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Band on the Run: No Silver Spoon, Just Stainless Steel Please!

by Ember Swift on Aug 22, 2007

Ember Swift, Canadian musician and touring performer, will be keeping us up-to-date on what it’s like to tour a band throughout North America. Having just arrived back from Beijing where she spent three months (check out her “Canadian in Beijing” series), she offers a musician’s perspective on road life. Enjoy!

My roommate Elaine is awesome. She’s from Calgary, AB and a friend of my sister’s who also came to this wedding on her own. She and I are sharing a room because these rooms are unbelievably overpriced, as is the way with most resorts. We also know each other from the number of times that my band and I have passed through Calgary on tour across Western Canada (and she’s been a great support of my music for several years) so, at least we had a bit of background before we had to share this space for several days.

Elaine has these big blue eyes the colour of the ocean and a bright wide smile. She is one of those people who has no problem being blunt and direct – telling it like it is – and she has been amazing to spend time with here. She makes me laugh regularly. I had forgotten how funny she is and the extra flash of entertainment has made the world of difference to me here.

Having a bit of company (who I’m not related to) hasn’t hurt either.

This morning, I called up room service to request a spoon. I had been grocery shopping yesterday to offset the price of food (and absence of vegan options) and so I wanted to eat my cereal here in my room, just quietly bringing in the day with the ocean (and Elaine) as my witness. Lo and behold, there was no cutlery in the room and so I called room service and requested they bring me up a spoon to use.

The guy arrived a few minutes later with a paper napkin wrapped around four plastic spoons.

I took the spoons without a comment and the guy left, but Elaine took one look at the spoons when I had unwrapped them and said “Oh no. That’s insulting. What are we in prison here? They can’t bring us up real spoons!?” She got on the phone to room service and said, quite plainly, “Excuse me, I’m paying good money for this room and you could only bring me a disposable spoon? I’ll be needing a metal one. Thank you.” Two minutes later there was another knock on the door and four metal spoons arrived (we didn’t need four of them, but that’s okay) and they were wrapped in a cloth napkin this time.

Go Elaine!

I mean, we weren’t asking for a silver spoon, just one made out of stainless steel.

So, I ate my cereal with a bit of class – which, in my case, is “working class” and that’s just fine with me.

Another example of how I simply don’t fit in here is that yesterday, after my run, my running pants were wet because I had put them back on after my impromptu jump in the ocean in my underwear. When I got back to the room, I hung up my wet things on the railing and went about my day. When I returned to the room several hours later, the light on my phone was flashing indicating that I had a message.

The message was from the front desk. It said, “Excuse me Ms.Swift, can you please remove the clothing from the railing of your room. It’s a safety hazard.”

Really? What kind of safety is it threatening? There’s an awning under the balconies that covers the dining area, so the potential of falling clothing harming someone is absent. Besides, I actually tied them onto the railing in case the wind picked them up.

Perhaps it’s threatening the safety of having a set of balconies look pristine to all of the beach walkers and ensuring regular bookings at these resort rooms? Or, the safety of having each balcony look alike and unmarred by running gear, thus offsetting the consistent (read: conformist) “look” of the resort? Hhmm, other than those safety issues, I could think of no others.

I laughed out loud when I got the message. I went to check on the clothes that weren’t quite dry and so I left them up for another half hour before bringing them down.

Safety hazard, my ass.

The final and biggest insult here at this hotel was at the moment I checked in. The woman at the front desk told me that they no longer had any rooms available with two double beds and would we mind sharing a king-size bed or else having them roll in a cot for one of us to use? I was shocked. These rooms are listed between $350 and $1250 each and even though we got them through a wholesaler at $240 each, they’re still WAY overpriced in my opinion. We’re splitting it and even then, I don’t generally spend $120 on myself for a place to sleep!

My response to the front desk clerk was a calm and straightforward, “Uhm, no, not at this price! How about you just give us two separate rooms for no extra charge. I’m sure that’s possible.” She looked at me shocked and stammered, “Oh, no, we can’t do that, ma’am. Let me get my manager.”

