My chocolate consumption is usually limited to the odd Wispa (a recent, pretty much life-altering discovery) and the shameful, nightmareish binge on Lindt Santa's every Christmas. But when my dad invited me to a chocalate tasting with a Colombian theme, I decided to go, if only for the free glass of wine.
I got there late, sweaty and out of breath after getting a bit lost and nobody being able to tell me where the street I was looking for was (I guess no real, approachable people actually live in Notting Hill). The guy giving the presentation looked at me like I was a turd in his mousse au chocolate as I took my seat in the front row, managing not to knock over the bowls of cocoa beans lovingly laid out on the table.
The guy doing the talk/presentation, Martin Christy, is the founder and editor of Seventypercent.com , a lovably geeky blog/online community dedicated to the brown gold. Apparently he's also a web technology consultant, but I prefer imagining him as a primary school teacher living in a small house made of brown bricks in Teddington with his golden retriever and constantly having a little chocolate smear on his cheek. A very british, non-creepy Willy Wonka. He told us about how he went to visit this cocoa farm in Santander, in the north east of Colombia, and we got to sample some of the different types of chocolate they made there.
I hadn't had dinner that night, so it was all I could do not to punch the air in delight when Martin said "I think now it's a good time for our first sample...". I had just swallowed my piece of 70%-cocoa goodness whole, when Martin continued: "Have a little smell first... what can you make out?". Everyone else still had their slabs between their fingers, passing it underneath their nose with an air of deep concentration. Patience fail. As people started chewing and making expertly, ruminating facial expressions, Martin asked us how we thought it tasted. "Chocolatey", my dad said, to my horror.
After riding this hurdle of brief but intense embarassment, I kind of got the hang of it. Grab a piece, pretend to smell it (my olfactory sense is incredibly underdeveloped, which has its uses when you live with two other dudes), break the already tiny square in half, then let each half slowly melt in your mouth while trying not to choke. Good thing the chocolate was delicious (apart from one variation which had bits of pineapple inside) and the photos of Colombia and its landscape were pretty amazing. Plus, Martin really seemed to know his Hachez from his Hershey's, and I remember thinking how awesome it was that people can develop a love and an understanding (he clearly had visited a number of factories and could tell you shitloads about the fermentation of the cocoa beans, quality control and fair trade) of something that people like me tend to pass off as an indulgent, overrated comfort food.
Saturday 17 October 2009
Tuesday 6 October 2009
O is for Otto
On Sunday, in what might become a regular thing, I went to the BFI to see a film. Thinking that we couldn't bear the 3 hours of cinematic awesome that is 'The Godfather' on a Sunday night, we chose to see 'Rage', about which I only knew that it was shot on a camera phone and didn't show any plot. But it was shorter and it had a pretty hot-looking Lily Cole on the poster, so we had ourselves another beer and went in.
At the time, I followed what happened on the screen (which wasn't much, given that all Jude Law, Judi Dench et al do is look into the camera and talk) with interest. The basic premise is that a schoolboy, about whom we know very little, is spending a week behind the scenes at a fashion show in NYC. He gets to talk to some people - an illegal immigrant who fixes up dresses for the models, the designer of the collection, a jaded photographer (Steve Buscemi looking adequately dishevelled) and a model (Cole), who all become witnesses to a mysterious incident involving a motorcycle (don't ask).
The actors seemed to enjoy the focus and license to overact that the set-up allowed, and the sound effects were used pretty effectively to hint at the off-screen action. It was only with a bit of distance that I realised that this film had so many elements in it that I dislike (fashion, a mobile phone being used as a camera, some vague message about viral advertising campaigning and an even more vague message on fashion and the people who care about it) that it was a bit odd I didn't throw my empty beer cup at the tittering eggheads on the screen. The optics reminded me to a painful degree of iPod adverts, and the role of the black detective responsible of the murder investigation was an absolute shambles in terms of writing, characterisation and acting. Same goes for the character of the designer (called Merlin. No, seriously.), who enthusiastically embraces every single prejudice you might have about a fashion designer.
As I said, I didn't think it was bad at the time, and Jude Law as a transvestite is certainly worth a Google search, but overall, this is a seriously lame attempt at being "edgy" or "innovative". I'll tell you what would've been innovative, Sally Potter: Believable characters involved with fashion. But maybe there is no such thing in real life anyway. Oh well.
