An Oriental Afternoon Tea

Posted on 21 February 2013 by sheg4184
I know you have been to afternoon tea with me many times before, but not in Hong Kong. Yet. As a former British colony, one would expect a more polished job here than most other cities outside the UK, and indeed, the Mandarin Oriental puts on a splendid afternoon tea. We were greeted at the top of the stairs, and led to a table for two, with promises of service within 20 minutes – afternoon tea began at 3pm and we were early, apparently. So we waited patiently and in the meantime visited the comfort room to primp a little before following in the footsteps of the Duchess of Bedford.
According to our menu, Anna, The Duchess of Bedford had decided that ‘eight hours was more than one woman should reasonably expect to wait for dinner and instructed her butler to bring tea, bread and butter to her drawing room at five o’clock.’ And so a new social institution for the opulent aristocracy was born.
imageWe were in the mood to enjoy a little opulence, and enjoy it we did. Our very sweet and smiley Chinese waiter was happy for us to start with cocktails (a Singapore Sling and a champagne cocktail, in shades of ‘blush and bashful’). As we nibbled on amuse bouche, we practiced talking ‘fashion and slander,’ wreathed in the sparkling light of crystal chandeliers dripping icily above our heads and bejewelled in our glorious new Swarovski crystal earrings… but please don’t draw attention to the Converse on my feet, we had been walking all day. We laughed a lot too, loud enough to scare off one delicate little Chinese lady who had ill-advisedly sat down at the next table.
Apparently English society hostesses would compete to own the best tea services and to serve the most elaborate teas. At the Oriental, they maintain this tradition. Our table was soon crowded with teatime paraphernalia: 2 silver tea pots, another for hot water, 2 cups and saucers, 2 glasses of warm water, 2 cocktails, a sugar bowl, silver salt and pepper shakers, an orchid in a small, square glass vase, a basket of scones and 2 silver dishes of jam and clotted cream, and of course, the pièce de resistance, the three-tiered tea tray.
imageSo what decadent delicacies were laid before us? Both of us being more inclined to savoury, we were thrilled to see a good array of these, where other hotels offer largely cakes, chocolates and sweet patisseries. The top layer was filled with sandwiches: a tiny brioche filled with foie gras terrine (I love, love , love foie gras!); an open sandwich topped with coronation chicken and mango (a blast from the past); classic smoked salmon and sour cream crustless sandwich fingers and the same again filled with York ham and mustard (delightfully, deliciously simple). The menu also mentioned egg and cucumber sandwiches, instead we were served an interesting deconstruction of creamed egg wrapped in a wafer thin slice of cucumber.
The second layer offered a  light, melt-in-the-mouth bacon quiche and a ‘corn fed’ chicken vol au vent (of course we knew it had been corn fed from the first bite, and her name was obviously Mabel). We never quite worked out what the gougère was exactly, but I will Google when I get home and let you know. (NB: a gougère in French cuisine, is a lightly baked savory choux pastry mixed with cheese).
By this stage my cocktail was long gone and I was ready for tea. There was a wide selection of teas and the names and descriptions were poetically inspired. I can’t remember the whole poem, but the last line describing my Taste of the Legend tea warned me that ‘notes of citrus tease the palate’. And indeed they did!
imageWhile the tea tray had contained a selection of small amuse bouche, the scones were hefty, heavy and warm, studded with raisins and dusted generously in flour. We were given rose petal jam, which was an interesting flavour, but a little like eating potpourri, so I asked for a dish of blackberry jam as well. This was perfect and pure nostalgia, as I drifted back to my childhood of picking blackberries from wild blackberry bushes and creating jars of jam for friends and neighbours. However, after two such large scones, slathered in lashings of jam and clotted cream, neither of us felt up to the challenge of cheese cake, chocolate mousse cake or coffee eclairs, but we dipped our forks for a tiny taste, to be sure we had tried everything. Sated and sleepy, we headed home for a short siesta before travelling on to Kowloon…
*with thanks to my sister-in-law for sharing her photographs!
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Shoes: the Fetish of a First Lady, or a National Passion?

Posted on 17 February 2013 by sheg4184

Imelda Marcos, wife of Filipino President Marcos, became internationally renowned in 1986, not for her charismatic personality, her movie star looks or her contribution to Filipino culture, but for her butterfly sleeves and her infamous collection of shoes. When Imelda fled the Malacañan Palace with her husband after the People Power Revolution, she left behind innumerable mink coats, gowns, handbags and over a thousand pairs of shoes. Due to looting, it has proved impossible to fix on the exact number, but nonetheless it has become the stuff of legend and satire, a metaphor for compulsive extravagance and greed. In the Philippines it has even become an adverb: imeldific. Recently Imelda’s shoe fetish reappeared in world news when it was discovered that a leaking roof in a storage room at the National Museum had destroyed a neglected collection of Marcos memorabilia, including many more pairs of shoes.

