This evening I shall drink naught but tea. Specifically, Iron Guanyin (鐵觀音 'tit kun yam') brewed in a squatty globe I-Hsing stoneware pot (宜興茶壺 'yi heng chaa wu') with a lovely bamboo motif (竹形 'juk ying'). No whisky at all. I have stopped dropping by the Oxxy regularly on a Saturday night, because smoking two or three more pipes than one should with people screaming at the telly is not, strictly speaking, conducive to mental health, and leaves the mouth feeling like something died violently in there when one wakes up.
Instead, I will have lots of tea, and be wired to the tits.
I shall probably have interesting dreams.
[One really cannot have a conversation with people who are enjoying a sports game; their minds are affected by the flickering lights on screen and energetic behaviour of the athletes, they quiver and spasm in sync with events, twitching and drooling, and are given to startlingly inane statements like "did you see that play", "I parked my car", "oop ack", and "I'm voting for Trump". There is no logic to it. Then they scratch their privates, and giggle sickeningly.
It's like dealing with room full of teenagers coming off a Ritalin jag.]
There are nearly three dozen tea pots in this apartment.
Most of them purple sand (紫砂 'ji saa') I-Hsing.
Yes, I am a bit obsessive; it's good for you.
The Oxxy is still one of my favourite haunts, but given a choice between no conversation at all surrounded by very loud junior executives, OR no conversation at all while the sound of gentle snoring emanates from my apartment mate's bedroom, barely audible, you can easily understand why the latter appeals.
Occasionally I hear thumps as she attempts to fight a mosquito.
If I light snow pear incense (雪梨香 'suet-lei heung') or agar wood (aquilaria sinensis: 沈香 'jam heung'), the thumps will continue, and be augmented be swearing, because that will drive any mosquito out of my quarters into hers. She tastes far sweeter to the beasties than I do, and has not yet realized that I have a wickedness which lets me keenly enjoy her frustration.
Thump, thump, thump, gerdammittall!
If you want to avoid mosquitoes, you should strive to become a middle-aged white pipe-smoker, and have a Chinese American non-smoking female apartment mate.
She has a mosquito net in there, but they still attempt their assaults.
I have not put up my mosquito net in years.
In addition to a multiplicity of tea pots, I also have numerous tea bowls.
Some porcelain ones made by master potter Hsin-chuen Lin (林新春), both rabbits' fur glaze (兔毫 'tou hou') and oil-spot (油點 'yau tim'; 天目 'tin muk'), as well as favourite items by other potters.
[On second thought, maybe I will head down to the Oxxy, after whatever sporting event has been well and done for an hour or so. The septic overflow may have ebbed by then.]
If I am still up by two A.M., there is a good likelihood that I will smoke a bowlfull of Orlik's Golden Sliced, a flake with a soft enough smell that she will not notice it while she sleeps, but which is extremely satisfying.
Whether it drives mosquitoes away I do not yet know.
But I will probably find out.
ADDENDUM
Years ago one of my favourite green teas (清茶 'jing chaa'; 綠茶 'lok chaa') was Pi Lo Chun (碧螺春 'pik lok chun'; "jade snail springtime"), along with Lung Ching (龍井 'long jeng'; "dragon wells") and MaoFeng (毛峰 'mou fung'; "hairy peak"). Nowadays I tend toward somewhat darker brews, often hydrating during the day with several cups of Pu Er (普洱 'pou nei'), and having Assam (阿薩姆 'aa saat mou') and Ceylon (錫蘭紅 'sek laan hong') in the evening. But among my favourites since the beginning are semi-ferments (半發酵的 'pun faat gaau de') like Wu Yi (武夷 'mou yi'; "warlike tribals") or Oolong (烏龍 'wu long'), as well as fun oddities like the Hairy Crab King (毛蟹王 'mou haai wong') and White Fuzz (白毫 'paak hou').
As a youngster, I would often drink Earl Grey (格雷伯爵茶 'gaak leui baak juk chaa'), but that no longer suits me much.
On days off, I will often have a cup of Hong Kong Style Milktea (港式奶茶 'gong sik naai chaa'). Before lighting up my pipe.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Tea. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tea. Show all posts
Saturday, May 21, 2016
Tuesday, December 01, 2015
ROYAL MILK TEA, JAPAN AND HOLLAND
Fifty years ago Lipton in Japan, as a marketing campaign geared towards a demographic whose appreciation of English things was shaped by Beatrix Potter, crime novels, men in skirts, and the sheer exoticism of the British ruling classes as represented by the characters in P. G. Wodehouse's lighthearted upper-crustian romps, started adding the word "royal" to everything. Cakes, biscuits, candies. Including a tea beverage.
What could be more British than a spot of tea?
Especially with milk and sugar.
Meanwhile, severe Dutch protestants (Calvinists, also known as 'Dutch Reformed') had found a work-around for their prohibition on coffee, tea, and alcohol. Just add milk, and call the result "healthy". The result was "Reform koffie" (coffee made by pouring boiling milk over the grounds), and "Reform thee". In order to extract the full value and benefit, one actually simmered the forbidden ingredient in generous proportion with milk. Obviously this was good for you, as it was still milk, really, and not drunk for pleasure.
Severe Dutch Protestants never do anything for pleasure.
That bottle of gin? Digestive medicine.
Spirits and cream?
Healthy!
Reform thee is the same as what the Japanese now know as 'royal milk tea' (ロイヤルミルクティー "roiyaru mirukutī"), and very similar to Hong Kong style milk tea. Add green cardamom pods and it becomes chai.
ROYAL MILK TEA
Best method is to first boil a little water (about one cup) with a heaping tablespoonful of loose Assam tea leaves for a few minutes, then add one and a half cup milk, and slowly bring it back to a boil. Slow-simmer for about a minute longer (or till sufficiently reddish-dark), then pour through a strainer into porcelain cups. Should be enough for two.
The milk tempers the bitterness of strong tea.
And, if you're Dutch, is nourishment.
Add sugar to taste.
Just remember: the Japanese drink this for pleasure, unlike the sober-minded Dutch, who seriously drink it only for their health.
French colonials will add rum from Martinique.
Both pleasure AND nourishment!
Bavoroise.
Personally I think that the Japanese have the right idea.
NOTE: There are several bottled products also called 'Royal Milk Tea', but they should largely be avoided, as they are no more than weak low-quality tea with milk and sugar. And though Lipton invented the term, the concept ran away from them. Good milk tea is strong, not sugary.
Certainly not some pallid 'put-you-to-sleep' beverage.
The whole point of tea is to perk you up.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
What could be more British than a spot of tea?
Especially with milk and sugar.
Meanwhile, severe Dutch protestants (Calvinists, also known as 'Dutch Reformed') had found a work-around for their prohibition on coffee, tea, and alcohol. Just add milk, and call the result "healthy". The result was "Reform koffie" (coffee made by pouring boiling milk over the grounds), and "Reform thee". In order to extract the full value and benefit, one actually simmered the forbidden ingredient in generous proportion with milk. Obviously this was good for you, as it was still milk, really, and not drunk for pleasure.
Severe Dutch Protestants never do anything for pleasure.
That bottle of gin? Digestive medicine.
Spirits and cream?
Healthy!
Reform thee is the same as what the Japanese now know as 'royal milk tea' (ロイヤルミルクティー "roiyaru mirukutī"), and very similar to Hong Kong style milk tea. Add green cardamom pods and it becomes chai.
ROYAL MILK TEA
Best method is to first boil a little water (about one cup) with a heaping tablespoonful of loose Assam tea leaves for a few minutes, then add one and a half cup milk, and slowly bring it back to a boil. Slow-simmer for about a minute longer (or till sufficiently reddish-dark), then pour through a strainer into porcelain cups. Should be enough for two.
The milk tempers the bitterness of strong tea.
And, if you're Dutch, is nourishment.
Add sugar to taste.
Just remember: the Japanese drink this for pleasure, unlike the sober-minded Dutch, who seriously drink it only for their health.
French colonials will add rum from Martinique.
Both pleasure AND nourishment!
Bavoroise.
Personally I think that the Japanese have the right idea.
NOTE: There are several bottled products also called 'Royal Milk Tea', but they should largely be avoided, as they are no more than weak low-quality tea with milk and sugar. And though Lipton invented the term, the concept ran away from them. Good milk tea is strong, not sugary.
Certainly not some pallid 'put-you-to-sleep' beverage.
The whole point of tea is to perk you up.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, February 13, 2015
TEA IN BRITAIN
The Brits, as everyone knows, are peculiar. No more so than in their appreciation for tea. They founded an empire and despoiled the world to make sure they got some, their tea-swilling starts before dawn and ends long after dark. It's probably what makes life in a wet grey island bearable, especially as their food is downright unbelievable.
Because I drink an awful lot of tea myself, I can sort of understand what they're going through. I too am swacked to the gills by the time the sun breaks through the fog, never far from a cup for the next several hours, and will often prolong the day long past twilight with another spot.
Or several more cups.
I usually drink tea in three forms.
1) Black tea, plain and strong, without sugar or milk.
2) Chinese restaurant tea, which is often a mix of jasmine tea (香片 'heung pin'), cheap grades of Oolong (烏龍), and either Suisien (水仙茶 'seui sin chaa') or Pu Erh (普洱茶 'pou nei chaa').
3) Hong Kong style milk tea; a strong tannic brew modulated with sweetened condensed milk.
[港式奶茶 ('gong sik naai cha'): Hong Kong style milk-tea. Also called silk stocking tea (絲襪奶茶 'si mat naai cha'), because the cloth straining bag traditionally used ends up looking like an old lady's belabbered pantyhose, all droopy and draggy, and quite obscene. The Cantonese are known for calling a spade a spade. The tea leaves used for this product often combine strong Indian or Ceylon with a soupcon of lychee black tea (荔枝紅茶 'lei ji hong chaa') for fragrance, as well as keemun (祁門紅茶 'kei mun hong chaa') or Pu Erh (普洱). It should be heung heung gwat gwat (香香滑滑). Lapsang souchong (拉山小種) is not suitable, as it is too smoky.]
English people, however, do it differently.
There are TWO accepted methods for making tea in England.
The preferred method is dumping a large teabag in a mug, inundating it with boiling water, then splashing in some milk. This is what people do when they're in a hurry and want to jones-up pdq.
Add two lumps of sugar; sheer heaven.
Almost like it's a sunny day.
[Yorkshire tea, by Taylors of Harrogate, is excellent for this purpose.]
The second method involves a large porcelain teapot, often flowery, with a heaping spoonful of tea leaves for each cup it holds as well as one extra (for the pot). Crucially, the pot must be warmed up first. My father would place it upside-down on top of the kettle in lieu of a lid, whereas I simply rinse it out with boiling water before adding the leaves.
Always bring the pot to the kettle. Always.
Never the other way around.
Which is heresy.
[Suitable brands, if you cannot find a selection of loose-leaf black in your town, would be Twinings, available everywhere there's a Safeway or a Piggly Wiggly, and Typhoo.]
The true British peculiarity is not the tea. It's what they serve with it.
No, not ridiculous little finger sandwiches, sliced cake, or scones with clotted cream and fruit preserves; those are all fine, especially the hot scones. Easy to understand and love.
Bread. And either butter, OR jam. Not both. Never both. Having both is heresy, and will be punished by stern looks of disapproval.
Being a Yank, I am of course thoroughly used to stern looks of disapproval, as that is the preferred method whereby the world communicates with my kind. It does not bother me.
I shall have both butter AND jam.
If I choose.
I'm actually rather fond of buttered toast and Oxford marmalade.
AFTER WORD
Masala chai, made with green cardamom, fennel, and ginger, is also a noteworthy variation. But seeing as both the owner and the frightful Dravidian she-camel who worked there of the long since defunct Indian restaurant where I was the weekend cashier for over a decade both agreed that as a Gaura I didn't know beans about tea (vociferously!),
I have a bit of a mental block about it.
It's all right, I suppose.
American interpretations of chai, made at places like Starbucks or similar coffee joints, are not worth drinking.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Because I drink an awful lot of tea myself, I can sort of understand what they're going through. I too am swacked to the gills by the time the sun breaks through the fog, never far from a cup for the next several hours, and will often prolong the day long past twilight with another spot.
Or several more cups.
I usually drink tea in three forms.
1) Black tea, plain and strong, without sugar or milk.
2) Chinese restaurant tea, which is often a mix of jasmine tea (香片 'heung pin'), cheap grades of Oolong (烏龍), and either Suisien (水仙茶 'seui sin chaa') or Pu Erh (普洱茶 'pou nei chaa').
3) Hong Kong style milk tea; a strong tannic brew modulated with sweetened condensed milk.
[港式奶茶 ('gong sik naai cha'): Hong Kong style milk-tea. Also called silk stocking tea (絲襪奶茶 'si mat naai cha'), because the cloth straining bag traditionally used ends up looking like an old lady's belabbered pantyhose, all droopy and draggy, and quite obscene. The Cantonese are known for calling a spade a spade. The tea leaves used for this product often combine strong Indian or Ceylon with a soupcon of lychee black tea (荔枝紅茶 'lei ji hong chaa') for fragrance, as well as keemun (祁門紅茶 'kei mun hong chaa') or Pu Erh (普洱). It should be heung heung gwat gwat (香香滑滑). Lapsang souchong (拉山小種) is not suitable, as it is too smoky.]
English people, however, do it differently.
There are TWO accepted methods for making tea in England.
The preferred method is dumping a large teabag in a mug, inundating it with boiling water, then splashing in some milk. This is what people do when they're in a hurry and want to jones-up pdq.
Add two lumps of sugar; sheer heaven.
Almost like it's a sunny day.
[Yorkshire tea, by Taylors of Harrogate, is excellent for this purpose.]
The second method involves a large porcelain teapot, often flowery, with a heaping spoonful of tea leaves for each cup it holds as well as one extra (for the pot). Crucially, the pot must be warmed up first. My father would place it upside-down on top of the kettle in lieu of a lid, whereas I simply rinse it out with boiling water before adding the leaves.
Always bring the pot to the kettle. Always.
Never the other way around.
Which is heresy.
[Suitable brands, if you cannot find a selection of loose-leaf black in your town, would be Twinings, available everywhere there's a Safeway or a Piggly Wiggly, and Typhoo.]
The true British peculiarity is not the tea. It's what they serve with it.
No, not ridiculous little finger sandwiches, sliced cake, or scones with clotted cream and fruit preserves; those are all fine, especially the hot scones. Easy to understand and love.
Bread. And either butter, OR jam. Not both. Never both. Having both is heresy, and will be punished by stern looks of disapproval.
Being a Yank, I am of course thoroughly used to stern looks of disapproval, as that is the preferred method whereby the world communicates with my kind. It does not bother me.
I shall have both butter AND jam.
If I choose.
I'm actually rather fond of buttered toast and Oxford marmalade.
AFTER WORD
Masala chai, made with green cardamom, fennel, and ginger, is also a noteworthy variation. But seeing as both the owner and the frightful Dravidian she-camel who worked there of the long since defunct Indian restaurant where I was the weekend cashier for over a decade both agreed that as a Gaura I didn't know beans about tea (vociferously!),
I have a bit of a mental block about it.
