JOST A MON

The idle ramblings of a Jack of some trades, Master of none

2.28.2011

A Dog's Life

One expects to encounter the strangest characters in hard-boiled fiction. But where noir really gets going is in the spare prose and crystalline etching of description. Check out James Ellroy's Gravy Train from that tough collection of American noir, Hard-boiled: An Anthology of American Crime Stories.
My list of duties ran seven pages. I drove to Beverly Hills wishing I'd been born canine. 
"Basko" lived in a mansion north of Sunset; Basko wore cashmere sweaters and a custom-designed flea collar that emitted minute amounts of nuclear radiation guaranteed not to harm dogs - a physicist spent three years developing the product. Basko ate prime steak, Beluga caviar, Häagen-Dazs ice cream and Fritos soaked in ketchup. Rats were brought in to sate his blood lust: rodent mayhem every Tuesday morning, a hundred of them let loose in the back yard for Basko to hunt down and destroy. Basko suffered from insomnia and required a unique sedative: a slice of Velveeta cheese melted in a cup of hundred-year-old brandy.
Who would not want such a dog?

2.25.2011

Medieval Credit

In Hawala and Honour, I discussed various ways that medieval businessmen and private individuals and even the state (or royalty) obtained finance, and how they enforced contracts. In an about-turn to today's perceived view that the Protestant ethic is more conducive to financial innovation, in the medieval period, it was the Roman Church that enforced contracts in its jurisdictions. Bankers such as the Medici had a horror of lending money to the Germans because Catholic law didn't apply in German courts, and they often couldn't recover money from German debtors.

While the principles of money as a store of value and medium of transaction had long been established, coin or bullion was not always easily portable. Much of historical trade was on the basis of silver or gold in exchange for goods, of course, although this was never really secure. Long-distance trade didn't explode, therefore, until the development of the bill of exchange in the thirteenth century.

Here's how it worked [1]. An English exporter would send his goods to his Florentine counterparty. The importer would receive the goods and pay the agreed amount of florins to his bank, who would furnish him with a bill of exchange. He would then send the bill of exchange to his payee in England, while - in parallel, the bank would send a notification to its agent in London. When the exporter received the bill, he would approach the agent, hand over the bill and obtain his monies in sterling.

The exchange rates would, I surmise, have been as agreed between the exporter and importer. The importer would know how much his bank would charge to convert florins to sterling at some future delivery date; this rate would determine the amount of florins he would hand over to the bank upon receipt of the English goods. There were problems that could arise from the transit time between the shipment's departure and arrival, and the departure of the notification to the banker's agent, and his receipt of the bill of exchange from the English exporter. The determination of future rates was upon the assessment of the banker on the risks of the journey and the distance to be covered; the future payment date was often standardised, at usance: between Florence and London, this was set at 3 months.

This schematic is after Spufford [2].

International Trade and Credit Flow
The system of double-entry book-keeping that was invented at about the same time helped keep track of the various credits and debits in all these transactions. The exporter would write in his book's debit column an entry for goods sold. The importer would enter a credit to the payee upon receipt of the goods, and a debit to the banker for the delivered florins, thereby immediately balancing his book. The banker would enter a credit of florins from the importer. When the English exporter produced the bill of exchange at the banker's agent's, the agent would enter a debit for the bill to the banker, and the exporter himself would enter a credit for the payment received. The exporter's books would be balanced at that point. The bank and the agent would settle their books at their own convenience.

What did a typical bill of exchange look like? A treasure-trove of such information was revealed when, in 2000, the Borromeo-Arese family allowed academics from Queen Mary College to study two full ledgers from the medieval Borromei Bank of Bruges and London (estabished in 1434). Here is a description from the Queen Mary website [3]:
The acceptance or payment of a bill was usually set out in a complex sentence that indicated who had delivered the bill, who had taken it up, who had agreed to pay it and who was to be paid.[2] In the following example the Bardi of Bruges were takers of a bill of exchange for 800 scudi or flemish écus at an exchange rate of 7s 5d of the £ Barcelona per écu. The Deliverer sent the bill to the Payee in Barcelona; the Taker would write to the Payor in Barcelona with instructions to pay it to Payee at usance, that is 65 days from the writing of the letter. The Italian entry reads:

Ubertino de’ Bardi e compagni deon havere … sono per una lettera ne fecie a Barzalona di scudi 800 a s7 d5 per scudo per dì 65 fatta insino a dì 5 di questo in Antonio de Pazi e Francesco Tosinghi i quali rimettemo a Bernardo da Uzano e compagni per loro conto a loro, fo 168.