At the time, I followed what happened on the screen (which wasn't much, given that all Jude Law, Judi Dench et al do is look into the camera and talk) with interest. The basic premise is that a schoolboy, about whom we know very little, is spending a week behind the scenes at a fashion show in NYC. He gets to talk to some people - an illegal immigrant who fixes up dresses for the models, the designer of the collection, a jaded photographer (Steve Buscemi looking adequately dishevelled) and a model (Cole), who all become witnesses to a mysterious incident involving a motorcycle (don't ask).
The actors seemed to enjoy the focus and license to overact that the set-up allowed, and the sound effects were used pretty effectively to hint at the off-screen action. It was only with a bit of distance that I realised that this film had so many elements in it that I dislike (fashion, a mobile phone being used as a camera, some vague message about viral advertising campaigning and an even more vague message on fashion and the people who care about it) that it was a bit odd I didn't throw my empty beer cup at the tittering eggheads on the screen. The optics reminded me to a painful degree of iPod adverts, and the role of the black detective responsible of the murder investigation was an absolute shambles in terms of writing, characterisation and acting. Same goes for the character of the designer (called Merlin. No, seriously.), who enthusiastically embraces every single prejudice you might have about a fashion designer.
As I said, I didn't think it was bad at the time, and Jude Law as a transvestite is certainly worth a Google search, but overall, this is a seriously lame attempt at being "edgy" or "innovative". I'll tell you what would've been innovative, Sally Potter: Believable characters involved with fashion. But maybe there is no such thing in real life anyway. Oh well.
Sunday 27 September 2009
Belated happy birthday
The Boss turned 60 last Wednesday. Meant to update then, but got waylaid by drinking too much while watching Times New Viking. It's pretty incredible that this guy is already that far along - he's released two albums in the last two years alone, and while his voice did seem to give out more than it did in the eighties when I saw him play Hyde Park this year, I never felt like watching a relict.
My first memory of listening to Springsteen is my dad telling my brother that "Born in the U.S.A." was about him (my brother was born in upstate NY) when it came on the radio when we were little, about 8 or 9. My dad had the Greatest Hits album and used to play it a fair bit, and when I got my first CD player I didn't have any CDs, so I nicked that one and listened to it upstairs in my dad's office. We were doing English at school by then, so I took out the lyric sheet and got stuck in. I didn't know what a courthouse or a porch was, but I think I did realise that this guy sang about life, normal, shitty, occasionally bearable life, and that he meant it. "Thunder Road" was my favourite song (still is one of them), and "Secret Garden" (ok, that one isn't) was the soundtrack to me crying man-tears over a girl I liked over a summer or two.
When we moved to London, my dad took us all to see him play Crystal Palace, and after that I was, as they say, converted. I've seen him twice since and loved every cheesy, loud, overblown, beautiful, sincere and sweaty minute of it. The fact that "Working On a Dream" was, by and large, rubbish, doesn't really worry me. I am worried that I'll never get to see him play "Land Of Hope & Dreams". But considering I still haven't gotten bored of his back catalogue, I think I'll live if I don't. Long may he continue to be awesome.
I've been mildly obsessed with this video today.
P.S.: I finally, FINALLY beat my housemate on penalties tonight. This might be a decent week.
My first memory of listening to Springsteen is my dad telling my brother that "Born in the U.S.A." was about him (my brother was born in upstate NY) when it came on the radio when we were little, about 8 or 9. My dad had the Greatest Hits album and used to play it a fair bit, and when I got my first CD player I didn't have any CDs, so I nicked that one and listened to it upstairs in my dad's office. We were doing English at school by then, so I took out the lyric sheet and got stuck in. I didn't know what a courthouse or a porch was, but I think I did realise that this guy sang about life, normal, shitty, occasionally bearable life, and that he meant it. "Thunder Road" was my favourite song (still is one of them), and "Secret Garden" (ok, that one isn't) was the soundtrack to me crying man-tears over a girl I liked over a summer or two.
When we moved to London, my dad took us all to see him play Crystal Palace, and after that I was, as they say, converted. I've seen him twice since and loved every cheesy, loud, overblown, beautiful, sincere and sweaty minute of it. The fact that "Working On a Dream" was, by and large, rubbish, doesn't really worry me. I am worried that I'll never get to see him play "Land Of Hope & Dreams". But considering I still haven't gotten bored of his back catalogue, I think I'll live if I don't. Long may he continue to be awesome.
I've been mildly obsessed with this video today.
P.S.: I finally, FINALLY beat my housemate on penalties tonight. This might be a decent week.