It's all right, I suppose.
American interpretations of chai, made at places like Starbucks or similar coffee joints, are not worth drinking.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, October 27, 2014
PURPLE CLAY STONEWARE (紫砂壺) AND METICULOUSLY BREWED TEA (功夫茶)
At lunch around late-afternoon I ate a little more than I had intended.
A basket of open pork dumplings , a small saucer of black bean sauce spareribs and a steamed northern style bun, plus a couple of sesame balls filled with red bean paste. Then I lit up a pipe and spent a while wandering around -- past the volley ball court next to Hang Ah Alley, down to the First Chinese baptist Church on the corner of Waverly and Sacramento, then finally over to Portsmouth Square -- before returning home.
Suffice to say I am still a wee bit bloated.
Really shouldn't eat so much.
[Open pork dumplings: 豬肉燒賣 'chu yiuk siu mai'; minced pork in a pasta cup, steamed. Black bean sauce spareribs: 豉汁蒸排骨 'si jap jing pai gwat'; chopped spareribs with a little garlic, ginger, and mashed salted black beans for a savoury touch, steamed till done in a shallow bowl. Steamed northern style bun: 饅頭 'maan tau'; A plain wheat dough steamed bun which many Mandarin speakers customarily eat in lieu of rice. Sesame balls: 煎堆 'jin deui'; a glutinous rice dough ball with a yummy filling, rolled in sesame seeds and deep fried. Red bean paste: 紅豆沙 'hong dau saa'; adzuki bean mashed with sugar and oil, rather like a distant relative of marzipan, used for sweets.]
The place where I ate is a hole-in-the-wall, but it's a friendly local food-stop. Cheap, clean, good. Honest people who work hard, make decent food, and provide a welcoming place to sit down and eat. They also do three extremely affordable plate lunches (steamed chicken, or spareribs, or pork cake, with a mound of rice, a serving of veggies, and a bowl of old fire soup (老火湯 'lou fo tong') for four bucks; five with coffee or tea.
Very limited seating, because it is a small place.
I go there three or four times a month.
Though it is small, it is great.
It's just like home.
富祥點心 ('FUK CHEUNG DIM SAM')
NEW FORTUNE DIM SUM
815 Stockton Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
I have a taste for their food, and I enjoy being treated like a human being. They're very decent folks. Lunch was a pleasure. So was the smoke afterwards: McClelland's No. 24 Virginia, a seven year old vintage, puffed contemplatively in a Charatan.
As I mentioned, still a little plump.
So I've fixed myself some strong hairy crab king in a purple sand pot that has a bamboo motif.
[Hairy crab king: 毛蟹王茶 'mou haai wong chaa'; a mild Oolong-style tea from Anxi (安溪 'on kai') in Fujian, which is possessed of a delightful fragrance (清清香香的花味 'ching ching heung heung dik faa mei'). Purple sand pot: 紫砂壺 'ji saa wu'; a tiny teapot made of i-Hsing clay (宜興坭 'yi hing nei'). Such products are stone-ware fired, around twelve hundred degrees Celsius in an oxidizing atmosphere. Bamboo motif: 竹形 'juk ying'; I-Hsing teapots are often decoratively shaped or incised, this particular one is a textured squatty globe with sculpted spout, handle, and lid-knob. I have a number of similar pots which are short and round of body, with bamboo-shaped handles and spouts, and a bamboo leaf or knob finials. 紫砂竹形茶壺: 'ji saa juk ying chaa wu'. They all make lovely tea.]
And consequently I am wired to the tits.
Just about oscillating so hepped.
Splendid, forsooth!
Now, you might think that one small pot of tea cannot possibly achieve that, unless it's some potent leaf. But if you are familiar with "mastered effort tea" (功夫茶 'gung fu chaa'), you will have realized that I filled the pot over three quarters full of hairy crab, and have added hot water several times after the first cleansing wash.
I am on my fifth bowl right now. Washing the leaves rinsed off dust and fragments, and opened the leaves. The first real steeping was slightly more than a minute, each subsequent steeping a little longer than the last. All of them tasted different, but the underlying fruitiness of the furry crustacean despot comes through as a signatory quality. It is a beautiful evening that glows intensely golden, with mild vibrating at the edges of sight.
My mind and my senses are awake, with great clarity.
Yep. Entirely and totally whacked.
Zipped to the eye-balls.
This is good.
宜興陶 ('YI HING TOU') I-HSING POTTERY
Purple sand teapots have been a happy factor for over half of my life, even when I was dirt-poor and living in North Beach. At present I own about thirty of them (some are boxed away, don't know how many), and aside from the bamboo motif items there is also a little lobed squash with leaves curling cunningly around the body, a flat inscribed flying saucer shape, and, deserving of particular mention, a large pot in the shape of an archaic bronze rice weight, with seal-script calligraphy on one side.
The so-called purple sand clay from Yixing has been used for tea utensils for nearly ten centuries now, with the oldest surviving examples in museums dated back to the late Ming. Understandably, utilitarian objects made of a breakable material do not have great survivability.
By the middle of the Ching dynasty period, many scholar-literati developed a fondness for them, having noted their unique aesthetic and charm, and having discovered that a well-made pot absorbed both flavour and colour over several years of use, to the point where an empty pot would still echo the fragrance of previous brews.
There are actually three particular types of Yi Xing clay to mention, namely "purple sand" (紫砂 'ji saa'), which yields a purple potting clay (紫泥 'ji nei'); "crimson sand" (朱砂 'jyu saa'), which elsewhere is the term for mercury sulphide (cinnabar) but in this context refers to a soil stratum with an extraordinarily high iron oxide content; and "tempered clay" (鍛泥 'duen nei'), coloured with minerals for a varied range of effects.
What sets the types apart initially is the iron.
That is what makes it "purple sand".
The finest potting material results from crushing and grinding or milling the mined clay, then meticulously sifting it to a minutely fine grit. It is then moistened, kneaded, pressed -- nowadays a vacuum process is used to remove air -- and rested, after which it is further graded before it finally ends up in the hands of a master potter. Such clay is seldom if ever turned on a wheel; instead it is shaped by hand, smoothed, carved and molded with tools, then finally dried before firing.
Perfect clay, fired at a higher temperature, yields vessels with a clear ring when tapped. Low quality wares will sound dull or tinny instead, and are often thicker-walled to compensate for their lack of material integrity and strength.
[As an indication of particularity, before spending any money on such a teapot one must feel the inside rim of the mouth for roughness or sharp edges, and the inner surface for unevenness. The interior should be inspected for irregular scrape marks where tools were used inexpertly, the hole or holes to the spout should be well-made and not ragged. Tap the pot, and also weigh it in the hand. Lastly try it out with plain water; it must pour in an even stream without any hindrance, not drip or drool. A well-made pot does not have teeth that collect remnants, nor inordinate weight for its capacity.]
Yes, these things are collectible. Yet despite the ridiculously high prices for prize pieces, one can truly doubt that a rich vulgarian has sufficient subtlety or discernment to exemplify the "quaint elegance" (古樸雅趣 'gu-pok ngaa ceui') that "hallmarks the literati eye" (文人藝術的眼光 'man-yan ngaai-sut dik ngaan-gwong').
In key ways, a good teapot is like a good person.
It should have the same characteristics.
Honesty, decency, integrity.
簡簡，實實。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A basket of open pork dumplings , a small saucer of black bean sauce spareribs and a steamed northern style bun, plus a couple of sesame balls filled with red bean paste. Then I lit up a pipe and spent a while wandering around -- past the volley ball court next to Hang Ah Alley, down to the First Chinese baptist Church on the corner of Waverly and Sacramento, then finally over to Portsmouth Square -- before returning home.
Suffice to say I am still a wee bit bloated.
Really shouldn't eat so much.
[Open pork dumplings: 豬肉燒賣 'chu yiuk siu mai'; minced pork in a pasta cup, steamed. Black bean sauce spareribs: 豉汁蒸排骨 'si jap jing pai gwat'; chopped spareribs with a little garlic, ginger, and mashed salted black beans for a savoury touch, steamed till done in a shallow bowl. Steamed northern style bun: 饅頭 'maan tau'; A plain wheat dough steamed bun which many Mandarin speakers customarily eat in lieu of rice. Sesame balls: 煎堆 'jin deui'; a glutinous rice dough ball with a yummy filling, rolled in sesame seeds and deep fried. Red bean paste: 紅豆沙 'hong dau saa'; adzuki bean mashed with sugar and oil, rather like a distant relative of marzipan, used for sweets.]
The place where I ate is a hole-in-the-wall, but it's a friendly local food-stop. Cheap, clean, good. Honest people who work hard, make decent food, and provide a welcoming place to sit down and eat. They also do three extremely affordable plate lunches (steamed chicken, or spareribs, or pork cake, with a mound of rice, a serving of veggies, and a bowl of old fire soup (老火湯 'lou fo tong') for four bucks; five with coffee or tea.
Very limited seating, because it is a small place.
I go there three or four times a month.
Though it is small, it is great.
It's just like home.
富祥點心 ('FUK CHEUNG DIM SAM')
NEW FORTUNE DIM SUM
815 Stockton Street
San Francisco, CA 94108
I have a taste for their food, and I enjoy being treated like a human being. They're very decent folks. Lunch was a pleasure. So was the smoke afterwards: McClelland's No. 24 Virginia, a seven year old vintage, puffed contemplatively in a Charatan.
As I mentioned, still a little plump.
So I've fixed myself some strong hairy crab king in a purple sand pot that has a bamboo motif.
[Hairy crab king: 毛蟹王茶 'mou haai wong chaa'; a mild Oolong-style tea from Anxi (安溪 'on kai') in Fujian, which is possessed of a delightful fragrance (清清香香的花味 'ching ching heung heung dik faa mei'). Purple sand pot: 紫砂壺 'ji saa wu'; a tiny teapot made of i-Hsing clay (宜興坭 'yi hing nei'). Such products are stone-ware fired, around twelve hundred degrees Celsius in an oxidizing atmosphere. Bamboo motif: 竹形 'juk ying'; I-Hsing teapots are often decoratively shaped or incised, this particular one is a textured squatty globe with sculpted spout, handle, and lid-knob. I have a number of similar pots which are short and round of body, with bamboo-shaped handles and spouts, and a bamboo leaf or knob finials. 紫砂竹形茶壺: 'ji saa juk ying chaa wu'. They all make lovely tea.]
And consequently I am wired to the tits.
Just about oscillating so hepped.
Splendid, forsooth!
Now, you might think that one small pot of tea cannot possibly achieve that, unless it's some potent leaf. But if you are familiar with "mastered effort tea" (功夫茶 'gung fu chaa'), you will have realized that I filled the pot over three quarters full of hairy crab, and have added hot water several times after the first cleansing wash.
I am on my fifth bowl right now. Washing the leaves rinsed off dust and fragments, and opened the leaves. The first real steeping was slightly more than a minute, each subsequent steeping a little longer than the last. All of them tasted different, but the underlying fruitiness of the furry crustacean despot comes through as a signatory quality. It is a beautiful evening that glows intensely golden, with mild vibrating at the edges of sight.
My mind and my senses are awake, with great clarity.
Yep. Entirely and totally whacked.
Zipped to the eye-balls.
This is good.
宜興陶 ('YI HING TOU') I-HSING POTTERY
Purple sand teapots have been a happy factor for over half of my life, even when I was dirt-poor and living in North Beach. At present I own about thirty of them (some are boxed away, don't know how many), and aside from the bamboo motif items there is also a little lobed squash with leaves curling cunningly around the body, a flat inscribed flying saucer shape, and, deserving of particular mention, a large pot in the shape of an archaic bronze rice weight, with seal-script calligraphy on one side.
The so-called purple sand clay from Yixing has been used for tea utensils for nearly ten centuries now, with the oldest surviving examples in museums dated back to the late Ming. Understandably, utilitarian objects made of a breakable material do not have great survivability.
By the middle of the Ching dynasty period, many scholar-literati developed a fondness for them, having noted their unique aesthetic and charm, and having discovered that a well-made pot absorbed both flavour and colour over several years of use, to the point where an empty pot would still echo the fragrance of previous brews.
There are actually three particular types of Yi Xing clay to mention, namely "purple sand" (紫砂 'ji saa'), which yields a purple potting clay (紫泥 'ji nei'); "crimson sand" (朱砂 'jyu saa'), which elsewhere is the term for mercury sulphide (cinnabar) but in this context refers to a soil stratum with an extraordinarily high iron oxide content; and "tempered clay" (鍛泥 'duen nei'), coloured with minerals for a varied range of effects.
What sets the types apart initially is the iron.
That is what makes it "purple sand".
The finest potting material results from crushing and grinding or milling the mined clay, then meticulously sifting it to a minutely fine grit. It is then moistened, kneaded, pressed -- nowadays a vacuum process is used to remove air -- and rested, after which it is further graded before it finally ends up in the hands of a master potter. Such clay is seldom if ever turned on a wheel; instead it is shaped by hand, smoothed, carved and molded with tools, then finally dried before firing.
Perfect clay, fired at a higher temperature, yields vessels with a clear ring when tapped. Low quality wares will sound dull or tinny instead, and are often thicker-walled to compensate for their lack of material integrity and strength.
[As an indication of particularity, before spending any money on such a teapot one must feel the inside rim of the mouth for roughness or sharp edges, and the inner surface for unevenness. The interior should be inspected for irregular scrape marks where tools were used inexpertly, the hole or holes to the spout should be well-made and not ragged. Tap the pot, and also weigh it in the hand. Lastly try it out with plain water; it must pour in an even stream without any hindrance, not drip or drool. A well-made pot does not have teeth that collect remnants, nor inordinate weight for its capacity.]
Yes, these things are collectible. Yet despite the ridiculously high prices for prize pieces, one can truly doubt that a rich vulgarian has sufficient subtlety or discernment to exemplify the "quaint elegance" (古樸雅趣 'gu-pok ngaa ceui') that "hallmarks the literati eye" (文人藝術的眼光 'man-yan ngaai-sut dik ngaan-gwong').
In key ways, a good teapot is like a good person.
It should have the same characteristics.
Honesty, decency, integrity.
簡簡，實實。
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 08, 2013
LAPSANG SOUCHONG TEA AND OTHER TASTES
Winston Churchill was fond of it; it reminded him of his mis-spent youth.
The substance is Lapsang souchong tea (拉山小種 or 拉普山小種), a smoke-cured beverage that originated in the mountains of Fujian province in China, which many white men like, and most Chinese people rather dismiss.
Caucasians and Chinese have had differing tea preferences ever since the Western world discovered the fragrant leaf.
Part of that divergence in taste has to do with trade lines and supplies.
