The Italian composer, Giacomo Puccini, was born on December 22, 1858 in Lucca, Tuscany.   In 1876, he was inspired to write opera after hearing Verdi’s, Aida.  Four years later, he enrolled at the Milan Conservatory where he studied under Antonio Buzzini and Amilcare Ponchielli.  His first opera, Le villi (1883), lost in the school’s competition but gained him great respect.  While his second opera, Edgar, was a failure, he gained international success in 1893 with Manon Lescaut.

Manon was the beginning of an extraordinary career.  Although once dismissed by musicologists due to a supposed lack of “depth”, he is regarded today as one of the greatest composers of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  A remarkable use of orchestral colors, melodic artistry, and harmonic sensibility mark his work.    His work is also distinct due to the natural style in which the characters sing short phrases to each other as though they are truly conversing.   For this reason, critics state his best scenes are those in which two characters are alone.  Perhaps the best example of this is La Bohème.   Premiered at the Teatro Regio Theater on February 1, 1896, it is considered one of the most romantic operas ever written, mostly due to the earnest arias between Rudolfo and Mimi.

Rudolfo and Mimi sing of their newly discovered love:

After achieving great success with Tosca in 1900, Puccini’s Madame Butterfly met with initial failure in 1904.   Criticized for its excessive length, Puccini cut out a song from act one, and divided the second act.  He premiered the revised version  at Brescia on May 28, 1904.   From then on, the story of a Japanese woman betrayed by a callous American naval officer has been considered one of the most beautiful operas ever written and one of  the most performed around the world.

Maria Callas singing, Un Bel Di:

Puccini died on November 29, 1924 before he could complete his last opera, Turandot.   He had based it on a Persian story from The Book of One Thousand and One Days.  Using the 36 pages of sketches that Puccini left behind, the work was finished by Franco Alfano.  Although the opera is considered to be flawed, it brought the world the aria, Nessun Dorma:

I couldn’t resist posting these pictures from Christian Dior’s 2007 Spring/Summer Couture Collection inspired by Madame Butterfly. Here’s a link to the Vogue Catwalk Report, including close-ups of the dresses.

This collection which was both praised profusely, and harshly criticized for its all-pervading Orientalism. While the fact that it’s couture needs to be taken into consideration, I can’t help but feel that these dresses mix the sublime with the ridiculous – a classic example of taking elements from another culture without any of the spirit behind it.

The collection has none of the  simplicity and restraint of traditional Japan, but the dresses are decadent and bold. It’s John Galliano doing Japan his own way, with Japan as the stage for his own fantasy ball. This is what makes it new, and what makes it interesting.

FILE – In a Thursday, Aug. 3, 2006 file photo, Juanita Castro, the sister of Cuban leader Fidel Castro, talks to reporters about her brother in Miami. Castro, 76, Fidel Castro’s younger sister, told Univision’s WLTV-23 station in Miami late Sunday, Oct. 25, 2009 that she collaborated with the CIA in 1964 following the Cuban revolution. She said she initially supported her brother’s 1959 overthrow of the Batista dictatorship but quickly became disillusioned by the revolution’s vast number of executions and rampant expropriation of private property. (AP Photo/Alan Diaz, File)

via The Associated Press: Castro’s sister says she collaborated with CIA.

Hallo liebe Leute und Leutinnen.
Nach langer Zeit habe ich mich endlich dazu gekriegt mein Malta-Tagebuch in Worte zu fassen. Es sind insgesamt 8 Tage (13.07.09 – 20.07.09) Erzählstoff und mit dem ersten werde ich mal anfangen.

Ich habe mich beim verfassen versucht kurz zu halten, damit ihr nach Tag 1 nicht schon die Lust aufs lesen verliert ^^ (ich kenn mich doch…)

Dann lasst uns beginnen:

TAG 1

Nach einem relativ unstressigen 2 Stunden Flug erreichten wir den Flughafen. Es war schon sehr ungewöhnlich nach dem kalten Wetter in Deutschland plötzlich so ne fette Hitzewelle ins Gesicht geschlagen zu bekommen, aber es war ein angenehmer Schlag (Memo an mich selbst: Solche Sätze wie “Das war ein angenehmer Schlag” in Zukunft vermeiden, sonst denkt noch jeder ich wär auf SM scharf).
Als wir den sehr kleinen Flughafen verließen wurden von der Reiseleiterin an unsere wunderschöne Fahrerin weitergeleitet… mit wunderschön meine ich die unfreundliche, dicke, arrogante, laute Madame Butterfly, die erstma um 22 Uhr immer noch ihren Sohn mitgeschleppt hat (er war ca. 7, 100 Kilo schwer aber nett). Erstma zickt die uns an, wir sollen uns nicht zu ihr stellen, also bin ich raus eine rauchen gegangen. Dann stresst die uns alle voll rum, obwohl noch nichtmal alle da waren. Also hat sie ihren fetten Sohn losgeschickt um die Leute zu holen, die noch fehlten. Beim Rennen ist Micha aufgefallen “Mann… der Junge gehöret auf jeden Fall in die Rugby-Nationalmannschaft Maltas” xD Ich habe selten einen so jungen Menschen sich so unmotorisch bewegen sehen, aber immerhin war er megaschnell… ich mein der Junge hat wirklich jedes physikalische Gesetz außer Acht gelassen. Ich hab nur darauf gewartet, dass er sich selbst entzündet… so viel Masse in so kurzer Zeit so schnell bewegen… und hier endet der Satz… scheiße, hätte ich mal beim Voß in Physik aufgepasst.

Naja… jedenfalls… nach gefühlten 3h erreichten wir das St. Pauls Bay Hotel, welches laut Kundenrezensionen so mega-schäbig hätte sein sollen wie Schwulenclubs-Toiletten (bitte fragt NICHT, woher ich das weiss, echt…). Auf dem Weg dorthin ist mir aufgefallen, dass es UNMENGEN von englischen Pubs gab. Als hätte Micha meine Gedanken gelesen, erklärte er mir, dass es in Malta sehr viele Briten gibt und man es schon fast das “2. Groß Britannien” nennen könnte…. immerhin mit mehr als 5% britischen Bevölkerungsanteil… mir kams aber bei weitem mehr vor. Vielleicht ist der Anteil so niedrig weil man ja auch die 2 kleinen Anhängselinseln mitzählen muss… aber in den “Großstädten” waren es bei weitem mehr als 5% xD Gut… genug Erdkunde hier…
Mit leichter Angst, vielleicht doch das falsche Hotel gewählt zu haben, betraten mein Freund und ich das Hotel. Es war Sauber!!! Schonma n Pluspunkt, wa? Wir pirschten an den ganzen Jugendlichen vorbei, drängten uns an die Rezeption und stellten mit entsetzen fest, dass die Rezeptions-trulla ihren Englischwortschatz entweder grad bei eBay versteigert hat oder noch nie Englisch gesprochen hatte und sich kurz vorher diesen Mickey Mouse Englisch-Kurs angeschaut hat. Doch irgendwie schaffte es Micha sich mit der Trulla zu verständigen und wir kriegten ein Zimmer zugeteilt.