By the 15th century, bills of exchange were the commonest form of international monetisation in Europe. With the increasingly lucrative trade between the Ottomans and the Europeans, one would have expected this innovation to take hold in the East as well. This didn't always progress happily. There is an example of a letter of exchange drawn in Pera (Turkey) to be settled in Chios (Crete) that was rejected by the payer at Chios. Still, agents in Constantinople of European banks were quite happy to accept these letters. In 1437, a Cretan named Dimitri Argiti travelled to Gelibolu taking with him a letter for 1177 aspers. [4]

By 1460, credit in the form of letters of exchange was important even in Eastern commercial centres such as Bursa.

Check out:

1. Norman Biggs, 'Mathematics of Currency and Exchange: Arithmetic at the end of the 13th century', Gresham College, April 2008.

2. Peter Spufford, Handbook of the Medieval Exchange.

3. The Borromei Bank Research Project, Queen Mary, University of London.

4. Kate Fleet, European and Islamic Trade in the early Ottoman state.

When an author is so assiduous in her research that she wants to pour out all of it, every little inconsequential detail, each bit of dreg and smidgeon of minutiae, either to show off her knowledge or because she can't bear the idea of all that work going to waste, this is the sort of thing you will see. In Karen J. Gallahue's Murder with a French Twist is this passage, where I have put in bold that amassed gratuitous trivia. At least it's got a bit of food amidst all that dross.
"Are you sure we're dressed appropriately?" asked Caroline.
"Definitely," said Jack. "We're not going to the main dining room tonight. I thought you might prefer the brasserie-type restaurant, called L'Obelisque. It is more casual, and the chefs are noted for their regional French cooking."
He led the way. L'Obelisque was paneled in rich, dark wood and boasted distinctive mirrors bowed at the tops. Exquisite and unique leaf-shaped chandeliers reflected themselves in the mirrors. Snowy white linens and dark red chairs provided a welcoming atmosphere.
As they checked their menus, Ruth leaned over to ask Dan, "What kind of duck will you be ordering tonight?"
Dan was unperturbed. "As a matter of fact, I don't see any on the menu. I'll try the guinea fowl. With, of course, chartreuse of foie gras."
"Of course," she grinned.
The group enjoyed the courses and the accompanying glasses of wine.
"I thought you might like to know," said Jack, "that several of your presidents have stayed at this hotel."
"Really?" asked Dan. "Which ones?"
"Woodrow Wilson, Teddy Roosevelt, Herbert Hoover, Jack Kennedy and his well-known wife, and Franklin Roosevelt, when he was secretary of state."
"Any other famous people?" asked Caroline.
"The Crillon also hosts a debutante ball," said Jack. "Lauren Bush was escorted by a prince, and Gorbachev's granddaughter was here one year."
"Anyone else?" Jack asked the waiter, who was removing the plates.
"Madonna and Arnold Schwarzenegger," he said with a quick smile.
"I understand that this hotel was also taken over by high-ranking Nazis during World War II," said Dan.
"Yes, much to the dislike of the Parisians," said Jack.
After a marvelous meal, the waiter handed them the dessert menu. Jack said,"You must try the bourbon vanilla mille-feuille," said Jack. "It has several layers of puff pastry. In between is a marvelous filling of pastry cream, and it's topped with icing."

I'm pleased to note that my alma mater, St. Stephen's College, is starting a Centre for Translations. The idea is to train up people in translation (literary and technical?), and do something about disseminating India's vast linguistic diversity among its peoples.

They are starting with Malayalam to English (the principal Dr Valson Thampu being a Malayali and a Professor of English, a successful translator, and one of the instigators of the project), and going on to Hindi, Punjabi and Bengali.

I wish them all success.

With a writer and producer named Anupam Nigam, one shouldn't be surprised to have an occasional Indian theme pop up in that hit US television series Psych. Diversity in America usually means ten white guys, a couple of white women, a token black guy, and the occasional East Asian or Indian in a stereotypical role - a yakuza or geek for the former, a doctor or geek for the latter. Psych is a bit different: two white women, one black man, one white Hispanic, one white white actor. The white Hispanic plays an Anglo, though, so I'm wrong, it's not that different, then.

Anyway. In September 2009, in Psych's season 4, there was an episode titled Bollywood Homicide. I think this is a bit of a play on some obscure Harrison Ford flick; there's (spoiler alert!) no homicide in this episode. What is has, though, is several Indian actors, none of whom is a geek or doctor.