Friday 18 September 2009
Wednesday 16 September 2009
Good band alert
Yesterday night, I went to the Buffalo Bar for Blakfish's London gig. Although I think they're great, especially live, I was more curious to see one of the support bands: BATS (yeah, in CAPITALS. Whenever I read it, I imagine it being shouted out by a lot of drunk dudes. Definite plus.) They're five guys from Dublin and play a kind of technical dance-punk (potential genre fail, but maybe think Foals' high-pitched riffs plus added testicles and Frank Black having a drawn-out mental breakdown over it all). Crap descriptions aside, they were very good and seemed like great guys, too. Hairy, sweaty, a few visible waistlines - I'd fit right in. Their album is up for streaming here and I defy you not to get at least a bit hooked in after listening to the first two songs. Even if you don't, listen to "The Cruel Sea" and then we'll talk. Some guy on Punktastic posted a link to their lyrics (which mostly are about things I don't understand, like physics, but are still great), but I can't seem to find it now. But yeah, listen listen.
http://www.myspace.com/leatherbeatsfeather
Tuesday 15 September 2009
Most people are DJs
I saw The Hold Steady last week, after having missed them everytime they came over for a year and a half. Safe to say they killed it. Despite there being more fat bald men than on the pitch at Upton Park, it was a great show. No hassle (no Atlantic City either), just rocking out/drinking/shouting/air-guitaring. Craig looks more like Bob Mould every day. Belief in music = partly restored. Thank you, The Hold Steady.
Tuesday 8 September 2009
I Have No Fun
On Sunday, I watched Killer of Sheep. Very little in the way of a plot or character definition or development, but still good. It's about a black dude named Stan in LA working in a slaughterhouse and his family, who he tries to maintain and support but, from what you see in the film, doesn't really feel connected to. His wife and daughter seem to adore him, but he keeps a kind of distance throughout the film that implies that their affection weighs him down rather than giving him strength. It is a very slow film (and conveniently cut to 83 minutes), and more of an observation of the life this family lead than a social commentary or even a drama. The scene where Stan's little daughter tries to sing along to this tune is incredible (couldn't find the actual scene, sadly), and the whole film has a killer soundtrack in general (seewhatIdidthere).
What I found worth noticing was that the audience was almost exclusively white. One woman in the same row as me was chuckling at pretty much everything anyone said during the whole film, funny/audible or not, which was a bit annoying. Some of the shots of children playing in the street were pretty cute, but I doubt it was the director's intention to get an "awww look at those black children playing in the dirt"-coo out of a white middle class woman. She might not have meant it in that way, but it was still annoying. Film wasn't that funny.
It's still on at the BFI Southbank on September 14 and 19 if you want to check it out.
What I found worth noticing was that the audience was almost exclusively white. One woman in the same row as me was chuckling at pretty much everything anyone said during the whole film, funny/audible or not, which was a bit annoying. Some of the shots of children playing in the street were pretty cute, but I doubt it was the director's intention to get an "awww look at those black children playing in the dirt"-coo out of a white middle class woman. She might not have meant it in that way, but it was still annoying. Film wasn't that funny.
It's still on at the BFI Southbank on September 14 and 19 if you want to check it out.
Sunday 6 September 2009
A face to launch a thousand hits... in the face (or something)
While Lampard, Barry, Gerrard & Co ground out another eye-rollingly unconvincing win over Slovenia on Saturday, my (spanish) housemate let it be known that he despises the England football team. Why? "Because they're morons who wear sunglasses indoors at Movida, spitroast teenage girls and record it on their phones" (or something to that effect). Not content with this outlet of hatred, our house spic (love him really) made hilarious vomming noises whenever Wayne Rooney's endearingly boyish face appeared on the TV screen.
It got me thinking about how, despite wanting England to do well in international football games, I could totally see why people (of English nationality or otherwise) would revel in their continued failure. None of the current squad are particularly likable or interesting people. They are among the best-paid professional footballers in the world and, within the England framework, have not once justified their wages and, more importantly, the belief and goodwill of the fans. They punch people in (presumably crap) bars, have Westlife (fucking WESTLIFE) play their WEDDING, or are Ashley Cole. Because I'm not English but still "support" their team over Germany's, people often react dismissively, as if I was a traitor or some shit. And since this is about international rather than club football, I can sort of see their point - but I honestly could not give less of a shit about whether Germany win anything in international football. I watched a few games during the 2006 World Cup in my old school along with hundreds of Germans and felt so out of place (exaggeration alert) that last year I decided to just stay in and watch the Euro final at home by myself.