Fortunately, some still remain for posterity. Marikina, the tap root of the Filipino shoe-making industry, is also the home of the Shoe Museum, which houses a large number of shoes from that vast collection that hit the international news in 1986, donated by the Iron Butterfly herself. In Marikina Mrs. Marcos is something of a heroine: the patroness of a struggling local industry; the first lady who helped to put Filipino shoemakers on the world map. So it seems fitting that she chose the city to display a selection of her footwear.

Exhibited in airtight cabinets away from direct sunlight, the  colour-coded shoes, many made by Marikanyos, also including famous brands like Gucci,  Christian Dior, Chanel and Prada, all of which survived floods last August, when river waters reputedly reached a height of 17 metres, flooding houses and roads across the city.

Imelda’s shoes share the limelight with those of Filipino Presidents and celebrities, a miniature shoe collection, a display of national footwear from all over the world and a number of giant papier mâché boots created by local school children, although none are as large as the two hanging over the river as you enter the city. A tree made from wooden shoe lasts – the molds used to shape a shoe – stands in the centre of the tiny museum, and there is even an over-sized pair of Australian elastic-sided boots! And of course Imelda’s collection is mind-boggling, especially when you stop to consider this is only a fraction of the number she owned – although she claims many were given to her by shoemakers and designers keen to have her model their products.

For Marikenyos, the story began, not with Imelda, but with wealthy landowner Don Laureano Guevara, nicknamed Kapitan Moy, “Father of the Shoe Industry”. His interest in shoe making led him to set up a cobbler’s shop in Marikina in the late 19th century. His hobby rapidly spread through the town and by 1935, Marikina had been transformed from a sleepy town of rice farmers and fisherman into a thriving city of quality shoemakers, the industry supporting almost 2,500 inhabitants and their families. By the 1980s Marikina was known as the shoe capital of the Philippines, producing over 70% of the Philippines footwear.

In 2010 the Guinness Book World of Records recognized Marikina as the home of the world’s largest pair of shoes. At 5.29 metres long, 2.37 metres wide and 1.83 meters high they could hold 30 pairs of normal-sized feet. Shoe-makers used enough material to make 250 regular pairs of shoes.

While globalization and modern mass production have overtaken the Marikina shoe industry, local shoemakers are still immensely proud of the quality of their shoes. In an attempt to revive a flagging industry, two annual trade fairs have been introduced, supported wholeheartedly by local government. In 2002 the Sapatos Shoe Festival was launched: a two month celebration of shoes that runs from mid-September until mid-November; a trade caravan that travels throughout Metro Manila, exhibiting Marikina’s most famous craft.

So perhaps Mrs. Marcos is not the only Filipina with a shoe fetish?

 

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Sensational Gourmet Dining!

Posted on 13 February 2013 by sheg4184

Antonio’s has long been a popular destination with wealthier Manila residents for a luxurious Sunday lunch away from the madding crowd, so I  had booked a table  for a special family occasion. It is a bit of a trek – the drive can take an hour and a half to two hours from Makati – but it’s well worth the effort.Tucked away down a sleepy country lane, the huge wrought iron gates opened wide to allow us onto Antonio’s driveway and down to the grand entrance. There we were met by uniformed staff and ushered through the grand front doors of this splendid colonial style house.

Stepping through those doors is like stepping back in time. As we walk down the broad wooden staircase to the restaurant, I imagine myself in crinolines and long, sweeping skirts. Antonio’s is airy and elegant. Black and white tiled floors and white linen table cloths, gold glass goblets and ornate Venetian glass chandeliers, antique furniture and giant green fern: it is a dream of nineteenth century aristocratic living – all very Oscar Wilde!

We are running a little late, so every table but ours is already seated. Yet despite a full house, the setting inspires quiet, subdued conversation, and even the children are speaking in muted whispers. It is gloriously soothing after the ceaseless noise of city living, and the ambiance is tasteful, peaceful, decadent and self-indulgent.

There are dining areas arranged on several levels, amongst the verdant green of the lush tropical garden that surrounds it. We pass a small pond full of deep orange koi, and a waiter ironing the tablecloth – on the table – before the next guests arrive.  As we settled into sumptuous, high-backed chairs, we are offered a set menu of salad and soup, a generous choice of main courses and a dessert.

First things first however: what about a jug of sparkling sangria made with Prosecco? Well it is a special occasion! Fresh juice and bubbles – it is a glorified mimosa – goes down all too smoothly, accompanied by warm, freshly baked, bite-sized, buttered rolls that we gobble up eagerly, having arrived so late and feeling decidedly peckish.

