As usual, someone else said it better

William Dalrymple, author of my most favorite book on Delhi, author of many other fantastic books on India and travel, doubly beloved to me because I had a brief and pleasant email exchange with him once (blessed are the validated, for they shall revalidate), says what I think should be said, except better.

A pox on both your houses

I agree with Ahmed Rashid (click on ListenNow) that it was not in the Pakistan government's interest to have been involved in the Bombay attacks (yes, to me, it will always be Bombay, meri jaan). It's also quite true that chances are better than even that the terrorists who struck in Bombay had something to do with Pakistan, in the same way some of the 9/11 pilots had something to do with Saudi Arabia. If the Indian government wants to point fingers at Pakistan, it should do so without making mealy-mouthed statements and veiled implications, and prove its case; if not, then it should find a way to work with Pakistan in an open and honest way that isolates terrorists. Why is it not obvious to the leaders of both countries, in the way that it's obvious to everyone else, that they are both in a terrible situation, security-wise, and the only way to head towards a more secure environment is to cooperate, militarily and economically?

One more reason

Part of the reason why I started getting uncomfortable with food blogging is here.
By the way, anyone else enjoying The Daily Beast? (He asks his world-wide audience.)

We have found the enemy, and he is us

We watched the Frontline on Lee Atwater yesterday. Inasmuch as it was somewhat discomfiting to see the phrase "I hope you die in pain" play out in real life, I'd like to point out an obvious fact (as is my wont; a much loved and heavily bearded schoolteacher once called me a "Master of the Obvious"): the problem with Lee Atwater scaring the public with black rapists and mental illness is not Lee Atwater, it's the public.
And while I agree that the issue is a little more complicated, in that a leader (or a TV ad, apparently), has the ability to appeal to best or worst in us, I believe that these sides of our personalities are not independent beings. We still retain the ability to consider what's being told to us, after all. It would be nice -and really different- if an otherwise great documentary series like Frontline was less coy about who bears the ultimate responsibility for letting Willie Horton in 1988, Rove's "McCain has an illegitimate black child" rumor in 2000, or "Obama is a Muslim" this year become issues, and what that really says about our society.

Something for something

Attorney Adorable and Wonder Boy treated us to lunch at the Brasserie today, capping a week in which we had a huge turn-out for Monday Night Squash (a.k.a Vilas Dads Beer Group), elected a new president on Tuesday, celebrated A's birthday on Wednesday, played squash with The Boy (as usual) on Thursday, supped with The Fam on Friday, and pretty much napped all day on Saturday, before ordering out from Bandung last night (see previous post).
We ate at Lombardino's for A's birthday. As usual, a high quality meal; I had a half-portion of the "Straw and hay" pasta, notable for the slow-cooked chicken deliciousness, followed by a "Beef and Brussels" steak on polenta which was downright sinful. I should say I actually wanted the Cobia again, but decided to work my way down the list instead - with happy results. A had the "Tortelloni ala Bolognese", which was a two-thumbs-up-way-up situation, as I understand. Now the truly pleasant surprise, in all this, was actually how good the "wine special" Chianti Classico was; I had had it last week when we had our "family date night" (also the Night of the Cobia), and it was still good.
A's Mom made a so-called "lamb o' leg" on Friday; this one was off the rack, so to speak, in that it was ready to stick into the oven from Trader Joe's. Very nice. TJ's is a place which has made its name in surprises, both pleasant and unpleasant. In that if you're out of ideas, you can get some really good stuff there; but if you're looking for something specific, you best not waste time trawling the aisles hopelessly.
Thanks, AA and WB! We enjoyed our sandwiches - and of course your company - a lot. Enough that we are eating only steamed broccoli for dinner.

I Love My Indonesia!

Once upon a time, a long long time ago, Stewy the Stewart brought this to my notice


For the cognoscenti, the frowny dude in the beginning is also the dude who played "Mogambo".
Anyway, A and I have been eating take outs from the Indonesian restaurant Bandung.... it's only been here over 15 years, why wasn't I told!

I finally caved today

and bought one more product from Mr Jobs - it's a thing of beauty, what can I say; I bought it for the artistic value - and then I read this. Thanks, Pogue! You did your best, but I don't care.