The manager arrived and I smiled at her and introduced myself. I told her the situation, paused, leaned on the counter and put my head in my hand. I said, “I’ve got all the time in the world, so I’m sure you can figure this out. I’ll just hang out here until one becomes available.” The manager shook my hand, smiled back at me with clear eyes and then bent her heard and pushed some keys in the computer without a word. She then whispered something to her employee, turned and left.

Moments later I had my keys to this ocean front room that is listed at $1250 (robbery prices!) and definitely has two double beds in it. They obviously did have some available, just not in my original price range. Oh, the bureaucracy.

Did I just get a free upgrade? No complaints, of course.

When I told Elaine that story, she laughed with her whole body. It was at that point that I knew we’d have a great time together.

Eating off real metal spoons and staring at the ocean through the clothesline that doubles as our balcony railing.

In Maui, Hawaii.

Big in Japan: The Subtle Art of Eating Blowfish (Part II)

by Matthew Firestone on Aug 22, 2007

This is a continuation of yesterday’s column on the Subtle Art of Eating Blowfish, and the second installment in a three-part series.

The best time to eat fugu is in the winter, when blowfish pack on the pounds to beat the chill. Needless to say, this is also when the toxicity of the blowfish reaches its peak.

Prices rise. Restaurants are packed. Emergency rooms are on stand-by.

Making sure you don’t meet your maker earlier than prescribed is the fugu chef, a man of exacting precision and immeasurable skill. With a calculated flick of the blade, the fugu chef separates the tender flesh from the poisonous internal organs.

To steal a line from a classic Simpsons episode:

‘Poison. Poison. Poison. Tasty Fish.’

Since the late 1950s, only specially-licensed chefs are allowed to serve fugu to the public. Much like brain surgery and rocket science, not just any average Joe (or in this case average Haruki) can slice up a blowfish. Indeed, an aspiring fugu chef must first serve for several years as an apprentice before they are allowed to take the certification test.

Earning your fugu license consists of three parts: a written test, a species identification test and the practical. Although most applicants breeze through the first two parts, less than two-thirds of apprentices are successful in preparing the blowfish for consumption. Thankfully, the examiners will notify the apprentice if he makes a mistake as not to lose any more students than is necessary.

(And you thought passing your calculus test was hard!)

Thankfully, the rigorous training process ensures that eating blowfish is a somewhat risk-free process. As testament, consider the fact that fugu is sometimes sold in supermarkets, so that you can enjoy eating fugu in the comfort of your own home. Then again, if you do get a bad batch, at least you can have the privilege of dying in your bed whilst surrounded by family and friends.

The high-price of fugu also prevents this deadly meal from becoming a daily staple. On average, a few strips of fugu sashimi costs upwards of ¥5000 (US$40), but can sometimes be found for as little as ¥2500 (US$20). With that said, the art of eating blowfish is somewhat more subtle than biting into a Big Mac, so trust me – spring for the better stuff. If you don’t choose to heed my advice, at least make sure that the chef’s license is prominently displayed in the restaurant.

(It should look something like this.)

Of course, even master chefs make mistakes from time to time – fictional or otherwise. In the Japanese smash hit and American cult classic Iron Chef (料理の鉄人), the last episode tragically ends when Chairman Kaga dies from fugu poisoning.

Accidents do happen.

Tune in tomorrow for the final installment in the three piece column on the subtle art of eating blowfish. At that time, I’ll share all of my favorite fugu recipes with all of you budding chefs out there in cyberspace. Bon appetite!

Check out the third and final installment of The Subtle Art of Eating Blowfish here.

** Special thanks to Flickr user itchys for their picture of the tora-fugu stamp **

Highest and Lowest Life Expectancies around the Globe (USA takes dismal 42nd place)

by Neil Woodburn on Aug 22, 2007

When I lived as an expat in Prague, I felt that I lived in a truly unhealthy environment. With all the cigarette smoke, fatty foods, beer drinking, and coal smoke that constantly surrounded me, I couldn’t wait to get my body back to healthy Los Angeles.

Well, as it turns out, America really isn’t all that much better. A recent study has revealed that people in a jaw-dropping 41 countries have higher life expectancies than those in the USA (and no, the Czech Republic is not one of them). This is quite a tumble from 20 years ago when America stood rather proudly at 11th place. Now, even people in countries like Jordan and Guam are living longer lives than most Americans.