Our host, Australian-trained chef and owner Antonio Escalante, has prepared a menu of simple, gastronomic delights. (Check out his portrait in the main dining room.) We begin with a fresh mesclun salad, scattered with crunchy sugared walnuts and creamy gorgonzola, and dressed in a delicately sweet raspberry vinaigrette. (Antonio has an organic farm next door, where many of the ingredients are grown. On our way out, we will stop to take photos of neat rows of frilly lettuces behind wire fencing.

The soup of the day is roasted pepper and tomato. It is creamy and light and perfectly blended. It is followed by the arrival of a scoop of watermelon and calamansi sorbet to cleanse the palate. It is only gently flavoured, but it is very refreshing nonetheless.

Our choices of main course are varied: an Angus beef steak served with a béarnaise sauce; a large and crispy pork knuckle with sauerkraut and boiled potatoes (an old favourite); a ravioli of minted veal cheeks with goats cheese in a creamed tartuffo sauce, and Antonio’s Trio, a selection of three small steaks in different sauces that saves having to make the difficult decision of choosing between them.

We finish up with a dense slice of chocolate ice-cream, like a thick and creamy frozen mousse. It is described on the menu as “Felchlin Maracaibo Chocolate Terrine with Double Cream and Roasted Pistachio.” Felchin Maracaibo is a premium couverture chocolate from Venezuela, and this is without doubt a premium dessert.

Before we leave, it is necessary to take a walk in the garden: a garden full of pathways and hidden nooks, a delight on the senses, luxuriant and shady. We meander across wide lawns and along pathways hemmed in by giant ferns. We find a waterfall and a tree that has been crowned in a huge white chandelier. A gentle breeze cools the air, and we lean over the railing of a broad wooden deck to gape at the thick jungle below. O for a croquet mallet and a parasol!

For  sumptuous dining experience: http://www.antoniosrestaurant.ph/

 

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Kuala Lumpur Revisited

Posted on 7 February 2013 by sheg4184

I have not been to Kuala Lumpur in years – since 1998 to be precise – and my goodness it has changed! Development has obviously been fast tracked since we left and I found myself feeling quite bemused by the size of the city, not to mention the myriad new roads, overpasses, underpasses and intersections. The city centre is a spectacular display of attractive high rises, and the suburbs appear to have sprawled out in every direction. In spite of this, the city planners have managed to maintain enough parks and trees to save it from turning into yet another concrete city, and the multiple new high rises are architecturally appealing and endlessly creative. Of course the Petronas Twin Towers still stand out, head and shoulders above the rest, and the atmosphere in the City Park behind them is inviting and convivial. What a truly multi-cultural, colourful city it is! And this is reflected not only in the faces and clothing of the locals, but also in the food.

Malaysian cuisine has a culinary diversity arising from its multi-cultural population, and the influences of passing traders, European colonial powers, and neighbouring countries such as Thailand to the north, and Indonesia to the south. Dishes have been adopted and adapted, cross-pollinated and indigenized from Malay, Indian, Chinese, Nyonya and the Indigenous Bornean cuisines. It is a gastronomic rainbow! Walking through any neighbourhood mall made my mouth water and my stomach grumble at the alluring aromas wafting out from every café kitchen. It proved impossibly difficult to choose a favourite, when even the street cafés with plastic seating served food I didn’t want to miss. We used to have a favourite place below an overpass in Ampang called The Pink Tablecloth (a plastic one, of course). I wonder if it is still there.

Son Number One providing the perfect opportunity to travel to Malaysia (a rugby tournament) and a good friend hospitably offering accommodation, I jumped at the chance to revisit some old haunts, with the aid of ‘Daniel’ the GPS navigator, as my sense of direction was hopeless in this ‘new’ city!

My favourite rediscovery was Carcosa Seri Negara, two colonial stately houses sitting in secluded splendour on adjacent hills above the Lake Gardens, and overlooking the city. Carcosa (possibly cara cosa, Italian for dear place) was built in 1896-1897 as the official residence of the first British High Commissioner in Malaya. Seri Negara (beautiful country), now a luxury hotel, was built later on the neighbouring hill, and used as a guest house. During the Japanese occupation in WWII, they housed the Senior Japanese Officers.

In the late 90s I would take guests here for a thoroughly British afternoon tea. Back then, the house was somewhat dated, reflecting a faded glory that was nonetheless appealing. Today, it has been gloriously restored, and afternoon tea is now served in a drawing room decorated in deep red armchairs and floral curtains. The menu offers a wide array of teas, real cucumber sandwiches, and scones with clotted cream! Available only on weekends, there is also a Malay Afternoon Tea that includes chicken satays, prawn fritters and Malay curry puffs with quails eggs. Alternatively, you may sit on the wrap-around veranda in deep rattan arm chairs with a view across the manicured lawns. It is the perfect opportunity to don a pretty frock and feel like the British aristocracy at play – something I definitely plan to do on my next visit!

