Nov 26, 2009

Curious, Heavenly George


Molecular gastronomy, as a rule, doesn't generally interest me. I'd love to go to El Bulli, yes, more for the experience of going, and engaging with food in a way that marries it in a very high-concept, some would argue unusual way, with the artistic aesthetic. I think the main reason it doesn't interest me is that I can't possibly replicate most of those kinds of recipes -fancy, fussy, daring -in my own kitchen. But then, why would I want to? Shouldn't food -some food -be a kind of experience? Should it not possess a kind of inimitable special-ness? Is that not what makes certain restaurants so unique? Some of the best art should, after all, be removed. Just as I can't replicate certain unusual dishes, nor can I write a symphony in the manner of Mozart, or paint a Picasso. And I don't want to. I am happy to leave some things to experts.

These considerations were in the front of my mind coming away from an evening at George, a gorgeous, Zagat-rated restaurant in downtown Toronto. Having been invited by a friend who is a member at the adjoining (and quite frankly, awesomely inspiring) Verity Club, I was curious about the mix of old and new world cuisine that George seemed so renowned for. It may not be molecular gastronomy in the true sense, but it mixed flavours, textures, colours and shades in ways I hadn't experienced -at least orally -before.

In lieu of the main menu, my companion and I opted for the 5-course tasting menu, each of us receiving one delectable -and different - treat after another. One of the appetizers was a salad and seafood affair, another wafer-thin layers of tender, flavoursome sirloin nestled in delicate tasty nests of fois gras. A lovely palate-cleanser of saffron-ginger sorbet acted as an intermission between the wondrously delicious arias. Main consisted of gorgeous, rich entrecotes of beef, cooked in that gentle, knowing way that produces blushing-pink pink that melted on the tongue. Dessert was a selection of goodies made from Meyer lemons (which my companion enjoyed thoroughly) and chili-chocolate cake (mine -and I confess to wanting another piece ever since), followed by a selection of cheese and fruit, simply, elegantly presented.

Lorenzo Loseto and his expert kitchen team lovingly create beautiful dishes that possess a kind of old-meets-new aesthetic; they marry old-world hearty flavours with new-world experimentation, adding in generous portions of clean, artistic presentation that is never fussy but rather, presents food as paintings, complete with colours, textures, shape and shadow, on the blank, smooth palette of white porcelain.

A meal at George was, easily, one of the most memorable experiences of my life, and I rate it as a true culinary destination for both visitors and inhabitants of Toronto. Comforting home-cooking it's not -but nor should it be. Unique, special artistic... delicious. I think my culinary colour range just grew -and for that, I can only be deeply grateful.

Nov 24, 2009

When Internets Die

(Note: I wrote this lastnight. Enjoy... )

At the time of writing this, I have no internet connection. Rather like withdrawl from a serious drug habit, I'm shaky, nervous, unsettled, angry, ... repeat. It's interesting timing, considering that lately I've been considering my life pre and post-internet age, with the same question cropping up at the end of all considerations: what the hell did I do before it came flashing and html-ing into my life? I don't use it to surf idly -though I think there's value in that -but like many in the media world, as the basis of my day-to-day communications and work-related tasks. Everything, from pitching a story, to chasing down the key players, to prep to research to fact-checking to writing and final product requires my use of the interwebs. When did reporting and writing get so complicated? When did streamlining become mainlining? How did simplicity get so complex? The loss of the internet has left me with a host of questions related to the nature of my activities and creative choices. I resolved to do something useful with my time -useful in a way other than that as defined by internet surfing, that is -by writing both creative and journalistic stories, talking with friends, and sitting with my addiction -feeling it and not judging. Harder than it sounds. I'm restless by nature and I suppose regular exposure to the internet feeds that.

