Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Dokebi Nara

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About

Wonderful Korean restaurant hidden away in a back alley of Paharganj. After a while eating cheaper India food gets a little tiring, especially the limited selection which is available within walking distance of Paharganj. It was searching online for a bit of relief that I stumbled across the address for this place. Tempted by images of clean white rice, fried pork, and fresh vegetables I scrawled down the address. 

It's quite a mission to find this restaurant. You pass through another, tattered restaurant where a few ragged looking, hippy travelers are always sat around. Last time I went there, this French girl tried to sell me the sheep's brain she had mistakenly bought from the market. Holding it out in a white plastic bag. I apologised and said I couldn't really use it for anything. Anyway, passing through here you reach a dingy corridor, the blue paint peeling off the walls like the bark a silver birch, the floor coated with dust, and tools and junk stacked up in piles. Climb up the ragged, half lit staircase, passing the open doors of rooms with beds unmade, their TV's flickering and Indian's staring out with weary eyes. Then at the top , through all this drabness, is the bright haven of the restaurant. 

In an article for Lonely Planet's blog, the Dehliwalla describes this place as 'a smuggler's den' full of the 'fetid air' of the street and 'hostile eyes'. Either he went somewhere different, or the restaurant has seriously changed since then, because I found it a really calming and comfortable place to go to escape from Paharganj's bustle. It was great to watch of exhuberant sociability of the big groups of Korean's always gathered there as they drank bottle after bottle of Korean wine, toasting each other loudly and laughing and joking. The boy who always served me was efficient and friendly.

He and two other boys appeared to cook all the food as well. There is a neatness to Korean cooking, an attention to the way something is sliced or prepared, which is very different to Indian food. The Korean's seem to share with the Japanese an interest in using very simple ingredients almost in their pure form to give subtle flavours. Its often the pairing of different things that is important - the crisp cool cabbage and the chilli sauce of Kimchee for example. Eating the food here, I sense the pride Koreans take in their food, the exacting standards they apply to it even when abroad.

Food

The dishes at Dokebi Nara made a fair attempt at being authentic and were a refreshing change from the pseudo-Chinese or Japanese food a lot of places try to pass off. I've had a bit of Korean food in Hong Kong and tend to compare what I eat elsewhere to that experience. The Korean at Dokebi Nara wasn't quite as good, in terms of ingredients or preparation, but it wasn't hugely dissapointing either. 

The 'bibimbap' - meaning stirred or mixed dish - came in a large bowl with really generous piles of pleasingly fresh tasting vegetables around the sides of rice that had just been made and didn't taste dried out at all. Rather than just carrot and cucumber, the dish had mushrooms and other more specialised korean vegetables which added to the sense of authenticity. When mixed together with the rice and sauce, the dish here felt nicely balanced.

The sauce was basically just very rich tomato paste, whereas I think other places probably use something more subtle. Swati, friend of Eating Out in Delhi blog, corrected me on this, stating that" the disturbing part about the first review is that they described the sauce for the bibimbap at Dokebi Nara as a tomato based sauce. I really, really hope that this is a mistake by the blogger, because I cannot imagine a Korean committing the blasphemy of serving a tomato based sauce for the bibimbap. The sauce served with bibimbap is based on gochujang, which is a paste made mostly with crushed red peppers rice powder (or wheat or barley) and fermented soyabean paste. For making the sauce, this gochujang is thinned with vinegar, and sugar, sesame seeds and sesame oil are added."

It should be noted that I wrote this review a considerable time after visiting the restaurant and my memory may not have held too well. However, the sauce I tasted, expecially once mixed into the dishes other ingredient, really had little to distinguish it in my mind from a tomato paste. I couldn't taste the red peppers, or the bean paste. This is perhaps a mark of the overall quality of the food on offer at Dokebi Nara - and would be picked up by people more attuned to Korean food immediately, or perhaps it is just as sign of the fact that I'm a layman to this type of cuisine. However, I stand by my original comment that the sauce 'did well enough to make the dish quite satistfying'.  

The boiled down pork dish is also good, with very succulent pieces of pork sunk in a quite gloopy and slighly sweet tasting sauce. It's hard to say how authentic this sauce is because I haven't had anything that  similar elsewhere, but the sweetness of the sauce has much more balance than that in many poorly done Chinese sweet and sour dishes. This is a real comfort dish to eat - with the fluffy white rice soaking up the meat juice and the sauce and holding its flavours nicely.

The spicy korean noodles were a bit dissapointing. It had the right clear noodles, which have a really good cool, smooth texture which contrasts with the fieryness of the broth. But the problem here was that while the broth was seriously spicy from the chili oil used, it was also very watery and didn't have any other flavours to balance this spice. The result was just an overwhelming chili taste that wasn't that pleasant. A few bits of egg floated around in the broth, but these didn't contribute much at all. 

As is typical in Korean dishes, these dishes came with a whole array of side dishes spread accross the table. The kim chi was really good, with cool fresh cabbage given a good fiery kick by the red sauce which stained it. All these side dishes, whilst not that remarkable in themselves, added to the overally experience. The restaurant is also one of the few places in Paharganj to serve beer, at R60 for a small can. This definitely goes with the food well and makes it a good place to come to chill for a while. 

I'm yet to try the 'liquor dishes' - the meats cooked on a hot plate which are a vital part of Korean cusine. These are relatively quite expensive, presumeably because of the extra work involved setting up the hot plate and things. But watching the other Korean groups have them, and the Korean sushi, I would say that both are likely to be really enjoyable.  

Second Opinion - Hemanshu, author of Eating Out in Delhi, wrote the following about the food at Dokebi Nara
"I must admit upfront that the sum total of my prior experience of Korean food is from one EOiD trip to "Gung" in Green Park and one to Soo Ra Sang in Bangalore. The cost of our meal at Dokebi Nara worked out to less than Rs. 300 per head. That puts it at about half what a meal at Soo Ra Sang would cost and perhaps 1/4th to 1/5th of what you pay at Gung.