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Departure Lounge

Posted on 2 February 2013 by sheg4184

“Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there – fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends… If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaky feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around.”

The British movie, Love Actually, immortalized the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport, and I totally agree with the sentiment.Airport departure halls, too, have their moments of joy. A departure hall always used to make me light-headed with anticipation, its utilitarian sparseness completely at odds with the potential realization of long-term dreams as passengers queue to pass through the myriad gateways – those Monsters Inc doors that lead to untold adventures. Every airport the same – sterile and humourless – the perfect foil to the excitement simmering below the surface.

Yet as I get older, waiting in airports to head off on a new adventure forever fails to inspire, a vacuum in time and space, and such a waste of both. Terminal? Totally. A drifting, dreary, interminable wait in queues and on hard plastic seats; announcements you either cannot hear, or cannot understand that apparently promise only endless, inexplicable delays or gate changes you cannot find. A cellphone that runs out of credit from sheer boredom, just as I realize I forgot to charge my lap top. I have seen all these shops a million times before, and the food is plastic, tasteless and over-priced. Frustrated and maudlin, I imagine dramatic, tragic endings to these aggravating proceedings that on the whole would be a relief.

Behind the vast glass windows life goes on. Here time is on hold. Here it is all baggage checks and long lectures about the dangers of travelling with a bottle of water or a too-large tube of hand cream. Will flinging water all over the captain really prevent him flying the plane? Will squirting him with hand-cream make his hands slip on the controls and crash the plane? It all seems so petty, time consuming and pointless. Really? I could blind him with toothpaste? Who would have thought?  My mother’s knitting needles, yes, I can see those might be lethal in the wrong hands, but nail clippers?  When did we all get so nervous? Do I really need to take off my shoes five times and have my handbag scanned every 20 metres? Do I look like someone with a penchant for lugging gunpowder round the world?

And yet, the reasoning, reasonable part of me knows they are simply trying to protect us all, and prevent disaster. The stiff officiousness is doubtless disguising impatience with all those whinging customers fed up with being treated like disobedient cattle.

So I bite my tongue, stifle my impatient, heavy sighs and immerse myself in a book, or entertain mself with a little people-watching.

And then, at last, boredom is curtailed, as a friend rescues me from cattle class queues and whisks me into the first class lounge for five star wines and a full English breakfast, the chance to relive the highlights of a happy holiday and forget my little irritations. After all, perhaps life in airports can be a pleasant moment in time like it used to be…

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A Park of Remembrance

Posted on 28 January 2013 by sheg4184

A calm, peaceful escape from the endless traffic; an oasis sitting at the highest point in Fort Bonifacio, you will rarely find more than a handful of visitors at Manila’s American Cemetery and War Memorial. On a rainy day, it is even quieter:  just us and a clutch of gardeners.

I have visited several times, but only recently did I actually hear the bells in the campanile playing. It was positively skin-tingling. As everyone, unbidden, stood silently under umbrellas in the pouring rain (while the gardeners paused from watering the shrubbery), it was reminiscent of our one minute’s silence on Armistice Day, that recalls the end of World War I, which formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of 1918. It was incredibly moving.

Driving though the rows of neat white crosses on manicured, beautifully maintained green lawn, the park is restful on the eye and calming to the spirit. Spread over 152 acres , with wonderful views towards Laguna Bay and the mountains, the cemetery  contains 17,201 graves of American and Filipino soldiers killed in World War II, most of whom lost their lives in New Guinea and the Philippines.

The chapel is housed inside a tall, narrow limestone tower in the centre of a semi-circular colonnade or hemicycle. The altar in the chapel is decorated with mosaic pictures on a predominantly sapphire blue background, that includes a tall, graceful female figure carrying an armful of flowers.

Curving away on either side of the tower are two cloistered walks containing free-standing walls inscribed with the names of 36,285 missing soldiers. Rosettes mark the names of those men who have since been recovered and identified. Carved into the floor are the seals of all the American states. Walking through the broad colonnade of names is both sobering and heart wrenching, and oddly inspirational to see so many men who were prepared to die to protect their country and their core values.

Twenty-five detailed mosaic maps illustrate the various battles fought in the Pacific and Asia, during WWII. It was fascinating to see the scope of the battles, regions in my Euro-centric history lessons that I had never studied.

War is inevitably brutal, but occasionally good things come out of the experience.