(On the other hand, there's the obligatory allusion to spicy food. Hey, we can't be too choosy.)

Madhur Jaffrey is delightfully acerbic, though.

The great thing about the episode was not the story (weak) or the humour (weaker). It was the theme song - rendered into Hindi! - and the lead subtitles - in Devanagari! These are to be commended wholeheartedly. I mean, come on, Devanagari? In an American TV serial? How cool is that?

Now I don't know if Anupam Nigam knows any Hindi or not, but I have to reproach the producers for their omission of serious editing. The spellings were awful. Awful. As an example, Dule Hill was rendered as दुले हलि . Come on, people. Get the matras right, ok? Maggie Lawson appeared as म्यागी ल्योसन , and - to be honest - it wasn't even the Lyoson that bugged me, but the use of the full ल with the whatchamacallit sign below. Is it called a Halanth? I've forgotten, dash it.

Also, Maggi - the noodle - is well-known in India, and has long been spelt in a standard way, so it shouldn't have been beyond the title editor's nous to figure that out, either.

In fact, nearly every name was misspelt.

You may wonder why it's all exercising me now, nearly eighteen months after the event. Well, we in the UK were treated to this episode only last night, and so here I am.

(I'm nitpicking, of course. But then I am in a persnickety mood.)

In Robert Arellano's Don Dimaio of La Plata, various plug-uglies and macho types abound. With the typical swagger of a lowlife politico, the Mayor insists that it's better to have casual flings than get married. And, with vim and brio, he compares marriage to eating eggs:
"...I've got this one girl Dolly who's got a tail like a Chevy. She lets me ride it whenever I want, and when I'm done she doesn't need any of that goddamn attention. No 'take me out' or 'talk to me' or anything. It's just fuck and sleep." 
"Sounds pretty good. Maybe you should make her your full-time old lady." 
"No way, Hank. Fucking the same whore every night gets so fucking monotonous. Do you have any idea how much free pussy I get as mayor? Marriage, on the other hand..." 
"Oh, no." Cantare has heard this rap. 
"It's like the chefs put a banquet with food from every part of the world in front of you, but day after day you can only eat the same thing." 
"Eggs," Cantare says. 
"Eggs. Other guys get Italian, Chinese, Spanish, French, Caribbean. You smell how good it all is. You're licking your lips. You want to try a little of everything yourself, but you're always forced to pick the same dish. Eggs. You try them prepared different styes for a while and sauce it up a little every now and then - Benedict one day, ranchero the next - but after a time even that goes dry and all that's left is scrambled and it's not even fresh: powdered eggs." 
"I know, boss, I know." 
"It's not over yet. One day you show up for the smorgasbord and where your platter of eggs used to be there's something floating in a glass jar full of murky brine like some kind of abortion. You're like, 'Where's my eggs?' And the waiter says, 'In there.' Now it's pickled eggs. For the rest of your goddamned life. You're hungry as hell and they've still got all that good stuff laid out to either side. Tortellini, roast duck, beef with broccoli." 
"I hear you, boss." 
"You sit and watch while all around you other guys are dipping their fingers straight in the gravy or diving right into dessert - chocolate-chip blondies a la mode! oh! - but all you get is eggs. Pickled eggs. That's what it's like having a wife."

2.19.2011

Pushkin Centenary

[Bolshoi Gorod, a Russian magazine, has an irregular series articles on historical photographs, complete with explanatory text. This here is loosely translated from the issue of 7 September 2010. Text: Maria Bakhareva; Photograph: Emmanuel Yevzerikhin. The text numbers correspond to those appearing in the photograph.]

Moscow 1937. The centenary of the death of Alexander Pushkin.


1. The centenary of Pushkin's death. The organisation of the jubilee began two years earlier - in 1935, an All-Soviet Pushkin committee was established to plan celebrations across the country. In honour of Pushkin, many institutions, streets and squares were renamed (for instance, Great Dmitrovka became Pushkin street). Lectures on his life and work were presented at factories and collective farms, and large numbers of books about him were printed. But the main merit of this committee was the publication of the complete works of the poet in 16 volumes.

2. "Izvestia". This was one of the first buildings in the Constructivist style, built between 1925-1927. Its architect, Grigori Bakhrin, originally wanted to install a tower atop it, but these plans were abandoned.