However, from this first visit to Dokebi Nara, I would put the taste also at a fraction of what you can enjoy at the other two places. The menu itself is very limited, as are the linguistic abilities of the owner. As a result, while I had every intention of ordering a beef dish, I didn't even end up finding out if they serve beef, let alone ordering a beef dish. Their ability to serve a full restaurant is also seriously lacking -- there was a group of about a dozen foreigners at a table behind us, and thanks to that, we were served a good one hour after we placed the order (no kidding!). We ordered the bibimbap, which was served as a vegetarian dish (not counting the fried egg), some kimchi soup, a pork dish from their "liquor foods" list, an egg-roll, and some "soju", or Korean wine. None of it left much of an impression, though the pork was not bad. The rest were bland, perhaps to some extent because we asked for them to be "medium spicy".  The side-dishes, unlimited in true Korean tradition, were few in variety and uninspiring, comprising spiced-up cabbage, potatoes, seaweed and (I think) radish."

Directions

About halfway down its lenght Paharganj's Main Bazaar opens out into a triangular space. Walk along Main Bazaar to the end of this open space furthest from the railway station, on one side are men selling pakoras and on the other people frying the twisted jalebi sweet in woks. Turn down the alley that is just to the station side of the jalebi sellers. Walk down narrow alley, when you get to a small square turn hard left, and you should come to the Navrang Guesthouse. Don't confuse the downstairs restaurant which also sells some (bad) japanese food. Go through reception and up stairs to second floor. There are little painted figures on the walls to guide you.

Address: Navrang Guesthouse, Paharganj. Θ Ramakrishna Mission or New Delhi Railway Station.  Ask for “6 - Chhe - Tooti Gali”.

Cost

The main dishes like bibombop cost around R 150-180. The barbeque 'liquor dishes' cost about R 300-400. Beer is R 60 for a small can of Kingfisher.

Notes

For more on Korean food in Delhi click here.

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Karim's Restaurant



[caption id="attachment_116" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Chicken saag and almond mutton curries, with tandori roti on the side."]Chicken saag and almond mutton curries, with tandori roti on the side.[/caption]



About

Karim's is an instution in Delhi that's been around virtually forever and is the type of place you just have to go to. In the courtyard outside the restaurant men are crouch by the side of the big tandoori ovens, reaching down into them to stick soft balls of dough against the inside walls, or plunging long skewers of chicken.

When I came, I had the saag chicken which had a very smooth spinach sauce with an incredibly deep, rich flavour. Also had the almond curry which was really special, the sauce also very rich with quite soft spicey flavours and the strong creaminess of the almond.

This is probably a place to go with more people however, so that you can explore more dishes, some of which are quite high in price.

DirectionsProbably the easiest way to get there is to take metro to Chawri Bazaar and walk along the strete of the same name until you get to the mosque. Follow the boundary of the mosque round to the right, then to the left.  Karims is leading off opposite the wall of the mosque, about about half way this along south side. Its virtually on the corner. There are a couple of other resturants out the front, and an small alleyway leading through to the courtyward with Karims.

Gali Kababian, near Jama Masjid Gate No. 1. Ph. +91-11-23269880, 23264981.

Cost

About R 120 - 200 each dish

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Monday, December 29, 2008

Star Seafood Restaurant

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About


This is quite a good place to go for an authentic Dim Sum experience. They have a (limited) English menu if you ask – tick the boxes and give it to a waitress. Menu guide coming to this site soon. Dim sum finishes at 4 and is cheaper after 2pm.


Directions


 Take the tram in the Sheung Wan direction from central – tram will be marked ‘Kennedy Town’. The tram will turn out to pass the Western market and then back in to travel along the long street beyond this. The Star Seafood restaurant is on the right hand side, on the corner. It has a curving golden front. Opposite, on the left hand side is a big grey police station which may be easier to watch out for. 


Cost


 


Each item of dim sum costs about HK$ 8-12, if you go as a group its shouldn't really set you back more than HK $50 each.


Notes

Wing Lai Yuen

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About


This restaurant has won lots of awards for its duck. I have tried it and think it is delicious, definitely worth the slightly long trip. Other Dishes, like the noodles, are also very good. Its not too expensive either.


The best (and some of the cheapest) dam dam noodles I have ever had. Their noodles are so good, they have a rule that limits each customer to only one bowl of noodles. The crispy duck has also won awards and is really really tasty. If you want to try this, it is good to book it in advance. You can order either half and duck or a whole one. I think almost everything here is delicious, although I would stay away from the overly sweet, award-winning sweet and sour fish. In my opinion, there´s nothing really special about the way they make it, and in general I´m just not really a fan of sweet and sour. There are much better things to try. The kung pao chicken, ants climbing on bean threads, and fish fragrant pork is quite good here; not THAT exceptional but very tasty and solid. Good value here too, although the service is often surly at best.  


Directions


This is a bit far out. Get the KCR from the TST MTR (metro) Station to Hung Hom. You are heading to a huge shopping complex called Whampoa Gardens. There may be maps, or you could ask, at Hung Hom Station. At Whampoa Gardens look for the Gourmet food plaza and go to the first floor.


Alternatively you can take the Hung Hom ferry accross from North Point and Wan Chai.



Whampoa Gardens 8th section 1st floor, Gourmet Building #106-107
San Francisco, CA 94199

Cost


Hk $100-150 per person


Notes


Its worth making a reservation.


Website: www.winglaiyuen.com.hk


 

Kau Kee

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About


This place is famous for a good reason. For just 28 hkd, you can get a delicious bowl of beef brisket and noodles. The beef brisket melts in your mouth and is packed with flavor. If you don´t like beef, there is no reason for you to come here.    


Directions


The best way to get here is probably to walk along Hollywood Road from Central / Soho, and look for the turning of Gough St dropping down on right hand side. Gough Street then runs down hill and loops round to the the right. Be careful because there is another small noodle shop on the same street, with a similar name. This is the one on the corner with openings, entrances on west and south sides. The address is:


G/F, Kau U Fong, 21 Gough Street, Central District, Hong Kong 


 


Cost


HK $28 for a bowl of old-style beef brisket.