World War II was significant in transforming American attitudes toward Filipinos. At the outbreak of the war, Filipinos were barred from joining the American armed forces. But in 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt allowed Filipinos to be drafted into military service, and many Filipinos fought side-by-side with the Americans in Europe and Asia. By the end of the war, the Filipinos had earned the acceptance and admiration of the American public. The Filipinos regained their dignity after many years of discrimination and racism.  A later amendment to the Nationality Act of 1940 allowed Filipinos who joined the military to apply for US citizenship. Almost ten thousand Filipinos took this opportunity.

And finally, one American blogger had this to say:

Let us not forget that Filipinos did most of the fighting and most of the dying during the great battle for the Philippines… We Americans celebrate our involvement and lament the suffering of our military personnel… yet often we disregard the unimaginable suffering and devastation that the Filipino people endured in the defense of their liberty…

The memorial is well worth a visit, even in the rain!

*With thanks to my mother for her photographs of the War Memorial.

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The Art of Terry’s

Posted on 24 January 2013 by sheg4184

Terry’s has become something of an institution in Manila for authentic, Spanish, tapas-style eating. This long-time favourite is owned and run by Juan Carlos de Terry,  who now has three restaurants under the one banner: one in Salcedo; another in The Podium on ADB Avenue, Ortigas, and a third is tucked away in a corner of Pasong Tamo Extension between Dasmarinas and the Southern Luzon Expressway.

At all three restaurants you first have to run the gauntlet of the delicatessen and wine shop, and resist the temptation of stocking up on gourmet treats and good wine… if you can!

We recently visited the restaurant on Pasong Tamo with friends. It is a lovely, wide, welcoming space, and the service is prompt and friendly, yet discreet – always worth several gold stars in my book! The piano was commandeered by our fourteen year old son the last time we came to Terry’s, but this time the regular pianist had been reinstated and played through a medley of Christmas carols and old favourite show songs. I found my foot tapping all evening, and I only hope my soft humming was as muted as I thought – although I probably needn’t have worried, as it can get loud enough to drown out quieter voices in this rather echoing space, once the tables fill up.

The menu, as always, was irresistible. Dipping and tasting and nibbling and licking fingers and forks for the last drops of flavour… this kind of grazing is my favourite way to eat, each new dish eyed with ravenous enthusiasm, as each of us tries to wait politely till someone else launches in. We ordered as much as possible and tucked in.

Sadly the duck foie gras terrine with slices of black truffle was not available that night, but we did not, by any stretch of the imagination, go hungry. Artichoke hearts with shavings of jamon serrano (dry-cured Spanish ham) came to the table reeking of fried garlic and swimming in olive oil perfect for dipping the toasted baguette.

Flamenquin andaluz, or rolls of breaded sirloin beef, jamon and raclette, is crisply fried and drippily delicious, as the cheese melted between our teeth. Gazpacho, that celebrated chilled tomato soup from Andalusia, reputedly introduced by the Moors, was a perfect balance of sweet tomato and biting garlic, and the hot oyster and artichoke soup with wild mushrooms was delicately flavoured, creamily smooth and comfortingly warming.

Suspiros di santona turned out to be a glorified insalata italiano: slices of large, fresh tomatoes dressed with esabeche vinagrette, tuna belly flakes, and anchovy mayonnaise that was a favourite with the men at the table. As I am not a big fan of anchovies, I left them to it, digging into into the Capricho espagnol instead. This is Terry’s signature dish: a glorious risotto, oozing with prawns, scallops, manchego cheese, jambon iberico (cured ham), arroz bomba (a popular rice from northern Spain), sweet, spicy piquillo peppers (chillies), pimento and saffron, reminiscent of a Filipino paella.

Another favourite is the suckling pig, or super-cochinillo confit served with risotto, caramelized onions and peach.  Succulent, rich, and o-so-filling, this delectable pork dish melts  sweetly on the tongue, as we fought politely over the scraps. I have a sneaking suspicion I have forgotten a couple of dishes, but ‘hey-ho!’ I don’t want us to look too greedy! Anyway, as always, our eyes proved larger than our stomachs, but we struggled on, washing it all down enthusiastically with good red wine. The wine is a favourite with our host: the 2009 Ferraton Père & Fils St. Joseph La Source, an elegant syrrah from the northern Rhone Valley.

Despite over-filled bellies, we somehow found the space needed to squeeze in a couple of desserts, sharing a rich, honey-sweet chocolate marquise, and a luscious crème brulée, crackling with toffee and thickly creamy beneath.  Our host insisted we paired this with a totally unnecessary but gorgeous – and surprisingly light – ‘sticky’ or dessert wine. Please don’t ask me what it was. By that point my head was almost resting on the table and my vision was blurred. Suffice to say, we finished the bottle!