Wir schleppten uns in den Fahrstuhl und stellten fest, dass wir nie, nie, nie, nie, nie, nie, nie, nie, nie, nie, NIE WIEDER in diesen Fahrstuhl begeben. Sagen wirs mal so… An der Fahrstuhltür hätte auch stehen können “Only for people with suicidal intentions” und da drunter “Für Emos und alle anderen die sich aus Aufmerksamkeitsgeilheit ritzen und sich wünschen tod zu sein” xD
Schließlich kam der Moment vor dem wir uns alle gefürchtet haben… *Himmel verdunkelt sich* *damdamdaaaam* Wir betreten das Zimmer!
… und sehen… keinen einzigen Mangel!
Es liefen keine Kakerlaken herum, nichts war am verschimmeln, es lagen frische Handtücher im Bad, die Betten waren frisch bezogen, der Boden klebte nicht… also alles einwandfrei! Ich weiss nicht mit was für hohen Erwartungen die Leute dorthin geflogen sind, die solch schlechte Bewertungen abgegeben haben, aber uns hats gefallen. Außerdem sind wir ja nach Malta geflogen, um Spaß zu haben und nicht um im Hotelzimmer rumzugammeln. Und einen Balkon hatten wir auch! Die Aussicht war zwar nicht die berauschendste, aber dat seht ihr euch lieber uf den Fotos an ^.^

Nachdem wir uns es ein bisschen gemütlicher gemacht hatten, sind wir uns unten vor dem Hotel noch was zu trinken ziehen gegangen und sind auf die spontane Idee gekommen mal n kleinen Erkundungs-Spaziergang durch Qawra ([aura]… so hieß die Stadt wo wir waren) zu machen. Nach ca. 1 Stunde Erkunden wussten wir natürlich den Weg nicht mehr zurück und kamen auf die Karte auch nicht klar. Also fragten wir uns durch die Gegend. Bis ein Pub-Besitzer uns dann erklärt hat, wo es wieder zurück geht.

Glücklich, es doch geschafft zu haben das Hotel zu finden und totmüde von unserem Spaziergang fielen wir ins Bett. Wir waren so zu müde um… Naja draußen wars jedenfalls voll laut, weil die ganzen hormonwütigen Jugendlichen es ausleben mussten, Ferien zu haben und wo kann man das am aller aller besten? Natürlich draußen auf dem Flur v^.^

Micha pennte natürlich wie n Stein… ich jedoch litt! Aber irgendwann hab ichs doch geschafft mich vom maltesischen Gott des Traumes entführen zu lassen und somit Tag 1 zu beenden.

Once again I’ve been horribly lax in my updating … and by lax I mean I haven’t been doing it at all lately. I wish I could blame it totally on my shoulder , or work … or even my efforts to apply for college. Unfortunately I seemed to have become a bit lazy when it comes to my writing but thanks to a coworker of mine and a few days off ‘m getting back on track!

There is so much to talk about in the world of music since I last posted… I could bemoan Miley Cyrus’s attempts to branch out into a more adult audience with “party in the USA”. I could trash Kim from the real house wives of Atlanta for her horrible voice, while commending Kandi and her team for actually being able to make something pleasant from her tracks. Perhaps I could tell you all about my disappointment with the latest release by Muse, How I only enjoyed 2 of their songs. (Which really upset me since I love all their previous work.)

Instead I think I’ll regal you with a tale of mine regarding this summer’s Met performance of Madame Butterfly which aired on PBS. I admit I didn’t see the entire production – I was in my room reading when I heard my Uncle watching it in the livingroom. Nothing special at first – the man does run an opera company. At some point I decided to turn on my own television and see the show for myself – and that was when i noticed the most peculiar thing … the boy was a puppet!

Seriously!!!! In some strange throw back to Japanese Kabuki theater the Met decided to forego casting a child as butterfly’s son.

Obviously after noticing that I had to run into the livingroom and see my uncle’s reaction! We both agreed it was a little wierd, and that’s something considering neither of us could really be considered traditionalists. So we kept watching, and there were some truly inspirational backgrounds including a scene where a group of people ran in with puppet cranes attached to long sticks which looked like they were flying across the sky. (we loved that) Unfortunately we just couldn’t get over the puppet child. Now I’ll admit it’s got to be hard to find a small child with enough of an attention span to last over three hours of some strange woman basically howling in their ear. Even so, the three men in back with black see through mesh over their faces moving around the puppet was too much for me to handle. I mean one of them you could clearly see in every closeup, and he kept making these faces like he was trying to act emotional but was totally over doing it. I hated it! If you’re going to move around a puppet at least have the decency to pretend your not there! Because if it’s to be believable you’re not!!!

All in all the sets were impressive, the orchestra played well. The man singing Pinkerton was a little out of his element – possibly vocally tired from so many shows – he sounded strained, like he was over-singing at times. And my uncle and I both though the woman playing Suzuki looked strangely similar to Rosie O’Donnell… it added up to a very interesting show! Not their best production but definitely something I’ll remember.

 I suggest if you’re in need of a good laugh to look it up on youtube! – Ashlee

by Jonathan Burrello

Perhaps my title is too silly. The American film industry has had a long and illustrious span with fantastic films and innovations for more than a century. A great many good things have come from American film, but let us not forget some of the darker aspects. Throughout history non-white actors have had a hard time in American movies (as well as being the victims of prejudice outside the cinema). Things have gotten a lot better, but there’s still a long way to go.

Chinese American actress, Anna May Wong, was one such talented figure whose road to success was blocked by the color of her skin. Wong was born in 1905 Los Angeles. She pursued acting in the silent era and became the first Asian American international movie star, but she had a tough time keeping her spot in the limelight. In a time when many actors of European descent would put on makeup to play other races and anti-miscegenation laws that prevented interracial scenes of sensuality (including kissing) and not many ethnic leading players, the studios generally did not always know what to do with Wong and she was, more often than not, cast as exotic background or more stereotypical characters.

I first saw Anna May Wong in Raoul Walsh’s silent classic, “The Thief of Baghdad” (1924), starring Douglas Fairbanks, Sr. For all “Baghdad’s” magic, pageantry, special effects, and impressive set design and Fairbanks’ charismatic charm and stunts, it was Anna May Wong who (in my humble opinion) stole the show. She played a shifty Mongol slave and although the role was not particularly big or racially positive, it left an impression on me for her performance.