Notes


Closed on Sunday - closes early in the evening.

Macau Restaurant

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About

Their famous Macau-style sandwhiches are very tasty, and their curries are excellent. Everything I have tried here has been very good and authentic. You MUST have a pou taat (egg custard tart) for dessert here 

Directions

This is inside the Shun Tak Centre. I think on the first floor - towards the western side of the centre. If you enter the centre from the MTR you need to pass the Starbucks and keep going. The restaurant has a Po Tat (Macau egg tart stand just outside). 

Cost

Around HK $50-80 per person

Notes

Xiao Nan Guo



[caption id="attachment_104" align="aligncenter" width="500" caption="Huhng Siu Yuhk and Sichauan Beef - two of the highlights at Xiao Nan Guo"]Huhng Siu Yuhk and Sichauan Beef - two of the highlights at Xiao Nan Guo[/caption]

 

About 

My favorite Shanghai restaurant in HK and a really outstanding opportunity to try some of China's most interesting and distinctive dished. Good value, good service, and consistently excellent food. Some of the things to try here include:

  • Huhng siu yuhk - Supposedly Chairman Mao's favourite dish, this is cubes of pork with alternate layers of meat and fat, slow cooked until the meat is so soft that it melts in your mouth. The meat jusice, wine, sugar and anise  together form this beautifully flavoured thick black sauce which coats the meat and the long, fibrous mushrooms. This dish is a must have.

  • The siu luhng baau here are wonderful. These are dumplings with soft meat, or crap in the centre, surrounded by a soup that is held inside the soft wrapper. When you eat bite into them the warm soup pours through your mouth releasing its flavours. The siu lung bao here are the best I've had outside of shanghai, with a very flavoursome soup and nice frail wrapper.

  • The crispy sesame bread pockets and minced pork is another Shanghai specialty. It is very tasty here, with the bread nicely crisp on the outside but still softer on the inside. The meat filling is well cooked so that it isn't too oily. This dish is definitely worth having, but takes second place to those above.

  • The sichuan beef dish here is excellent - using the same long, fibrous mushrooms as the huhng siu yuk which have a texture that goes well with the meat and the slight spice of the chili's in this dish. It is brought to you in a little black cauldren and left to cook on the table, so that the ingredients slowly soften and blend with the sauce.

  • The begger´s chicken here is also supposed to be really good, though I'm yet to try it myself. This is chicken cooked by packing it around with earth and baking it slowly. When the dish is brought to the table, the earth is broken open and the chicken taken from inside.


DirectionsWalk along Des Voeux road from the mid-level escalators to Central. The restaurant is in a shopping centre on the left hand side that has lots of mirrored metal. An escalator leads up to the first floor, where there is a Starbucks coffee shop. The restaurant is on the third level. There is a Japanese restaurant on the floor below.

Xiao Nan Guo Cuisine Level 3 Man Yee Building, 68 Des Voeux Road, Central, Hong Kong Central

Cost

Around HK $150-200 per person

Notes

Closes at 11:30pm Tel: 2258 9393

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Arun Rung

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About

Some of the cheapest and most authentic food in all of HK. This restaurant is tucked away in the back of a tiny Thai grocery store. They don´t have a huge selection of dishes here, but everything is DELICIOUS. All of the dishes are cooked to order. Try the basil pork, which has the most intense basil flavor I've had almost anywhere.  The people who run this place are also super nice and friendly.

Directions

Stone Nullah Rd, Wanchai. You have to really look out for this one. Coming from the road with the tram its on your right hand side. You are looking for a shop selling thai products with a space at the back. The name is painted on the sign, but its easy to miss.

Cost

Around HK $30 to 50 a dish

Time and Notes

Not open late.  But you can call in almost any time of the day and they will prepare things for you.

 
  

Sorabol

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About

This is one of the best Korean restaurants in all of HK. Try their spareribs marinated to perfection and their bul kolgi, which is thinly sliced and served in quite a unique way from the bul kolgi at other Korean bbq. One of the best things on the menu are the hand-made noodles, which you can get with either seafood or thinly sliced beef. All of the Korean pancakes ( e.g. kimchi pancake) are also quite good and worth trying

Directions

This is at 99 Pecival street. See directions for above restaurant to get there. Then go into Lee Theatre Building (a centre with a few restaurants in) and go to 17th floor.

Cost

Around HK $150-200 for the barbeque dishes, and $100 for some of the smaller dishes.

Time and Notes

Closes at midnight. There is also a branch in TST on Nathan Road.

 
  

Mala Restaurant

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About

Serves Malaysian and Indonesian food for really bargain prices. The sambal chicken/pork and tamarind fish are some of my favorites, but everything there is excellent. The soups are also very good and quite different (in a good way).

Directions

33 Peel Street, a small lane perpendicular to the lower side of Hollywood Rd, in Soho. From the Escalator, walk along Hollywood Rd, passing ‘Globe’ bar on your right, keep walking, passing a japanese restaurant with wooden walls. Once you have passed this, look down the alleys on your right, I think it is the third one along, but you can see the sign from the main road. The lane is opposite a shop with a pink neon cow in its window.

Cost

Around HK $50 a person

Times and Notes
Tel: 28181236 open until 11

 

 

 

 

 

Wang Fu

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About

Excellent, authentic and cheap Beijing food.  One of my favorite places in HK. Really good, hearty, home-cooked-style food. No peking duck here, but the jing jiang rou si is probably the best I´ve ever had in either China or HK. Its doesn't come with many pancakes so ask for more beng if necessary. 

The hot and sour soup is also excellent, a really thick mix of mushrooms and other chinese vegetables with just a hint of spice to it. It may however seem a bit strange to pallets that are not used to this dish.

Also recommended are the dumplings, which as freshly made by the restaurant each day. They sometimes also offer some special dumplings, so look out for those. 

The vegetables taste beautifully fresh here and are not smothered with soy sauce and garlic in the way that some places do. 

I have never ordered anything here that was not delicious. They dumplings are all handmade, fresh, and tasty. If you have a sweet tooth, try the banana fritters (pulled silk bananas) for dessert, a specialty Beijing dish.

