J, Sonia... oh God, I feel sick!
An absolutely fabulous evening, warm, friendly and impeccable service, sublime food, a gracious and welcoming ambiance... I can only gush. But that can be quite revolting, so I've picked something to be aggrieved about.... the taps in the loo have freezing cold water and the charming sommeliers propensity to lean towards the male of the sex as an authority on wine at the table... !! What can I say, All Hail Agnar Sverrisson!
A comfortably relaxed ambiance, an attentive hostess, a table striking with it's vibrant cover plates, and a menu that makes me smirk in anticipation.... and my dates fate is sealed. We are so going to be indulging in the tasting menu.
Appetiser
Winter vegetables
Pickled, celeriac infusion, almonds
English Quail
Chargrilled, sweetcorn, bacon popcorn, red wine essence
Icelandic poached Halibut
Jerusalem artichoke texture
Grain fed Beef Rib Eye
Chargrilled, ox cheek, horseradish, olive oil Bearnaise
Pre-desert
Mango and pineapple
Soup, lemongrass, basil, olive oil
Dessert leaves me dubious, so inquire after the possibility of a savoury replacement and am indulged. A tantalising tray of crisp slivers of battered salmon skin, potato, baguette and something else utterly delicious makes an appearance along with our aperitifs, soon to be joined by thick slices of farm brown and a generous pat of butter. But I'm hooked, and the lovely lad brings another tray of munchies which I demolish with abandon, pretending to be interested in Taks' ill fated adventure with the likes of Priya Dutt and whatnot....
A dainty cupful of orange is set before us, and I share his look of dismay. Carrots? How can this be good. A tentative dip of the spoon, and it's edible.. a deeper swirl yields bitty chunks of carrot, combined with a teasing whiff of ginger and a crunch of almonds. Oh my. I make sure to scrape out the bottom leaving no bits unturned. Then, conversation comes to a complete halt as my palate is seduced by the most perfect quail that was ever slayed for my pleasure... Halfway through and I unblushingly ask if I can have that instead of dessert, but apparently, the chef has other plans for me that involved crab and lemongrass.... I think I might weep. This perfectly pink, succulent, flavourful mouthful rimmed with the crunch of sweetcorn is a masterpiece. There is a confit shaped like a slim aubergine on the side, but the innocent, moist breast of that silly bird, was without a doubt, the best bit of quail to have ever passed my lips, and my brain wars with the instinct to prolong the pleasure and the desire to greedily consume it ....the moment passes, and I'm left to exchange leaving maike looks with Taks, womanfully controlling the wobble of my lower lip.
Poached fish, and I gird my loins for well... a bit of bland Icelandic halibut. It arrives in a soup, and I console myself with the bird from heaven the preceded it. The first mouthful is interesting. It's poached to perfection, and the hint of artichoke and something indefinable makes me pick up the spoon.... it's exquisite. Delicate, subtle and delicious. The perfect poach is followed by the grilled ribeye, confit of ox cheek, horseradish, a dollop of something else and home fries :). Wasn't expecting that, but it's delicious, and unashamedly I ask if we can get more.... and we do. While the meat is done just right, it's a poor third, actually, fourth.... in terms of flavour, texture, creativity and just delight to the palate.
By the time the pre-dessert comes around, we've run though South America towards the end of 2010, freaky Beatrice's proclivities and are now debating whether it's just him and not the women he picks... I'm charmed by the wispy smoke that escapes down the sides the bowl, like a magic waterfall in Lord of the Rings. The perfect romantic oooh and aaah getter; dry ice. The last time I'd come across this it had been cunningly embedded in a kettle and the steam pouring out had utterly captivated me. This was even better as ever tilt make new patterns... I stole most of Taks' raspberry granita as mine was too health engendering and then calmed the butterflies in anticipation of the chefs surprise for me. Cornish crab with coconut ice shot through with a hint of lemon grass. Superb. Fragile and fresh, I now know to ask for the chef to replace the beef with the ocean. Taks invites me to try the dessert, and its vibrant, and someone in that kitchen has clearly mastered the use of lemongrass... the sorbet gently reminding you of it, tempering the tartness of mango and passion fruit. A dessert I'd have been happy with!
We're loath to leave, so ask for espresso and a light Darjeeling, both of which arrive with a selection of petit fours. Crisp edged madelines, cinnamon swept meringue, truffles with a hint of cardamom, a caramel brittle spoon and those mini fake burger things whose name escapes me. I should have stopped at the tea... the first cup. By the time we convey our heartfelt gratitude towards the kitchen to the maitre d', say our goodbyes and stagger outside, I feel heartily sick. That however doesn't stop me from wondering who else I can drag to this new discovery. The Dutchman, DDM/J, Sonia... oh God, I feel sick!
An absolutely fabulous evening, warm, friendly and impeccable service, sublime food, a gracious and welcoming ambiance... I can only gush. But that can be quite revolting, so I've picked something to be aggrieved about.... the taps in the loo have freezing cold water and the charming sommeliers propensity to lean towards the male of the sex as an authority on wine at the table... !! What can I say, All Hail Agnar Sverrisson!
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)