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Wining & Dining at The Depot

Posted on 20 January 2013 by sheg4184

The Brett Tolhurst story began in the South Australian Riverland, where there is a strong family tradition of wine-making.  Brett, however, chose to break the mould to study Finance. He started out in business development in Hong Kong in the early 1990s, before moving to Manila, where he eventually returned to his roots by joining the Wine Warehouse, wholesaling wines to restaurants and hotels. Planning to stay only a couple of years, work kept him here until now, eighteen years later, he is firmly established in the Philippines with his family.

Today, Brett is owner of The Wine Depot, a leading wine importer, retailer and distributor of wines in Metro Manila, with outlets in Makati, Greenhills, and Alabang.  He set up the store eight years ago, and it has allowed him to reaffirm his Australian links. He is proud to say the products from Australia are better than most. Brett is first and foremost a business man (with the emphasis on ‘busy’!) and a hard man to pin down for an interview, but I eventually made a mad dash back from Tagaytay to catch him as the rush hour hit Makati.

Polite and gently spoken, Brett initially struck me as a rather private person, and I wondered how forthcoming he would be. I soon discovered him to be surprisingly easy and comfortable to converse with: friendly; welcoming, and always smiling.

We met at the back of the wine store in Nicaragua Garcia Street, Makati, where there is a small, open kitchen and an L-shaped dining area. The place is simply decorated, with bench seats and rough concrete floors. On one wall is a large white board where visiting winemakers have left messages in black markers. On another, a large blackboard lists the menu, while a smaller one provides information about available wines. There is also plenty of light coming through the windows from the courtyard at the back, where we once enjoyed an alfresco wine dinner on a cool March evening. This space can be hired for private functions.

Each of the three Wine Depot outlets has a restaurant. Originally called Purple Feet  – ‘you get purple feet from stomping grapes,’ he told me, smiling broadly in response to my query – they are now known simply as The Café at the Depot. Monette Atilano, in charge of Marketing & Communications, explained that the business started with wine, and that the café ‘grew organically’ out of a love for wine. The restaurants have recently had a make-over and the menu has become simpler and more focused.

‘We wanted a place where people who enjoy [the wine and food] we sell can stay and eat. The café is a showcase of all the things we offer in store – from wines to steaks to cheeses – as you can see in the menu which makes use of all these as ingredients. It’s a very casual place. That’s why we don’t even feel the need to call it anything,’ she said.

All three outlets have a delicatessen selling imported goods from around the world: meat and cheese from Australia; cheeses and dry goods from France, Spain and Italy, and snacks and condiments from everywhere! The homemade bread is a European style – with no sugar.  I asked if the local clientele appreciate this, and he nodded, saying 70% of his custom is local, and the bread sells. He also supplies many of Manila’s top hotels and restaurants with Vittorio’s, Australia’s premier coffee.

Brett has a policy in his restaurants that there will be no corkage and no big price mark up on food. So you can choose your wine from the shelves and take it to your table for the retail price. For lunch or dinner, if you don’t see anything you want on the menu, choose anything from the fridge that takes your fancy, and the chef will cook it to your specifications. This is an innovative method of running a restaurant, known aptly as ‘freestyle’.

As every customer eating anywhere in Manila will have discovered – and Brett agreed – consistency can be problematic, and he admitted that the core competence is reduced when the owner is not there. I have to say, my personal experiences at the Wine Depot have been a bit hit-and-miss. That said, we have enjoyed some delicious meals that keep me coming back for more: I love the Wagyu burgers and the cheese platters. And the chopped salad, with walnuts, pear and blue cheese and a superb balsamic dressing is one of the best I have eaten in Manila. Of course there is always an excellent range of wines to accompany your meal!

The Wine Depot has an extensive list that, according to his website, includes around 500 notable and award-winning wine brands from all the major wine making countries in the world, both old and new world, including Australia, France, Chile, South Africa, New Zealand and the USA.  It is also the exclusive distributor for Constellation brands, the biggest wine group in the world.

Eager to keep customers interested, Brett has introduced The Toast Club that brings together wine and food enthusiasts for events like the recent winemakers dinner at the New World Hotel, a successful and sociable way to market his products and build brand awareness in the Philippines. And the club now has more than 7,000 members.

Monette explained that ‘there are no membership fees because we want people who are not necessarily “wine experts” to be able to enjoy and appreciate wine without the pretension or intimidation.’ Monthly member’s tastings and workshops are conducted free of charge, and weekly newsletters inform wine lovers about the latest events, promotions, best sellers and awards.

Call 889 4889 for more information or visit www.winedepot.com.ph

*This article is adapted from one published in the ANZA magazine, January/February 2013.

