Darth Vader wears the mask so you can't see his otherwise sheepishly, apologetic face as he rasps all over the control panel. It's a tad challenging to conquer vast galaxies when you have seemingly no control over a single nostril, or your diaphram for that matter.
This virus has me feeling mundane and filled with the desire to write sonorous poetry. I'm not even sure what that means, but it somehow sounds nasally accurate. Verse upon verse of misery that engulfs the world (hmmmm, clearly the testosterone is winning over the estrogen). With Murphpy like sureness, while I now have the perfect pitch for unsettling calls punctuated with heavy breathing, I don't have the inclination to inflict it upon anyone. What a tragedy.
Hong Kong - Round 2
This weekend saw us in a feeding frenzy of dimsums, first at Maxim's followed by an entirely unnecessary and inappropriate Madarin High Tea at the Mandarin Oriental when my search of chocoalte mousse was thwarted post lunch. Why we thought the dainty fingure sandwiches, petit patesseire and mini quiches were (a) not very much and (b) prelude to teeny scones is beyond me. Naturally, they only breed full size scones and persist and handing out one plain and one fruit to the accompaniment of clotted cream and a most hideous rose jam (or so I hear.... suffice to say I wondered why they'd put ketchup next to the cream, and the brave Ms. M bravely recoiled at it's attarness and waved her hands around for strawberry jam). Naturally, such an incident deserved complaints right up to the UN, and the only way to mollify the situation was to ensure lashings of strawberry jam. Feeling sick, we wound our way up the hill to the hotel to glam up a tad for drinks at Sevva of the magnificent views over Central and hte Harbour. Sadly, the frostbite nipping our butts had us heading indoors to finish our drinks before a lazy scouting of all LKF had to offer topped by strawberries and and chocolate fondant.
Sunday, saw us trek over to Kowloon and a rather well kept Michelin secret. A tiny, hole in the wall dimsum restaurant, cleverly called One Dim Sum that snagged the coveted Michel start last year. You can find it through the queues outside and the neighbourhood populace cannot be overly thrilled with the influx of foreigners to their local diner. As we waited and planned our meal checking with panic far too often if our number had been called, they handed out take away parcels in copious quantities to cars and people that would pull up and patiiently wait till their doggie bag was announced with a flourish. All the tables are the same size and are re-configured with the greatest efficiency to seat tables of 1 to 8 and what can I say except it was worth the wait. The best baked bbq pork buns I've ever eaten (and I'm not a fan) along with the best steamed Chiew Chow dumplings (the same ones at Maxium had the texture, but this one had flavour exploding in your mouth with hte first bite!). Naturally, we had to order seconds, and for the princely sum of HKD 135 (that's about 10 quid), stumbled out looking like overstuffed dumplings.
Plan B was to attempt to reduce the resembles to a dumpling so we elected to walk to the next station, and stumbled upon the goldfish market which had some of the coolest fish I've seen in any tanks including one with an oversized braniac forehead (that just looked so wrong!), hordes of turtles, plastic easter island statues (clearly something fish are fond of?!), albino frogs, kelp and underwater greens in plastic bags and artifically coloured fish that looked like they got into a fight with a box of Faber Castell crayons and lost. From that to Wan Chai and the spanking new Convention Centre sat on the bay overlooking Kowloon, Causeway Bay and Central (rudely interrupted by a softee), pretending to be Yann Arthus Bertrand as we watched batches of dough buns being fried, then getting distracted by a signboard for a dive shop on the 2nd floor.... A manicure, pedicure and massage later, I am fully prepared to call this rather a successful weekend.
Sunday, saw us trek over to Kowloon and a rather well kept Michelin secret. A tiny, hole in the wall dimsum restaurant, cleverly called One Dim Sum that snagged the coveted Michel start last year. You can find it through the queues outside and the neighbourhood populace cannot be overly thrilled with the influx of foreigners to their local diner. As we waited and planned our meal checking with panic far too often if our number had been called, they handed out take away parcels in copious quantities to cars and people that would pull up and patiiently wait till their doggie bag was announced with a flourish. All the tables are the same size and are re-configured with the greatest efficiency to seat tables of 1 to 8 and what can I say except it was worth the wait. The best baked bbq pork buns I've ever eaten (and I'm not a fan) along with the best steamed Chiew Chow dumplings (the same ones at Maxium had the texture, but this one had flavour exploding in your mouth with hte first bite!). Naturally, we had to order seconds, and for the princely sum of HKD 135 (that's about 10 quid), stumbled out looking like overstuffed dumplings.