Still, lack of one connection means a different -perhaps familiar - connection, redefined and rediscovered. It was with a mix of annoyance and resignation that I came to accept the fact that I was -am -cut off. An internet-equipped friend kindly helped me in some necessary prep work but I'd turned on the telly in the hopes of filing the gaping void of non-connectedness; I don't just use the internet for information, but, like many, for connection with others -close, far, known and unknown. Television just doesn't fill the same hole. But I've come across some really, extraordinarily good programming.

Among the many delectable offerings on AUX's excellent, arty-leaning video flow was the Michael Franti video for the catchy, peppy ska-meets-funk-pop single "Say Hey". Filmed in Rio, the video is a bright, powerful shot of pure, unadulterated joy. Franti dances joyously with kids -tweens and toddlers alike -along with grandparents and assorted musicians. Damn. If I had internet, I thought, I would've missed this little gem from one of my favourite artists who released, in my estimation, one of the finest albums in recent memory. The depiction of joy in "" gave me a far greater feeling of connection and reminded me of the power of music -to move hearts, mountains, and minds.

Speaking -typing -of moving mountains, the Choral section of the Ode to Joy just finished on Bravo! and I'm recalling the tender memories I have of seeing Sir Simon Rattle conducting the very same ten years ago in Royal Festival Hall in London; it remains one of my dearest memories of London, to this day, though it was hardly the first or last time I saw the piece. The memory of my night at the Hall, however, remains seared in memory, and comes back jut that much clearer without the techno distractions I've become such a willing slave to over the past few years. Now I see Beethoven's Hair has come on -it's a documentary directed and co-produced by Larry Weinstein, a wonderful Canadian filmmaker I had the opportunity of interviewing for Inside Hana's Suitcase back in the spring. Larry had told me during our wide-spanning conversation that he loved making the doc about LVB, and tonight of all nights, here it is. Of course, I wouldn't have known about it unless my internet connection had died. I'm tempted to say I'm grateful.


Could I have heard the Ode (and learned of poor Ludwig's possible lead poisoning) chained to the elusive, semi-illusory velvet handcuffs of internet connectivity? I caught the ode - this celebration, this tribute to human capacity, capability and credo to greatness, to compassion over cruelty, to space over time, to choice over tyranny -after being forcefully cut off from a terribly isolating habit. Now alas, the addiction isn't over yet. I'm still itching to check my mail, check Facebook, see what people are doing on Twitter and blast around from site to site, ping-ponging between videos and articles and sounds and sites.

But, much as I love it, I cannot deny that the central role I've given the internet in my life has closed me off to plumbing further depths -imaginative, cognitive, sensual, creative -that I know are awaiting rediscovery. I think I need to reconnect -and not just with the bobbing heads and cold letters on my monitor, but with the reason I started this blog: a keen passion for music, art, and all the other cultural things that colour this short existence. It feels like the least I can do -for me, and indeed, for you, the reader.

Nov 3, 2009

You Can't Catch Me

In keeping with my contemplations about images of women in popular culture lately, a couple things from the last few weeks have been sticking and bear a bit of examination. Opera was, for many moons, the pop culture of its day; not solely the denizens of the upper classes, it was the place where music, entertainment, theatre and play melded together and foisted into onto a wider social milieu. Images of swooning heroines and brave men abounded, based, as many pieces were, on classical tales from Mediterranean mythologies. A time passed and the world shifted its attention to more current concerns, opera began to reflect what I'd call World Politics Lite; that is, librettists and composers would bring in contemporary themes and ideas reflective of the wider world, but include elements of yore to make the whole thing a bit more palatable. Opera was already a place where questioning the norm wasn't quite (cough) allowed; making its characters -especially its women -safe, predictable, passive, and victimized allowed for a greater audience catharsis, however insincere and overwrought it may have been.

All of this bubbled up to the surface following a recent visit to the opera. The Canadian Opera Company's production of Madame Butterfly (closing tonight at the Four Seasons Centre) is beautiful in its simplicity; Brian MacDonald's solid direction and Susan Benson's dreamy design provide a poetic austerity amidst the washed-out shades and colourings. Adina Nitescu's soprano is full, throaty, and lovely, and her acting is keenly felt, and as such, entirely moving.