Directions

On Wellington Street in Soho. Go up escalator and look out on your left hand side. Early on is a street with a yellow sign for ‘curry’ – Wang Fu is near to this place. It has a red sign on the front with three chinese characters. 

Cost

Around HK $60-80 a dish

Time and Notes

Closes at 9:30

Sunday, December 28, 2008

Bangkok Cuisine

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About

Very, very tasty Thai food that is also very cheap. The restaurant is really busy, so you sometimes have to wait outside a bit of time, but is open until 1am. Try the Tum Yum Goong soup, the Green Curry, the Steamed fish, or anything really.

Directions

Walking west away from SOGO, little lane after Percival. This is a small lane that leads round to the right, and round to a long row of restaurants. There are two Thai restaurants here – the better one is the second with two statues of ladies making a 'wai' (Thai hands together greeting) outside.

Cost

Around HK $60 a dish

Monday, March 31, 2008

Fresno Grizzlies vs. SF Giants 26/03/08


Oh what a celebration of American life this is! Above, the sky is a smooth, painted blue. Below, Fresno baseball field spreads out, its perfect green turf and earthy red clay glowing brightly in the sunshine. Its emptiness is like a theatre stage before the play begins, waiting to be filled with bold characters, heavy with the anticipation of the drama soon to come. The sun slides down beside Fresno’s tall, sturdy bank tower, dragging an eclipsing shadow slowly over this glorious field while the crowd slowly fills the seats around me.

There’s none of the pre-start surge which comes before other sports events. Instead everyone drifts in casually during the hours before the game, wandering around the stalls a little, settling into that leisurely pace that will dominate the evening. Work is done now, school is finished, and it’s time to sit back, relax, and enjoy the entertainment.

And unlike so many sporting events, this isn’t a crowd dominated by hooting, swaggering groups of men. It’s mostly families here, or young couples. Mothers try to calm kids who leap about restlessly, chucking baseballs back and forth. Fathers clutch at the tiny, anxious hands of young children dressed up in team shirts, their baseball caps pulled down over their small, excited faces.

I feel that this is the closest I’m going to get to seeing true average Americans. Here are the people who do the everyday jobs, who make up the bulk of the population, those behind the politicians and celebrities that are too often taken as representing this country. Looking around at the loose blue jeans and clean white sneakers, the glossy sports jackets and wide rimmed caps, I sense this shared appearance reflects a deeper set of shared beliefs.

These are the Americans who strongly believe their country is blessed by God, who believe in the value of suburban homes and safe places to raise a family, who believe in the importance of a hard days work. As they chat together, I see the easy way they relate to each other, confident that the people around will want to talk with them and will share their opinions on the world.

A little later they will stand together, taking their caps from their heads and staring sternly ahead, listening attentively as the national anthem is drawn out into an elaborate rhapsody. This isn’t the empty, habitual ritual I’ve often felt it to be at home in England. For these people, the patriotism of the lyrics resonates with the stirrings of their hearts.

Now a few of the Fresno players stroll out onto the field to warm up, their smart white uniforms brilliant against the green turf, their long shadows stretching beside them. Unlike the soccer teams in England, they haven’t allowed this uniform’s classical image to be tainted by sponsorship. Only the looping team- name stretches across their jerseys. I watch as a player twists his body, lifting his arms high, then flings the ball forwards through the air. The blurred white spot glides smoothly, hitting the receiver’s glove with a dull thud.

How many times this player must have thrown balls like that in his life, stretching right back to when he was a boy standing with his father in a small back yard, dreaming of playing in a great stadium. Now he throws instinctively, effortlessly, and young children watch him from the stands with widened eyes, the same dreams starting to form in their minds. Tonight the Fresno stadium seems full of such magic. Managing partner Chris Cumming has realized his dream of bringing the Giants here, returning the superstar to celebrate that family which nurtures it.

Speakers call out the names of the players, rattling out short bursts of music as they jog to line up on the field. The music seems carefully selected to emphasize the character of each player, helping to build them into distinctive, larger than life personalities. The crowd responds to this, cheering each individual separately, the tone and volume of each cheer demonstrating their attitudes to the different players.

I listen and try to decode this intimacy. Seeing the players all lined up, I’m struck by how diverse their ages and ethnicities are. In basketball you’ve really got to be tall, and for American football you need to be well built. One of the great things about baseball is anybody can play.

The spotlights twinkle softly into the dusk as the players spread out onto the field. The crowd gets a little quieter, people settling into their seats to watch the first ball. The pitcher shuffles his foot on the rust red circle of clay, finding his balance before staring fiercely at the target ahead. Turning his broad shoulders, he lifts his arms, the energy building in his body like twisted rubber. Then suddenly he uncoils – his arm swerving round and sending the ball surging forwards, streaking through the air and into the waiting glove.

The batter hardly seems to have a chance. He steps away, swinging his bat a little as though glumly considering the ball that has just swept past him, before returning to his position and shuffling into a determined stance. This time he connects and the ball flies forward. I think how amazing it must feel to stand and face a ball coming hard and fast like this, then to turn your broad shoulders and connect with it smoothly, watching for a moment as it goes soaring away. This is the moment you can become a hero, remembered in fans’ minds for evermore.

The ball loops up over a fielder, hitting the edge of the turf and bobbling over against the wall. The leisurely pace is broken and suddenly there’s activity all over the field. The batter is scrambling towards first base and at the same time a fielder is diving towards the ball. As the batter’s legs stretch forwards the ball soars through the air. The batter lunges forwards to safety and, just a fraction too late, the ball slams into the first baseman’s glove. I sense that it’s in these races, in these factions of a second, that games can really be won and lost.

After a flurry of early scoring, the game settles into a steady rhythm. The pitchers both fling balls forwards and the batters miss them, or sometimes knock them a little way, or clonk them out into the eager hands of nearby fielders. Only occasionally does a batter hit one well enough to buy time and stride forward to first base. Every now and then the sound system pipes out short notes which crescendo upwards, helping to increase the tension of this close, low scoring game. People in the crowd shuffle around restlessly, wandering off to buy food or to chat with other people they know.