Tea loses much of its flavour over time, and during the age of sail the conditions to which the leaf was subjected in transit did nothing to alleviate that situation, but rather made it worse. Naturally people who lived farthest from tea-growing areas tended towards the more heavily fermented and processed product, and equally naturally, jazzing-up the drink creatively became customary. Hence the Tibetans adding rancid yak butter, onions, and salt, while the English treated it as a pleasant variation on the sweetened hot-milk beverages with which they were familiar. Americans, as is well known, had been long so unfamiliar with tea that they invented all manner of herbal muck as substitutes, and in any case preferred coffee or methamphetamines (so-called 'diet pills') for stimulation.
Many of the teas regarded highly in the English-speaking world are scarcely known in the Chinese environment, though they are grown there: Keemun (祁門茶), Lapsang-Souchong (拉山茶), and Golden Tippy Yunnan (滇紅茶), to name but three.
Flavoured teas are universally regarded as depraved, or leastways dubious.
Lichee black tea (荔枝紅茶) is strictly for white-folks, and few Chinese will even touch the stuff. There are other aromatized teas, but they are similarly regarded. Jasmine tea is the exception.
[Keemun: 祁門紅茶 ('kei-mun hong chaa') from Anhui (安徽 'on-wui') in eastern China, much preferred for expensive English blends. Golden tippy Yunnan: 金芽滇紅 ('kam ngaa din hong') and 滇紅茶 ('din hong chaa') is a black tea developed during the latter half of the twentieth century, primarily for export. Lichee tea: 荔枝紅茶 ('lei-ji hong chaa') is black tea with lichee fragments added, hence a curiosity for export, fine for ice-tea.
Jasmine tea: 茉莉花茶 ('mut-lei faa cha'), also called 香片 ('heung pin': fragrant slivers) comes traditionally from Fujian province (福建省 'fuk-gin saang'), and is very popular among southern Chinese. Its taste is tangy and slightly astringent.]
Jasmine tea utilizes green or slightly fermented leaves placed in the vicinity of fresh jasmine flowers for four or five hours, which will permeate the tea with the fragrance of the little white blossoms. This may be done several times, the tea being re-dried after each iteration. The finest quality Jasmine tea will often have very little if any inclusion of dried jasmine, relying instead on the process to imbue the desired flavour. Lesser qualities may have a higher proportion of white petals if only to show that jasmine was indeed used. It is commonly a component of the typical Chinese restaurant blend (a mixture of Jasmine tea, lower grade Oolong or Shui Hsien, and a touch of Pu-Erh for digestive benefit). Like Oolong, the higher grades fetch enormous prices.
[Oolong: 烏龍 ('wu-lung': dark dragon), a semi-fermented Fujianese tea also produced in a number of other areas, of which there is a great variety of types and qualities, some of which are quite expensive. Shop around and find one that particularly appeals to you, then acquire a small purple sand teapot (宜興茶壺 'yi-heng chaa-wu', or 紫砂茶壺 'ji-saa chaa-wu'), and indulge. Brewed strong (gungfu style: 功夫茶式 'gung fu chaa sik'; also called 'old folks tea': 老人茶 'lou yan chaa'), it can be a wonderful exploration.
Shui Hsien (水仙茶 'seui-sin chaa': water fairy tea; the daffodil is called water fairy, btw) is a medium-ferment from Fujian province that has a nectar-like fragrance at the higher grades, a toasty smell at the lower end. Pu-Erh: 普洱茶 ('pou nei chaa'), a fermented and oxidized pressed tea from Yunnan province (雲南 'wan-naam') reputed to be healthful and good for the digestion. You will most often encounter it at dim sum restaurants.]
Lapsang souchong is not thus. By Chinese standards, it is too heavy, and anything worth drinking should NOT be cured over smoke. That may also explain why the Chinese usually prefer Cognac over Scotch, inter alia.
拉山小種 LAPSANG SOUCHONG
In Chinese stores, Lapsang souchong is more commonly called 正山小种 ('jeng-saan siu-jong'), rather than the geographically more exact 拉普山小種 ('laahp pou saan siu-jong'). The term 'souchong' (小种 siu-jong: lesser planting, minor cultivation, sub-variety) applies to the lower leaves, and almost always means a coarser and less delicate product, without the fragrance and sweetness of the buds.
[Buds: one tip and one or two small leaflets, plucked before the heat of mid-day; pekoe (白毫 white fuzz, pronounced 'pek-ho' in Fujian dialect, 'baak hou' in 'Cantonese', so named in reference to the slight remnant of downy filaments still adhering after harvest).]
What distinguishes Lapsang souchong from all other teas is that the leaves are speed-dried over smouldering pine wood fires, thus contributing terpeneols specific to coniferous plants. The result is a remarkable beverage, the taste and smell of which have been likened to both dried fruits as well as, remarkably, barbecued meat and Latakia tobacco.
It is frequently included in Russian Caravan blends, along with Keemun (see mention above), with, in the versions found in many franchise coffee shops, a minor addition of something lighter in the Oolong or Shui Hsien category.
By itself, Lapsang souchong may be described as wine-like, semi-robust, slightly resinous, sweet, perfumy, and smoky.
It goes well with cured salmon.
Or kippers for breakfast.
Altogether lovely.
Some pipe and cigar smokers regard it as the perfect beverage to accompany their indulgence, as it pairs harmoniously with both the fruitiness of the fully fermented tobaccos in flakes or cheroots, as well as the tarry quality of their favourite stinky leaf -- Latakia.
This blogger is not thus. I like Lapsang souchong, but not nearly as much as my apartment mate, a nonsmoker who despaired of ever finding that one brand of favoured Russian Caravan which disappeared from the shelves, and since has developed a remarkable fondness for the straight leaf unblended.
What I prefer while I'm engaged in a pipe is Oolong (gently soothing), jasmine (mouth-cleansing), or even plain red (black) tea. Often I will simply pour some boiling water over a bag of Lipton (立頓紅茶 'laahp-deun hong chaa'). Four or five of those during the day make life so much brighter, and the mind inestimably clearer.
I often describe my mental state as whacked to the gills.
That's only a slight exaggeration.
I start the day with one or two cups of strong coffee. After coming out of the bath, I have an infusion of hairy crab king (毛蟹王茶 'mou-haai wong cha', a greenish Oolong-type much liked in Japan).
All of this gets me up to speed. Everything else is maintenance.
But I might end the day with a bowl of lapsang souchong.
My pots and my favourite goiwun are well-stained.
[Goiwun: (蓋碗 cover + bowl), a handleless cup for brewing, with a lid and a deep saucer. One can drink directly from it, canting the lid slightly, or while with the forefinger holding the lid firm and keeping the leaves within, tip it over another bowl or several small cups to pour. It is also called a chaa-jung (茶盅).]
The number of pipes smoked in a day does not correlate to the quantity of tea that will be swilled. These two habits are independent of each other, their happy overlap merely fortuitous.
Obviously I recommend acquiring both for a well-balanced life.
But your relatives may disagree.
Oh well.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The substance is Lapsang souchong tea (拉山小種 or 拉普山小種), a smoke-cured beverage that originated in the mountains of Fujian province in China, which many white men like, and most Chinese people rather dismiss.
Caucasians and Chinese have had differing tea preferences ever since the Western world discovered the fragrant leaf.
Part of that divergence in taste has to do with trade lines and supplies.
Tea loses much of its flavour over time, and during the age of sail the conditions to which the leaf was subjected in transit did nothing to alleviate that situation, but rather made it worse. Naturally people who lived farthest from tea-growing areas tended towards the more heavily fermented and processed product, and equally naturally, jazzing-up the drink creatively became customary. Hence the Tibetans adding rancid yak butter, onions, and salt, while the English treated it as a pleasant variation on the sweetened hot-milk beverages with which they were familiar. Americans, as is well known, had been long so unfamiliar with tea that they invented all manner of herbal muck as substitutes, and in any case preferred coffee or methamphetamines (so-called 'diet pills') for stimulation.
Many of the teas regarded highly in the English-speaking world are scarcely known in the Chinese environment, though they are grown there: Keemun (祁門茶), Lapsang-Souchong (拉山茶), and Golden Tippy Yunnan (滇紅茶), to name but three.
Flavoured teas are universally regarded as depraved, or leastways dubious.
Lichee black tea (荔枝紅茶) is strictly for white-folks, and few Chinese will even touch the stuff. There are other aromatized teas, but they are similarly regarded. Jasmine tea is the exception.
[Keemun: 祁門紅茶 ('kei-mun hong chaa') from Anhui (安徽 'on-wui') in eastern China, much preferred for expensive English blends. Golden tippy Yunnan: 金芽滇紅 ('kam ngaa din hong') and 滇紅茶 ('din hong chaa') is a black tea developed during the latter half of the twentieth century, primarily for export. Lichee tea: 荔枝紅茶 ('lei-ji hong chaa') is black tea with lichee fragments added, hence a curiosity for export, fine for ice-tea.
Jasmine tea: 茉莉花茶 ('mut-lei faa cha'), also called 香片 ('heung pin': fragrant slivers) comes traditionally from Fujian province (福建省 'fuk-gin saang'), and is very popular among southern Chinese. Its taste is tangy and slightly astringent.]
Jasmine tea utilizes green or slightly fermented leaves placed in the vicinity of fresh jasmine flowers for four or five hours, which will permeate the tea with the fragrance of the little white blossoms. This may be done several times, the tea being re-dried after each iteration. The finest quality Jasmine tea will often have very little if any inclusion of dried jasmine, relying instead on the process to imbue the desired flavour. Lesser qualities may have a higher proportion of white petals if only to show that jasmine was indeed used. It is commonly a component of the typical Chinese restaurant blend (a mixture of Jasmine tea, lower grade Oolong or Shui Hsien, and a touch of Pu-Erh for digestive benefit). Like Oolong, the higher grades fetch enormous prices.
[Oolong: 烏龍 ('wu-lung': dark dragon), a semi-fermented Fujianese tea also produced in a number of other areas, of which there is a great variety of types and qualities, some of which are quite expensive. Shop around and find one that particularly appeals to you, then acquire a small purple sand teapot (宜興茶壺 'yi-heng chaa-wu', or 紫砂茶壺 'ji-saa chaa-wu'), and indulge. Brewed strong (gungfu style: 功夫茶式 'gung fu chaa sik'; also called 'old folks tea': 老人茶 'lou yan chaa'), it can be a wonderful exploration.
Shui Hsien (水仙茶 'seui-sin chaa': water fairy tea; the daffodil is called water fairy, btw) is a medium-ferment from Fujian province that has a nectar-like fragrance at the higher grades, a toasty smell at the lower end. Pu-Erh: 普洱茶 ('pou nei chaa'), a fermented and oxidized pressed tea from Yunnan province (雲南 'wan-naam') reputed to be healthful and good for the digestion. You will most often encounter it at dim sum restaurants.]
Lapsang souchong is not thus. By Chinese standards, it is too heavy, and anything worth drinking should NOT be cured over smoke. That may also explain why the Chinese usually prefer Cognac over Scotch, inter alia.
拉山小種 LAPSANG SOUCHONG
In Chinese stores, Lapsang souchong is more commonly called 正山小种 ('jeng-saan siu-jong'), rather than the geographically more exact 拉普山小種 ('laahp pou saan siu-jong'). The term 'souchong' (小种 siu-jong: lesser planting, minor cultivation, sub-variety) applies to the lower leaves, and almost always means a coarser and less delicate product, without the fragrance and sweetness of the buds.
[Buds: one tip and one or two small leaflets, plucked before the heat of mid-day; pekoe (白毫 white fuzz, pronounced 'pek-ho' in Fujian dialect, 'baak hou' in 'Cantonese', so named in reference to the slight remnant of downy filaments still adhering after harvest).]
What distinguishes Lapsang souchong from all other teas is that the leaves are speed-dried over smouldering pine wood fires, thus contributing terpeneols specific to coniferous plants. The result is a remarkable beverage, the taste and smell of which have been likened to both dried fruits as well as, remarkably, barbecued meat and Latakia tobacco.
It is frequently included in Russian Caravan blends, along with Keemun (see mention above), with, in the versions found in many franchise coffee shops, a minor addition of something lighter in the Oolong or Shui Hsien category.
By itself, Lapsang souchong may be described as wine-like, semi-robust, slightly resinous, sweet, perfumy, and smoky.
It goes well with cured salmon.
Or kippers for breakfast.
Altogether lovely.
Some pipe and cigar smokers regard it as the perfect beverage to accompany their indulgence, as it pairs harmoniously with both the fruitiness of the fully fermented tobaccos in flakes or cheroots, as well as the tarry quality of their favourite stinky leaf -- Latakia.
This blogger is not thus. I like Lapsang souchong, but not nearly as much as my apartment mate, a nonsmoker who despaired of ever finding that one brand of favoured Russian Caravan which disappeared from the shelves, and since has developed a remarkable fondness for the straight leaf unblended.
What I prefer while I'm engaged in a pipe is Oolong (gently soothing), jasmine (mouth-cleansing), or even plain red (black) tea. Often I will simply pour some boiling water over a bag of Lipton (立頓紅茶 'laahp-deun hong chaa'). Four or five of those during the day make life so much brighter, and the mind inestimably clearer.
I often describe my mental state as whacked to the gills.
That's only a slight exaggeration.
I start the day with one or two cups of strong coffee. After coming out of the bath, I have an infusion of hairy crab king (毛蟹王茶 'mou-haai wong cha', a greenish Oolong-type much liked in Japan).
All of this gets me up to speed. Everything else is maintenance.
But I might end the day with a bowl of lapsang souchong.
My pots and my favourite goiwun are well-stained.
[Goiwun: (蓋碗 cover + bowl), a handleless cup for brewing, with a lid and a deep saucer. One can drink directly from it, canting the lid slightly, or while with the forefinger holding the lid firm and keeping the leaves within, tip it over another bowl or several small cups to pour. It is also called a chaa-jung (茶盅).]
The number of pipes smoked in a day does not correlate to the quantity of tea that will be swilled. These two habits are independent of each other, their happy overlap merely fortuitous.
Obviously I recommend acquiring both for a well-balanced life.
But your relatives may disagree.
Oh well.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, February 09, 2013
HELLO KITTY IN BONDAGE VILE
I'm not quite sure how it happened, but at the most recent meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club, both Hello Kitty and The Whore of Babylon were referenced. I shall blame Erik Stokkebye for this. And no, this post has nothing to do with pipes, pipe-smoking, pipe-tobacco, or Eric Stokkebye's four new blends that celebrate the history of his family's involvement with the tobacco industry, though I will state that the 1931 flake is both exceptionally pleasant as well as high quality. It will appeal to smokers of both refined and depraved sensibilities, being rather old-fashioned and English in style.
A product that you can imagine yourself smoking on a rainy day somewhere in the north of England, in a town of modest size.
Most members of the club are men, there are some women.
Many of us are past our thirties, some are not.
A good cross-section of people.
And Hello Kitty.
No, the Japanese Anglo-phile Feline is NOT among our ranks. But she could be. Pipe-smoking veers towards a somewhat British mode. Probably because of the many fine British things that pipe-smokers will likely also like: Scotch and Irish Whiskey, Indian curry, French cuisine, and fine Italian leathers.
And Hello Kitty, as is well known, lives just outside of London with her loving family, and enjoys apple pies and afternoon tea.