Ah, the mtrfxing 80s!

The Dwag is fuzzy, so when A goes to work, he generously gives her some of himself to remember him by, mainly by plastering it all over her clothes.
The phenomenon is best described in a song that is a living symbol of a decade filled with wretched music. Check the subtitles.

ADDED: I only bring this up to confess that we showed this exercise in (what the good Sam has called) jack-assery to The Boy, who - predictably - enjoyed it ultra plus.

The obligatory election post

Some day, when they're done bailing like a right wing nerd-herd, Republicans will look back on this election and thank Sarah Palin for a vacation from D.C..
While of course most of the reasons the McCain campaign is failing are to do with things other than Sarah Palin, what crystallized the narrative, in peoples minds, of McCain as an impulsive man with no real plan was the SNL episode in which Tina Fey played Palin being interviewed by Katie Couric, and ran the Straight Talk Express right off the bridge.
Now I don't mean that they will thank her for ruining The Original Maverick's run. Perhaps, though, they might use the vacation to tone down some of their more hateful rhetoric, such as against immigrants, gays, and France. This, in turn, might let some people currently too embarrassed to associate themselves with a party of selfish, medieval, incompetent jerk-offs look respectable on the way the voting booth, again. And they will have nobody to thank for that vacation but Sarah Palin. Or rather, Tina Fey playing Sarah Palin.

Anyone for tennis?

After a gap of close to 20 years – I think it was Becker v. Edberg in 1990 – I watched tennis again. At this point, it’s common knowledge that the men’s final, Federer v. Nadal, was long (close to 5 hours), intense, and arguably the best Wimbledon final ever played. I agree with those who would argue the latter.

My disdain for professional sports is no secret. When I try to locate the source of the bile, I end up in Lake Psychobabble. On top of that, my inconsistency on the subject – I make an exception for cricket, but only Indian cricket, not Twenty20; I follow Packers’ game results, but think it’s a barbaric game which has sold its soul (if it ever had any) to television commercials- although I have no such compunctions about Rugby, which I don’t watch, or follow, or have any interest in - is exasperating (to say the least), even to me. All of this is most unsatisfactory. In general, though, I’ve managed to sort out a couple of reasons why I don’t like watching sports, or following them to any great extent.

Reason Number One is the disproportionate bigness of the deal, a.k.a. the all-too-familiar “it’s only a game”. 18 years ago, as I watched Boris Becker cry and howl his way to a five set defeat, I decided (admittedly unconsciously) that there was literally no reason to watch a grown man in tiny white knickers act like a complete prat ever again.

(A variation on the theme is the calling down of the Divine Hand in favor of your team/play. What? So god watches football, and favors the frikkin Bengals (or not)? Does he also drink PBR whilst doing so?)

Reason Number Two is the entanglement of nationalist or regionalist claptrap with sport. And I think this is a big reason why I follow Indian cricket: because I can’t watch it, I can’t see the idiots in their tricolor facepaint pretending that every sixer hit by Tendulkar adds another inch to the national pizzle. Also the reason why all this talk of Minnesota or Chicago Vs Green Bay is so off-putting to me. I read relatively dispassionate accounts of cricket games on Wisden, which is just fine with me.

And those are really the reasons – I should say the absence of them- that made the match on Sunday so charming. These two excellent players, fighting as hard as they could, at the tops of their games, in excellent spirits. There seemed to be no fear of making an audacious shot at championship point; no fear of defeat, in the sense that defeat was an acceptable outcome as long as the game had been thoroughly played. No shouting and moaning at the umpires and linesmen, seared into my brain by the whiniest ninny of all, John McEnroe. There seemed to be an understanding by both players that good and bad calls are part of the game. There were challenges, sure, but all done with good grace. There was no evidence that god had favored Nadal (and/or Spain) that day, even though, the previous five years, he had seen fit to favor Federer (and/or Switzerland- but not, obviously, the people of Iraq). At the end, there were words that were genuinely gracious on part of the loser, and touching in their humility by the winner. Both seemed to understand that (and maybe I’m beginning to project here), however important this was to them, they were still having to do it wearing tiny white knickers: how important could it possibly be? Spandex (and pajamas), I’m looking at you.