Recently I went to Hollywood’s Silent Theater for a viewing of “The Toll of the Sea” (1922), which was Wong’s first starring role and also one of the first films to be shot with a very early Technicolor process (so, yes, in IN LIVING COLOR). Alas, the final reel was lost to history, but the impact of the story and Wong’s wonderful performance made it well worth the price of admission.

Loosely based on Giacomo Puccini’s opera, “Madame Butterfly” (which was turned into a pretty good operatic film in 1995), Anna May Wong plays a young Chinese girl, Lotus Flower, who finds a stranded American on the shore. They fall in love and are married, but the man, pressured by his other American friends and concerned with his public image, returns to his homeland without his bride. Promised he would return to her, Lotus Flower waits everyday for her beloved husband to return. Her Chinese neighbors chide her for her silly devotion because they believe she was just an exotic fling for the American. Years pass and Lotus Flower raises her son (who her husband doesn’t even know he has) and she writes letters to herself from him in broken English that tell of his love for her and his son.

SPOILER ALERT: The heart-breaking final act has the American at last returning to China. Lotus Flower hears of his return and puts on her best clothes and makes her son ready for his father’s arrival, but is emotionally distraught to discover he has married an American girl and forgotten about her and has only returned at the behest of his new wife to explain the situation. Lotus Flower tries to keep her composure, but soon the American woman discovers the truth and Lotus Flower gives her son to the new woman. The scene where Lotus Flower tries to tell her son that it was all fairy stories when she said she was his mother and that she was just a silly Chinese nurse is truly gut wrenching. Lotus Flower’s eyes are filled with tears and her young son does not wish to leave his mother and clings to her, kissing her and trying to dry her tears. Eventually the American wife takes the son and they return to America with Lotus Flower’s husband. Having spent her whole life waiting for her beloved’s return and removing herself from all other alliances and her son now gone she throws herself into the ocean, thus paying the toll of the sea. This film is very sentimental and unabashedly wears its heart on its sleeves and, in this case, I applaud it for that.

Anna May Wong was a glamour girl in her time and a very fine actress, but the Hollywood system continued to refuse her roles (Asian leads were never terribly common). The last straw arrived when she was refused the role of O-lan for the film adaptation of Pearl S. Buck’s “The Good Earth” (1937). This was a role Wong had desired for a long time, but it was cast to the American actress, Luise Rainer (who won the Academy Award for her role). Wong eventually relocated to Europe where ethnic performers were met with somewhat less troubles. She returned to Hollywood but remained chiefly a side character.

She starred in the British film, “Piccadilly” (1929), on radio, and had a supporting role in the Marlene Dietrich film, “Shanghai Express” (1932), and even became the first Asian American with her own detective TV show in 1951, “The Gallery of Madame Liu-Tsong” (sadly, nothing exists of the show today). Later in life she sold her costumes and donated the money to Chinese aid for refugees. She died of a heart attack at age 56 in 1961.

Like Hattie McDaniel, who became first African American to win an Oscar (as well as stealing every scene in “Gone With the Wind”, 1939), much of Anna May Wong’s success is marred by people who discount them and their work for portraying more stereotypical characters. I ask these attackers to consider the times in which these actors lived. It may not have been fair then, why should we keep it unfair now. Few can deny their talent or the obstacles that faced them. Let us celebrate them rather than belittle their legacies. Racial equality may elude us for another century, but let us not forget what steps have already been conquered or the people who conquered them.

picture references
rottentomatoes.com
facebook.com

Continuing with questions posed to us on Facebook, Nancy Sands asks:  What are your dancers’ favorite roles and why?

I’ve been thinking about your question for a few days–there are so many!–and I’ve narrowed it down to four.  They are:

“Red Couple” in Stanton Welch’s Tu Tu.  This ballet is simply gorgeous–its movement and music harmoniously creates an exquisite piece of jewelry to be showcased.  So just from watching the ballet, Tu Tu was a special piece to me.  And it became even more so in dancing the Red Couple.  The Red Couple dances a luxurious pas de deux: always flowing and graceful, and unexpectedly dynamic, balancing fragility, strength, searching, yearning.  Experiencing and exploring these sensations in studio and on stage, it now holds a special place in my heart.  

Suzuki in Stanton Welch’s Madame Butterfly is another one of my favorites.  From the beginning of rehearsal, I felt a deep sense of connection to this ballet through my Japanese roots, and while exploring Suzuki’s character I became attached and attracted to her attributes—her strength, integrity, stubbornness, kindness, charm, drama, and character–a true friend who is always on Cio-Cio San’s side.  I came to find out how complex this character was and couldn’t leave her alone.  I enjoyed nurturing her.

Grandmother in Ben Stevenson’s The Nutcracker–because she is the oldest character I’ve tackled so far!  She and the Grandfather are the oldest characters in the ballet, and yet they have as much fun as Clara and Fritz.  I love that!  Not to mention it has stretched me in a different way than a typical dancing role or a character.

Dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy in The Nutcracker is a role I love and look forward to every year because it is one of the most elegant, classical, and challenging ballet characters.  Every year I’m humbled–it does not get easier!  She is the quintessential ballerina role; growing up, I looked up to her, and I’m finding out it’s quite a task portraying and becoming this beauty!

Best Regards,
Nao

Daca ar fi sa facem un top cu cele mai frumoase modele de stickere prezente pe site, credem ca acesta ar fi de departe pe locul I. Fiind un sticker de mari dimensiuni, extrem de complex, el se preteaza de minune in spatiile largi, fie ca sunt spatii personale (livinguri) sau spatii publice (baruri, cluburi, saloane de coafura, magazine).

Enjoy

Stickerul il gasiti la adresa www.creativestore.ro

Title: From Impressionism to Anime: Japan as Fantasy and Fan Cult in the Mind of the West
Author: Susan Napier
Publication Year: 2007
Publisher: Palgrave
Pages: 243

Let me start off by listing the obvious flaws of this book. First of all, the cover. It’s terrible. Whose idiot idea was it to take a crappy photo of crappy cosplay, run it through the “Impressionism” filter in Photoshop, and then put it on the cover of a book? According to the back cover, this monstrosity is the work of “Scribe Inc.” Shame on you, Scribe Inc., and shame on you, Palgrave, for letting them get away with it! Second of all, in a book primarily concerned with visual culture, there are surprisingly few illustrations. To be precise, there are ten, and only four of them are in color. This I am going to blame on the author, whose 2005 work Anime from Akira to Howl’s Moving Castle is also surprisingly under-illustrated (while other Palgrave scholarly publications have no shortage of well placed, high-quality greyscale images). Napier has no excuse for this, especially since the cosplay culture she details so lovingly is all about getting pictures of itself published. Third, Napier’s scope is very broad, but her treatment of her many topics is, perhaps unsurprisingly, shallow. I did not find this to be the case with Anime (despite many critical accusations to the contrary), but I’m disappointed with what I found to be the lack of sustained intellectual rigor in Impressionism.