Her father, by the way, smokes a pipe.
I'm sure she loves how it smells.
HOLY CRAP, A TALKING DOG!
As many of my friends know, mention of Hello Kitty is a frequent occurrence in my circles, one which I am not responsible for -- we're all legally adult, and responsible for our own safety -- but which nevertheless happens more often in my immediate ambit than I am comfortable with. And, given that so much merchandise has been marketed with Hello Kitty's charming image thereupon, I have occasionally expressed bafflement that none of it is geared toward pipe-smokers.
Are we not human? Do we not deserve Hello Kitty pipeholders, tobacco pouches, pipe racks, storage cabinets, tampers, matches, pipe lighters, polishing cloths, tobacco jars, pipe sleeves, and Hello Kitty man-purses with room for six pipes, two tins of tobacco, a tamper, and cleaners?
In December, my friends Mark and Robin gifted me a Hello Kitty.
I have no idea why. It's not like I've mentioned her much.
Hello Kitty is currently examining some of my briars.
There's something acquisitive about her.
Fortunately, she's small.
Controllable.
If Hello Kitty smoked a pipe, I fear that she would lean toward aromatics, as her favourite fragrances are strawberries, apples, and very likely also melon. Clean fresh essences which, unfortunately, are also used in 'perfumes' aimed at a young female audience.
And please note that grown-ups use more discrete smells.
Something with vetiver, or perhaps citrus.
A faint wiff of gardenias.
We desperately need a Hello Kitty aftershave.
Anyhow, we we're discussing Erinmore Flake, and I remarked that it was actually a good pressed Virginia and Air-cured melange, with an unfortunate Hello Kitty top-dressing, that recalled nothing so much as the Whore of Babylon. Within seconds, I had to defend both of those assertions.
How did I know about Hello Kitty perfumes?
What experiences did I have with the Whore of Babylon?
I had to admit that I have had no personal exposure to the Whore of Babylon, as she passed away before my time, and as for the Hello Kitty unguents and bath products, I had sniffed them at the Sanrio store down on Stockton near Market Street several years ago. Purely out of intellectual curiosity. A friend had once mentioned that when she was an adolescent she had briefly dallied with Hello Kitty personal fragrances.
I have no idea why she told me, but people seem encouraged to bring up their Hello Kitty reminiscences when talking to me. I really hope that it isn't because I remind them of Hello Kitty's dad (a pipesmoker with a sense of humour), or her grandfather (who is very wise, and likes to paint).
Perhaps it's my Londonian air?
Or my animal-like radiance.
And charming whiskers.
Can't be my smell.
All of that must however have prompted one of the other members to tell a tale about two horses and a greyhound who entered a drinking establishment, and the bar-keep asked them how their day had been.
The first horse complained that he had been pulling heavy loads all day, his back ached, boy was he tired, how about a pint of Guinness. The second horse said that he had been at the races when a bee stung him, and he ended up bucking his jockey, stampeding into the stands, injuring five children on a school outing, and whacking his knee severely. He hurt, his knee was badly swollen, he could really use a stiff Scotch. No ice.
The dog said "well, I was chasing this electric bunny...."
Whereupon both horses shouted:
"Holy crap, a talking dog!!!"
On second thought, Hello Kitty should join the pipe club. She'd find it quite as lively and cheerful as she herself is, and she would meet new people and make many friends. There might even be apple pie, which she loves.
We could also make a pot of tea.
We're very English, in some ways.
For your information, I only had one glass of port.
It goes well with both flakes and burleys.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
A product that you can imagine yourself smoking on a rainy day somewhere in the north of England, in a town of modest size.
Most members of the club are men, there are some women.
Many of us are past our thirties, some are not.
A good cross-section of people.
And Hello Kitty.
No, the Japanese Anglo-phile Feline is NOT among our ranks. But she could be. Pipe-smoking veers towards a somewhat British mode. Probably because of the many fine British things that pipe-smokers will likely also like: Scotch and Irish Whiskey, Indian curry, French cuisine, and fine Italian leathers.
And Hello Kitty, as is well known, lives just outside of London with her loving family, and enjoys apple pies and afternoon tea.
Her father, by the way, smokes a pipe.
I'm sure she loves how it smells.
HOLY CRAP, A TALKING DOG!
As many of my friends know, mention of Hello Kitty is a frequent occurrence in my circles, one which I am not responsible for -- we're all legally adult, and responsible for our own safety -- but which nevertheless happens more often in my immediate ambit than I am comfortable with. And, given that so much merchandise has been marketed with Hello Kitty's charming image thereupon, I have occasionally expressed bafflement that none of it is geared toward pipe-smokers.
Are we not human? Do we not deserve Hello Kitty pipeholders, tobacco pouches, pipe racks, storage cabinets, tampers, matches, pipe lighters, polishing cloths, tobacco jars, pipe sleeves, and Hello Kitty man-purses with room for six pipes, two tins of tobacco, a tamper, and cleaners?
In December, my friends Mark and Robin gifted me a Hello Kitty.
I have no idea why. It's not like I've mentioned her much.
Hello Kitty is currently examining some of my briars.
There's something acquisitive about her.
Fortunately, she's small.
Controllable.
If Hello Kitty smoked a pipe, I fear that she would lean toward aromatics, as her favourite fragrances are strawberries, apples, and very likely also melon. Clean fresh essences which, unfortunately, are also used in 'perfumes' aimed at a young female audience.
And please note that grown-ups use more discrete smells.
Something with vetiver, or perhaps citrus.
A faint wiff of gardenias.
We desperately need a Hello Kitty aftershave.
Anyhow, we we're discussing Erinmore Flake, and I remarked that it was actually a good pressed Virginia and Air-cured melange, with an unfortunate Hello Kitty top-dressing, that recalled nothing so much as the Whore of Babylon. Within seconds, I had to defend both of those assertions.
How did I know about Hello Kitty perfumes?
What experiences did I have with the Whore of Babylon?
I had to admit that I have had no personal exposure to the Whore of Babylon, as she passed away before my time, and as for the Hello Kitty unguents and bath products, I had sniffed them at the Sanrio store down on Stockton near Market Street several years ago. Purely out of intellectual curiosity. A friend had once mentioned that when she was an adolescent she had briefly dallied with Hello Kitty personal fragrances.
I have no idea why she told me, but people seem encouraged to bring up their Hello Kitty reminiscences when talking to me. I really hope that it isn't because I remind them of Hello Kitty's dad (a pipesmoker with a sense of humour), or her grandfather (who is very wise, and likes to paint).
Perhaps it's my Londonian air?
Or my animal-like radiance.
And charming whiskers.
Can't be my smell.
All of that must however have prompted one of the other members to tell a tale about two horses and a greyhound who entered a drinking establishment, and the bar-keep asked them how their day had been.
The first horse complained that he had been pulling heavy loads all day, his back ached, boy was he tired, how about a pint of Guinness. The second horse said that he had been at the races when a bee stung him, and he ended up bucking his jockey, stampeding into the stands, injuring five children on a school outing, and whacking his knee severely. He hurt, his knee was badly swollen, he could really use a stiff Scotch. No ice.
The dog said "well, I was chasing this electric bunny...."
Whereupon both horses shouted:
"Holy crap, a talking dog!!!"
On second thought, Hello Kitty should join the pipe club. She'd find it quite as lively and cheerful as she herself is, and she would meet new people and make many friends. There might even be apple pie, which she loves.
We could also make a pot of tea.
We're very English, in some ways.
For your information, I only had one glass of port.
It goes well with both flakes and burleys.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, January 14, 2013
ON THE IMPORTANCE OF CIVILIZED STANDARDS
What's utterly essential is the tea tray. One should always have a well-set tea-tray awaiting one when one comes home, or arranged somewhere near the desk or bookcases. Perhaps to the right of the computer.
I wish everyone knew this.
When I was a teenager in Valkenswaard, during summer I would take my tea-tray out to the courtyard, and spend many happy hours reading with a pot of tea, my own special cup and saucer (blue and white porcelain), a glass of water, and the various smokers requisites. Assam or Lapsang Souchong, Kipling, Saki, or Nabokov, and a tin of Balkan tobacco for the pipe.
And, often, one of the cats.
Unlike my high-school classmates and various other human associates, the cats did not object to the fragrance of fine tobacco, and seemed to actually like it.
Felines are clearly superior beings.
One can only look forward to the day when they reveal themselves.
As our brilliant alien overlords.
Miao.
At Fweebink (my affectionate nickname for the computer company at which I worked from 1993 to 1997) I had a somewhat larger tea-tray. Two large ceramic pots, plus various mugs, spoons, and creamers. There were four other people there who liked a spot of tea during the day. Very civilised.
During the years that I worked at the Indian restaurant I kept a lacquer tray with a canister of tea and a celadon pot in the wine cabinet, which I would pull out and charge-up during my evening shifts. The beer cabinet on top of which the pens, receipts, and calculator lived, kept blasting hot air straight into my kneecaps, and consequently I would've been heat-prostrate and dehydrated without the help of tea. Yes, there is tea at Indian restaurants, but it's masala chai.
Not really what's required.
Besides....
Aj kaun chai benaiha-hai? Who made the tea today?
Voh badbuwalli untni? That foul-smelling she-camel?
Toh mera yeh nahi pinahoga. Then I will not drink it.
The foul-smelling she-camel insisted that no one else knew how to prepare masala chai (black tea, green cardamom, fennel seeds, cinnamon stick, water, sugar, milk), and daily threw out the perfectly excellent chai made by Jaghir. Hah, stupid Panjabi, what does HE know about tea? Nearly as little as the gaura!
Throughout the years a number of other women who worked at the Indian place also insisted that neither Panjabis nor gaura-log knew anything about making tea.
One hesitated to drink anything that they had brewed.
I miss Jaghir. The last time I saw him was in the mid-nineties, before he went on vacation for two months. When he came back, it was discovered at Kennedy Airport that he had not one but over a dozen passports with him, not all of them with his name, though every document had his handsome photo in the front.
Last I heard he had opened an American Restaurant in Jullundur.
A very capable gentleman, our Jaghir.
Good chai.
At the company that got sold back in November, where I worked for over twelve years, there were several handsome mugs on my credenza, in between tins of tobacco and various canisters. I drank between four and eight cups of black or jasmine per day.
A man has to stay hydrated, don't you know.
Counting beans is serious business.
The ideal tea-tray has a teapot, a special cup & saucer, and a tin of pipe tobacco. Even if you're a non-smoker. The pipe tobacco lends an air of gentility and old fashioned attitude to the entire thing. Think of it as an olla podrida.
Non-smokers can open it occasionally and smell the fragrant tobacco within (Rattrays is always a good choice), and fondly remember an uncle or an aunt who liked a pipe in late afternoon. Perhaps while reading the San Francisco Examiner, back when it was still a real newspaper with a large number of scribblers and a crime reporter.
Crimes haven't disappeared since then. But the Examiner is now less than a shadow of itself. The Chronicle is somewhat better, but newspapers are no longer what they used to be. Hardly anyone reads nowadays in any case.
There's still tea. Black tea. And pipe tobacco.
Both are far better than Starbucks.
Much healthier, too.
If you spent all morning working or studying, you will want to talk a walk sometime between noon and one o'clock, just to get the circulation going again.
The tea-tray will be waiting for you when you return.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I wish everyone knew this.
When I was a teenager in Valkenswaard, during summer I would take my tea-tray out to the courtyard, and spend many happy hours reading with a pot of tea, my own special cup and saucer (blue and white porcelain), a glass of water, and the various smokers requisites. Assam or Lapsang Souchong, Kipling, Saki, or Nabokov, and a tin of Balkan tobacco for the pipe.
And, often, one of the cats.
Unlike my high-school classmates and various other human associates, the cats did not object to the fragrance of fine tobacco, and seemed to actually like it.
Felines are clearly superior beings.
One can only look forward to the day when they reveal themselves.
As our brilliant alien overlords.
Miao.
At Fweebink (my affectionate nickname for the computer company at which I worked from 1993 to 1997) I had a somewhat larger tea-tray. Two large ceramic pots, plus various mugs, spoons, and creamers. There were four other people there who liked a spot of tea during the day. Very civilised.
During the years that I worked at the Indian restaurant I kept a lacquer tray with a canister of tea and a celadon pot in the wine cabinet, which I would pull out and charge-up during my evening shifts. The beer cabinet on top of which the pens, receipts, and calculator lived, kept blasting hot air straight into my kneecaps, and consequently I would've been heat-prostrate and dehydrated without the help of tea. Yes, there is tea at Indian restaurants, but it's masala chai.
Not really what's required.
Besides....
Aj kaun chai benaiha-hai? Who made the tea today?
Voh badbuwalli untni? That foul-smelling she-camel?
Toh mera yeh nahi pinahoga. Then I will not drink it.
The foul-smelling she-camel insisted that no one else knew how to prepare masala chai (black tea, green cardamom, fennel seeds, cinnamon stick, water, sugar, milk), and daily threw out the perfectly excellent chai made by Jaghir. Hah, stupid Panjabi, what does HE know about tea? Nearly as little as the gaura!
Throughout the years a number of other women who worked at the Indian place also insisted that neither Panjabis nor gaura-log knew anything about making tea.
One hesitated to drink anything that they had brewed.
I miss Jaghir. The last time I saw him was in the mid-nineties, before he went on vacation for two months. When he came back, it was discovered at Kennedy Airport that he had not one but over a dozen passports with him, not all of them with his name, though every document had his handsome photo in the front.
Last I heard he had opened an American Restaurant in Jullundur.
A very capable gentleman, our Jaghir.
Good chai.
At the company that got sold back in November, where I worked for over twelve years, there were several handsome mugs on my credenza, in between tins of tobacco and various canisters. I drank between four and eight cups of black or jasmine per day.
A man has to stay hydrated, don't you know.
Counting beans is serious business.
The ideal tea-tray has a teapot, a special cup & saucer, and a tin of pipe tobacco. Even if you're a non-smoker. The pipe tobacco lends an air of gentility and old fashioned attitude to the entire thing. Think of it as an olla podrida.
Non-smokers can open it occasionally and smell the fragrant tobacco within (Rattrays is always a good choice), and fondly remember an uncle or an aunt who liked a pipe in late afternoon. Perhaps while reading the San Francisco Examiner, back when it was still a real newspaper with a large number of scribblers and a crime reporter.
Crimes haven't disappeared since then. But the Examiner is now less than a shadow of itself. The Chronicle is somewhat better, but newspapers are no longer what they used to be. Hardly anyone reads nowadays in any case.
There's still tea. Black tea. And pipe tobacco.
Both are far better than Starbucks.
Much healthier, too.
If you spent all morning working or studying, you will want to talk a walk sometime between noon and one o'clock, just to get the circulation going again.
The tea-tray will be waiting for you when you return.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 16, 2012
EVEN MORE REASONS TO MAKE CONTACT WITH EARTH
I've been looking at the empty tobacco tins stacked in a corner of the teevee room. Without my even noticing, they've added up a bit since the last grand clearout of smoker's detritus. Yes, I am a slob.