For most people who come here, it seems like the action on the field is only part of the entertainment. Just as the European aristocracy once went to theatres to watch each other’s decadence, and as the rich in England go to the Ascot horse race to compare hats, the ball game is a social event. Yet rather than just a chance to observe each other’s habits, the game offers an opportunity to talk with friends, family, or event strangers, an opportunity to connect with the rest of society in that open friendly way which defines America.

I watch as a bulky lady perches on the edge of her plastic seat and chatters away to a man seven rows below, shouting loudly so that everyone around can hear what she’s saying. She sends her kids down to introduce themselves to him, explaining to the world that he’s a friend of hers from way back. A group of baseball capped young guys glug their beers, competing to describe the tortures of their work and to taunt each other gently. As I watch the different groups here, I sense that almost everyone around me knows each other, coming to the stadium each week to share news and spend time together. The action on the field sometimes seems secondary to this.

Also competing for people’s attention is the food. Walking into the stadium, I was struck by the amount of food being offered, with stalls almost everywhere I looked, all stacked up with supplies for the arriving hordes of hungry customers. By the time the first ball was thrown, a strong smoky smell of hot dogs was drifting across the stadium. Some of the people around me spent most of the game buying and eating different types of food and drink, wandering off after each inning and returning with a new tray full of food. Every now and then people would save them the walk, coming over with fluffy clouds of cotton candy bobbing above their heads or bags full of breadsticks. The ball game also celebrates that other great American trait – love of eating.

Yet, for all the eating and socializing, at the end of the day nothing can steal the show from the sport on the field. In the ninth, the scores are still close and the Grizzlies pitcher comes out with his head bowed by the knowledge that he can help his team snatch an unexpected victory. Shuffling his feet on the clay, he stares forward at the Giant’s batter with a scorching intensity. How right my friend was when he compared baseball to the gun fights of the Wild West. Looking down at the pitcher, I can almost see him standing in the middle of a dusty street, scrunching his eyes against the sun and focusing on the dark figure ahead.


With his legs wide, the pitcher Hraises his arms up slowly, his body winding up, coiling its power, then suddenly twisting back round to send the ball ripping through the air. I feel the force, the belief, pushing this ball on past the batter and into the welcoming glove of the catcher. Strike one! And now the pitcher’s confidence soars. He moves slowly, settling himself for the next ball, staring forwards fixedly. Again the ball tears away from his arm and slams even more emphatically into the glove. Strike two! One more strike and the game is won. The pitcher pauses for a moment. Perhaps feeling the eyes of the crowd fixed upon him. Then he’s moving again, his body twisting, his powerful arm surging forwards, and bam, the third strike wins it for the Grizzlies.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Berkeley: The War At Home


The musty glow of many lights hangs in the mist around Berkeley City Hall, the denser beams of spotlights cutting through. Sturdy riot police are interspersed along the road in front, their thick arms holding batons across their chests, stern faces staring from beneath helmets. I step off the curb and one of them growls at me to get back, followed by the next one along.



We pass a row of clean white television vans parked on the corner, satellites like strange statues on their roofs. Crossing the road, the glowing white facade of the hall loom authoritively over us. But is it just a façade? Today the real authority which this building holds is being challenged.

A fenced catwalk licks out from the front steps, more muscular police posed here like grotesque models in a military inspired show. Their visors are pushed up – hard eyes watching the crowds around them dispassionately. This gangway physically separates the two sites of the argument.

The area on the left is like a small section from a 60’s music festival. The grass is boggy from restlessly tramping feet, grubby abandoned placards on the floor. Small tents are pitched, their domes draped in pink banners about the anti-war group Code Pink. A mixed crowd stumbles around them – talking, handing out flyers, dancing and singing.

There’s an old man in a bright blue suit, waving a placard with neat writing saying ‘I can’t afford a real sign.’ A couple of dreadlocked teenagers carry around a stereo and Dylan’s mellow voice crackles into the busy area. A few kids with skateboards wander around curiously, one of them picking up a discarded placard and waving it with excitement.

The right side feels more subdued. Here tidily dressed people, some with military jackets and hats, press forwards towards the steps so that there seems a lot less of them than the sprawling peace activists. Some are waving flags, while others hold Placards neatly painted in blue, red and white. ‘God Bless America’ and ‘Berkeley Council is a National disgrace’. This group appears less energetic, less sure what they are supposed to be doing on a protest like this.

They are all young, even more so than the peace activists. At this demonstration, and at the Obama rally I attended last week, I have been struck by how young people have been moved to express themselves. They are at the centre of these events, the ones who could grow into Obama’s rule, the ones most likely to go to Iraq.

A man suddenly surges over, calling out ‘Where’s the right wing?” He pushed forward into the crowd, shouting loudly all the time. You’re all fascists he shouts. Most of the crowd back away, but a sturdy man faces up to him. “Fuck You!” He shouts, pushing his broad face forward and staring at the other with hardened, savage eyes. “No, fuck you!” The smaller man snaps back, stepping forward and rising up a little more stiffly. They look fiercely at each other and I’m sure they’re going to fight, waiting for a fist to swing and smack flesh. But then the smaller man shuffles away, mumbling to himself.

These two are here for the conflict, but it seems like most of the demonstrators are more serious. They are just people who really believe in their perspective, enough to trek out on this cold night to stand up for it. Watching the two sides – I feel that really it is two different Americas that are set against each other here.

On one side you have the hippyish peace- protestors, taking the libertarian but not the consumer part of the American dream, dissatisfied with the nation, tracing a lineage back to the glory of the 60’s when America was awash with fellow travelers. On the other you have working and middle class American, probably living in the suburbs somewhere, keeping to their neighborly circles, enjoying moderate comforts that the dream might provide, unconcerned about freedom.

As the hearing starts almost all the action outside stops and more placards are thrown down. People turn to face the hall and listen intently to what is happening inside. This small provincial conflict has taken on a much greater symbolism. The legitimacy of the Navy to invade Berkeley acts as a synecdoche for the legitimacy of America to invade Iraq.