3. Portrait of Pushkin. This was painted by the artist H. Mandelberg, who was responsible for all the festive decorations on the Square of the Passion (now Pushkin Square). The choice of the square was important - 10 February 1937, exactly 100 years after the poet's death, fell on Good Friday (the day of the Passion of Christ), and a solemn rally was held that day, attended by nearly 25,000 people.

4. "Comrade, believe: it rises, the star of captivating happiness, ..., and on the ruins of autocracy they will write our names." The last stanza of Pushkin's 1818 poem, 'To Chaadaev'. In pre-revolutionary edition of the poem, these lines were either discarded entirely, or the word 'autocracy' was replaced with ellipses. After 1917, the verse was claimed as evidence that the poet would have approved of the revolution.

5. The Convent of the Passion. In 1937, this was the Central Anti-religious Museum. This is one of the last photos of the nunnery; it was demolished later that year. Thirteen years later, exactly where once stood the bell-tower of the convent, was installed Pushkin's monument (by Opekushin), which had earlier been on Tverskiy boulevard.

6. 1837-1937. In a special edition of the Pravda commemorating Pushkin's centennial, an editorial said: "A hundred years have passed since the greatest Russian poet, Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, was shot by the hand of a foreign aristocratic scoundrel, a hireling of Tsarism. He was entirely our own, a Soviet, because the Soviet rule inherited all that is best of our people. At the end of the day, Pushkin's creation merged with the October Socialist Revolution as a river flows into the ocean."

7. Posters. Posters of book covers of Pushkin's works translated into various languages of the Soviet Union were on display, with a famous quotation:

Throughout great Rus' my echoes will extend,
and all will name me, all tongues in her use:
the Slavs' proud heir, the Finn, the Kalmuk, friend
of steppes, the yet untamed Tunguz.

8. Tram. In 1937, nearly thirteen tramway routes criss-crossed the Square of the Passion. Although many bus routes plied in Moscow, and the first line of the Metro was already operational in 1937, trams were still the chief form of transport in the capital. Their importance began to dwindle only in the 1950s.

9. Bread Van. These lorries became a symbol of Stalinist oppression: Solzhenitsyn in his book Two Hundred Years Together wrote that in 1937, mobile gas-chambers were disguised as bread vans, into the passenger cabins of which was piped their exhaust. The inventor of these murder trucks was Isai Berg, of the Moscow region NKVD. (Well, Berg himself was shot in 1939, not for those evil deeds, of course, but for 'the anti-Soviet conspiracy')

10. Coat. The mass production of clothes began in the Soviet Union in the 1930s. Prior to this, they were made either by people on their own, or on order. Wealthier folks depended on private tailors; commoners went to the various ateliers of the Moscowshvey (Moscow State Garment) trust. But by the end of the 1930s, most of these studios had been subsumed by large-scale garment factories.

2.16.2011

Bechuana

It had always puzzled me that Alexander McCall Smith's gently meandering paean to Botswana, that deals with its mores and traditions and breathtaking beauty and solicitous folk, hardly describes in any detail any of the country's cuisine. Seven novels into the series, with Blue Shoes and Happiness, appears - as far as I can make out - the first interesting reference to food.
"I was always interested in cooking, Mma. When I was a girl I was always the one in the kitchen, cooking all the food for the family. My grandmother was the one who taught me. She had always cooked and she could make very simple food taste very good. Maize meal. Sorghum. Those very plain things tasted very good when my grandmother had added her herbs to them. Herbs or a little bit of meat if we were lucky, or even chopped up Moopani worms. Oh those were very good. I cannot resist Mopani worms, Mma. Can you?"
A little later, we see Mma Makutsi has prepared just the sort of delicacy that her fiance likes.
She soon found out what Phuti liked to eat, and she made sure that she always cooked these dishes for him. He liked meat, of course, and T-bone steaks in particular, which he would pick up and gnaw at with gusto. He liked marrow and broad green beans doused in melted butter, and he liked chopped-up biltong soaked in gravy and then served over mashed potato. All of these dishes she did for him, and each time he complimented her enthusiastically on her cooking, as it it were the first time that he had said anything about it. She loved these compliments, and the nice things he said about her appearance. In her mind she had been no more than a woman with large glasses and difficult skin; now she found herself described as one of the prettiest women in Botswana, with a nose that reminded him of ... and here he mumbled and she did not catch what it was that her nose reminded him of, but it was surely a positive association and so she did not mind not knowing what it was.
Of course, I hope you recall that Ramotswe has, rather cunningly, published her own cookbook (Mma Ramotswe's Cookbook).