Or perhaps I enjoy having the evidence that I've been up to something all around.
My apartment mate is a very patient woman.
Well, oblivious too, or she NEVER would have given up on my handsome ever-so-likeable self more than two years ago. Be that as it may, it explains why I like having her here, and why despite having gotten over me and my very considerable charms (stop snickering, dammit), she still likes living with me.
I am a known quantity.
So is she.
She doesn't smoke.
EMTPY TINS
Dunhill 965, enameled tin. A pleasant middle-of-the-road English mixture much suited to middle-aged men who play golf or know Aramaic.
I am neither.
Dunhill Elizabethan Mixture (also enameled tin). Good lord what was I thinking. This product is FAR too eccentric for me.
Dunhill Royal Yacht (enameled). Vile. Possibly degenerate. Suitable for teenage boys.
Dunhill Early Morning Pipe (enameled). A extremely pleasant product. Goes well with strong black tea, spot of milk and sugar. Very civilized.
Wessex Red Virginia Flake. Nice. reminds me of childhood. More innocent times, in any case.
Wessex Brown Virginia Flake. Early adolescence, when I was still pearled with dew.
Gawith Hogarth Ennerdale. What nasty men smoke.
Orlik Golden Sliced. There's that childlike innocence again. Chasing butterflies, sunlight, tall grasses.
MacBaren Virginia Flake. Old ladies, and anise pastilles.
Samuel Gawith Full Virginia Flake. Possibly a slightly degenerate teenage period, but also something that elderly gentlemen can smoke without fear of being molested.
Samuel Gawith St. James Flake. I am become a small dark-haired miss, and there is no one in the house right now. I shall swan about naked.
Samuel Gawith Golden Glow. A lighter Virginia tobacco, springlike. Straw-blonde hair and a lovely summer dress. La la la.
Samuel Gawith Squadron Leader. I say, Pip, Jerry's over the channel.
Samuel Gawith Commonwealth Full Strength Mixture. Let us now sing the songs that students sing in Latin, while taunting the other colleges.
Samuel Gawith 1792 Flake. Something for my more depraved moments. The reason why you haven't read about them in the newspaper is because I am very discreet.
Rattrays Hal O' The Wynd. A spring breeze, an innocent damsel, and amazing self-control. Stay a gentleman at all times, stay a gentleman at all times, stay a gentleman....
Rattrays Old Gowrie. Badger roaming the fields and forest glades.
Rattrays Marlin Flake. Dammit, I need to kill a fish. No, I am not in Hemingway mode.
Rattrays Brown Clunee. Stylish in my skirt and cardigan, and very demure.
Erinmore Mixture. Anything more suggestive of birching would be hard to imagine.
Greg Pease Abingdon. I want a ham sandwich and a glass of sherry.
Esoterica Tabaciana Dunbar. A downtown alley near the TransAmerica Pyramid, late summer. And crows.
Germain's Medium Flake. Young men at twilight.
Germain's Brown Flake. Horny young men, beer at midnight.
Germain's Plum Cake Mixture. Depravities involving unguents. Secretly enjoyable.
Germain's Eighteen Twenty Smoking Mixture. A calm rational man, whom you would enjoy meeting over tea and cookies.
And lastly, Davidoff Flake Medallions. Amazingly happy-making.
I have a rich inner-life.
Possibly an alternative reality.
When the zombie-apocalypse comes, women will flock around me, because as a pipe-smoker I represent stability and common sense.
The living dead will stay far away.
And we will have cups of tea, with milk and sugar.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Or perhaps I enjoy having the evidence that I've been up to something all around.
My apartment mate is a very patient woman.
Well, oblivious too, or she NEVER would have given up on my handsome ever-so-likeable self more than two years ago. Be that as it may, it explains why I like having her here, and why despite having gotten over me and my very considerable charms (stop snickering, dammit), she still likes living with me.
I am a known quantity.
So is she.
She doesn't smoke.
EMTPY TINS
Dunhill 965, enameled tin. A pleasant middle-of-the-road English mixture much suited to middle-aged men who play golf or know Aramaic.
I am neither.
Dunhill Elizabethan Mixture (also enameled tin). Good lord what was I thinking. This product is FAR too eccentric for me.
Dunhill Royal Yacht (enameled). Vile. Possibly degenerate. Suitable for teenage boys.
Dunhill Early Morning Pipe (enameled). A extremely pleasant product. Goes well with strong black tea, spot of milk and sugar. Very civilized.
Wessex Red Virginia Flake. Nice. reminds me of childhood. More innocent times, in any case.
Wessex Brown Virginia Flake. Early adolescence, when I was still pearled with dew.
Gawith Hogarth Ennerdale. What nasty men smoke.
Orlik Golden Sliced. There's that childlike innocence again. Chasing butterflies, sunlight, tall grasses.
MacBaren Virginia Flake. Old ladies, and anise pastilles.
Samuel Gawith Full Virginia Flake. Possibly a slightly degenerate teenage period, but also something that elderly gentlemen can smoke without fear of being molested.
Samuel Gawith St. James Flake. I am become a small dark-haired miss, and there is no one in the house right now. I shall swan about naked.
Samuel Gawith Golden Glow. A lighter Virginia tobacco, springlike. Straw-blonde hair and a lovely summer dress. La la la.
Samuel Gawith Squadron Leader. I say, Pip, Jerry's over the channel.
Samuel Gawith Commonwealth Full Strength Mixture. Let us now sing the songs that students sing in Latin, while taunting the other colleges.
Samuel Gawith 1792 Flake. Something for my more depraved moments. The reason why you haven't read about them in the newspaper is because I am very discreet.
Rattrays Hal O' The Wynd. A spring breeze, an innocent damsel, and amazing self-control. Stay a gentleman at all times, stay a gentleman at all times, stay a gentleman....
Rattrays Old Gowrie. Badger roaming the fields and forest glades.
Rattrays Marlin Flake. Dammit, I need to kill a fish. No, I am not in Hemingway mode.
Rattrays Brown Clunee. Stylish in my skirt and cardigan, and very demure.
Erinmore Mixture. Anything more suggestive of birching would be hard to imagine.
Greg Pease Abingdon. I want a ham sandwich and a glass of sherry.
Esoterica Tabaciana Dunbar. A downtown alley near the TransAmerica Pyramid, late summer. And crows.
Germain's Medium Flake. Young men at twilight.
Germain's Brown Flake. Horny young men, beer at midnight.
Germain's Plum Cake Mixture. Depravities involving unguents. Secretly enjoyable.
Germain's Eighteen Twenty Smoking Mixture. A calm rational man, whom you would enjoy meeting over tea and cookies.
And lastly, Davidoff Flake Medallions. Amazingly happy-making.
I have a rich inner-life.
Possibly an alternative reality.
When the zombie-apocalypse comes, women will flock around me, because as a pipe-smoker I represent stability and common sense.
The living dead will stay far away.
And we will have cups of tea, with milk and sugar.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, December 10, 2012
AN IDEAL LEVEL OF CRUNCHINESS
Last night when I returned home after several hours in the downtown, there was a lovely large tin on the kitchen counter: the Khong Guan EZ Choice Biscuit Assortment.
If you click on the embedded link, it will take you to a picture.
All well-ordered homes should have a tin like that.
Just in case someone who likes nibbling drops by, as well as precautionarily. What if there is an earthquake? You will need some tasty biscuits to calm you down. Thinking, in any emergency situation, is always easier when you have a biscuit with your tea.
A well-ordered home.
Which, apparently, we are not.
This morning the counter was empty. Those biscuits were meant for her
co-workers. As merely an apartment-mate, I do not rank biscuits.
We often chat, as we are in the house at the same times. But not being involved with each other, there are things we do not do together. We are friends. But we do not share biscuits.
That would be a very advanced level of intimacy.
Propriety must at all times be maintained.
Biscuits are, in a word, risky.
Years ago we shared.
At present, I lack someone to have an occasional biscuit with.
In some ways, life is a bit more boring now. It is biscuit-free.
Uncomplicated, too, but I'm not sure that that is a good thing.
Go ahead, click on that link again. Isn't that a charming picture?
I think so.
康元餅乾
I have this rather disturbing mental image of myself several years hence roaming the wilds of Nob Hill in the middle of the night, with a brand new tin of biscuits, and a thermos of hot milk-tea, looking for feral raccoons, crows, and perhaps sea gulls, with whom to share a biscuit and a delicious hot beverage.
The middle-aged social butterfly.
Moth. Social moth. If it's night time, it probably isn't a butterfly.
I've always found assortment tins incredibly alluring, their cheering visuals and stately presence a comfort to have in one's life.
But, of course, a single man cannot possibly gasak an entire tin by himself. The tins are too large for one person. They need to be shared.
That, too, is a paradigm inherent in the tin; it speaks of plurality, companionability, and pensive social crunching.
At the very least, someone who comes over once in a while, not merely to poke one with a sharpened stick to see if one is still alive and perhaps elicit an entertaining squawk of outrage, but someone who will happily sit down and have some tea.
Khong Guan Biscuit Factory (Singapore) Ltd also have cashew nut cookies, by the way. Which I found out quite by accident while exploring their site. Still haven't found the egg roll cookies (dry sweet hollow tubes with an infinitely pleasing flaky friability), but I am absolutely certain that they make those too, as I can distinctly remember buying them. All good bakery companies in HK and S'Pore produce egg roll cookies. I just don't know where they've hidden them on their site. One container should cost about four or five bucks, and even with several tea-time visits, there will be enough to last nearly a month.
This afternoon I shall probably head over to Stockton Street to purchase a tin of egg roll cookies.
I need them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
If you click on the embedded link, it will take you to a picture.
All well-ordered homes should have a tin like that.
Just in case someone who likes nibbling drops by, as well as precautionarily. What if there is an earthquake? You will need some tasty biscuits to calm you down. Thinking, in any emergency situation, is always easier when you have a biscuit with your tea.
A well-ordered home.
Which, apparently, we are not.
This morning the counter was empty. Those biscuits were meant for her
co-workers. As merely an apartment-mate, I do not rank biscuits.
We often chat, as we are in the house at the same times. But not being involved with each other, there are things we do not do together. We are friends. But we do not share biscuits.
That would be a very advanced level of intimacy.
Propriety must at all times be maintained.
Biscuits are, in a word, risky.
Years ago we shared.
At present, I lack someone to have an occasional biscuit with.
In some ways, life is a bit more boring now. It is biscuit-free.
Uncomplicated, too, but I'm not sure that that is a good thing.
Go ahead, click on that link again. Isn't that a charming picture?
I think so.
康元餅乾
I have this rather disturbing mental image of myself several years hence roaming the wilds of Nob Hill in the middle of the night, with a brand new tin of biscuits, and a thermos of hot milk-tea, looking for feral raccoons, crows, and perhaps sea gulls, with whom to share a biscuit and a delicious hot beverage.
The middle-aged social butterfly.
Moth. Social moth. If it's night time, it probably isn't a butterfly.
I've always found assortment tins incredibly alluring, their cheering visuals and stately presence a comfort to have in one's life.
But, of course, a single man cannot possibly gasak an entire tin by himself. The tins are too large for one person. They need to be shared.
That, too, is a paradigm inherent in the tin; it speaks of plurality, companionability, and pensive social crunching.
At the very least, someone who comes over once in a while, not merely to poke one with a sharpened stick to see if one is still alive and perhaps elicit an entertaining squawk of outrage, but someone who will happily sit down and have some tea.
Khong Guan Biscuit Factory (Singapore) Ltd also have cashew nut cookies, by the way. Which I found out quite by accident while exploring their site. Still haven't found the egg roll cookies (dry sweet hollow tubes with an infinitely pleasing flaky friability), but I am absolutely certain that they make those too, as I can distinctly remember buying them. All good bakery companies in HK and S'Pore produce egg roll cookies. I just don't know where they've hidden them on their site. One container should cost about four or five bucks, and even with several tea-time visits, there will be enough to last nearly a month.
This afternoon I shall probably head over to Stockton Street to purchase a tin of egg roll cookies.
I need them.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, December 05, 2012
TEA AND SOMETHING YUMMY
The motorcar came to a stop in front of a building with tall windows that looked out over the village green. Though at present, it would be doubtful if any one even gazed out; the weather was beyond inclement, to the point of saturation. Dense pillars of rain washed over the grass, the cobbles, the concrete sidewalks, presenting a grey veil to the streetscape.
Three gentlemen exited the vehicle, and not bothering to even unfurl their umbrellas stepped purposefully toward the door, their overcoats spattering the water off as soon as it hit. Two young fellows, and a man whose erect bearing suggested a military background, but whose trimness almost decisively stated air force.
Big galoots do not get into the pilot programme.
They don't fit very well into cockpits, you see.
The proprietress took their order after having seated them in a comfortable lounge. Soon she came back with a vast tray, on which two pots, a large urn with extra hot water, and several plates, as well as three cups and saucers, presented an inviting view, much more beckoning, fascinating even, to the three men than any amount of wetness bucketing down outside.
England always looks rainy. Sodden, even.
But afternoon tea seems ever new.
After having enjoyed several cups, along with a nibble here and there of the goodies, the aeronautical gentleman relaxed in a comfy chair in the corner with a cigarette, while one of the younger chaps pulled out a pipe, filled it, and lit up. While he enjoyed his first puffs of flake, his brother grumbled at the fumes and pulled a well-worn book out of his coat pocket (the outerwear was hung by the fire to dry), then settled down at the table reading about chess. The games of the masters.
The older gentleman and the pipe-smoker debated over a map of the area, deciding where they would head tomorrow. Occasionally one or other of them sipped a bit more tea, taking care not to spill either ashes or hot liquid on the map.
So far it had been a splendid journey.
Devonshire was positively littered with comfortable oases.
Where afternoon tea might be had at certain hours.
And smoking was still permitted.
It was, after all, the seventies.
TEA TIME
It has been a long time since I visited the South-West of England, and I have heard that the wheatgerm freaks in Whitehall have outlawed public smoking even there. Possibly they still allow it in coal mines, as people suffering from black lung and chronic pulmonary fatigue from digging up the slag cannot possible get any worse.
Or maybe there too it is illegal. Might as well make the last few years of the victims of industrialization even harder by sending them out into the rain to smoke.
Yes?
Two of the three people in the vignette above are no longer in this world.
The R.C.A.F. bomber pilot flew his last sortie over two decades ago, and the chess player won his final competition back in the nineties.
Still, afternoon tea continues. It speaks of old times, good friends, and family members who are fondly remembered.
All three of us enjoyed taking tea when we were in England, as well as at home in the Netherlands. My father would often have it on Saturday or Sunday afternoons, back in Valkenswaard, and I frequently prepared myself a pot after school, to keep me company when reading or doing my homework.
My brother had it while studying chess.
A proper Devonshire cream-tea includes hot scones, clotted cream, fresh fruit preserves, a slice or two of cake, and a very large pot of strong tea.
I believe one should always follow it with a pipefull of fine aged Virginia flake, but that may not be precisely your fancy. Possibly you smoke Oriental mixtures, or light Balkan blends. Or maybe even not at all.