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Of Fireworks and Aussie Icons…

Posted on 15 January 2013 by sheg4184

Sydney Harbour is, without doubt, one of the most beautiful harbours in the world. Australian writer, Ruth Park, called it ‘beautiful as a dream, laid upon the map like a branch of blue coral.’ Taking full advantage of this enviable reputation and location, Sydney has been turning on sensational New Year’s Eve fireworks displays since 1996.

The inspiration for this pyrotechnic spectacular came from New York, where the Brooklyn Bridge became the focus of a fireworks display in 1983 to celebrate its 100th birthday. Syd Howard, a pyro technician, borrowed the idea in 1986 for the 75th Anniversary of the Royal Australian Navy, and organized a display off Sydney Harbour Bridge. In 2012, the New Year’s Eve fireworks display involved seven barges, seven city buildings and over six and a half million dollars worth of fireworks, set off at both 9pm and midnight.

There is a wealth of vantage points both on and around the harbour: champagne in hand, perched  in high-rise eeries overlooking the harbour, or camped on a picnic rug in one of the many public parks along the shoreline. In past years, we have been lucky enough to have watched the fireworks from a balcony high above Blues Point Road, where we felt we could almost touch the bridge, and from a Pyrmont apartment block, looking down into Darling Harbour.

This year we found ourselves with friends on a rooftop in Cremorne with a view across almost the entire expanse of the harbour. Impossible to describe in words the spectacle of colour and light: the bursts of dandelion clocks in all the colours of the rainbow; the fountains of gold and silver erupting off the Harbour Bridge; the giant Roman candles spurting up into the sky. The adults gasped and gushed like a bunch of small kids, while our teenage sons mocked and mimicked. Helicopters from various TV stations hovered overhead, while Jamie Packer’s new luxury yacht ‘Seahorse’ glowed on the skyline in Rose Bay like a huge marquee. And everywhere across Sydney we glimpsed sudden flares of colour and flame, punctuating the immense, fantastical eruptions around the harbour.

It was such a joy to be back in Sydney, although there was only time for a taster, a speedy degustation menu. New Year revelleries and revisiting old haunts, we sauntered through suburban streets and national parks, along the beaches and around the City.

Bobbin Head National Park is a hidden treasure at the bottom of a steeply spiralling road from North Turramurra that opens out into a wide expanse of park and playground cluttered with young families picnicking. A marina nearby is choc-a-block with boats, and has a good café on the edge of the water. We used to love following the fire trails through the heavy bushland or meandering along the mangrove board walk, where the trees creep right down to the water’s edge, watching fishermen perching on the rocks, or crabs flashing across the mud and out of sight down tiny, round tunnels.

Cremorne Point, on the north shore, is a visual delight with its beautiful old federation homes, apartment buildings and former boarding houses clinging to the steep rocky sides, lawns melting into gay rockeries or a wilderness of clinging, creeping vines. On the eastern side of the peninsula are the Lex and Ruby Graham Gardens, created by local residents Lex and Ruby Graham, (surprise, surprise) who began years of work on these attractive gardens in 1959.

Eventually reaching the Cremorne Point ferry wharf, we rode across the harbour on a catamaran, a flirty wind twirling and twisting my hair, the catamaran dipping in and out of the small bays along the lower north shore, before making a mad dash across the middle of the harbour, miraculously dodging yachts, motor boats, ferries and kayaks with practiced ease. We bustle into Circular Quay, seething with tourists, the haunting sound of a didgeridoo blasting through a tinny sound system.

 On the right hand side of the Quay, a mammoth cruise ship dwarfed every building in the vicinity. Cowering in its shadow, we discovered the Museum of Contemporary Art, which has recently had a facelift and was housing an exhibition exploring the issues of taboo across different cultures, tracing their origins, their evolution and their impact on society. It was a fascinating exhibition, particularly a series of pieces that turned the white man’s perspective of Australia’s history on its head.

 Across Sydney Cove, the iconic sails of the opera house perch on the edge of what used to be the tram terminal, until it was flattened to clear the way for the imaginative creation of Danish architect Jørn Utzon. Almost twenty years from conception to completion, the Opera house opened in 1973 to world-wide acclaim, and was made a UNESCO world heritage site in 2007. Ruth Park, poetic as always, describes it as a ‘handful of white butterflies, at rest on the sparkling water.’ However, walking down Macquarie Street, we noticed that from behind, those butterflies looked more like giant fortune cookies.