Ogden Nash, poet par excellence, cast his brilliant eye on many human foibles. Food is a major foible, particularly that prepared by people who refuse to accept they will never be good cooks. Look at this:

My Dear, How Ever Did You Think Up This Delicious Salad?

This is a very sad ballad,
Because it's about the way too many people make a salad.
Generally they start with bananas.
And they might as well just use gila monsters or iguanas.
Pineapples are another popular ingredient,
Although there is one school that holds
Preserves pears or peaches more expedient,
And you occasionally meet your fate
In the form of a prune or a date.
Rarely you may chance to find a soggy piece
Of tomato looking very forlorn and Cinderella-ry,
But for the most part you are confronted by apples and celery,
And it's not a bit of use at this point to turn pale
Or break out in a cold perspiration
Because all this is only the foundation,
Because if you think the foundation sounds unenticing,
Just wait until we get to the dressing, or rather the icing.
There are various methods of covering up the body,
And to some, marshmallows are the pall supreme,
And others prefer whipped cream,
And then they deck the grave with
Ground-up peanuts and maraschinos
And you get the effect of a funeral like Valentino's
And about the only thing
That in this kind of salad is never seen
Is any kind of green
And oil and vinegar and salt and pepper are at a minimum,
But there's a maximum of sugar and syrup
And ginger and nutmeg and cinnamum.

Evelyn Waugh travelled about, casting an acerbic eye at one moment, a sardonic look at another, except where alcohol was concerned, and came up with a rather peculiar exotic drink, involving, among other things, champagne and Angostura Bitters. (What the devil is an Angostura Bitter?) Here is an excerpt from When the Going Was Good:
I told him that I had had a late night, drinking after the ball with some charming Norwegians, and felt a little shaken. He then made me this drink, which I commend to anyone in need of a wholesome and easily accessibly pick-me-up. he took a large tablet of beet sugar (an equivalent quantity of ordinary lump sugar does equally well) and soaked it in Angostura Bitters and then rolled it in Cayenne pepper. This he put into a large glass which he filled up with champagne. The excellences of this drink defy description. The sugar and Angostura enrich the wine and take away that slight acidity which renders even the best champagne slightly repugnant in the early morning. Each bubble as it rises to the surface carries with it a red grain of pepper, so that as one drinks one’s appetite is at once stimulated and gratified, heat and cold, fire and liquid, contending on one’s palate and alternating in the mastery of one’s sensations. I sipped this almost unendurably desirable drink and played with the artificial birds and musical boxes until Alastair was ready to come out.

Okay, this is too funny not to pass along. None of it is mine, and the commentary is ‘as is’.

"So just to outline here – these are makeshift helmets made by the Egyptians whilst scrapping in their current predicament. I shall guide you through these pieces of registered army kit thus:
ATT00001
Your classic 1979 ‘Tribottle rag’ helmet – a must in any type of combat

ATT00002
A late 80’s ‘boxhat’. The bloke next to him doesn’t appear too sure of its effectiveness

ATT00003
A renaissance period piece of brickwear teamed with a black and cream scarf. Textbook

ATT00004
I’m not sure that tuna sarnie he is about to lob is gonna cause to much destruction. Old skool 80’s broken bin helmet. I personally love the fact he needs to lift it up to see – does he spend the rest of the time walking in to things??

ATT00005
Textbook saucepaning with lifejacket combo. He does not take, ANY!!

ATT00006
I literally have no idea what this is.

ATT00007
And the winner by 100 miles. This bloke is going to war with 2 baguettes strapped to his ears and a ham salad roll sellotaped to his forehead. I’d def wanna be behind him if someone lobs a load of bricks at me."