Now that that’s out of the way, let me be something of a fangirl for a second and say that I love all of Napier’s work, Impressionism included. Napier always manages to choose the most fascinating things to write about, and she always does an excellent job of explaining why her chosen subject matter is interesting and important. Her analysis is apt, penetrating, and lucid, and her work does not suffer from any of the structural weakness found in a great deal of recent academic work – you always know what she’s trying to say, and her way of saying it is both logical and artistic. Although her theoretical background is rock solid (her bibliographies are a bit intimidating), she doesn’t blithely toss around big names and critical jargon. Also, you can tell that, even though she occasionally betrays a bit of light-hearted sarcasm, she has nothing but respect for the topics of her studies.

This attitude of respect is very important for a work like Impressionism, which deals with some strange and, depending on one’s perspective, almost contemptible subject matter. The book is divided into eight chapters (not including the Introduction and Conclusion). The first four chapters each take up a different aspect of the West’s fascination with Japan during the last two centuries. The first chapter covers turn-of-the-century Impressionists like Claude Monet and Vincent Van Gogh, who revolutionized the fine arts with a little inspiration from Japan, or at least the “Japan” of their imaginations. The second chapter goes into famous inter-war Japan enthusiasts such as Lafcadio Hearn, Arthur Waley, and Frank Lloyd Wright. The third chapter follows the antics of post-war American writers like Jack Kerouac, Gary Snyder, Michel Crichton, and William Gibson, and the fourth chapter is all about how Western men perceive and interact with Japanese women in works like Madame Butterfly and Memoirs of a Geisha. The last four chapters, which I consider to be the true raison d’être of this book, deal with American anime fandom and all its various manifestations, from anime conventions to cosplay to slash fan fiction. Through all of this, Napier attempts to uncover the source of the West’s long fascination with Japan, all the while making astute references to the global political and economic climates during which this fascination has become manifest.

The first four chapters, while interesting, are, as I said earlier, somewhat shallow. Each topic that Napier covers in these chapters has been written about extensively by other scholars, a fact which she openly acknowledges. Her originality here lies in the fact that she documents what she sees as a trend, although she is cautious about saying that the various moments in the history of what I am going to call “Japan fandom” are directly related. The main point of interest for readers is the work that Napier has done on post-1980 American anime fandom, which is the culmination of many years of interviews and surveys. Mainly speaking through the voices of the fans she has contacted, Napier attempts to explain the appeal of contemporary Japanese popular culture to Americans, often in contrast to American popular culture. Although she offers no strong conclusion, the variety of insights Napier offers are invaluable.

My one real criticism of this study is that, although Napier hints at exposing the power relations underlying fan culture, she never really follows through. In other words, she is mainly concerned with the relation of fans to the world outside fandom (what she calls “the Muggle world”) and doesn’t delve into the hierarchies of power within the in-group of fandom itself. For example, I would have found an analysis of the term “weeaboo” (an American who loves anime so much that he or she wants to become Japanese) to be a pertinent addition to her discussion. Instead, Napier makes American anime fandom seem like something of a utopia; although she mentions the darker side of fandom by quoting scholars who bring up the concept of “fan pathology,” she never directly acknowledges that such a thing might actually exist in her own object of study.

Otherwise, I found From Impressionism to Anime to be a very satisfying read. It’s an excellent cultural study and could double as a perfect introduction to modern and contemporary Japanese history for someone considering pursuing the subject as an undergraduate – or simply as an intelligent, interested individual. Don’t let the cover fool you. This is actually a book you want to read!

I just returned from a lovely restaurant called Cho Cho San on the Lower West Side of Manhattan, and have decided to skip another planned low review to discuss this magical little restaurant.  Sometimes, a restaurant can give me such a considerate, happy experience that even high-priced fare for basic ingredients can be completely forgiven.  At Cho Cho San, I felt like a welcome guest at a dinner party from the moment I entered the restaurant to the ‘arigatoos’ and ’sayonaras’ I received from the staff.

Cho Cho San Japanese Restaurant,  15 W 8th St, New York, NY

Cho Cho San Japanese Restaurant, 15 W 8th St, New York, NY, (212) 473-3333

Experience: 20

Food: 17

Bill: 12

Quality:  8

Creativity: 6

Flavor: 8

Service:  9

Total: 80

EXPERIENCE: From the moment I entered Cho Cho San, I was being welcomed out loud.  Many sushi restaurants in Los Angeles seem to shout ‘Irashai’ as I enter, but this is one of the first I’ve been to in New York City to welcome me like this.  The host seemed to be more than happy to have me and my girlfriend as his guest as he guided us to our table.  As I passed the distinctive scenery of each section of the restaurant on my way to the large, dimly lit dining area in the back, I couldn’t help but feel like I was walking through an opera set like many I’ve seen as the backdrop to Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, the show that is this restaurant’s namesake (Cho Cho San is the main character).  The front of the restaurant was lit with golden hues over a darkened interior, with bright wooden tables giving Cho Cho San’s exterior the look of a fancy yet generic Japanese restaurant.  A cluster of about ten tables stood here, in front of the midsection of the restaurant, where the sushi bar and casual drinking area could be found.  In this area, the golden lights are replaced by a deep red light implanted in the ceiling above.  Winding through the lit ceiling were tree branches bending over the darkly lit sushi bar and benches.  The bar was low and easily visible, with three older sushi chefs (most of whom were not Japanese), working hard to make fish for the quickly filling up restaurant.  The dark wooden walls of the sushi bar area lead further down the restaurant, to a light, wooden set of stairs that guided me to my table in the dimly lit main dining area.  This section of the restaurant expanded out from the bar in a large circular shape.  Recessed, dim, golden lighting in the walls accentuated the large stenciled images of Geishas and classic Japanese paintings that adorned the sides of the room.  Beautiful hanami flower arrangements decorated the tables and walls as well, making the atmosphere of the restaurant calm and beautiful.  I felt as if I could truly relax and my elegant wooden table, as I sat down to quiet Japanese music and my ever-attentive wait staff.  The restaurant was quite full tonight, and the waiters were quickly at my table with a lovely asparagus and mixed-green salad and a drink order to keep my girlfriend and I occupied while we waited to be able to order our dinner.  It wasn’t long at all until the waiters took my order off their creative and well-organized menu.  The actual wait for the sushi was a long one, but the waiters were more than happy to let us know that this was due to the number of customers, and that they were working as quickly as they could.  Sipping my ginger ale while I waited, my girlfriend (who works at with opera) was able to point out inconsistancies between the Puccini themed drinks on the menu and their opera-based names (apparently the Pinkerton should have been made with Whiskey, since it was the character’s drink in the show).   After a few more minutes of opera discussion, I was finally rewarded with a beautiful arrangement of sushi on a large white plate.  My calamari tempura roll, Puccini roll, yellowtail jalapeno roll, and various nigiri sushi choices, including octopus, scallop, and tamago, were all presented like a work of art, and I hesitantly dug in to my meal.  After dinner, an older, matronly manager at the restaurant brought me my check with a smile, and asked if I enjoyed my meal.  I replied in the affirmative with a grin, and our bill was soon returned.  Before I left, I asked the manager a few questions about the restaurant, and found out that the owner had directed a staging of Madame Butterfly, and had always wanted to open up a Japanese restaurant that used Italian ingredients to uphold the themes of the classic opera.  As I left Cho Cho San through its dark, red tinted forest and gold entrance-way, I felt calm and happy, feelings that all sushi restaurants should leave me with, but few actually do.  For a simply perfect experience that I’m almost no restaurant will come close to measuring up to in the future, I am giving Cho Cho San a perfect experience score of 20.  I hope they keep up this friendly, amazing service in such a beautifully designed dining space.