Plan B was to attempt to reduce the resembles to a dumpling so we elected to walk to the next station, and stumbled upon the goldfish market which had some of the coolest fish I've seen in any tanks including one with an oversized braniac forehead (that just looked so wrong!), hordes of turtles, plastic easter island statues (clearly something fish are fond of?!), albino frogs, kelp and underwater greens in plastic bags and artifically coloured fish that looked like they got into a fight with a box of Faber Castell crayons and lost. From that to Wan Chai and the spanking new Convention Centre sat on the bay overlooking Kowloon, Causeway Bay and Central (rudely interrupted by a softee), pretending to be Yann Arthus Bertrand as we watched batches of dough buns being fried, then getting distracted by a signboard for a dive shop on the 2nd floor.... A manicure, pedicure and massage later, I am fully prepared to call this rather a successful weekend.
Dark Chocolate Mousse
It has been confirmed. My tastes are outdated, outmoded and out of style. I can get any number of exotic desserts ranging from pavlovas to fondants to soufflés all napped with intricate combinations of coulis, but a mere dark chocolate mousse? That has gone the way of the Regency it seems. If I should be so inclined, I could take my pick of a cassis mousse, a raspberry and peach mousse, and even a passion fruit and chocolate mousse (which incidentally is fraudulent as the chocolate part of it is but a few millimeters at the bottom pretending to put up a fight), but nary a simple chocolate mousse (please note the absence of the ‘dark’). Ironic , considering that one can has a plethora of choices be an Gianduja or Vahlrona or sourced from Ethiopia in ranges of 55%, 62%, 85%, 98%...... far too good for a mere mousse. Looks like I shall be forced to spend more money in acquiring some rather tasty looking le crueset ramekins, borrowing an electric egg beater and dig up my hoary favourite chocolate baking book and lament the pretentiousness of modern patisserie as I end the drought of the last 6 months.
The case of the disappearing shawl
Now if only I had the five find outers and dog to call upon. All it would have taken was an excellent tea with cake, scones (lashings of jam), ham sandwiches, tomatoes lemonade and to push them over the edge, ice cream. Alas, I have no one but my rather inadequate eyesight and hapless grumbling as I meander in a oddly purposeful yet helpless manner trying to discover it’s whereabouts. I could have (and do indeed) sworn that I had it wrapped around my person on Friday at some stage before it inexplicably vanished come time to leave the office. I did not waste any of my beseeching looks on my rather merry colleagues that evening as giggly and strident folk tend not to be overly concerned with missing garments, especially if they can have trouble comprehending the specific article of clothing under discussion. A blissfully wasted weekend does not magically bestow it negligently draped over my chair on the Monday morning and my queries are met by surprise and bafflement. It seems to be a day to be baffled. First, a team member quits and vanishes without a trace in a manner worthy of Mr. Bourne leaving the rest of us flummoxed. And then, eventually, I remember my poor shawl and again, am baffled as to its absence from this office. Unless of course, someone has decided it will make a nice warm rug for their pet. This is HK, no one would deign to steal a shawl sans pedigree and label. Which is perhaps why, no one is offering to help me hunt it down.
Ring back the Old!
It’s interesting how people notice your absence. That’s three people in as many days that have asked me if I’ve been on the blog of late… moving to Asia has been disastrous on the personal front. Work is smashing, but I do believe I've become boring.
2012 is my year of resolutions. The only year where I've actually made one. Well, more than one truth be told... but it's already February, and I'm floundering. But I've just added another one on, although most of it seems to be more about regaining myself rather than anything new.
1. To get fit (not to be confused with To be fit)
2. To get back to Blogàtaurus
3. To get back on the road
2012 is my year of resolutions. The only year where I've actually made one. Well, more than one truth be told... but it's already February, and I'm floundering. But I've just added another one on, although most of it seems to be more about regaining myself rather than anything new.
1. To get fit (not to be confused with To be fit)
2. To get back to Blogàtaurus
3. To get back on the road
I'm dubious about the Chinese look coupled with the bandage high heels. It's just as well that I'm not toting a gun today. That would have just been the height of tacky. Perhaps I've just been too strongly influenced by Singapura. The ensemble will have to do, and I meander to my destination. All very well till I ease myself down. Clearly sitting down in a short dress is a mistake, and my resemblance to a badly beaten hooker takes on infamous proportions as the bluish purple weals across my thighs gleam darkly against the cream of the dress. No amount of tugging from any angle is going to make me look like a nice girl, so I resign myself to artistically draping the table linen over me and think instead of the hapless, beaten up coke can (which ought to have been decimated (ok, so perhaps I exaggerate a tad) but for a bunch of rabidly appalling pellets that preferred to reside impotently in the barrel. Yup. Good thing the imagery was over two days.....