2.10.2011

Ernest Bloody Mary

Ernest Hemingway, famous story-teller, laconic so-and-so, four times married, a gastronome, a Francophile, a heavy drinker, a suicide, had the following recipe (complete with spelling mistakes) for a Bloody Mary.
"To make a pitcher of Blood Marys (any smaller amount is worthless) take a good sized pitcher and put in it as big a lump of ice as it will hold. (This is to prevent too rapid melting and watering of our product.) Mix a pint of good Russian vodka and an equal amount of chilled tomato juice. Add a tablespoon of Worcestershire Sauce. Lea and Perrin is usual but can use A 1 or any good beef steak sauce. Stirr. Then add a jigger of fresh squeezed lime juice. Stirr. Then add small amounts of celery salt, cayenne pepper, black pepper. 
"Keep on stirring and taste it to see how it is doing. If you get it too powerful weaken with more tomato juice. If it lacks authority add more vodka. Some people like more lime than others. For combating a really terrific hangover increase the amount of Worcestershire Sauce but don't lose the lovely color. 
"Keep drinking it yourself to see how it is doing. After you get the hang of it you can mix it so it will taste as though it had absolutely no alcohol of any kind in it and a glass of it will still have as much kick as a really good big martini. Whole trick is to keep it very cold and not let the ice water it down. Use good vodka and good tomato juice. 
"There is a very fine Mexican sauce called Esta Si Pican (sort of mild tabasco) that is good added to the Bloody Marys, too. Just a few drops."

2.09.2011

Parker's List

Remember that bit in The Social Network when Zuckerberg meets Parker, and the latter is all suave and with it and somehow so connected to the haute monde that he can throw lines like these while ordering food, and you know that he is trying hard to be suave and with it, and really he, like every other nerd, is a compiler of lists?
“Could you bring out some things? The lacquered pork with that ginger confit? I don’t know, tuna tartare, some lobster claws, the foie gras and the shrimp dumplings, that’ll get us started.”
But it is foody, so it's here.

I took the boy to see Disney's latest venture into song-and-dance, Tangled. He didn't know we were going to the cinema, and threw a big fuss when I told him we weren't going for a walk, as he had originally wanted. I guess it would have been easier to tell him we were going to see a film, but I'm mulish myself, and proceed to deflect his attention with cunning gestures and manoeuvres.


I doubt these strategies will succeed for much longer. He's already on to me.


His whole face lit up when I, pointing to the nearby supermarket, sneakily guided him into the theatre. 'Are we going to see a film, Acha?' he said, grinning from ear to ear.


'I'm taking you to the swimming pool,' I replied, 'To swim with the sharks.'


He knew at that point that he was going to see a film.


He didn't blink once through the film.


'Is that woman a baddie?' he said loudly, once.


'Stop kicking!' he shouted at another time. A kid behind him was systematically knocking against the back of his seat.


'Why is that woman a baddie?' he said later.


'Thank you for bringing me to the film, Acha,' he said after the film.


On our way back home, it was already dark, but he wanted to go to a nearby bridge to look at the trains. He also wanted to play with his boat in the bathtub.


'You can do one or the other,' I said.


'Okay then,' he said. He really is an agreeable chap when things go his way. 'I'll look at the trains now and play with the boat tomorrow.'


'You have school tomorrow,' I said. 'You can play with the boat next Saturday.'


He threw another big fuss.


And I, being high and mighty and justice embodied, said,'Well, buddy, no trains or boat for you now.'


Parenting, I find, is all about establishing arbitrary boundaries and thwarting the kid. It is a uniquely satisfying experience.


It will all come back to bite me in the butt, I'm sure. But for now Superman has nothing on my powers.

Ogden Nash complained against ridiculous additives in salads. Time, I think, to move onto his witty observations on sundry liqueurs. Here's his Mint Julep:
There is something about a mint julep.
It is nectar imbibed in a dream,
As fresh as the bud of the tulip,
As cool as the bed of the stream.
There is something about a mint julep,
A fragrance beloved by the lucky.
And perhaps it's the tint of the frost and the mint,
But I think it was born in Kentucky.
And here is his Highball:
There is something they put in a highball
That awakens the torpidest brain,
That kindles a spark in the eyeball,
Gliding, singing through vein after vein.
There is something they put in a highball
Which you'll notice one day, if you watch;
And it may be the soda, but judged by the odor,
I rather believe it's the Scotch.
And, in the same vein, he goes on to extol the Old-Fashioned:
There is something about an old-fashioned
That kindles a cardiac glow;
It is soothing and soft and impassioned
As a lyric by Swinburne or Poe.
There is something about an old-fashioned
When dusk has enveloped the sky,
And it may be the ice, or the pineapple slice,
But I strongly suspect it's the Rye.

2.07.2011

Amblongus Pie

Edward Lear has some fun with food. Here's one of his 'receipts for domestic cookery' - an Amblongus Pie:

TO MAKE AN AMBLONGUS PIE

Take 4 pounds (say 4 1/2 pounds) of fresh Amblongusses, and put them in a small pipkin.

Cover them with water and boil them for 8 hours incessantly, after which add 2 pints of new milk, and proceed to boil for 4 hours more.