Taking the Devonshire cream-tea out of England emasculates it. Without a fresh green sopping wet countryside, and people speaking in poofter accents, high tea is not the same.
Reproducing the scones and clotted cream is rather ridiculous.
Pretentiously academic, even.
Fortunately here in San Francisco, we have alternatives. Not substitutes or mere replacements, but stuff that fits the tradition more than admirably, and better even than what they do in Blighty.
We live very well here.
We have Chinatown bakeries.
人仁西餅麵包
YUMMY BAKERY & CAFE
607 Jackson Street, San Francisco, CA 94133.
Telephone: 415-989-8388
This is one of my favourite places, because of an extensive selection of goodies of high quality. They devote care and attention to what they do, and it would be very hard to leave disappointed.
Their offerings would grace any tea-table.
Seriously good stuff.
Among other things:
芝士蘑菇包 Cheese and mushroom bun
火腿粟米包 Ham and corn bun
雞包 Chicken bun (baked)
叉燒包 Charsiu bun (baked)
菠蘿叉燒包 Pineapple charsiu bun
火腿芝士包 Ham and cheese bun
香腸包 Hotdog bun
粟米火腿包 Corn and ham bun
奶油包 Cream bun
蔥油條 Scallion bun
蛋撻 Egg tart
火腿南鬆卷 Ham and pork floss roll
蛋沙律包 Egg salad bun
藍莓芝士包 Blueberry cream cheese bun
菠蘿奶黃包 Pineapple cream bun
火腿蛋包 Ham and egg bun
毛毛蟲 Cream and jam bun
丹麥包 Danish pastry
提子包 Raisin bun
牛角包 Croissant
蔥油肉鬆卷 Scallion pork floss roll
椰香包 Coconut bun
紅豆菠蘿包 Red bean paste filled pineapple bun
肉鬆包 Pork floss bun
菠蘿包 Pineapple bun
椰菠蘿叉燒包 Pineapple charsiu bun
火腿芝士包 Ham and cheese bun
椰香包 Coconut bun
豆沙包 Red bean paste bun
南瓜包 Pumpkin bun
香芋包 Taro bun
紅豆龜仔包 Tortoise-shaped bun with red bean paste
蒜蓉包 Garlicky bun
墨西哥棒 Mexican roll
奶油筒 Cream horn
合桃拿破侖 Walnut Napoleon
草莓蛋卷 Strawberry roll
瑞士餅 Swiss pastry
奶油曲奇 Butter cookie
奶油蛋糕 Butter cake
合桃酥 Walnut pastry
紫菜酥 Seaweed pastry
雞仔餅 Chewy cookie
咖啡奶油筒 Coffee cream horn
老婆餠 Wife cake
冬瓜老婆餠 Winter melon wife cake
皮蛋酥 Preserved egg pastry
蛋黃酥 Egg yolk pastry
椰撻 Coconut tart
椰絲球 Shredded coconut ball
杏仁奇脆棒 Almond pastry
果醬蛋糕 Jam cake
咖啡合桃卷 Coffee walnut roll
朱古力牛油蛋糕 Chocolate butter cake
紙包蛋糕 Paper cupcake
糖多士 Sugared toasts
西糕大餅 Xigao cake
甘草花生 Licorice-flavoured peanuts
南乳花生 Namyu (fermented beancurd) flavoured peanuts
蒜蓉花生 Garlic-flavoured peanuts
As you can see, there are lots of delicious things to choose from. Anyone who cannot find something satisfying at Yummy Bakery & Café just isn't trying.
You can snack there, or far better yet, buy a lot of stuff to take home.
It will make your tea-time memorable.
No, I don't want you to get fat. But I do want you to have a good time.
Some hot-buttered toast, as well as little sandwiches -- cucumber, smoked salmon, cress, pâté, or potted meat -- would not be amiss either.
But you will have to make those yourself.
Please allow pipe smoking afterwards.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Three gentlemen exited the vehicle, and not bothering to even unfurl their umbrellas stepped purposefully toward the door, their overcoats spattering the water off as soon as it hit. Two young fellows, and a man whose erect bearing suggested a military background, but whose trimness almost decisively stated air force.
Big galoots do not get into the pilot programme.
They don't fit very well into cockpits, you see.
The proprietress took their order after having seated them in a comfortable lounge. Soon she came back with a vast tray, on which two pots, a large urn with extra hot water, and several plates, as well as three cups and saucers, presented an inviting view, much more beckoning, fascinating even, to the three men than any amount of wetness bucketing down outside.
England always looks rainy. Sodden, even.
But afternoon tea seems ever new.
After having enjoyed several cups, along with a nibble here and there of the goodies, the aeronautical gentleman relaxed in a comfy chair in the corner with a cigarette, while one of the younger chaps pulled out a pipe, filled it, and lit up. While he enjoyed his first puffs of flake, his brother grumbled at the fumes and pulled a well-worn book out of his coat pocket (the outerwear was hung by the fire to dry), then settled down at the table reading about chess. The games of the masters.
The older gentleman and the pipe-smoker debated over a map of the area, deciding where they would head tomorrow. Occasionally one or other of them sipped a bit more tea, taking care not to spill either ashes or hot liquid on the map.
So far it had been a splendid journey.
Devonshire was positively littered with comfortable oases.
Where afternoon tea might be had at certain hours.
And smoking was still permitted.
It was, after all, the seventies.
TEA TIME
It has been a long time since I visited the South-West of England, and I have heard that the wheatgerm freaks in Whitehall have outlawed public smoking even there. Possibly they still allow it in coal mines, as people suffering from black lung and chronic pulmonary fatigue from digging up the slag cannot possible get any worse.
Or maybe there too it is illegal. Might as well make the last few years of the victims of industrialization even harder by sending them out into the rain to smoke.
Yes?
Two of the three people in the vignette above are no longer in this world.
The R.C.A.F. bomber pilot flew his last sortie over two decades ago, and the chess player won his final competition back in the nineties.
Still, afternoon tea continues. It speaks of old times, good friends, and family members who are fondly remembered.
All three of us enjoyed taking tea when we were in England, as well as at home in the Netherlands. My father would often have it on Saturday or Sunday afternoons, back in Valkenswaard, and I frequently prepared myself a pot after school, to keep me company when reading or doing my homework.
My brother had it while studying chess.
A proper Devonshire cream-tea includes hot scones, clotted cream, fresh fruit preserves, a slice or two of cake, and a very large pot of strong tea.
I believe one should always follow it with a pipefull of fine aged Virginia flake, but that may not be precisely your fancy. Possibly you smoke Oriental mixtures, or light Balkan blends. Or maybe even not at all.
Taking the Devonshire cream-tea out of England emasculates it. Without a fresh green sopping wet countryside, and people speaking in poofter accents, high tea is not the same.
Reproducing the scones and clotted cream is rather ridiculous.
Pretentiously academic, even.
Fortunately here in San Francisco, we have alternatives. Not substitutes or mere replacements, but stuff that fits the tradition more than admirably, and better even than what they do in Blighty.
We live very well here.
We have Chinatown bakeries.
人仁西餅麵包
YUMMY BAKERY & CAFE
607 Jackson Street, San Francisco, CA 94133.
Telephone: 415-989-8388
This is one of my favourite places, because of an extensive selection of goodies of high quality. They devote care and attention to what they do, and it would be very hard to leave disappointed.
Their offerings would grace any tea-table.
Seriously good stuff.
Among other things:
芝士蘑菇包 Cheese and mushroom bun
火腿粟米包 Ham and corn bun
雞包 Chicken bun (baked)
叉燒包 Charsiu bun (baked)
菠蘿叉燒包 Pineapple charsiu bun
火腿芝士包 Ham and cheese bun
香腸包 Hotdog bun
粟米火腿包 Corn and ham bun
奶油包 Cream bun
蔥油條 Scallion bun
蛋撻 Egg tart
火腿南鬆卷 Ham and pork floss roll
蛋沙律包 Egg salad bun
藍莓芝士包 Blueberry cream cheese bun
菠蘿奶黃包 Pineapple cream bun
火腿蛋包 Ham and egg bun
毛毛蟲 Cream and jam bun
丹麥包 Danish pastry
提子包 Raisin bun
牛角包 Croissant
蔥油肉鬆卷 Scallion pork floss roll
椰香包 Coconut bun
紅豆菠蘿包 Red bean paste filled pineapple bun
肉鬆包 Pork floss bun
菠蘿包 Pineapple bun
椰菠蘿叉燒包 Pineapple charsiu bun
火腿芝士包 Ham and cheese bun
椰香包 Coconut bun
豆沙包 Red bean paste bun
南瓜包 Pumpkin bun
香芋包 Taro bun
紅豆龜仔包 Tortoise-shaped bun with red bean paste
蒜蓉包 Garlicky bun
墨西哥棒 Mexican roll
奶油筒 Cream horn
合桃拿破侖 Walnut Napoleon
草莓蛋卷 Strawberry roll
瑞士餅 Swiss pastry
奶油曲奇 Butter cookie
奶油蛋糕 Butter cake
合桃酥 Walnut pastry
紫菜酥 Seaweed pastry
雞仔餅 Chewy cookie
咖啡奶油筒 Coffee cream horn
老婆餠 Wife cake
冬瓜老婆餠 Winter melon wife cake
皮蛋酥 Preserved egg pastry
蛋黃酥 Egg yolk pastry
椰撻 Coconut tart
椰絲球 Shredded coconut ball
杏仁奇脆棒 Almond pastry
果醬蛋糕 Jam cake
咖啡合桃卷 Coffee walnut roll
朱古力牛油蛋糕 Chocolate butter cake
紙包蛋糕 Paper cupcake
糖多士 Sugared toasts
西糕大餅 Xigao cake
甘草花生 Licorice-flavoured peanuts
南乳花生 Namyu (fermented beancurd) flavoured peanuts
蒜蓉花生 Garlic-flavoured peanuts
As you can see, there are lots of delicious things to choose from. Anyone who cannot find something satisfying at Yummy Bakery & Café just isn't trying.
You can snack there, or far better yet, buy a lot of stuff to take home.
It will make your tea-time memorable.
No, I don't want you to get fat. But I do want you to have a good time.
Some hot-buttered toast, as well as little sandwiches -- cucumber, smoked salmon, cress, pâté, or potted meat -- would not be amiss either.
But you will have to make those yourself.
Please allow pipe smoking afterwards.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
FOUR TIMES ONE
Always wait until they've put the tea down in front of you before ordering your beverage.
Always. That way you'll at least have tea.
When it's crowded they'll seat you at a large table with the other solitary diners. The reason being, of course, that smaller tables will be fully occupied at that hour.
And surely you don't want to sit by yourself?
There were three other people at the table at the time. I had forgotten that "happy hour" was from three till six, and the place was packed.
The other three people at the table consisted of a gentleman with a newspaper who didn't seem very sociable, an elderly lady, and an old man with a hearing defect. Not the most promising of company.
I concentrated on the menu.
When newspaper man's bowl of beef stew wonton noodle soup came, he put down his paper with a glare as if to say "don't you DARE read it, it's mine!" Then hungrily started digging in.
Soon the old lady's food came. A huge plate of chow fun, which she ate with trembling chopsticks. It really would have been easier with a fork, but when you've used chopsticks all your life......
The old gentleman with the bad ear placed his order - bittermelon beef, rice, and a bowl of honeycomb tripe with vegetables in broth.
When the waitress returned I asked for preserved egg and lean pork congee, and a serving of fried fish balls. I'm rather fond of fishballs, it's the springy chewiness. And they are good with a dab of hot sauce.
All four of us ate in silence. I rather wished the waitress had not asked me to sit there, as it was obvious that, excepting crabby newspaper dude, the rest of us were single people without significant family or households.
I felt sad for the two old folks who didn't have relatives to eat with.
The old lady couldn't finish her chow fun -- barely ate half of it -- and finally asked for a box to take home the rest.
The deaf gentleman defiantly requested a plate of soup to help him digest his food.
Being somewhat oblivious, I thoroughly enjoyed my meal.
Yummy!
It wasn't until I had finished, and was drinking my milk-tea, that I observed the woman carefully lifting her noodles into the container. Her hands quivered, and she had to concentrate very hard to manage the transfer.
She didn't spill even a morsel.
The restaurant caters to all types in the neighborhood. But the people who live closest are the ones who never left. Or those who returned to familiar places once they were alone again.
A lot of elderly people.
They're a respected legacy, but they don't have a lot to spare.
The restaurant is priced low enough that they can afford to eat there. And during 'happy hour', the prices are lower even than that.
So it was packed at that moment.
I ate well, but I felt guilty ordering so much.
Left a large tip for the waitress. As an attempt to increase the total from our table. Single diners are, after all, a little bit more trouble than families.
DOT---DOT---DOT
I miss having someone to eat with, and it would be nice to have someone to eat with again. But I doubt that that is going to happen.
The tea that I mentioned at the beginning of this post? Useful for rinsing the mouth after eating, as well as diluting the milk-tea a little bit to make it 'more so'.
As well as just for drinking, of course.
You must always have some tea.
It's very important.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Always. That way you'll at least have tea.
When it's crowded they'll seat you at a large table with the other solitary diners. The reason being, of course, that smaller tables will be fully occupied at that hour.
And surely you don't want to sit by yourself?
There were three other people at the table at the time. I had forgotten that "happy hour" was from three till six, and the place was packed.
The other three people at the table consisted of a gentleman with a newspaper who didn't seem very sociable, an elderly lady, and an old man with a hearing defect. Not the most promising of company.
I concentrated on the menu.
When newspaper man's bowl of beef stew wonton noodle soup came, he put down his paper with a glare as if to say "don't you DARE read it, it's mine!" Then hungrily started digging in.
Soon the old lady's food came. A huge plate of chow fun, which she ate with trembling chopsticks. It really would have been easier with a fork, but when you've used chopsticks all your life......
The old gentleman with the bad ear placed his order - bittermelon beef, rice, and a bowl of honeycomb tripe with vegetables in broth.
When the waitress returned I asked for preserved egg and lean pork congee, and a serving of fried fish balls. I'm rather fond of fishballs, it's the springy chewiness. And they are good with a dab of hot sauce.
All four of us ate in silence. I rather wished the waitress had not asked me to sit there, as it was obvious that, excepting crabby newspaper dude, the rest of us were single people without significant family or households.
I felt sad for the two old folks who didn't have relatives to eat with.
The old lady couldn't finish her chow fun -- barely ate half of it -- and finally asked for a box to take home the rest.
The deaf gentleman defiantly requested a plate of soup to help him digest his food.
Being somewhat oblivious, I thoroughly enjoyed my meal.
Yummy!
It wasn't until I had finished, and was drinking my milk-tea, that I observed the woman carefully lifting her noodles into the container. Her hands quivered, and she had to concentrate very hard to manage the transfer.
She didn't spill even a morsel.
The restaurant caters to all types in the neighborhood. But the people who live closest are the ones who never left. Or those who returned to familiar places once they were alone again.
A lot of elderly people.
They're a respected legacy, but they don't have a lot to spare.