This is all pretty odd and hard to understand I guess, and I do remember being happy when Germany won Euro 96 (in fact, I remember the intonation and words the commentator of this video uses pretty clearly), but as a weird part of the assimilation process that seems to have taken place, I've found myself doing a celebratory fist-pump whenever England score, even when it's Frank Lampard. Out of all England's more or less current players, I actively like Hargreaves, Crouch, James, Rooney (I know, right? But he is a great, great footballer) and Walcott. Slim pickings. And yet when they line up against Croatia on Wednesday, I'll again be sat there like a mug and watch an excrutiatingly frustrating game in the hope that "the boys" will do good.
PS: If you're Spanish, it's easy to make fun of the ugliness of English players - their players all look like Take That's backing dancers or something. On the other hand, they really are ridiculously amazing at football.
It got me thinking about how, despite wanting England to do well in international football games, I could totally see why people (of English nationality or otherwise) would revel in their continued failure. None of the current squad are particularly likable or interesting people. They are among the best-paid professional footballers in the world and, within the England framework, have not once justified their wages and, more importantly, the belief and goodwill of the fans. They punch people in (presumably crap) bars, have Westlife (fucking WESTLIFE) play their WEDDING, or are Ashley Cole. Because I'm not English but still "support" their team over Germany's, people often react dismissively, as if I was a traitor or some shit. And since this is about international rather than club football, I can sort of see their point - but I honestly could not give less of a shit about whether Germany win anything in international football. I watched a few games during the 2006 World Cup in my old school along with hundreds of Germans and felt so out of place (exaggeration alert) that last year I decided to just stay in and watch the Euro final at home by myself.
This is all pretty odd and hard to understand I guess, and I do remember being happy when Germany won Euro 96 (in fact, I remember the intonation and words the commentator of this video uses pretty clearly), but as a weird part of the assimilation process that seems to have taken place, I've found myself doing a celebratory fist-pump whenever England score, even when it's Frank Lampard. Out of all England's more or less current players, I actively like Hargreaves, Crouch, James, Rooney (I know, right? But he is a great, great footballer) and Walcott. Slim pickings. And yet when they line up against Croatia on Wednesday, I'll again be sat there like a mug and watch an excrutiatingly frustrating game in the hope that "the boys" will do good.
PS: If you're Spanish, it's easy to make fun of the ugliness of English players - their players all look like Take That's backing dancers or something. On the other hand, they really are ridiculously amazing at football.
Saturday 5 September 2009
"That was...interesting."
I finally got round to watching Caligula. During its first 15 minutes or so, I noticed two things. 1) The music during the opening credits ("Montegues & Capulets"by Sergei Prokofiev, apparently) is the same as the intro music to The Apprentice, which is one of my favourite shows. OMG etc. I half expected to hear that lovable little gnome go "This is a job interview from hell", followed by the usual spiel of "from all corners of the British empire, 16 obnoxious, clueless morons have come to London..." - you know the one. Instead, however, what followed was 2hrs 35 mins of shouting/giggling from Malcolm McDowell intersepted with some graphic bits of hardcore porn and torture. 2)Gaius Caesar Germanicus' nickname, Caligula, means "Little boots". Is the perpetrator of one of this year's most boring records named after a loopy dictator who fancied his sister and (in the film, at least) let a horse sleep in his bed? Crikey.
With a bit of distance I can safely say that I did not like it. In fact, I found it pretty depressing. And not because, like the esteemed Daily Mail says, it includes "every imaginable perversion" (men banging women, women banging women, men banging men - oh noez!) It's more that so many talented people were involved in the making of the film and still they manage to make a such a chaotic, disjointed and void heap of crap of it (That's probably the only reason people still talk about this film, but it was what struck me most). Helen Mirren, certified hottie and pretty decent actress, is in it, as is Peter O'Toole (who I thought was the only watchable actor in this - reminded me a bit of Willem Dafoe's Bobby Peru in Wild At Heart).
One look at the dude who's responsible for the final cut of this gory toga phantasy explained a lot, however.
With a bit of distance I can safely say that I did not like it. In fact, I found it pretty depressing. And not because, like the esteemed Daily Mail says, it includes "every imaginable perversion" (men banging women, women banging women, men banging men - oh noez!) It's more that so many talented people were involved in the making of the film and still they manage to make a such a chaotic, disjointed and void heap of crap of it (That's probably the only reason people still talk about this film, but it was what struck me most). Helen Mirren, certified hottie and pretty decent actress, is in it, as is Peter O'Toole (who I thought was the only watchable actor in this - reminded me a bit of Willem Dafoe's Bobby Peru in Wild At Heart).
One look at the dude who's responsible for the final cut of this gory toga phantasy explained a lot, however.
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