Happiness is....
.... sharing laughter over an exquisite meal. Just thinking about last night makes me feel all dewy eyed and satiated (a copious lunch involving potol bhaja and Ba's chicken might have something to do with it as well), ready to grant the world's every wish.
A perfect evening at Indigo, where there were just enough people to make it not creepily empty, but not too many to annoy (and not a single E for effort sighting!), attentive and thoughtful service (my shiverings were put to rest by a proffered shawl {it may have been a table cloth, but it's the thought that counts!}), and a repast fit for the gods.
The creamy opulence of the buffalo mozzarella dipped in a fascinatingly good coriander pesto (asking for it on the side was sheer redundancy) is foreplay by itself, but add plump, juicy tomatoes to that combination and it's like an orgasm in your mouth as the tomato explodes, leaving your senses lushly satisfied. The souffle which ought to have been Camembert but wasn't, was beautifully puffed, but a cheddar can only be what a cheddar is destined to be, so we shall move rapidly along to the succulent cow that wound its way to our table, all pretty and pink with the sultriest of mashed potatoes and drained the rest of my lovely Cherin Blanc. And for those weaklings that assume that is where the fantasy ended... tsk, tsk - for shame. Have these pages not taught you better?? The oft indulged in duck breast reached it's sublime potential last night. I have never in all my years been accosted by a breast so perfect that a mere mouthful make me want to bestow camels, knighthoods and my kingdom. It's velvet silkiness drapes around your mouth in the most luscious manner and the mere thought of the next morsel makes you moan. The crisp skin clings protectively to the layer of duck fat as it lovingly embraces the juicy pink flesh. Conversation ceases as tiny, inarticulate sounds accompany each bite. The wine, beans and puree unnecessary, yet taking it to another level of je ne sais quoi. I struggle with my devil/angel - wolf it down in one go, lick your chops and look around for more vs. curling your tongue around, feeling it fill your mouth before a bite releases the magic, indulging in the flavour as you masticate slowly to lengthen the pleasure. I settle for a hybrid and lay back replete, eyes fluttering shut with supreme satisfaction, pleasure and utter happiness.
Their menu claimed "The best of 10 years". Last night certainly was...
A perfect evening at Indigo, where there were just enough people to make it not creepily empty, but not too many to annoy (and not a single E for effort sighting!), attentive and thoughtful service (my shiverings were put to rest by a proffered shawl {it may have been a table cloth, but it's the thought that counts!}), and a repast fit for the gods.
The creamy opulence of the buffalo mozzarella dipped in a fascinatingly good coriander pesto (asking for it on the side was sheer redundancy) is foreplay by itself, but add plump, juicy tomatoes to that combination and it's like an orgasm in your mouth as the tomato explodes, leaving your senses lushly satisfied. The souffle which ought to have been Camembert but wasn't, was beautifully puffed, but a cheddar can only be what a cheddar is destined to be, so we shall move rapidly along to the succulent cow that wound its way to our table, all pretty and pink with the sultriest of mashed potatoes and drained the rest of my lovely Cherin Blanc. And for those weaklings that assume that is where the fantasy ended... tsk, tsk - for shame. Have these pages not taught you better?? The oft indulged in duck breast reached it's sublime potential last night. I have never in all my years been accosted by a breast so perfect that a mere mouthful make me want to bestow camels, knighthoods and my kingdom. It's velvet silkiness drapes around your mouth in the most luscious manner and the mere thought of the next morsel makes you moan. The crisp skin clings protectively to the layer of duck fat as it lovingly embraces the juicy pink flesh. Conversation ceases as tiny, inarticulate sounds accompany each bite. The wine, beans and puree unnecessary, yet taking it to another level of je ne sais quoi. I struggle with my devil/angel - wolf it down in one go, lick your chops and look around for more vs. curling your tongue around, feeling it fill your mouth before a bite releases the magic, indulging in the flavour as you masticate slowly to lengthen the pleasure. I settle for a hybrid and lay back replete, eyes fluttering shut with supreme satisfaction, pleasure and utter happiness.
Their menu claimed "The best of 10 years". Last night certainly was...
Grilled Artichokes Kaffir Lime Tomatoes Buffalo Mozzarella
Coriander Pesto
*
Cheddar Cheese Souffle
Cheddar Cheese Souffle
Sun Dried Tomato Kalamata Olive Crostini
*
Seared Prime Filet Mignon
Seared Prime Filet Mignon
Grilled Asparagus, Anchovy mashed potatoes, Three Peppercorn Sauce
*
*
Pan Roasted Breast of Duck
Coriander Orange Glaze Baked Turnip Puree Green Beans
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