Grocery bill

Last night, A and I were talking about why our grocery bills have increased about three times over last year. Of course gas prices have a role to play: but here is a list of what we've eaten for dinner over the last week or so:
Day 1: Dal, Rice; eggplant "bhartha"; palak paneer; salad. The Family Gyne (R&R, E&O) was visiting, and it was a visit filled with great food and drink, besides all the other intangible but supremely satisfying delights of having an old, valued, trusted and bald friend visit. R made the palak paneer; I now have the recipe.
Day 2: Lamb tagine (made in our new tagine), couscous, chickpeas, salad. The tagine was a gift from the Family Gyne, and R inaugurated it by making the lamb, a triumph of simplicity (in preparation) and harmony (in flavors).
Day 3: Cold cuts, breads, hummus, butter bean dip, cheeses, fruit, salads. This was A at her finest, pulling together a fabulous meal for a hot evening.
Day 4: Too full from a day of eating hot dogs, brats, cotton candy and soda at the Mallards game that The Boy and I went to, I opted for just a salad that A had thoughtfully made to cleanse our palates. The Boy ate this willingly enough while watching Fawlty Towers, but then, when it ended, plaintively asked, "Is that it for dinner?" So I ended up making him an omelet.
Day 5: Strip steak, Tuscan style, grilled medium-rare to medium on charcoal by me; A made mashed potatoes, corn, and salad. This was a smash hit with The Boy, because not only was the food to his liking, but the menu was out of Sport, a book A is currently reading to him.
Day 6: At the Brasserie V, after watching Wall-E, which all of us enjoyed, I had the Steak-Frites washed down with a couple of pints of Fuller's London Pride bitter, A had the Ricotta Gnocchi, and The Boy had the Avocado BLT without avocado, his standard order at the V.
Day 7: Rice, Dal, and cumber raita.
Day 8: Last night, while shoveling down freshly grilled jerk chicken from an excellent recipe in the NYT, accompanied by roast potatoes, rice and cucumber salad, we totted up the damage and agreed that we had literally inverted our old habit of eating simply most days and elaborately occasionally.

Blogging the Brasserie V

A and I have a new-fangled eating out plan that involves more lunches in place of dinners. There used to be a time, about 3 years ago, when we ate lunch out every Tuesday, which was (and is) my afternoon off. This was choked off when I expressed a compulsion to be more collegial with my colleagues at work, where lunching together is a daily ritual that involves all present; the commencement of the parade to the cafeteria is signaled by cries of “Any eaters?” and “Let’s eat!”. There follows about half-an-hour or so of convivial bull-shitting that can run the gamut from splashing about in cultural cross-currents to outright high-dives into political demagoguery, with The Polymath usually assuming the bridge as helmsman of the conversation. (His occasional absences, through vacation or otherwise, are keenly felt.)

I eased myself into the new-old eating-out routine by taking A out to the Brasserie V, which is a wooded re-incarnation of the Relish Deli (which used to be a cozy breakfast haunt and purveyor of hams and cheeses extraordinaire). What they’ve done is take out the entire counter (and its itinerant hams and cheeses) and replace it with a shiny new bar that features an impressive variety of beers, the majority of them Belgian, with many being on tap (14 that I counted). A still larger bottled selection is arrayed under the taps. They have a lunch menu that features one soup-du-jour and a selection of sandwiches, and a dinner menu that has continental offerings that might perhaps best be described as appealing to the discerning beer drinker. Straight-forward pan-searings of chickens and salmons seemed to leap out at one. None of this is meant to be a put-down; I haven’t tasted any of it, and it might well taste fabulous after a beer or three.

We did have lunch, though. I had a half-half order of the soup, which was chili, and the roast beef hot sandwich. The chili was delicious. Even A was impressed by it. They forgot to grill my sandwich but it tasted fine after two beers and samples of four or five other beers, cheerfully provided by the bartender (the service was uniformly neighborly and good-humored). A had an avocado BLT which she had no complaints about (no littote).