FOOD: While waiting for the waiter to come so that I could order my dinner, I received an appetizer due to the delay.  This asparagus and mixed green salad was simply prepared, with a creamy, spicy mayonnaise dolloped onto the fresh, delicious, greens.  I craved these flavors in the sushi that was to come, and it turned out that I was only a little bit disappointed.  You see, there are a few amazing rolls at Cho Cho San.  I started with the restaurant’s most interesting of their creative selection, the Puccini roll.  This roll was held together by calamari rings, with rice, a sweet sake sauce, shiso leaf (A Japanese, olive-flavored Perilla leaf), nori, and Italian olives, all lightly fried in tempura batter.  This roll was amazing, carrying flavors from completely different cultures that harmonize together perfectly.  As my girlfriend stated upon trying this roll, “this tastes like a Puccini opera!”.  The elegance of the Puccini roll was one in a sea of normality though, for as good as the fish here was, and for all the strange ingredients they had all around their menu, the sushi selection here was disappointingly plain.  My Calamari tempura roll was nicely fried, crunchy, and not oily.  The flavors of the calamari were accentuated by a sweet, homemade eel sauce and a large amount of cucumber.  While this roll was delicious in its simplicity, I wished that some of the other Italian ingredients on the menu could have been used in it (there is a cherry tomato and caper roll on the vegetarian selection, for example).  Why not add some tempura asparagus to the roll and really bring out the calamari’s inherent flavors?  I know this restaurant opened relatively recently and needs to make sales on the sushi classics, but I would love to see the menu get a lot more creative with these ingredients.  My yellowtail and jalapeno roll was spicy and delicious, with high quality and flavorful, but still slightly fishy yellowtail accompanying the tiny pieces of pepper that didn’t overwhelm the roll (as most restaurants tend to add WAY too much jalapeno to these rolls to make up for bad fish).  The octopus sushi was simply prepared with no marinades, but was very fresh and flavorful, without any of the watery or fishy aftertaste that octopus can sometimes have.  The scallop was also very flavorful, served as a jumbo, single scallop, as most restaurants in NY try to do.  The wasabi on the nigiri sushi was proportioned nicely, so that the flavors of the fish were brought out by the horseradish, but not destroyed.  Finally, my tamago sushi was one of the first pieces I’ve had in this city that has been prepared properly.  Cooked in layers with sake, chilled to perfection, and  served as a large cube of sweet and tangy egg, I was very pleased with my little piece of nigiri dessert.  With sushi that was just below perfection, and choices to bombard me with cucumber in their rolls instead of using more creative ingredients, I am giving the food here a score of 17 that could easily increase with just a little bit more effort.  The quality received a score of 8 for having fresh, flavorful fish that only lacked that flavor burst that perfect sushi can give.  Also, if this restaurant is going to use so much cucumber, they should probably marinade it in something to give it some more flavor.  This overuse of one ingredients and lack of total creativity resulted in my high score of 8 for flavor, but low score of 6 for creativity.  The creativity score would have been a 5 if not for the amazing Puccini roll, but for the price of said roll ($12, and it’s not very big), not many people are going to be able to readily experience it.  The food at Cho Cho San wouldn’t normally be interesting enough to keep me coming back again and again, but thanks to my wonderful experience there, I will look in on their menu and see what new rolls and appetizers they’ll be attempting in the future with great interest.

BILL: Again, thanks to a beautiful meal at Cho Cho San, I didn’t gasp when I received my $40 bill.  Of course I only technically ordered 2 rolls and 3 pieces of sushi (If you include the rolls and sushi my girlfriend ordered, our bill came out to roughly $80 dollars in total), but for a night out on the town in such a life-affirming place, I was okay with the total when I handed the waiter my card.  As I stated above, though, while I will be checking in on this restaurant relatively often, it will probably be a while before I dine here again.  I gave the bill here a rating of 12 because as much as I adored my experience at Cho Cho San, I may not be back here for dinner again in the near future.  A restaurant this fantastic, making me feel that I don’t want to go back any time soon, really speaks harshly about the cost of their sushi.  That said, there are some decently priced appetizers and basic rolls here, but it’s really disappointing that those rolls were so basic.  Even the deluxe rolls (except the Puccini roll) didn’t really step out of the creative norm, with the usual Dragon Roll and Spicy Tuna extreme up for grabs.  One special roll had gold dust on it and was priced according to the stock market, but that seemed more like something to guffaw at than a roll to actually order. I gave Cho Cho San the low bill score of 12 for a reason though, and I hope they can soon figure out a way to appease their potential everyday customers.  At least the service was exceptional, with the minor problem of slow service times, and received a very high score of 9.

If you are looking for a wonderful and  memorable dining experience, Cho Cho San is definitely the place to have it, though it’s too bad at least one aspect of those memories (cha-ching) will be a sad one.  I know that the area of Manhattan Cho Cho San has set up shop in is expensive, and thus I hope that Cho Cho San gets creative enough to justify their prices soon.  Otherwise, as the competition for good sushi in Manhattan gets fiercer, this restaurant may end up making like it’s namesake, and commit business seppuku all too soon.

Moe and Curly: Hikari Mitsushima and Stephanie in Pride

Thanks to end-of-the-month deadlines, I managed to miss the Gay Pride Parade on Sunday; however I wasn’t able to avoid the 3:20 screening of Shusuke Kaneko’s Pride at the IFC center (as part of the NY Asian Film Festival).  What was billed as bitchy backstage comedy with two rival opera singers continually kneeing each other on the way to the top fell flat, but still provided some interesting fodder for my Japanese-fluent boyfriend and I over okonomiyaki post-screening.