Like that faraway war, our information on the battle inside the hall is limited, crackling out of speakers so that it’s hard to get a real sense of the drama inside. A group of older, tattered protestors retreat into their tent, pulling thick blankets around them and cradling radios to their ears.

The meeting reaches the public lobbying section. A member of Code Pink speaks in a slurred, forceful voice. “Our babies, our eighteen to twenty-six year olds, they're dying out there – you have to know that!” There are cheers from the group of demonstrators gathered outside who collectively will their representative on. “We’ve got to enter the hole with them.” Another spattering of applause. “You must have soul!”

“Yeah, soul!” a man in the crowd whoops, swaying from side to side, eyes glazed with the excitement of protesting. But I wonder if something as airy as soul can really be enough to transcend the earthliness of national politics, the different machinations and tensions.

Behind us the riot police are changing over. A new squad march down the channel between the two lines, standing in a regimented huddle. On a command they step forward and the troops they replace step back. Feet apart, bodies solid, the new guards settle into their position – blocks of unfeeling stone that create a necessary wall between people.

“This is fucking fascism.” A man in the crowd yells. People turn round to watch as the replaced police march out – chanting left, right, left right – their long line moving off along the murky street. I can’t help thinking of images from Nazi films I’ve seen.

Inside the hall a mother of a soldier comes to the podium, talking about the picture of her son that she holds. He was shot in Iraq, but he fought for a noble cause, one that all American’s should defend. I sense she is struggling to understand how people can think differently, how people can make her son’s death seem purposeless. Her voice, deepened by the speakers, is flushed with emotion. I picture her inside the hall, holding back sad, proud tears.

“Your son died ‘cause he was stoopid,” shouts a young African girl bitterly, her braided hair pulled back to expose a glowing face. Hatred for this pro-war mentality stiffens her whole body as she listens intently to the speeches. There is so much passion amongst these peace activists, but much of it feels misdirected, like a burning blaze from which sparks leap in all directions.

As we leave, I clamber over a placard sunk into the muddy grass. Its message – Recruiters Out Of Berkeley – is torn smeared with dark brown footsteps. Later that evening Berkeley Council decide to take back their ‘get out’ letter and the clustered hopes of the peace activists are broken and walked over too.

Monday, February 11, 2008

San Francisco - Super Tuesday

A crowd is gathered beneath the huge crystal chandelier of the Fairmont’s Grand Ballroom. They are dressed in ordinary, sometimes scruffy clothes, and they contrast with the formal grandeur of the room around them. Hardly talking to each other, they all cluster towards a big TV at the front. White placards bob above their head, saying “Yes we can,” or just single words like “Hope” and “Change”.

On the television a confident, small yet imposing African man is speaking, another crowd stood behind him – a digital reflection of this room. The man is Barack Obama. He is using his sweeping rhetoric to powerful effect. With his right hand he seems to squeeze together the tight phrases, swinging his arm to offer them to the rapt audience. His words rise and fall like a symphony, charged with excitement. Almost every sentence is punctuated with the word ‘change’ – the other words dancing around this central pole, this key message. Almost every sentence brings whoops of delight from the crowds, a building pressure of excitement, leaping out in little bursts of ecstatic applause.

There is perhaps no real substance to what Obama is saying. It’s just the glossy surface, the soft waves of a deep sea of politics – nobody even knows how deep! But tonight isn’t the night for substance. Obama’s speech is lifting up to a climax. Can we do it? He asks. “Yes we can!” The crowd chant back. “Yes we can.” Their arms are raised and they pound the glittering air of the ballroom with their fists. It’s slightly frightening, like some fundamentalist cult.

The flash of cameras burst from the side of the room, capturing this glorious moment. This could be a historic point – the time when America changed forever. Yet, like Obama’s speeches, the substance of the glory is yet to be realized.

San Francisco - Inside City Hall


I feel a sense of transgression as I’m led into the press box, like an outsider snuck into a secret sect. The room has a staged grandeur about it. The high ceiling, ornately plastered, painted in different pastel shades. Polished wood stretches down the wall behind the clerk and president’s long desk, reaching out into the fitting of the room. It’s like a church, but with that newness, that cleanness which is distinctly American.

This setting gives grandness to the supervisors. Yet rather than the mighty, wizened God’s I imagined, they are almost ordinary. Some are surprisingly human, surprisingly young, to be holding the city in their hands. They really do seem to represent the ordinary people of the districts which elect them. As the clerk check’s attendance, I glance round, letting their different characters sweep into me.

There’s Ross Mirikami, who reminds me of a vampire with a small goatee accentuating the length of his tanned face. His greased hair is swept back with a slickness which sheens his whole body. Gerardo Sandoval stares surlily forwards - chubby Latino face and serious eyes, neat silver hair the same colour as his tidy suit. Sophie Maxwell’s hair and eyes fizzle with energy and willpower. She is a tall, commanding African woman, watching the world cynically through nose perched glassed.

A few seats along is Carmen Chu. Straight glossy hair falls tidily around an attentive, business like Asian expression. Chris Daly contrasts with this neatness, and with the slickness of the others. His suit is thrown over a tieless white shirt, crumpled a little like he’s just been in a fight. This reflects his reputation as a political scrapper. His cropped hair and glasses are those of a tired computer programmer. A heavy shadow of stubble covers his rounded jaw and his eyes scowl.

This scowl is particular for the study Sean Elsbernd. He sits opposite, physically and politically, looking like an overgrown schoolboy in his loose blue suit. Hand’s stuffed in his pockets, he gets up to shuffle around restlessly, a hint of playfulness, of cheekiness, still hiding in his youthful face.

The bulk of Jake McGoldrick comes and slumps in the chair next to him, golden strands of hair stretched across his bald patch. Like an oil prospector in his sandy colored suit. Nearby, Amiano leans back comfortably, used to the politician’s role now. His body exudes casualness. His dark blue blazer makes him look like an ageing party goer. An earring twinkles his more exuberant side.