When you have ascertained that the Amblongusses are quite soft, take them out and place them in a wide pan, taking care to shake them well previously.

Grate some nutmeg over the surface, and cover them carefully with powdered gingerbread, curry-powder, and a sufficient quantity of Cayenne pepper.

Remove the pan into the next room, and place it on the floor. Bring it back again, and let it simmer for three-quarters of an hour. Shake the pan violently till all the Amblongusses have become a pale purple colour.

Then, having prepared a paste, insert the whole carefully, adding at the same time a small pigeon, 2 slices of beef, 4 cauliflowers, and any number of oysters.

Watch patiently till the crust begins to rise, and add a pinch of salt from time to time.

Serve up in a clean dish, and throw the whole out of the window as fast as possible.

2.04.2011

Ozzy Burger

In Tim Heald's rather pedestrian novel of academic snobbery, long-smouldering revenge, and obscure Tasmanian wines, Death and the Visiting Fellow, a chesty, long-legged and lissome beauty discusses burgers with the visiting Fellow.
Instead of the bijou, upmarket, expensive, one-off emporia of the salubrious oases to either side of the highway, these were chain convenience stores - drive-through off-licences, snack bars offering meat pies, pasties and deep-fried chicken drumsticks. 
All this was at one at the same time quintessentially Tasmanian and peculiar to Hobart, yet also familiar.  Perhaps even depressingly so. Doctor Cornwall felt he had not come to the far end of the earth in order to be confronted with canned Guinness and mass-produced Pizza Margerita. If he had wanted a Big Mac he would have stayed on campus at the University of Wessex. 
'I guess you have McDonald's in England,' said Ms Burney. 
'I'm afraid so.' 
'I know what you mean.' She wrinkled her nose. 'Where I come from in the north of the state you still get old-fashioned steak sandwiches. You know, with the lot. Old-fashioned white bread, and thick, brown gravy, half a pound of sirloin, fried egg, tomatoes, onion, cucumber, mayonnaise, pineapple, ketchup, mustard, lettuce, beetroot.' 
'Goodness,' said Tudor, aware that he was sounding prissy. 'All that in a single sandwich.' 
She looked at him with amusement and scorn. 'You poms!' she said. 'You don't know what a sandwich is. Slicely thinned cucumber and the crusts cut off. Call that a sandwich? Get out of here!'

2.03.2011

Motorola Chaser

In 1997, I joined Motorola's Cellular Subscriber Division to work on some of the earliest cell phones of the digital era. It was a heady time slightly dimished by the knowledge that the powers-that-be in the company insisted that analog phones (in which Motorola had an overwhelming market share) still had a viable future. We worked on the Startac, the flip phone to define all flip phones, and in parallel we worked on one or two other models. And while we developed bespoke user interfaces and device drivers for each digital phone, the likes of Samsung and Nokia had already begun to eat our lunch with their clever use of modular and reusable software architectures. In the time it took us to develop one or two models, these savvy companies could churn out entire families of phones, from low-end mass-market to high-spec and high-margin. It didn't take long for Motorola's share of the mobile market to plummet.

About two years later, I thought it time to see what the competition was doing. I interviewed at Sony in San Diego, CA, and at Philips in Piscataway, NJ, and accepted an offer at the latter (mainly because they offered me way more than stingy Sony). Philips Communications, when I arrived, appeared to be on its last legs. Its phones were hardly selling and there were constant rumours of layoffs. As a contractor, I wasn't too fussed. There was far too much demand for skilled telecomms software types for me to be jobless for long.

The top-brass had to come up with a plan to save their collective skins, and their idea was to license Qualcomm's software and hardware, stick it into a phone designed by us, and sell it under Philips' brand name. To that end, three or four of us were sent to San Diego to learn about the ins and outs of the Qualcomm system, understand its design and programming interfaces, and bring samples back with us to Piscataway.

At the time, digital wireless networks were still patchy across the US, and I, with my background in Motorola, was interested to see how interoperable Qualcomm's offerings were with the extant (and extensive) analog networks. But when I asked questions about the analog parts, I was looked on strangely, both by the Philips and the Qualcomm engineers. Clearly a dinosaur, they thought to themselves. What a pity. And he looks so young!

Qualcomm hosted us at a baseball game and sent us back to New Jersey with encouraging noises. In the event, our trip was wasted. We returned to find that Philips Communications was, for all practical purposes, defunct.