Yet there is something that has always troubled me about the opera; Cio-Cio San (or "Butterfly") is so terribly naive, her blind, passionate infatuation with Pinkerton and all he represents is maudlin in the extreme, and her willingness to throw over her culture and historical heritage to win validation is deeply unnerving. Along with these troubling notions, there's the patronizing, stereotypical portrayal of Japanese culture itself. "Isn't it cute?" the libretto implies, "aren't these such nice simple people?" The atonal, rhythmic qualities of the music imitates this patronizing attitude; it's about as Japanese as the teriyaki stand in your local mall's food court.

The opera is a reflection of Puccini's awareness of the colonial reach of the U.S. -and, by extension, Italy -but it absolutely reeks of White Privileged European Male-ness. As if to balance all this vitriol, I was struck, in sitting there watching it for the umpteenth time recently, of the sheer gorgeousness of much of the music. Somehow, I reconciled my extreme discomfort with Butterfly's chauvinistic, colonial underpinnings with Puccini's genuinely beautiful, dreamy score. It didn't make any of the issues I have easier to bear, nor did it lubricate the suspension of my disbelief over the next two hours; it did, however, remind me that sometimes it's better to shut your eyes and listen to the notes, not the words. Of course, once I opened them again, I was hit, strongly, by the pretense of theatre cushioning us, so we can sigh over scenarios that would be anything but romantic in reality. There's a patronizing, reductive archness to it all that renders Butterfly's choices insincere and too easy to excuse: "well she's just a kid... "

This same frustrating sense of reduction happened again with the musical version of Debbie Does Dallas (running to November 8th at Toronto's Theatre Centre). The musical is based on the tacky 70s porn flick of the same name. Presented by the newly-formed Ghost Light Projects, the work is cute, bouncy, and empty -kind of like Debbie herself. Lead Jamie Robinson is likeable and certainly an ebullient presence onstage, but the premise -Nice-Girl Cheerleader Turns Into Wholesome Whore To Chase Her Dreams -is tiresome and dated. I enjoyed director Penelope Corrin injecting a bit of social commentary in small drims and drams throughout, questioning the outmoded idea that equates selling sexual favours with liberation. There weren't enough of those moments, alas. More brazenly unzipping the trousers of chauvinism parading as liberation might've made for a more powerful piece, even within the admittedly-small corral of the musical itself. Debbie Does Dallas may be all puffery and pom-poms, but it holds a darker, decidedly unpleasant undertone that isn't funny at all.


A much better example of liberation in action was Ghost Light's second, so-called "complementary" production of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. The punk rock musical features some kick-ass tunes along with a juicy lead role -uh, for a man. Still, Seth Drabinsky's angry passionate portrayal of the East German rock diva icon -not fully male, not fully female -nicely encapsulated the claustrophobic rage at the masquerade of societal gender stereotypes. He was backed up by the incredible sonic power of local Toronto band The Vicious Guns and actor/singer L.A. Lopes, who director Corrin cleverly placed in a beard and drab garb; the ensuing confusion, between Lopes' masculine appearance and high, searing soprano vocal was a kind of delicious confusion -and possessed a kind of manic, gorgeous opera all its own. The fact Hedwig spits out her memories of living in communist-era Europe also has a delicious timeliness, considering this week marks the twentieth anniversary of the fall of the Berlin wall. It's as if the zeitgeist of that moment of liberation found expression in Hedwig's manic energies, sexual and otherwise.

The production itself nicely mixes the busy confusion of sexual politics with the more tender aspects of love, never slipping into the maudlin or saccharine. Corrin innately understands the snarling energy of punk rock and its transformative power in both epic and intimate ways. You change yourself; you change the world around you. That isn't necessarily a punk ethos either; it's a human one. Reducing one's self to bits and pieces reduces the world, and our capacity to move freely in it. The wall's fallen; the web's mental. Leave your mark, Hedwig urges, and move on.