As for the beers, I had a tepid- just as it should be- Fullers London Pride for old times’ sake, followed by the Wittekerke, a pleasant and much lighter beer. I also had a half-pint of the Corsendonk brown ale, which was okay. A had a New Glarus Dancing Man, which is a fun wheat. She followed that up with a half-pint of the Wittekerke. Finally, we girded our loins and tried the raspberry lambic- I think it was Lindeman’s- and it was utterly vile. A “girly fruity beer” is one thing, and an abomination is quite another. Girls – and fruits- have their pride, too.

What about that game, huh!

Amidst the brouhaha of disbelief that accompanied Appalachian State University's win over Michigan (see, I'm not entirely ignorant of sport), a key point was lost: this is a fine institution of learning. Also, they have indoor heating.

Bush, Rove, and the bathtub

Grover Norquist, the conservative ideologue who serves as the fountainhead of many of this administration’s domestic policies, likes to quote himself as saying that he doesn’t want to abolish government, but simply reduce it to the size where he can drag it to the bathroom and drown it in the bathtub.
On the second anniversary of the submersion of New Orleans by Hurricane Katrina, it might be time to stop and reflect, once again, on the effect that the Bush-Rove axis has had on the perception of the role of government.
It is simply too easy to dismiss this as an inept administration, and the response to Katrina as symbolic of it. What happened in New Orleans is, I believe, part of a larger picture. Conservative idealogues like Norquist, and his old buddy Karl Rove, are happy to make policy that starves government; the horse is now not only ridden by an unwilling jockey, but is also hobbled. Then, when an occasion demands action that only government can supply, such as response to disaster, its pathetic performance is denounced by everybody as how all government is good for is taking your tax money and buying guns for psychotic postmen with it, and none denounces it louder than the very people who crippled government in the first place.
Now, it may be coincidence that a fool became president and an ideologue his vizier; it would not be the first time. I am not one of those who say that black people do not matter to Bush. (Although I am one of those who say that nobody matters to Bush but his closest buddies, some of whom are pigmented.) Neither do I say that Rove was responsible for the non-response to Katrina. I do say, however, that Rovian policy of starving funds to government agencies diminished government response, Bush’s ineptitude (in the appointment of Brownie, and in the aftermath of Katrina) ruined the public face of government, and what drowned, in consequence, along with New Orleans, was government credibility. Nice for Mr. Norquist, isn’t it?

Herbivores gone wild

Nasty, brutish, but not as short as you might think...I saw an amazing video on YouTube today; it's about 8 minutes long...if you have the time, it's worth it. Pay special attention to the know-it-all in the background.

Naahahahaice!

We're having our windows replaced and the house has been a veritable maelstrom of sawhorses and utility belts, rendering the preparation of nutritious -but delicious- meals a non-starter. In addition, A has a whole new Plan For Budgetary Victory, which involves eating out 6 times a month (as opposed to 6 times a week).
Which is how we found ourselves headed to the Inka Heritage last Friday. This is a place of Peruvian delights that A and I had visited once before with Wonder Boy and Attorney Adorable, following a fundraiser at the High Noon Saloon, early this spring. Being that it's located within a 10 minute walk and given that we loved the food, how come we hadn't gone back again and again? The reason was the slow service; on our last visit, it was close to an hour before we got our food, although it's a testament to how good it was that we ate it in great good humor and loved it all. I don't remember what I ate all those months ago, but I do remember the grilled beef-heart appetizer, which was good. I also remember being struck by what should have been obvious, which was the heavy accent on sea-food, potatoes, and corn, the latter of sizes and varieties that I had not seen nor imagined existed before I saw them here.
A and I tried going back once again, in the early summer with The Boy, but it was too crowded, so we decided then to come back at a later date, early in the evening.
Which is what we did on Friday. The Boy had a chicha morada to drink, which is made from fruits and purple corn; A and I had the house cabernet. All three of us were pleasantly surprised at how good our drinks were.
We asked our waitress to spice up the ceviche that we had ordered as an appetizer, and did she ever. In my opinion, to its advantage. The Boy could not eat very much of it because it "spiced his tongue", but he did profess to like what he did eat. A joined the consensus in agreeing that the ceviche was quite delicious; in my humble opinion, if all the Inka Heritage served was the spicy ceviche, I would still rate it among the top 5 Madison restaurants. This is a dish that deserves to be eaten sitting outside, preferably on a balcony overlooking the sea, with a cold brewed beverage as an accompaniment. The Seagulls restaurant in Pondicherry springs to mind; the Seagulls of two decades ago, that is... on a recent visit to that wild and heedless city, I was warned that it was hang-out for the "local rowdies".
The Boy ordered the arroz con pollo (my memory for Spanish names is weak; I might be making some of this up), which was coriander flavored rice, green in color, with chicken in it. he declared it the best thing he had ever eaten, but he often says that when he eats something that he likes for the first time. Still, he had what he couldn't finish packed up and ate it for two more meals over the weekend. A ate the Cai Cau de mariscos, which was a seafood stew with potatoes in it. She said it was very good, and seemed to be flavored with some spice that had elements of curry powder in it. I had the pescado a lo macho, another sea-food dish with clams, calamari, mussels, crab-legs and fish in it, that was made in a lighter, milder sauce than A's dish, but which went quite well with the steamed white rice that accompanied it.
Later that night, I went out with Sailor Man and Mr Red-Headed League, and learnt a new word... "Naahahahaice!"