Hikari Mitsushima plays Moe, an aspiring opera singer from the wrong side of the tracks (“Senju.  Not the best,” sniffs one diva, which apparently sets Moe off Single White Female-style).  In contrast to her over-the-top-attempted-matricide-bubbly-geisha Eve Harrington is J-Pop princess Stephanie’s Shio, whose own world comes crashing down when endowed-daddy loses his company (and fortune).  Both enter a record label-sponsored vocal competition with the top prize a study in Italy–Moe as a means of clawing herself to the top, Shio in hopes of regaining a part of what she once had.  When Moe makes a dig about Stephanie’s dead mother, the claws come out and Stephanie collapses before performing “Casta Diva.”  The rest of the plot takes about 90 minutes to accomplish what a strong hour could easily encompass, ending in a Chicago-type fashion where (surprise!) the girls sing a duo before (spoiler alert!) going their own separate ways.  Of course, there’s a good amount of drama in between that would make even Puccini or Verdi double over from melodrama overdose.

It’s clear that the author of the manga (on which the movie is based) or Kaneko–it’s unclear which as I’ve yet to find the manga in English–knew their opera.  The plot in and of itself seems an homage to Mozart’s Der Schauspieldirektor–fighting divas each hoping to be the prima donna, the record label executive character Jirro the impresario.  Shio’s father mentions proposing to her mother (herself a former diva called the Asian Canary) on the Ponte Vecchio–a phrase reverberated in Moe’s performance of “O Mio Babbino Caro” (right before she makes the REAL “o snap!” mother comment).  The geisha (Madama Butterfly) club that both girls work for is called Prima Donna, another cafe is called Figaro.  Shio, herself a Traviata-like character, wears a ridiculously fantastic pink dress–replete with mille feuille skirt–and, upon her collapse, falls like Violetta in the third act, looking like a wilted camillia.

The Italian sensibility, on par with a bel canto plot, seems to work well with the Japanese sense–at times almost kabukian in the drama.  My boyfriend often notes similarity in the cadence between his fluent Japanese and my near-fluent (and Roman accented) Italian; which made these two worlds seem to collide rather nicely on screen.  I had only wished opera was carried further out as a central theme to the movie–though with two pop stars they did need to lapse into that genre for an all-out show-stopping 11 o’clock number that reeked of Chicago “I hate you but we’re performing together” schtick.  Moe’s character–a character that seems to collapse after the first snide remark about her less-prestigious school–is a testament to opera’s hard-to-shake elitist stereotype.  Herself a voice student, she still says “I’ve only seen it on TV.  The opera’s too expensive.”  Later, in the Cardiff or Met Council-like audition, the audience is sparse with one person per every three or four empty seats.  Looking around the IFC theatre, there was a similar spread.

Let’s hope it was because Pride had its own, eponymous, competition going on right outside.

Foi um domingo de altos e baixos, som alto e baixos elétricos.

A primeira tarde do inverno de 2009 não foi nada fria, o fogo infernal do rock n’ roll aqueceu nossos corações e esquentou nossas orelhas. O palco armado ao lado da concha acústica, no parque ecológico reuniu um público variado e colorido, ”tunado”, para usar uma expressão do meu amigo Maurão, referindo-se à juventude e seus escalafobéticos modismos tribais.

Foram dez bandas selecionadas (Airplane, Edhera, Força Natural, Hunger, Mephysto, Only Silence, Reverendo Karabina, Teoria C4, Catorze e Tanya Naughton) entre aproximadamente sessenta inscritas na edição 2009 do já tradicional Festival de Rock de Indaiatuba. A metodologia adotada foi a seguinte: cada banda apresentou dois coveres e uma música própria, esta última avaliada pelo corpo de jurados (este ano composto por Syang, Edu Falaschi, vocalista do grupo Angra e Tadeu Pattóla, produtor musical).

Eclético (odeio esta palavra, mas não me ocorreu alternativa), o Festival reuniu entre seus finalistas uma banda de reagge, uma cantora solo, bandas de emo core, heavy e new metal. Uma miscelânea completa que, ao contrário do que possa parecer, não enfraquece o gênero, mas sim o renova. Desta forma é muito difícil definir o rock de maneira estrita, cada um tem suas referências, suas preferências.

Os mais jovens, ali estavam para ouvir a última tendência, a mais recente cara deste tal de rock n’ roll: emo core, new metal, pop rock. Head Bengers também foram contemplado, ouviram heavy metal e o melódico que lá foram buscar. Até os Dinossauros voltaram para casa contentes com o rock 70’s primoroso da Fantástica Maddame Butterfly (banda merecidamente vencedora da edição 2008 do evento).

Mas, o que todo mundo viu e ouviu de verdade foi a superioridade técnica e evolução de uma banda que não consegui disfarçar-se nem por trás do pseudônimo. Falo da rapaziada do Tolerância Zero ou Reverendo Karabina, wherever…

Os meus amigos intolerantes paparam os dois prêmios mais cobiçados da noite: melhor intérprete para o Campa (agora, aguenta esse muleque) e o 1º lugar para o Reverendo Karabina.

Karabina cano duplo e serrado, mira um alvo e acerta dois…

Força Natural levou o merecido 2º lugar, assim como o prêmio de melhor composição. Only Silence ficou com o 3º, apresentando um som honesto e uma promessa para o futuro e continuidade da cena indaiatubana. Parabéns!

Paulo Miklos, titã mor, mega afinado, encerrou a noite com mais rock n’ roll. Já perdi a conta de quantos shows dos Titã vi, mas, ultimamente, os seus integrantes isolados andam mandando melhor do que em grupo…

É claro que no repertório, lá estavam os velhos Titãs do Ie Ie Ie dos bons tempos, mas a surpresa mesmo ficou com os coveres: Bom para o moral (lembra da Rita Cadillac cantando a música distribuindo camisinhas e ganhando beijocas nas nádegas no pátio do Carandiru, em filme homônimo?) e Rei da Implicância, dos fudidos Autoramas.

Parabéns a todos os envolvido no festival, bandas, técnica, organização e jurados (Syang, tudo certo com a bolsa?).

Minhas particulares reverencias ao Reverendo Karabina!

Ps: rapaziada, por favor, aproveitem a grana para pagar a passagem de volta para Rússia do Leonov! Por Zeus!

Let’s talk about cleavage.  or can we.   I mean,   can we even look at cleavage?  Are we supposed to look at it?    Exposing the valley between side-by-side breasts started years ago in Europe.   They were much less uptight tossing their ta-tas to the wind.   Had absolutely nothing to do with why I loved going there.   Or that trend of showing lingerie or whale-tailed thongs.   No.  Not at all.   It was a horrible distraction and completely inappropriate.  Beyond the Academy Awards, Dolly Partan & Peggy Bundy from Married with Children,   American women seldom revealed,  and those that did were assumed daring and naughty.