A number of factors have naturally contributed towards this demise, with the greatest killer being obesity. Nearly 30% of American adults are considered overweight. Yikes.

So in case you are looking to extend the old ticker, you might want to click on the jump link below to check out the top ten countries with the highest life expectancies. And, of course, since we here at Gadling value the health of our readers, we’ve also included the bottom of the list as well so that you can be sure to avoid these countries.

LONGEST LIVED
• Andorra, 83.5 years
• Japan, 82.0 years
• Macau, 82.0 years
• San Marino, 81.5 years
• Singapore, 81.5 years
• Hong Kong, 81.4 years
• France, 80.4 years
• Australia, 80.3 years
• Sweden, 80.3 years
• Switzerland, 80.3 years
(#42, United States, 77.9 years)

SHORTEST LIVED
• Swaziland, 34.1 years
• Zambia, 36.6 years
• Angola, 36.7 years
• Liberia, 38.1 years
• Zimbabwe, 39.0 years
• Lesotho, 39.5 years
• Sierra Leone, 39.7 years
• Malawi, 40.9 years
• Mozambique, 41.4 years
• Afghanistan, 42.5 years

Big in Japan: The Subtle Art of Eating Blowfish

by Matthew Firestone on Aug 21, 2007

In the 18th century, the famous Japanese poet Yosa no Buson expressed his love for eating blowfish in this simple but elegant haiku:

I cannot see her tonight.
I have to give her up
So I will eat fugu.

Like the great poets of old and new, Buson is no different in that he yearned for a woman that was not his love. However, in the great tradition of finding comfort in food, he instead turns to fugu (??, blowfish) in order to mend his broken heart.

Indeed, there is perhaps no Japanese art as subtle and beautiful as that of eating blowfish. Some people swear by the tea ceremony. Others prefer Zen Buddhism. For me however, it’s blowfish, the deadliest of delicacies.

A famous Japanese story tells the tale of three men, who prepared a dish of fugu but were afraid to taste it out of fear of death. Driven to the point of despair, the wisest amongst them serves the dish to a beggar in order to test its potency. Later, when the men return to find that the beggar is still alive, they breathe a sigh of relief, and immediately dine on the fugu.

Like most Japanese folk tales, trickery and deceit are ultimately vanquished by wisdom and craft. This particular tale being no different, the beggar secretly hides away the stew hoping that the three men would eat it first. After seeing that they were alive and well, the wise beggar retires to the back streets, and eats his fugu with peace of mind.

This of course brings about the question: why exactly is fugu so deadly?

Blowfish packs a lethal punch in the form of tetrodotoxin, an extremely potent neurotoxin that paralyzes its victims while they are still conscious. To put things into perspective, this means that you are fully aware as your throat closes, your lungs deflate and drift slowly into death’s arms.

There is no known cure.

Of course, Japan is a country of safety and order, so thankfully the majority of deaths occur when untrained people catch and prepare the fish, accidentally poisoning themselves in the process. The most dangerous culprit is the liver, which is regarded as the tastiest morsel of the blowfish. If you’re lucky, the liver will contain only enough poison to numb the palette and raise the adrenaline. If you’re unlucky however, the liver will contain enough poison to kill you ten times over.

Of course, Japan is also a country of pride and honor, which is way blowfish liver (though illegal) is one of the most coveted of meals. In 1975, the famous Kabuki actor and ‘Living National Treasure’ Bandou Mitsugorou VIII requested four servings of liver from a fugu chef in Kyoto. Unable to refuse the request of someone of such an elevated stature, the chef served the livers to Bandou Mitsugorou VIII.

He died just minutes after – with his pride and honor intact of course.

Although illegal in Europe and all but a handful of restaurants in America, the subtle art of eating blowfish is still very much alive in modern Japan. Not surprisingly, eating fugu with a bunch of crazy companions is something that just sort of happens after spending too much time in Japan. It’s equal parts stupidity and peril, with a healthy dash of self-reflection and humility thrown in.