People are still shuffling in, still greeting each other loudly, but the huge animal of democracy is already leaping forwards. I have to lean in closer to hear as the clerk’s murmured voice races through the first items. Numbers 1 to 16 are dispatched in a single clack of the hammer. The next item is read quickly and voted on: Supervisor Sandoval? “Ay” Supervisor Maxwell? “Nay” Supervisor Chu? “Ay” etc…Everything moves so fast. Each of these points is something real being debated, some law that can impact hundreds of people’s lives. I worry that it is too fast. There is so much to decide though. If you want a democracy that embraces everything, perhaps this speed is necessary?

Like the clack-clack of a train, the meeting surges on with this insistent rhythm. Then suddenly things stop as one of the supervisors chooses to speak on an issue. This is perhaps the real magic of democracy – the potential for human feelings to influence things by arguing passionately for their beliefs. Sandoval stands and makes a clipped objection to CCTV funding. Mirikarimi rises in response, standing powerfully straight, his crisp, persuasive words like a solo in the meetings symphony.

After this brief interlude, the rhythm resumes again. As points are raised, Supervisors get up and pace around, talking to each other, leaning over to great people in the press, leaving the room for a while and then returning later. I watch as some tourists come into the public gallery and pose for photos. There is a sense of great comfort in the functioning of democracy here. I wonder if there is perhaps too much complacency at times, standing in the way of effective decision making.

In the middle of the meeting, the supervisors hear an account of the investigation into a recent oil spill. A short stocky man comes to the microphone, adopting a tone of frankness as he twists and euphemizes mistakes. His words rush out in a long, smooth flow, relaying every detail of the report. This is a culture of accountability, where every detail must be dwelled upon, everybody’s roles questioned, all the mistakes ringed in heavy red for everybody to see. Yet I sense that few of the Supervisors are really listening. The speech keeps going as eyelids slide down, chins drop into palms, and people get up to stretch stiffened limbs.

Finally it’s time for the lobbyists – that powerful part of democratic process that gives a voice directly to the people. An Indian man - a regular here – stands to speak, staring forward at the supervisors with intent white eyes. His speech starts slow, but builds into an impassioned plea, its polished rhetorical phrases carefully practiced. He begins a series of stepped phrases to the climax, but then the buzzer sounds, slicing the head off his rearing argument. This is the contradiction of this great democratic ideal. If everyone is allowed to speak, then each person will have too little time to say anything.

Next is a Middle Eastern man whose curled grey hair is pulled tightly back accentuating his fierce expression. Eyes stare out from sagging skin that’s overgrown with a ragged grey beard. Leaning forward, he growls at the supervisors, his rough tone and accent making it hard to understand what he means. He is speaking about a church where he helps the homeless. Suddenly he pulls tattered blanket out, light pushing through its many holes. This is all the government gives to help him, he shouts accusingly, and I feel a wave of pity. But I see that the supervisors are hardly listening now. It is late in the afternoon and the ‘serious’ agenda is complete.

There feels something wrong in this; that these leaders of the people are too tired by bigger business to hear the plight of these people. That because the issue comes in such antic form, instead of a written memo, it no longer has weight as political business. Overall, my visit to City Hall has shown me the great energy that democracy has in practice, but also the ways in which practicality and casualness might damage its ideals.

Macau - New vs. Old

The first thing I notice as I step into the casino is the increase in people. Three years ago when I visited Macau, the departure hall was quiet, a few neat businessmen and a scattering of tourists sat somberly on its metal chairs. Now there is a long ragged queue for the immigration gate, large groups of people jostling about, moving impatiently between queues, weighed down with shopping. As we pass through it becomes even more chaotic, harassed officials waving their radios, vainly trying to shepherd different groups to the right gates. They rush about frantically, wheeling their small cases around like puppies behind them. The air echoes with the shouts, the clamor of mandarin and Cantonese. This is a new, restless China, freed from the constraints of financial struggle and suddenly, uncertainly on the move. Where are these people going? Some to Macau to gamble, some to do business in the mainland or back from business in Hong Kong, some just tourists. Money drives their movement, getting new money or spending new money already got. Ferries depart every 15 minutes, each hauling over 300 people across to Macau. At busy times, particularly weekends and holidays, it becomes impossible to get a seat.

Walking into the immense lobby of the Sands casino, you feel as though you are stepping into some strange parody of a church. In the past, only religious buildings offered such a huge space devoted to one activity. Everything beneath the spiritual glow is glossy plastic and flashing lights. Row after row of tables line up like a futuristic army, stretching out their arms of lights, each one an isolated cell of activity. There is a strong sense of unreality, everything carefully stages and crafted to have an immediate effect. It feels theatrical, all surface with no depth. This is perhaps true of casinos everywhere in the world, but here the effect seems heightened. Nobody in the casino appears quite comfortable with their role – like actors crudely playing parts.

The attendants and croupier act out their roles unnaturally. When the security lady checks my bag, she does it with strange, automatic gestures. I try to take a photo and one of the attendants – positioned everywhere – comes to tell me not to. He does it uncertainly and I sense that he’s not quite used to this smart uniform, this officialdom, voicing the company policy without quite meaning (maybe even understanding) it. It is hard to take him seriously and from then on I make it my challenge to get as many photos as I can. All these workers have perhaps been dragged from ragged roles on the mainland. They still show their displacement. Looking dazed by the glitz of the casino with its bright lights. I thank them in Cantonese, Macau’s normal language, and they look at me bemused.

The customers at the tables don’t seem much better. They are not the tycoons you see puffing cigars in Vegas, young wives draped beside them, their wealth sunk into their skin. These figures wealth is new, this gambling pose like a costume they wear uncertainly. Many can’t help still smoking with cigarettes dangling from their bottom lips, or spitting into the waste bins. Some wear ill fitting suits, others still in scruffier clothes. Others stumble around like excited tourists at Disneyland, dazzled by this magic world and unable to contain their awe.

A lot of the gaming here seems more leisure based than the seriousness in Vegas. People really seem to be having fun as they gamble, with groups who all know each other gathered round tables shouting. It’s a striking contrast from the surly, serious faces I can remember in Vegas. There’s a surprising number of women gambling too – in groups on their own, or alongside their husbands – what look like housewives or young wives.