But now it’s become mainstream.  Yankee nipple-odeon.  And men ask — what are the expectations?   Do we glance, and if so,  how long before it’s considered staring?   If we don’t look — have we offended you?  And is gawking or clapping ever acceptable?   Can we,  or should we compliment you?    I was at Starbucks and a 50 year old woman was in a tank top with some tastefully done, but obviously store-boughts.  She couldn’t be prouder.  And couldn’t try harder to merchandize them  in an overt show of mammary dominance.   I glanced quickly,  smiled,  and went to the creamer stand.  Apparently my smile was not enough.  She too,  headed over and did the “excuse me”, and bent across the station for the sugar.  Her balloons eclipsed the entire row of creamer assortments.  A full 12″ canyon.  This was no accident.   At this point,  I pretty much gave up and decided I should simply say “bravo” or “well done”.

I refrained,  of course, being the good boy I am.   And yes,  I shared this story with my wife.

There are women out there revealing serious gappage that I have absolutely no interest in seeing.  But it’s like that proverbial car crash.   you don’t want to look at but everyone does.  I’ve done that.  We all have.   Looked at said cleavage when we don’t want to.   Seeing horribly misplaced hair,   mishapened jugs,  moles and valleys that would hold smallish pumpkins.  Refraining from a visible wince or audible scream, whilst maintaining an even reaction is a terrifying tightrope.

So my question remains — why is this gratuitous act of aggressive voyeurism so madly popular now?   I went to Vegas recently,  and no exaggeration,  90% of the women were clearly  in a massive contest to see how much boobage they could put out there,  without revealing areola.   My wife felt like she was Amish.   I even suggested we go buy her a 4 inch tube top and join the fray.   She’s not about that;  and I’m okay with,  and respect that.  But I had to ask.  So I exposed my man-boobs thru a Hawaiian shirt instead.  Game on.

I still don’t even understand the obsession with breasts anyway.   It’s a global phenomenon.   And the topic of countless conversations for centuries.  I mean really,  they were designed for a purpose and have morphed into the holy grail.  The ultimate attraction for men (likely ranked #1 or 2 by most men, which I guess includes moi) — and subsequently,  a significant weapon for women as they enter the battle of attraction and accompanying lust.

What about women that have them out on display with their guys on their arms?   God forbid you look at their cleavage.   Your eyes are quickly met by a violent man.   So why is she showing them dude?  If they are off limits for sight and sound,  why put ‘em out there???  It’s like you have to put an invisible horizon in place.  Stare at the face john.  Fine to look at the neck John.  Your friend’s wife.  Awkward.   Your wife’s friend.  Awkward.   A co-worker.  Awkward.   Your mom’s friend.   Ah… yeah,  super.

Yes,  they are clearly in your peripheral vision.   But she can’t see that you are looking.  So she suddenly adjusts her top and that obvious look of “busted” shows on your face.  But you didn’t stare!  You didn’t even glance!    So why is she tugging on her clothing — to intentionally draw attention?

And how do men merchandize their wares?   we don’t, and won’t I hope,  start to show our belly buttons.  Pierced or otherwise.  Or our boobs.   And yes fellas,  those aren’t pecs anymore.  Clutch one and let it floop.  That ain’t muscle gents.  That’s 100% boob.  Manziere material.

What about the jogging tank top?  Men don’t feel obligated to show their tummies.  Don’t tell me this is for comfort.  Don’t tell me you aren’t trying to show off your 476 daily crunches.  So why the dirty look when we glance?  Perhaps slamming on the brakes or ramming into the car in front of you is going too far.  But it is asking too much for a quick peek?

And for those less fortunate,  there’s now toe clevage?  Confuse me some more please.  How anyone can remotely have a foot fetish is way over my head.   Some shoes,  sure.  I can follow you there I guess.   Feet?   Ah,  no.   At one point or another mine smell like vinegar and I have to assume yours do too.

Please tell me ladies — what is our role here?

Look.  Don’t look.   Glance.  Don’t glance.   Stare.  No stare.   What is the threshold — at what point do we go from polite —  to perverted?

And please know,  this is not a complaint.  At all.  Floppies are  great and more than welcome.  But it was a more defined sport before blouses everywhere  seemingly exploded overnight.  It’s no longer black or white — you’re busted looking and you’re a pig.   Now it’s grey, and for the love of god,  we need some guidelines.

Krakow’s brand new opera house is now open for performance, but again this summer, opera lovers will also have the chance to enjoy some scintillating open-air spectacles. Beginning on 12th June, a series of performances will take place divided between the main building on ul. Lubicz and the courtyard of Wawel Castle (Tosca, Rigoletto, Madame Butterfly, The Barber of Seville). The festival finishes  in style with a trio of gala concerts at the castle on 3rd, 4th and 5th July.

Are we text messaging too much? This guy is ABSOLUTELY insane. Watch him. Amazing Cuban opera from the 50’s.

There are days when using shuffle on my Ipod is absolutely stellar.    I hear songs I haven’t heard in years and often completely forgotten.    I mean,   would I actually scroll around for Men w/o Hats and play Safety Dance?    When I can’t think of what to play,  shuffle can nail a band or energy level that perfectly matches my mood.   Surreal.  Suddenly and magically it strings together song after song and I get all jacked up and I forget I’m even driving.  Or once again playing air guitar on the steering wheel.   Which is a presumably horrifying scene for fellow commuters.   I am suddenly Milli Vanilli with grey hair.

And there are times when I wonder how the fuck a song ended up on my Ipod.   Or I’m being held in some interrogation cell in Guantanamo — forced to hear the likes of Barry Manilow .  He sure as shit did not write the songs the whole world sings.    I shriek when I shuffle onto such songs.   Terrified and embarrassed that someone may hear it.   And then there’s the rap, hip hop and bands like Rage Against the Machine.   Harsh, harsh lyrics.

Sometimes I leave my office for some coffee and come back to find that I’m blasting PIMP by 50 cent and other profanity-dominated lyrics down the hallway.  And for some reason,  I always end up with the unedited,  not-for-radio-play versions.  Which many of you never hear.  Listen at least half way to the parents advisory version of Jay Z’s “Can I get a “.   Okay.  Another fella I want to bring home to mother.

Basically accept that absent ear-buds, shuffle is never a good idea at work (or anywhere in public) unless you are able to directly,  and swiftly manage.