But what does it all really mean?

Barry Bonds, we are reliably informed, is a large and well-known person who hits balls around a field with a baseball bat; as it happens, the larger he grows, and the harder he hits them, the better he is known.
Opinion among the cognoscenti is divided right down the middle about whether or not his record of home-runs deserves any respect, being that Mr. Bonds may have juiced himself up on steroids to get this far. In fact, scratch that “may”. Nobody disputes that he did; the dispute is only about whether or not the record counts. Counts in their hearts, that is: because it sure as hell does count for the official record.
And that is what the entire debate is all about. Everyone is asking himself (the askers are almost all male; most females apparently do not have the time for America ’s Pastime) whether or not the record counts for him, personally.
People often say they follow sports religiously, or are fanatics about their team. Here is another religious metaphor for that sporting experience: the record may be official, but does it *really* exist for you? It’s all a matter of personal faith.
Both sides have pretty good arguments, but what does it matter? We’re all going to hell anyway.

Domo Arigato, Wasabi-san!

Last Thursday, after the Inka Heritage was voted out of contention by a coalition comprising of A and The Boy, we visited one of our favorite Madison eateries, the Wasabi on State Street. This campaign was celebrated by the victorious parties by chanting, first, “Wa-sa-bi! Wa-sa-bi!” in the car, and then, as the venue approached, “U-don! U-don!”, leaving the reason for the visit in no doubt.

The Wasabi is my favorite place in Madison for Japanese food. We’ve also eaten at the Edo, which leaves pretty much everything to be desired; and we haven’t yet managed the trip to the Muramoto.

Past visits to the Wasabi with the Boy have usually occurred on weekends and have often involved pre-medication at the Blue Velvet. The latter is, of course, an old haunt of mine and A’s, since the days she lived right behind it on State Street, and I on Morrison Street in the Wil-Mar neighborhood. The thing about the BV is that it has almost nothing going for it except that it’s a quiet place with no TV and friendly service, at least at those times of the evening that A and I went to it and settled ourselves at the end of the bar with our drinks, me with a martini (Bombay Sapphire, not too dry, with olives), and A alternating between a mojito, a margarita, or a side-car. In those early days, when we first met, the BV sessions could feature more than the planned-for single aperitif; on one occasion, we ended up going back to her place after rendering ourselves unfit to drive and eating ice-cream and cashews for dinner.

Needless to say, we could not wait to introduce The Boy to this romantic haunt. I’m not sure if the other customers look at us funny when we order up our usual and a Shirley Temple for him, but we don’t care. We behave ourselves, stick to the single drink plan, and proceed to the Wasabi in reasonably orderly fashion.

I’m glad to report that his chopstick skills are nearly as good as mine, although his palate will still not admit raw fish. But no matter; it’s nothing time won’t cure.