The restaurant is priced low enough that they can afford to eat there. And during 'happy hour', the prices are lower even than that.
So it was packed at that moment.
I ate well, but I felt guilty ordering so much.
Left a large tip for the waitress. As an attempt to increase the total from our table. Single diners are, after all, a little bit more trouble than families.
DOT---DOT---DOT
I miss having someone to eat with, and it would be nice to have someone to eat with again. But I doubt that that is going to happen.
The tea that I mentioned at the beginning of this post? Useful for rinsing the mouth after eating, as well as diluting the milk-tea a little bit to make it 'more so'.
As well as just for drinking, of course.
You must always have some tea.
It's very important.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, July 20, 2012
IT'S QUINTESSENTIAL
By evening I am usually pepped to the eye-brows.
The day starts with one and a half to two cups of coffee, followed by a small cup of Jasmine tea before I leave the house.
Two cups of plain black tea before lunch.
Coffee after, then two to four more cups of tea before I leave the office.
I'm more awake at the end of the working day than when it started.
Slightly crazier too.
It's always time for tea.
During our vacations in England the highlight of a day motoring across Devonshire and Cornwall was stopping somewhere for tea around four o'clock.
Strong tea. Scones. Clotted cream. Preserves.
Dundee cake. Shortbread cookies.
Just enough to replenish the spirit.
Followed by another splash of tea.
And a pipe filled with good tobacco.
Given that English dinners could be questionable, this was often the perfect way to preamble a long summer twilight. If the local cuisine proved iffy, well, no big loss.
Another pipefull, and perhaps more tea when we got back to the hotel.
You understand, of course, that as the only pipesmoker among the four of us, my task was to make up for the slackers.
A PERFECT TIME FOR STIMULATION
Unless one is planning to stay up all night, coffee and tea should cease flowing by early evening at the latest. Otherwise you find yourself on Facebook till three in the morning, hitting 'like' or watching videos of a Japanese cat. A stupid Japanese cat.
Here in San Francisco, afternoon tea, if it can be found, is a rather pretentiously overpriced luxury.
But all it needs is good Assam or Ceylon, and something nice to eat.
Scones are extremely similar to baking-powder biscuits.
Preserves can be found in the supermarket.
Clotted cream, which is hard to find, can be replaced with butter.
Besides, unless you are catering to American tourists, what do you do with the ninety percent remaining in the tub of clotty?
Butter.
Dundee cake is NOT essential, and can validly be replaced by almost any other cake-like object.
A comfy room, and a throw-rug during summer.
Staying warm in San Francisco is important.
I have a collection of nice plates I have not used in years. If a good reason presents itself, they will serve biscuits and a small selection of cookies.
There will be cups and saucers.
And strong black tea.
Milk, sugar.
Until then, I'll just smoke my pipe a lot.
And dream of teatime.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The day starts with one and a half to two cups of coffee, followed by a small cup of Jasmine tea before I leave the house.
Two cups of plain black tea before lunch.
Coffee after, then two to four more cups of tea before I leave the office.
I'm more awake at the end of the working day than when it started.
Slightly crazier too.
It's always time for tea.
During our vacations in England the highlight of a day motoring across Devonshire and Cornwall was stopping somewhere for tea around four o'clock.
Strong tea. Scones. Clotted cream. Preserves.
Dundee cake. Shortbread cookies.
Just enough to replenish the spirit.
Followed by another splash of tea.
And a pipe filled with good tobacco.
Given that English dinners could be questionable, this was often the perfect way to preamble a long summer twilight. If the local cuisine proved iffy, well, no big loss.
Another pipefull, and perhaps more tea when we got back to the hotel.
You understand, of course, that as the only pipesmoker among the four of us, my task was to make up for the slackers.
A PERFECT TIME FOR STIMULATION
Unless one is planning to stay up all night, coffee and tea should cease flowing by early evening at the latest. Otherwise you find yourself on Facebook till three in the morning, hitting 'like' or watching videos of a Japanese cat. A stupid Japanese cat.
Here in San Francisco, afternoon tea, if it can be found, is a rather pretentiously overpriced luxury.
But all it needs is good Assam or Ceylon, and something nice to eat.
Scones are extremely similar to baking-powder biscuits.
Preserves can be found in the supermarket.
Clotted cream, which is hard to find, can be replaced with butter.
Besides, unless you are catering to American tourists, what do you do with the ninety percent remaining in the tub of clotty?
Butter.
Dundee cake is NOT essential, and can validly be replaced by almost any other cake-like object.
A comfy room, and a throw-rug during summer.
Staying warm in San Francisco is important.
I have a collection of nice plates I have not used in years. If a good reason presents itself, they will serve biscuits and a small selection of cookies.
There will be cups and saucers.
And strong black tea.
Milk, sugar.
Until then, I'll just smoke my pipe a lot.
And dream of teatime.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, March 24, 2012
LOVE AND ENTERTAINMENT ON A RAINY DAY
This may be the last rain of the season. And, given that it isn't a summer rain - which we never have in San Francisco, indeed, we shall not skip through the fragrant grass in our pretty summer frocks while warm droplets bejewel our dewy visage - the best course of action early in the morning seemed to roll over and go back to sleep. Half an hour later I went into the kitchen to fix myself a hot cup tea with milk and sugar, then went back to bed.
An hour later I woke up refreshed, ready for the day. Which meant another cup of tea, and back to bed with a book chosen at semi-random from the shelves.
The 'Complete Yes Minister', detailing the events of a fictitious government minister heading the Department of Administrative Affairs in England, the Permanent Secretary, and the minister's Principal Private Secretary.
The television series was very witty. My father and his wife introduced it to me when I visited them in the last year of my father's life. They had taped the episodes for re-watching.
The book is, if anything, a darker more intense experience.
It is the perfect handbook for anyone trying to deal with modern life. Everything bureaucratese is made plain and cynically thrown into perspective. In a word, it is a vademecum for the office worker and the junior technocrat alike.
It is also very witty.
SEVERAL CUPS OF TEA LATER
Feeling somewhat esurient by mid-afternoon, I got dressed and headed out into the damp. On the bus over the hill towards snackipoos, I was seated behind two young women.
My ears perked up when one of them said "sex is a pain in the ass!"
Nope, no idea what lead into that remark. Hadn't been paying attention till then.
Lost in my own 'Sir Humphrey Appleby-like' thoughts.
First thing that came to mind was 'my dear, if it's a pain in the ass, you're doing it all wrong!'
"SEX IS A PAIN IN THE ASS"
Seriously. Sex should NOT be a pain in the ass. It should be a warm comfy smiling experience, perhaps messy, sweaty even, followed by a happy glow, a nap, and several cups of tea. It should be fun. Go out together for something to eat later. Maybe some nice Thai food, or an Indonesian ryst tafel.
Or have plenty tea and hot buttery scones while still en deshabille.
With or without sex preceding or following.
Just cuddling is okay.
If sex is a 'pain' in any part of your anatomy, there may be more going on than meets the eye, and far less to your relationship than you would wish.
Perhaps not enough tea?
Either learn to communicate better, or consider an alternative mode of physical pleasure.
Try gourmandise, or touch football.
Both of those work for certain people, of either gender.
Or simply collect expensive designer handbags, and watch the ball game on teevee.
Both of those also work for certain people, of either gender.
Sex is roughly five percent technique, and ninety plus percent inspiration. Without the latter, you are spinning your wheels.
Well, something. But there has to be a motivated personal involvement.
When I got off the bus I was still deep in thought. Ended up not having snackipoos, but a full meal instead.
Plus several cups of milk tea.
In a short while I shall be going to the Occidental to smoke my pipe and daydream.
There are no cups of tea there. And consequently I will not think of sex.
RYST TAFEL
Literally 'rice table', and considered the quintessential Indonesian meal. Which it isn't.
The term names a long late lunch or early dinner in the Dutch East Indies among the planter class, when many people would get together to socialize and eat. A multitude of dishes, with appropriate condiments, and rice. Yes, it was based on the local food - primarily the village feasts - but as the attendees came from different regional backgrounds, and the host no matter his or her origin held to the concept that there should be enough for everybody, and a variety sufficient to satisfy everyone, these meals became gigantic affairs with dishes from all over the archipelago, with sides and condiments that also reflected that diversity.
In the final years of the colonial period many hotels and fancy restaurants turned the ryst tafel into ponderous spectacular affairs. It was, after all, an opportunity for colonials out in the hinterlands to spend some time in town, put on the dog, and get away from the dreariness of their isolation.
In the Netherlands the ryst tafel has become a sampling of many dishes shared among a group of diners at an Indonesian restaurant. For people who do not know much about the cuisine it is the perfect way to discover new tastes, and the restaurant staff will happily recommend set menus and explain what the foods are.
But always, rice. Plain white rice. It is the basis of a meal.
A wet coconut curry (gulai), a dry curry (kerrie), a thick-sauced meat dish (opor, korma, kalio, or rendang), plus various vegetable dishes with sauces based on coconut milk, or peanut-sauce, or tamarind.
Something from the ocean, blanched vegetables with chilies and shrimp-paste, a green cooked soft in a rich sauce (sayur lodeh), mixed dishes stirfried with chili paste and other things (sambal goreng), plus small condimental sides such as atjar (spicy pickles), asinan (wet dressed chopped salad), petjil (spicy salad with shrimp-paste and crumbled peanuts), patjeri (a sweet spicy dish that resembles a cooked pickle of sorts, often with coconut milk in the sauce), kroepoek (kropek; shrimp chips and similar items), seroendeng (serunding; mild-spiced toasted shredded coconut or other things with often peanuts added).
And, of course, that most typical of Dutch desserts, pisang goreng (fried banana).
For a party of four or five people, three or four dishes plus rice and soup is plenty. Your tastebuds won't get overwhelmed, and with two or three sambals (chili preparations) along with something crisp-spicy-crunchy, it's still a feast.
Avoid the pisang goreng afterwards.
Follow dinner with a shot of espresso or cardamom coffee, and a cigar.
Perfect rainy day food.
In case you were wondering.
If it's still around, Restaurant Poentjak Pas on the Nassau Kade near the Second Helmer Street in Amsterdam is an excellent place for a ryst tafel. There's also a place around the corner on the Overtoom (Restaurant Kartika), which does good Indonesian food. And not too far away, on the Spui, is a business that does the antique ambiance very well - Kantjil en de Tijger.
But the best Indo food is in Den Haag.
Kota Radja.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
An hour later I woke up refreshed, ready for the day. Which meant another cup of tea, and back to bed with a book chosen at semi-random from the shelves.
The 'Complete Yes Minister', detailing the events of a fictitious government minister heading the Department of Administrative Affairs in England, the Permanent Secretary, and the minister's Principal Private Secretary.
The television series was very witty. My father and his wife introduced it to me when I visited them in the last year of my father's life. They had taped the episodes for re-watching.
The book is, if anything, a darker more intense experience.
It is the perfect handbook for anyone trying to deal with modern life. Everything bureaucratese is made plain and cynically thrown into perspective. In a word, it is a vademecum for the office worker and the junior technocrat alike.
It is also very witty.
SEVERAL CUPS OF TEA LATER
Feeling somewhat esurient by mid-afternoon, I got dressed and headed out into the damp. On the bus over the hill towards snackipoos, I was seated behind two young women.
My ears perked up when one of them said "sex is a pain in the ass!"
Nope, no idea what lead into that remark. Hadn't been paying attention till then.
Lost in my own 'Sir Humphrey Appleby-like' thoughts.
First thing that came to mind was 'my dear, if it's a pain in the ass, you're doing it all wrong!'
"SEX IS A PAIN IN THE ASS"
Seriously. Sex should NOT be a pain in the ass. It should be a warm comfy smiling experience, perhaps messy, sweaty even, followed by a happy glow, a nap, and several cups of tea. It should be fun. Go out together for something to eat later. Maybe some nice Thai food, or an Indonesian ryst tafel.
Or have plenty tea and hot buttery scones while still en deshabille.
With or without sex preceding or following.
Just cuddling is okay.
If sex is a 'pain' in any part of your anatomy, there may be more going on than meets the eye, and far less to your relationship than you would wish.
Perhaps not enough tea?
Either learn to communicate better, or consider an alternative mode of physical pleasure.
Try gourmandise, or touch football.
Both of those work for certain people, of either gender.
Or simply collect expensive designer handbags, and watch the ball game on teevee.
Both of those also work for certain people, of either gender.
Sex is roughly five percent technique, and ninety plus percent inspiration. Without the latter, you are spinning your wheels.
Well, something. But there has to be a motivated personal involvement.
When I got off the bus I was still deep in thought. Ended up not having snackipoos, but a full meal instead.
Plus several cups of milk tea.
In a short while I shall be going to the Occidental to smoke my pipe and daydream.
There are no cups of tea there. And consequently I will not think of sex.
RYST TAFEL
Literally 'rice table', and considered the quintessential Indonesian meal. Which it isn't.
The term names a long late lunch or early dinner in the Dutch East Indies among the planter class, when many people would get together to socialize and eat. A multitude of dishes, with appropriate condiments, and rice. Yes, it was based on the local food - primarily the village feasts - but as the attendees came from different regional backgrounds, and the host no matter his or her origin held to the concept that there should be enough for everybody, and a variety sufficient to satisfy everyone, these meals became gigantic affairs with dishes from all over the archipelago, with sides and condiments that also reflected that diversity.
In the final years of the colonial period many hotels and fancy restaurants turned the ryst tafel into ponderous spectacular affairs. It was, after all, an opportunity for colonials out in the hinterlands to spend some time in town, put on the dog, and get away from the dreariness of their isolation.
In the Netherlands the ryst tafel has become a sampling of many dishes shared among a group of diners at an Indonesian restaurant. For people who do not know much about the cuisine it is the perfect way to discover new tastes, and the restaurant staff will happily recommend set menus and explain what the foods are.
But always, rice. Plain white rice. It is the basis of a meal.
A wet coconut curry (gulai), a dry curry (kerrie), a thick-sauced meat dish (opor, korma, kalio, or rendang), plus various vegetable dishes with sauces based on coconut milk, or peanut-sauce, or tamarind.
Something from the ocean, blanched vegetables with chilies and shrimp-paste, a green cooked soft in a rich sauce (sayur lodeh), mixed dishes stirfried with chili paste and other things (sambal goreng), plus small condimental sides such as atjar (spicy pickles), asinan (wet dressed chopped salad), petjil (spicy salad with shrimp-paste and crumbled peanuts), patjeri (a sweet spicy dish that resembles a cooked pickle of sorts, often with coconut milk in the sauce), kroepoek (kropek; shrimp chips and similar items), seroendeng (serunding; mild-spiced toasted shredded coconut or other things with often peanuts added).
And, of course, that most typical of Dutch desserts, pisang goreng (fried banana).
For a party of four or five people, three or four dishes plus rice and soup is plenty. Your tastebuds won't get overwhelmed, and with two or three sambals (chili preparations) along with something crisp-spicy-crunchy, it's still a feast.
Avoid the pisang goreng afterwards.