The equally iconic curve of the Sydney Harbour Bridge has made my skin tingle since the day I first drove across its broad, solid span that links the lush northern suburbs to the tall, stately CBD. This engineering feat would eventually save travelers a nerve-racking trip of 113 miles from Manly to Sydney Cove on a bullock-track rife with bushrangers. A long-held dream from the early days of settlement, Bradfield’s Bridge was finally completed in 1932, having provided work for thousands during the dreadful years of the Depression. We walked across the bridge from Milson’s Point when it celebrated its 75th birthday on 18 March 2007, in the company of approximately 250,000 other walkers. We were all given orange caps, with a small light attached – it was quite a vision as we looked back over the curve of the bridge, speckled with hundreds of tiny, twinkling, floating lights.

Crossing the Opera House Plaza, we rambled through the green and welcoming space of the Botanic Gardens, with its arms wrapped snuggly around Farm Cove.  The broad, green lawns are polka-dotted with bright beds of tall gladioli and shaded by broad-leaved, twisty-rooted Morton Bay Figs. Originally, this land was part of Government House’s gardens and farm, designed in part by the Governor’s wife, Elizabeth Macquarie. Today, we share the wide pathways with joggers and push chairs and scooters and couples munching sandwiches or entwining elbows, before we escape the crowds by ducking down the shady, sinuous tracks that coil and corkscrew through the peaceful gardens.

 Later in the week, we head down to Bondi Beach, another national icon. It was a hot, summer afternoon, and the sea was churning with bathers and surfers. The beach was thickly spread with bodies, the park along its rim equally coated in baking, singeing sunbathers. We meandered along the serpentine coastal path, skimming around Tamarama (I love that name!) bereft of its annual display of sculptures, but nonetheless attracting walkers and joggers, surfers, sunbathers and swimmers, to end up at a small café overlooking Bronte Beach, relaxing over a mango smoothie.

Our final day in Sydney was spent at the cricket. A generous gift from an old friend allowed us to gather with a handful of friends in a private suite at the Sydney Cricket Ground, to watch the second day of the Test Match between Australia and Sri Lanka. I haven’t been to the cricket in years, so it felt amazing to watch the cricketers walk onto the pitch, and the cameraman on his Segway swoop around the players for close-up footage, to see the Coca Cola beach tucked amongst the stands, and a large group of fans impersonating Australian cricket commentator Richie Benaud, decked out in wigs and dark glasses, and armed with Channel 9 microphones! And of course it was great to watch the Australian batsmen attempt to outbat and outrun the Sri Lankans, in Michael Hussey’s final appearance with the Australian Cricket team – between sips of Jaentz champagne and mouthfuls of fresh salmon, oysters and prawns. It was a fitting end to a truly ‘iconic’ holiday!

*With thanks to Google images for the photos of the fireworks on the bridge and the Bobbin Head boardwalk – and to my talented husband for the rest!

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Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff

Posted on 9 January 2013 by sheg4184

A deckchair on the lawn overlooking a calm, clear sea; a mug of tea squatting in the grass by my feet; a light breeze whisking through the palm trees; local kids playing among the fishing boats ; a couple of old men perched on an upturned boat, smoking, staring out to the horizon.

I have brought my book, an old favourite that takes my imagination swooping back to grey London streets and dowdy old bookshops, but it lies unregarded on my lap as I relax on this lush tropical island in the Pacific Ocean. The real story is out there, amongst the children, the fishing boats, and the peaceful blue sea. A moment to exhale…

In such soothing surroundings it is hard to imagine why, once I return to the city, that sense of peace will probably evaporate in a cloud of pollution and frustration. The heat, the traffic, the crowds and my innate short fuse will sap my reserves of patience faster than you can say ‘for a while ma’am.’

While usually a glass half full kind of person, I will suddenly find the glass has tipped upside down and looks half empty, and my sense of humour will fade and vanish as the humidity compresses my brain. Mere nothings niggle and nip at my heels, and I know I will find myself all too often clenching my teeth on sharp words and impatient responses.

So this new year, 2013, I am making a firm resolution,  and committing to a personal goal to change a bad habit I have unexpectedly developed. I will improve my efforts to recognize the small joys of every day life and I will try not sweat the small stuff. I will learn to be patient and calm and keep my sense of humour on the top of the laundry basket instead of buried beneath all the dirty washing. I will attempt to imitate the French woman I saw recently who, when she could not achieve what she wanted, smiled self-deprecatingly, cried ‘oo la la!’ and wandered off with a gallic shrug of her shoulders. Her approach reminded of that lovely prayer:

Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

 I love the word serenity.  The dictionary defines serenity as a disposition free from stress or emotion; the absence of mental stress or anxiety; steadiness or peace of mind. The thesaurus suggests synonyms such as: tranquility, placidity, repose, quiet, calm, composure, equanimity. I do wish I could boast any or all of these traits.

For those of you who do, I am both proud of you and envious. And please have you got any tips for a person with lighter fluid instead of blood in their veins?

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