When this entire MP3 thing started I became obsessed.   All the songs I never owned could be mine.   In fact,  songs that I never even heard, but thought it would be nice to have for some reason.   One-hit-wonders where I would never buy the entire CD.  And so I began my mission to amass the largest library ever.   Sucked libraries from anyone that had a portable hard-drive.   Got up to 120 gig.   A complete mess.    Duplicates, triplicates,  songs with encrypted squeals to discourage file sharing.  And an Ipod that holds 80 gig.

It’s still a mess.  I have things backed up on 4 different hard drives now.   And each is different.   Completely.   Added to some,   cleaned others.  no idea how to merge.   I had collected music just in case someone would someday want to hear it a at party or something.    I don’t even have parties anymore.   And I never even liked Dave Matthews.    But I have about 78 Dave Matthew songs now,  just in case.

And I collected music from my travels around the world.   Some of it’s awesome.   Will I ever be in mood to hear flamenco dancing music,  Russian ballads,   Indian rap or bagpipes?    Dunno.   But I have it.    That and every Xmas album I owned.  Including one with 9 versions of Ave Maria.    And just in case,  40 TV tunes from the past.

Monty Python,  Miles Davis,   Skid Row,  Beethoven,  Led Zeppelin,  Donna Summer, the Stones,  Enya & the Clash.  It never,  ever ends.  Which goes to my first point.   Sometimes shuffle works and other times it’s excruciatingly confused.

And I’m screaming and running down the hall to push pause,  stop,  please,  sorry.

Malcolm McLaren gives Puccini his own special touch, the video provoking the kind of nostalgic yearning for the 80’s, far removed from any clichés or stereotypes we might have of the decade.

Un bel dì, vedremo
levarsi un fil di fumo
sull’estremo confin del mare.
E poi la nave appare.
Poi la nave bianca
entra nel porto,
romba il suo saluto.
Vedi? È venuto!
Io non gli scendo incontro. Io no.

Mi metto là sul ciglio del colle e aspetto,
e aspetto gran tempo
e non mi pesa,
la lunga attesa.

E uscito dalla folla cittadina,
un uomo, un picciol punto
s’avvia per la collina.

Chi sarà? chi sarà?
E come sarà giunto
che dirà? che dirà?
Chiamerà Butterfly dalla lontana.
Io senza dar risposta
me ne starò nascosta
un po’ per celia
e un po’ per non morire
al primo incontro;
ed egli alquanto in pena
chiamerà, chiamerà:
“Piccina mogliettina,
olezzo di verbena”
i nomi che mi dava al suo venire.

(a Suzuki)
Tutto questo avverrà,
te lo prometto.
Tienti la tua paura,
io con sicura fede l’aspetto.

“Un bello día veremos levantarse un hilo de humo en el extremo confín del mar. Y después aparecerá la nave. La nave es blanca. Entra en el puerto, truena su saludo. ¿Ves? ¡Ha venido! Yo no voy a buscarle, yo no. Me pongo ahí, en lo alto de la colina y espero, espero mucho tiempo. Y no me importa la larga espera. Y, salido de entre la multitud de la ciudad, un hombre, un pequeño punto, sube por la colina. ¿Quién será?, ¿quién será? Y cuando esté aquí, ¿qué dirá?, ¿qué dirá? Llamará – Butterfly- desde lo lejos; yo sin responder. Estaré escondida. Un poco por bromear, y un poco por no morir al primer encuentro. Y él, un poco ansioso, llamará, llamará; “Pequeñita, mi pequeña esposa, perfume de verbena”, los nombres que solía llamarme. (a Suzuki) Todo esto sucederá, te lo prometo. Guárdate tus temores, ¡yo con segura fe le espero!.”

IndoChine, whose branches extend across Asia and into Europe, sits atop FX mall like an impressively ornate paperweight. Comprising 5 separate concepts, IndoChine works surprisingly well for me, considering I am not a fan of swankiness for the sake of it. IndoChine is swanky, but not not off-puttingly so. Rather, it is impressive and certainly worth nosing around to get an idea of what 30,00 square feet of Restaurant / SuperClub / Beach Club / Fine Dining / Mezzanine / BatCave (actually I made the last one up) looks like. I went on a poking and prodding tour, and found myself accompanied by a friendly and helpful serving dude called Arkanda, who was more than happy to answer all my stupid questions. Refreshingly, he didn’t try to sell the place in a PR-style way and pointed out a few bits and bobs that needed to be finished (the swimming pool(!) has yet to be rendered).

The BeachClub area, as Arkanda pointed out is roasting in the afternoons, which he said as if it was a bad thing, but I know many mad dogs and Englishmen who would be happy to venture out into a sun-trap such as this one while enjoying some of Jakarta’s only uninterrupted greenery in Gelora Bung Karno.

I also met the Assistant Manager who I shocked with my bandaged head and be-casted arm (don’t ask – restaurant ninjas and motorbikes don’t mix well) into not giving her name. She was also very nice and not the repressive type I would have expected to run a colossus like IndoChine.
We ate in Siem Reap, on the balcony overlooking the CBD, and we quickly discovered that the waiters have all been briefed in how to serve people! Yay! Discreet knowledgeable service? Really, have I died and gone to restaurant-heaven? I almost kissed the waiter but held myself back. Or rather he threw himself off the balcony at the sight of my puckered lips. Hey-ho…
Mz had the Red Chicken Curry, which was very well-rounded with a deep spiciness, but without the catching-at-the-back-of-the-throat chilli burn that characterises lots of South-East Asian cuisine. This had just enough burn on the palate and a lightness that is vey difficult to achieve with coconut milk, but manage it they did. I had the Xin Ngua Pik Tai Om which was Green Peppercorn Beef in my lingo (120k). This was definitely not what I expected, but for good reasons rather than bad. The young peppercorn was played down and infused into a sweet sauce which was poured over a really nice cut of beef on a bed of lightly spiced mashed potato. The vegetables – broccoli, baby sweetcorn, and carrot – were al dente and a perfect textural compliment to the softness of the mash and the melt-in-the-mouth tenderness of the beef. The beef marinade was delicious and although it was fantastic, I couldn’t finish it, such was the size of the portion.
More nosiness ensued and I found myself in the main bar area – Bar Opiume which is at its opulent best after sunset with its black interior, red lighting and Buddhist statues. That’s right, Buddhist statues. Where are the baying crowds with their placards?

I’m pleased that no-one is protesting, because to do so would just be petty and spiteful, when they could just sit down and enjoy a nice Xin Ngua Pik Tai Om being watched over by some benevolent-looking statues. Oh, maybe not the Peppercorn Beef, then…


The Marmz review team visited on a Sunday afternoon/evening and were seated easily. However, like most of Jakarta’s places-to-be, this might be a little more difficult of a Friday or Saturday.
Phone to book at busy times: 021 300 30 330 (Nomor cantik, dahling!)