Follow dinner with a shot of espresso or cardamom coffee, and a cigar.
Perfect rainy day food.
In case you were wondering.
If it's still around, Restaurant Poentjak Pas on the Nassau Kade near the Second Helmer Street in Amsterdam is an excellent place for a ryst tafel. There's also a place around the corner on the Overtoom (Restaurant Kartika), which does good Indonesian food. And not too far away, on the Spui, is a business that does the antique ambiance very well - Kantjil en de Tijger.
But the best Indo food is in Den Haag.
Kota Radja.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, August 21, 2011
TEA AT THE OFFICE
When I got on the bus at Polk Street today, I entered last. It often happens that way. As a general rule I let the pushy people on first. And old folks. Mothers with children. Women of any age.
Even, and perhaps especially, an attractive young lady wearing dark tights and spectacles and a long striped jersey. She tried to yield, possibly because the white in my beard may have suggested seniority.
But no, please go ahead, I am not a geezer yet.
And this way I can keep you in view.
You have a lovely face, miss.
And I’m still vibrant.
I’ve got vim.
She got off the bus at Hyde Street. Much too soon as far as I’m concerned.
Didn’t know that there was someone so nice in the neighborhood.
Such intelligent expressive eyes.
Is it springtime yet?
She looked shyly embarrassed at having gotten on ahead of me.
Call me a pervert, but I thought that was charming.
Also noticed that her hands looked soft.
Such pretty fingers, too.
I may be the only person in San Francisco who actually likes riding the bus.
In Chinatown a mother and her vivacious little daughter got on. When the bus rocketed down the hill the little girl had the most joyfully ecstatic smile on her face I have ever seen. Crazed bus drivers heading to a long over-due bathroom (or smoke) break at the end of the line are far far better than any roller coaster, possibly because you didn’t expect blood-pounding excitement on public transit – this isn’t New York.
They got off at my stop, and the mother affectionately put her hand on the child’s shoulder.
The little girl’s ponytail bounced happily along as they walked ahead.
Such lovely feathery dark hair.
Twenty years from now she’ll probably be dating a race car driver.
Or a Muni chauffeur with a tiny bladder.
NOW FOR A NICE CUPPA
About the title of this post? Well, I left the house far later than normal, right around mid-afternoon. Got to the office just after four. And in keeping with the hour I am swilling tea and nibbling on a lemon shortbread.
It may always be time for tea, but it's only tea time once.
See, I had a very late evening yesterday…… went to the Occidental and smoked several pipefulls.
Kohlhase, Kopp und Company in Germany seem to have finally gotten it right.
At the very least, the current version of Rattray's Black Mallory is an excellent product, with a lovely old-fashioned reek to it. Very nice in a somewhat larger bowl.
A classic Oriental blend with feminine allure.
Brings back mental-echoes of a more straightforward place and time.
In retrospect I should've had it with cognac instead of whiskey.
Why it has been described as "fishy" is beyond me.
Possibly other pipe smokers are nuts.
Thank you, Kohlhase & Kopp.
Darned fine stuff.
Got home late. Woke up late. Coffeed late. Bathed late. Left house late.
Happiness might very well consist of pretty girls on the bus, old-fashioned pipe tobacco, and cups of tea.
Plus occasionally stopping by a familiar watering hole in the financial district on a Saturday night, where one can sit a while in peace and quiet.
Life, really, isn't all that bad.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Even, and perhaps especially, an attractive young lady wearing dark tights and spectacles and a long striped jersey. She tried to yield, possibly because the white in my beard may have suggested seniority.
But no, please go ahead, I am not a geezer yet.
And this way I can keep you in view.
You have a lovely face, miss.
And I’m still vibrant.
I’ve got vim.
She got off the bus at Hyde Street. Much too soon as far as I’m concerned.
Didn’t know that there was someone so nice in the neighborhood.
Such intelligent expressive eyes.
Is it springtime yet?
She looked shyly embarrassed at having gotten on ahead of me.
Call me a pervert, but I thought that was charming.
Also noticed that her hands looked soft.
Such pretty fingers, too.
I may be the only person in San Francisco who actually likes riding the bus.
In Chinatown a mother and her vivacious little daughter got on. When the bus rocketed down the hill the little girl had the most joyfully ecstatic smile on her face I have ever seen. Crazed bus drivers heading to a long over-due bathroom (or smoke) break at the end of the line are far far better than any roller coaster, possibly because you didn’t expect blood-pounding excitement on public transit – this isn’t New York.
They got off at my stop, and the mother affectionately put her hand on the child’s shoulder.
The little girl’s ponytail bounced happily along as they walked ahead.
Such lovely feathery dark hair.
Twenty years from now she’ll probably be dating a race car driver.
Or a Muni chauffeur with a tiny bladder.
NOW FOR A NICE CUPPA
About the title of this post? Well, I left the house far later than normal, right around mid-afternoon. Got to the office just after four. And in keeping with the hour I am swilling tea and nibbling on a lemon shortbread.
It may always be time for tea, but it's only tea time once.
See, I had a very late evening yesterday…… went to the Occidental and smoked several pipefulls.
Kohlhase, Kopp und Company in Germany seem to have finally gotten it right.
At the very least, the current version of Rattray's Black Mallory is an excellent product, with a lovely old-fashioned reek to it. Very nice in a somewhat larger bowl.
A classic Oriental blend with feminine allure.
Brings back mental-echoes of a more straightforward place and time.
In retrospect I should've had it with cognac instead of whiskey.
Why it has been described as "fishy" is beyond me.
Possibly other pipe smokers are nuts.
Thank you, Kohlhase & Kopp.
Darned fine stuff.
Got home late. Woke up late. Coffeed late. Bathed late. Left house late.
Happiness might very well consist of pretty girls on the bus, old-fashioned pipe tobacco, and cups of tea.
Plus occasionally stopping by a familiar watering hole in the financial district on a Saturday night, where one can sit a while in peace and quiet.
Life, really, isn't all that bad.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, August 20, 2011
AFTERNOON TEA WITH STRAWBERRIES AND CREAM
British cuisine has considerable charm. You may not think so, having been exposed to their ghastly fried monstrosities – but those things are an over-indulgence in quick cheap luxury, much like American pizza and county fair corndogs.
They aren’t really cooking.
DEVONSHIRE CLOTTED CREAM
An afternoon tea is incomplete without a bowl of clotted cream and some good preserves for your scones.
Clotted cream is made by gently heating whole fresh milk that already has a layer forming at the top, for about an hour, then letting it stand to cool, and skimming off the thick cream. The fat content of the resultant product is extremely high, making it barely one step removed from butter.
Without a goodly sploodge of clotted cream on your scone, the thick preserves will just stain it, and won’t give that luscious oozy feel between your lips.
What’s the point of a nice hot scone if you don’t doll it up?
You might as well eat a blueberry muffin and pretend you’re living high.
Scones, clotted cream, strawberry preserves. These are the essentials of late afternoon happiness. Along with a big pot of strong black tea.
Shan’t argue the pronunciation ('skon'), the nature of the preserves (cane sugar and strawberries), or the tea (black, with milk and sugar added).
Green tea with milk and sugar is distinctly odd, and who cares whether you brought the kettle to the pot or the pot to the kettle?
What matters is the rich comforting totality.
Personally, I prefer crackled antique plates for the scones, and a thick-walled ramekin for the cream, which helps keep it cool and firm. Cloth napkins, and fine chinaware for the tea.
A few slices of Dundee Cake for those with more austere tastes.
And perhaps a box of Egyptian cigarettes or Turkish ovals somewhere in the room. That's just a thought, but it would be an appropriate luxury.
AT EARLY EVENING
My friend Arendt lived with his wife in Devon, close to the sea. One day after motoring around looking at ruined abbeys and stone cottages on the moors, we headed back home under a leaden sky, arriving just before the rain started, shortly after five.
Which is a bit late for tea, but his wife, who had stayed home to garden, had sensed our imminent arrival and awaited us with strong hot Ceylon, toasty scones, fresh strawberries from the garden cooked soft with sugar. And a big bowl of clotted cream.
The effect was sheer heaven.
No, we did not have dinner that evening.
[Arendt's wife had intelligent eyes, a clear forehead, and dark brown silken hair.
She herself was infinitely more attractive than the tea tray she carried into the room, but I could not say so, and Arendt already knew.]
Filled with tea, Arendt and I spent the long wet evening grabbing books from the shelves to read and quote. Here’s some Dickens, oh wait, Kipling! Can you believe the doggerel that Coleridge wrote? Heh, Ruskin! Ooooh, Wind in the Willows!
At one point I became entranced by the atlas in one corner, he sat at the table in the other corner reading Le Geste Du Roi.
Ço dit Escremiz de Valterne: "En Rencesvals irai l'orgoill desfaire, se trois Rollant, n'en porterat la teste, ne Oliver, ki les altres cadelet
(Thus spake Escremiz of Valterne "to Ronceval I go, reducing that haughteur!
Should I encounter Roland he will not depart thence with his head, nor Oliver, who hath the others led").
DURENDAL
The song speaks of great gallantry, and a battle arranged by the treason of Ganelon, who is an infamous Quisling.
Rollant ferit en une perre bise, plus en abat que jo ne vos sai dire. L'espee cruist, ne fruisset, ne ne brise, cuntre ciel amunt est resortie...
(Roland smites upon a marble stone, which fragments more than I can say. The blade cries out, neither shattering nor splintering, rebounding upwards to the sky.....).
This is the part where Olivier has died, and all of Roland's companions have perished. Mortally wounded, he tries to break the precious sword Durendal gifted him by king Charles, lest the Saracens take it..... but it was made long ago by Wēland the smith, and cannot be destroyed.
We would have sung out the verses, but Arendt's wife had fallen asleep on the couch. We did not wish to disturb her, so we softly whispered the climactic parts.
She did not awaken, but snuggled more deeply into the red blanket, with only her closed eyes and forehead visible, her dark hair flowing over the cushion she used as a pillow.
Did she dream of the great deeds at Roncevalles? Had the chevaliers who fell in that bleak high pass so long ago come alive in her slumber, and smiled again? I do not know. Her capacity for Mediaeval French and Occitanian was far far greater than ours. It was her subject, those were her volumes. So that must have been likely.
We carefully pronounced the words as correctly as possible, so as not to irk her as she dozed.
Later we went out to the terrace to have a final smoke.
After his cigar he went back inside to rejoin his wife, I wandered off to finish my pipe while overlooking the ocean. The perfume of salt-water and the whisps from the brier are strong memories, I can smell them still.
I think of dark red strawberry preserves, thick luscious cream, wet wet evenings, and Arendt and his sleeping kitten when my nose remembers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
They aren’t really cooking.
DEVONSHIRE CLOTTED CREAM
An afternoon tea is incomplete without a bowl of clotted cream and some good preserves for your scones.
Clotted cream is made by gently heating whole fresh milk that already has a layer forming at the top, for about an hour, then letting it stand to cool, and skimming off the thick cream. The fat content of the resultant product is extremely high, making it barely one step removed from butter.
Without a goodly sploodge of clotted cream on your scone, the thick preserves will just stain it, and won’t give that luscious oozy feel between your lips.
What’s the point of a nice hot scone if you don’t doll it up?
You might as well eat a blueberry muffin and pretend you’re living high.
Scones, clotted cream, strawberry preserves. These are the essentials of late afternoon happiness. Along with a big pot of strong black tea.
Shan’t argue the pronunciation ('skon'), the nature of the preserves (cane sugar and strawberries), or the tea (black, with milk and sugar added).
Green tea with milk and sugar is distinctly odd, and who cares whether you brought the kettle to the pot or the pot to the kettle?
What matters is the rich comforting totality.
Personally, I prefer crackled antique plates for the scones, and a thick-walled ramekin for the cream, which helps keep it cool and firm. Cloth napkins, and fine chinaware for the tea.
A few slices of Dundee Cake for those with more austere tastes.
And perhaps a box of Egyptian cigarettes or Turkish ovals somewhere in the room. That's just a thought, but it would be an appropriate luxury.
AT EARLY EVENING
My friend Arendt lived with his wife in Devon, close to the sea. One day after motoring around looking at ruined abbeys and stone cottages on the moors, we headed back home under a leaden sky, arriving just before the rain started, shortly after five.
Which is a bit late for tea, but his wife, who had stayed home to garden, had sensed our imminent arrival and awaited us with strong hot Ceylon, toasty scones, fresh strawberries from the garden cooked soft with sugar. And a big bowl of clotted cream.
The effect was sheer heaven.
No, we did not have dinner that evening.
[Arendt's wife had intelligent eyes, a clear forehead, and dark brown silken hair.
She herself was infinitely more attractive than the tea tray she carried into the room, but I could not say so, and Arendt already knew.]
Filled with tea, Arendt and I spent the long wet evening grabbing books from the shelves to read and quote. Here’s some Dickens, oh wait, Kipling! Can you believe the doggerel that Coleridge wrote? Heh, Ruskin! Ooooh, Wind in the Willows!
At one point I became entranced by the atlas in one corner, he sat at the table in the other corner reading Le Geste Du Roi.
Ço dit Escremiz de Valterne: "En Rencesvals irai l'orgoill desfaire, se trois Rollant, n'en porterat la teste, ne Oliver, ki les altres cadelet
(Thus spake Escremiz of Valterne "to Ronceval I go, reducing that haughteur!
Should I encounter Roland he will not depart thence with his head, nor Oliver, who hath the others led").
DURENDAL
The song speaks of great gallantry, and a battle arranged by the treason of Ganelon, who is an infamous Quisling.
Rollant ferit en une perre bise, plus en abat que jo ne vos sai dire. L'espee cruist, ne fruisset, ne ne brise, cuntre ciel amunt est resortie...
(Roland smites upon a marble stone, which fragments more than I can say. The blade cries out, neither shattering nor splintering, rebounding upwards to the sky.....).
This is the part where Olivier has died, and all of Roland's companions have perished. Mortally wounded, he tries to break the precious sword Durendal gifted him by king Charles, lest the Saracens take it..... but it was made long ago by Wēland the smith, and cannot be destroyed.
We would have sung out the verses, but Arendt's wife had fallen asleep on the couch. We did not wish to disturb her, so we softly whispered the climactic parts.
She did not awaken, but snuggled more deeply into the red blanket, with only her closed eyes and forehead visible, her dark hair flowing over the cushion she used as a pillow.
Did she dream of the great deeds at Roncevalles? Had the chevaliers who fell in that bleak high pass so long ago come alive in her slumber, and smiled again? I do not know. Her capacity for Mediaeval French and Occitanian was far far greater than ours. It was her subject, those were her volumes. So that must have been likely.
We carefully pronounced the words as correctly as possible, so as not to irk her as she dozed.
Later we went out to the terrace to have a final smoke.
After his cigar he went back inside to rejoin his wife, I wandered off to finish my pipe while overlooking the ocean. The perfume of salt-water and the whisps from the brier are strong memories, I can smell them still.
I think of dark red strawberry preserves, thick luscious cream, wet wet evenings, and Arendt and his sleeping kitten when my nose remembers.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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