A perfect summer evening

A and I decided to go to Osteria Papavero without much ado on Friday evening.
We started with a poached chicken appetizer. For the entree, she wanted the clam spaghetti but ended up with the Gramigna con Salsiccia, a pasta with sausage ragout, because they ran out (at 6pm). I had the roast quail special. She drank a chianti with hers, I had an Italian pilsner, Moretti (I switched to Bell's Oberon in the next round).
This is the second time, in a row, that the OP has blown my socks off. I had the Polipo in Umido, or octopus in tomato, last time. At this rate, my sock drawer may well be empty before fall. Is this place Madison's best kept secret? How could it be, since it sits right in the middle of the restaurant district? Or did I merely come to this place late, and that too by word from Lethal's mouth? Thank you, dear Lethal. You have made me want to sell my house and move back into the Bellevue, from where I could walk out the lobby of one and into the bar of the other without soiling what remains of my socks. Thanks.
Later, we strolled down to the Orpheum and saw The Simpsons movie. A declared it the best movie she's watched in a while. Certainly the fellow in front of us was enthusiastically appreciative of every plot development. Apu did not feature much at all, nor even Ralph Wiggums or Mr Burns, and those are my favorite characters; despite this, it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, and went a long way in erasing memories of the idiotic Hustle and Flow that we had watched the previous evening.
On the way back, A, now tired and yawning, consented to sit outside at The Local (remote and strangely apt memory...it used to be a comic store back in the day when the ladies of the night still patrolled King Street... Comic Store Guy got a good scene or two in the Simpsons movie) and have a drink with me, before we came back home.

Thair saadam, macha

We had a long day (A, The Boy, and I) on Saturday, putting up the screens for the porch. Not for the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last, was the realization brought upon me that I am simply not a real, slam-bang, honest-to-goodness three-fisted humdinger when it comes to DIY. We took two hours to put up the first screen (of ten total), which, five minutes later, we had to take back down because I walked through it. No bona-fide supraman me. So we downed tools and had lunch at Amy’s Café; I had the Texas Burger with spicy fries and a cold Bell's Oberon; A had the Mediterranean ragbag, and The Boy had, as I recall, a turkey sandwich; we also shared onion rings all around. Set just back from State Street, so it’s close enough to the action (but not too close), and serving up an eclectic mix of well-made fried foods from hither and yon, Amy’s is the perfect place for lunch on a warm (but not hot) sunny afternoon.
Pleasantly bursting with food and goodwill, we napped in the afternoon and worked some more in the evening; but when it came to dinner, we were still full. At this time, when asked what I could rustle up for a light dinner, The Boy suggested yogurt and rice. This put me in the mood to make some thair (pron. THA-yeer) saadam, a much-loved and long-uneaten preparation from college days in Pondicherry. Thair saadam is essentially cooked rice mixed with a few pungent spices (asafetida, dried red hot chillies, mustard seeds and curry leaves), a fried dal or two to lend it some crunch (typically urad and/or chana), cucumber, fresh ginger, green chillies and coriander (and green mango if you have it, I used amchur, or dried mango powder) for a bit o' zap and texture, and, most important, yogurt. NOT non-fat. The simple nature of this dish, which is universally beloved in southern India, means that virtually every home has its own secret recipe which is, naturally, the “best in the world.” In warm and humid Pondy, it was served cold for Sunday lunch with hot spicy fried chicken in the grad student dorms; we wolfed it all down with a bottle of Kalyani lager… ahh! You know, some memories are as indelibly associated with food as others are with smells… to me, the words “hot Sunday afternoon” mean thair saadam, and vice versa.
The Boy, naturally, being flesh of my flesh, loved it, and took some with him to camp on Monday, for lunch. A was not overly impressed; I think it fell somewhere in the general category of “Weird Indian Snacks” for her (other preparations that howl like lost souls in this purgatory of the palate include all milk-based sweets, kheer (a rice pudding), and kulfi, which is the Indian take on ice-cream – except it’s on a stick and has cardamom and almonds in it. Also included are all the salty crunchies that Indians of a certain age love to munch when having a glassy).
“Macha” (also spelled machaan) is the Tamil word for “brother-in-law”; it’s used as an affectionate or pejorative term of address, depending on the tone. It does not refer to the teahouse of the same name on Monroe Street. Although the fellow who owns it might well be someone’s brother-in-law, I doubt if that is its name’s provenance.