On the main stage a show starts – a sort of sanitized erotic show. Like the rest of the decoration it takes and then and draws all the substance out of it. It is simply surface erotica, tight clothes, and exposed skin. Western girls in black underwear and push up tops thrust their hips forward, moving like strippers – but again a false copy. Replicating something always destroys its value. The music’s lyrics are raunchy – don’t you wish your girlfriend looked just like me – but probably not understood by most here. There is grotesqueness to all of this – so suggestive without any substance. Its only 8pm, but casinos are deliberately timeless.

The Chinese young men gawp at these women, sipping at watery beers from the bar. They are probably unused to such decadent, mainstream references to sex. The female waitresses, themselves heavily made up, watch the show from behind a little uncertainly. All this is such a stark contrast from the traditional moralistic attitudes which still hang their shadows over China. I see the women on stage as synecdoche of how art is made to prostitute itself in the casino, subserviently serving the financial aim of making people gamble more.

At Macau’s Museum of Art is ‘space’ an exhibition by local artists, many of whom respond in powerful, intriguing ways to the current developments. One artist has replicated the window cages common in poorer parts of Macau. This at once draws attention to and records the older, original culture of Macau. It shows how it has value, the everyday architecture representing a way of life. At the same time, it exposes the flaws with this. Poor people have these boxes because their homes aren’t secure any other way. They are trapped by their poverty, having to construct cages around them. An entrapping, close, claustrophobic way of life.

A video installation by Kent Ieong shows images of a bay, at first undeveloped, slowly gaining more buildings as the images flick by. It captures the value a landscape can have, just from its simple shape. In the foreground are figures, indicating how a landscape acts as a stage for human experiences. The images act like photos – offering memories of something which might be lost. A lot have parents and children, symbolically representing passing down from generation to generation, with Children as the future. Yet many of these figures are like advert images, perhaps symbolizing the unreality of our memories, of our ideas of place and time.

Other sculptures use neon, so distinct in Macau now. One has a box with neon working a door and window on it. These have no function, they are just a surface. You cannot enter through the door, or pass through the window. They are just surface like much of the decoration in the casinos. The rest of the house is dark empty walls, suggesting how Macau is buried by this flare. The ironic name ‘Well Known City’ draws attention to how Macau is becoming world famous, but raises questions about what this notoriety is based upon. Is it just glare like the neon? As you step close, you hear the harsh hum of the neon and feel its glare – normally you can’t get this close- allowing you perhaps to see the more damaging effects of this light show.

Inside the house, a gaudy chandelier, decked out with false crystal flashes different patterns of light. Placed at the heart of this house, this is its core – it represents the unreality manifested outside. Its shifting patterns of light are beautiful but ephemeral, they do not really exist or having lasting impact, but always change.

I am also struck by photographs from the Venice Biennale. Konstantin has made a ‘flightless plane’ – resembling the type of things people enter in birdman contests. Stuffed full of kitsch, casino styled decoration – it represents the ‘flightless’ dreams of wealth harbored by those who visit the casinos and the kitsch decoration they eat up. Another photo shows an artist who has made replicas of the stone works from Macau’s temples. The artist wants to show the value of this heritage, threatened by the Casino’s now – how such art is equal to the Venetian monuments often exported to Macau.

Hong Kong - Escape from the noise?

Most of the time I find the noise of Hong Kong exciting. The clatter of passing trams, the dull whoosh of looming buses, the rhythmic tock-tock of the crossings, all blend into a strange music, a symphony that celebrates the city’s chaotic energy. Even high up in my flat I enjoy hearing the city asserting its presence with a dull rumble bellow, and the rattling Cantonese of my neighbors. It makes me feel connected. But just occasionally this noise gets too much and I long for a moment of silence.

The other day, I wandered over to North Point Park, hoping to find some quite there to reshape thoughts scattered by long city days. But while the park can assert a space that is distinct from the bustle around, it cannot separate itself from the noise in the same way. Roadwork’s on one side hammered into my head, while the grinding growth of a new skyscraper swept its sound in from the other side. I felt trapped – squeezed in between these harsh walls of noise.

After abandoning the park, I decided that the next day I’d head for Sai Kung. Surely Hong Kong’s beautiful back garden, far away from the gleaming metal, could offer me some stillness. It was beautiful cool morning and I set off full of expectation. I’d been to the beach before and knew how dazzling it was, knew how soothing the long tree lined walk afterwards could be, staring out over soft valley flooded with clumpy green. The whole day stretched before me with a promise of peace.

What I hadn’t expected was all the other hikers! And these weren’t just any hikers – These were hikers Hong Kong style. For me, walking can be a brilliant way to experience a very personal, very individual, relationship with nature. You walk along, gazing up in silence at the long branches that are over the path, clustering their different shaped leaves. You can reacquaint yourself with the nature from which you came, but from which modern life has detached you massively. It is like visiting an old relative who can tell you much about your own identity.

But these Hong Kong hikers instead flocked through it in huge groups. The city mindset has sunk so far into their minds that they need to feel close to other people and would feel uncomfortable otherwise. Nature becomes just another background to their socializing, like a restaurant, or a shopping mall. As they chatter away noisily to each other, they hardly look up at the stunning green around them, and there is little chance they will be privately moved by the experience.

The chatter of different groups floats up all around me. The connection of these groups isn’t enough however and often the walkers will slice the forest apart with their shouts, positioning themselves in locations to other groups on different parts of the trail. To aid in this, some have radio’s which crackle and buzz restlessly as they stride along, constantly notifying them of where others are. Instead of feeling sunk in an overwhelming force of nature, perhaps a little disorientated, they are all connected to each other.

Most of these hikers are so kitted out with brand new bags, shoes, water bottles, and sunhats that they could be climbing Everest. It seems sad to me that walking, which only really requires a pair of shoes, has become as comodified as other sports. Adverts create an image in people’s minds of what it means to be a walker, and the public follows.