And yes, before you post comments regarding my culinary background, I have in fact eaten fugu, and I will most likely eat it again.

(In case you’re wondering, I did in fact survive with my nervous system intact).

Click here for Part II of the Subtle Art of Eating Blowfish.

Across Northern Europe: Authentic Belgian Beer

by Brook Silva-Braga on Aug 20, 2007

Belgium is home to the EU, many very fine restaurants, important art and beautiful architecture. But it is also a tiny country with a giant selection of excellent beer and if you like beer and live in New York (where Belgian beers are fairly scarce and cost close to $10 with tip) you can easily justify a trip to Belgium simply to drink beer.

If I’m being honest I’ll admit to having done that. If I’m being really honest, I’ll admit to having done it twice.

I don’t like to drink alone so I met a friend this weekend for a survey of lambics and trappists. I arrived in Brussels a day before him and decided to sample some tourist attractions. Having already visited the beer museum (and the EU headquarters, thank-you-very-much) I scampered to the Cantillon brewery. The guidebook gave the address of a street just off the map and when I arrived the sign was so small (and so not in English) that I nearly turned around.

When Paul Cantillon started making beer in Anderlecht more than a century ago there were heaps of traditional breweries in Brussels but today there is just the one. Cantillon is fighting the good fight in part by giving tours of its 19th century production behind the subtly marked door at Rue Gheude 56.

I graduated university and have been to several breweries and have a pamphlet here on the process but making beer is still quite a mystery to me. But what became clear on my Cantillon tour is that the beer makers of the world have sold out to new techniques and changing public desires, leaving Cantillon nearly alone in defending the ancient traditions. They do so with the stubbornness of someone selling a product they know almost no one wants but insist they should.

“A true lambic is never sweet,” the guide/brewer told us. “But the masses want sweet. And since there is no protection in Belgium for the traditional methods, you cannot tell by the label if you are drinking a true lambic or they simply call it a lambic because people know the name.”

One principle difference – I’m cheating from the pamphlet here – is the type of fermentation. Cantillon uses “spontaneous fermentation” meaning they simply pour the wort (the base liquid of mashed up grains) into a big, flat pan and it let it cool overnight. Instead of inoculating it with yeast cultures they let the special Belgian air do it naturally. This is apparently how all beer was made until Pasteur got creative in the 1860’s.

It’s at this point – if I’m being honest again – that my thoughts generally turn to the beer tasting and I fail to learn how to make beer. So soon after they poured small glasses of the Gueuze and Rose de Gambrinus. Gueuze is a mix of one, two and three year old lambic; Rose de Gambrinus is a fruit beer with fresh raspberries (not fake syrup!) in two year old lambic.

The Cantillon, as promised, is not a sweet beer. It’s a bit like eating Wheaties when you’ve grown up on Frosted Flakes. But the taste is complex and different and worth a try. I bought two bottles and had them ready when my friend arrived that night.

I explained to him the different types of fermentation and the use of the traditional methods. I told him how all the Chimay and Leffe and Kwak and La Couffe and Rochefford and Palm and Duvel we were about to drink wasn’t how the monks made it 500 years ago. This seemed to weigh much more heavily on me than him.

“I don’t know, I like the Belgian beers,” he said. “However they’re making it seems good to me.”

And with that we went out into Brussels and bought pitas for dinner and drank a giant Chimay Grand Reserve on the church steps of the Grand Place. The bottle was $4.50 at the grocery store outside town instead of $18 at the bar in New York.

I’m in Amsterdam now with another friend and the two bottles of authentic Cantillon beer are chilling in her refrigerator. I can report that they are heavy bottles which I’ve carried diligently through three cities and two countries in hopes of finding someone appreciative of their authenticity. My friend is German and favors Becks Green Lemon beer when Smirnoff Ice isn’t readily available. Wednesday I’m going to Denmark, and I’m afraid the Gueuze and Rose de Gambrinus will be joining me.

###

Previously on Across Northern Europe:

Brook Silva-Braga is traveling northern Europe for the month of August and reuniting with some of the people he met on the yearlong trip which was the basis of his travel documentary, A Map for Saturday. You can follow his adventure in the series, Across Northern Europe.