While we were gone, the bosses at PCC had agreed to sell the division to Motorola. In fact, my old boss at Motorola would become the head of this new outfit. I joked that I had been so sorely missed that my ex-boss was willing to buy an entire company just to have me back. Then I quit.

Years later, I found myself in the UK and working for a little company called TTP Communications. This was a little shop filled with creative and innovative engineers. It provided the hardware design and software systems for such iconic mobiles as the Blackberry; various Asian manufacturers were using its products in phones that they sold in their own names. It was struggling in the wake of the dot-com collapse but had somehow managed to continue with its research and development. But within a year of my arrival, it became clear that TTP Communications couldn't carry on on its own. I left in 2005, and a few months it was taken over.

And who was it that came riding to its rescue? Why, Motorola, of course.

In the years that passed after that, I didn't keep up much with the fate of TTPCom. Today, amazingly, its name came up once again. I attended an Anti Market Abuse training course in the office, and what did I hear? In 2006, the general counsel of TTPCom, having learnt that Motorola was about to acquire it, got his father-in-law to buy TTPCom's shares. Two days later, the acquisition was publicly announced, the share price soared, and a month later, the father-in-law sold his stock for a profit of £49,000. He then gave the legal eagle a half share of the proceeds.

In 2009, both men became the first to be sentenced in the UK under the FSA's insider dealing purview. A later appeal was dismissed, and the solicitor had to spend 8 months at Her Majesty's pleasure.

I used to have occasional nightmares of finding myself back in Motorola, writing requirements documents and creating systems designs. I enjoyed my time with that company and I have always wished it well. But now finally, I can congratulate myself that its pursuit of me has pretty much ground to a halt.

Happily, there's not much danger of them ever buying up a financial institution.

Wahey! Foodiness galore in Wikileaks. In 2009, the US Ambassador Robert F. Godec had dinner with the daughter (Nesrine) and son-in-law Mohammad Sakher El Materi of the recently ousted Tunisian president Ben Ali, and reported at length on it. Here is the gastronomic bit:
The dinner included perhaps a dozen dishes, including fish, steak, turkey, octopus, fish couscous and much more. The quantity was sufficient for a very large number of guests. Before dinner a wide array of small dishes were served, along with three different juices (including Kiwi juice, not normally available here). After dinner, he served ice cream and frozen yoghurt he brought in by plane from Saint Tropez, along with blueberries and raspberries and fresh fruit and chocolate cake. (NB. El Materi and Nesrine had just returned from Saint Tropez on their private jet after two weeks vacation. El Materi was concerned about his American pilot finding a community here. The Ambassador said he would be pleased to invite the pilot to appropriate American community events.)

The comedian Al Murray went on a tour of Germany to explore the culture of that land before it got hijacked by the Nazis ("don't mention the war!"), and took a detour to one of the oldest wineries in the Rhine valley, where he meets Dieter Greimer, its managing director:
I've been invited to Kloster Eberbach, the location for The Name of the Rose and the largest wine estate in Germany. It's a monastery whose wine-making tradition dates back to the 17th century. Even Bismarck bought wine here. Bond and Bismarck, there can't be many places that can make claim to those visitors.

...

So tell me about this building - this is an extraordinary space.

We're here in the hospital of the Kloster Eberbach, it's the oldest Gothic building in Germany, it was built in the year 1220. So it's really a true old building.

How long has wine been stored here?

Well, after the Thirty Years' War, in 1635, the monks started making wine here, in this cellar, because wine has become very important for the monastery.

...

So let's start with the dry Riesling from the year 2008, from the Baiken vineyard.

Mmm...That's delicious.

It's fruity, it's dry, crisp, it's elegant.

Yeah. Mmm. It's very, um, quaffable, I think that's the word. Yeah, very nice, yeah. Mmm. Oh, I could do this all day... Well, you do!

Well, someone's got to do it, someone's got to do it.

The next wine, perhaps, is a Pinot Noir, from our single vineyard, the Hollenberg vineyard, which is our most precious single vineyard for Pinot Noir.

Now I have drunk more than my fair share of Pinor Noir, but never a German one, so, umm... I'm not supposed to really guzzle it.

It's a good sign.

It's a good sign. Um, going back in time...

Last, but not least, the year 1959, a very special year, a very very special vintage...

[This was the 800 euro bottle I was waiting for.]

The colour's incredible.

Yeah, that's very typical. So, 51 years old.

Yes, I could drink that all day long.

Well, if you can afford. It's very pricey.