The Inheritance of Optimism

I'm in the Wall Street Journal!

Original Blend

I was raised in the port of Kobe—one of the first Japanese cities to pry its doors open to foreign trade, circa 1867—where the triumphant honks of docking ships regularly punctuated my evenings. In transit, the vessels fueled up on Kobe water, abound with minerals from the city’s statuesque Rokko Mountains, proven to retain freshness despite long and arduous transcontinental voyages.

It’s the calcium and potassium enriched water, known to locals as miya mizu, that lends a sublime flavor to the aromatic mugs of coffee served at my favorite city café, Nishimura. When it was first established post WWII, the café began as a humble, provisional goods store, sandwiched between shell-shocked buildings in 1948. Situated steps away from Ijinkan, a brick laden neighborhood that was designated for foreign settlers in the late 19th century, Nishimura constantly emanates a tart and smoky scent, eager to transform even a nonchalant passerby into a connoisseur. When I visited the cafe on a recent trip home, my conversation with the store's VP (his voice dipped, almost reverently when discussing the drink) taught me that prior to Nishimura's existence, locals once drank coffee pressed from soy beans.

The café’s cosmopolitan menu, second in worldliness only to the map of the world that’s displayed inside, (crafted entirely from coffee beans) touts ten roasts, ranging from the rich and weighty Kenyan Peaberry to the milder Brazilian Bahia Santos. Nishimura’s signature blend, however, is a collection of approximately six bean varieties—a carefully guarded proprietary secret—combined to create a nutty mélange. Other sip-worthy drinks include a sinfully creamy Vienna Coffee and my personal favorite, the Nishimura cappuccino, frothed to perfection, topped by an earthy, cinnamon bark. And then there’s the food. Pillowy wedges of toast, filigreed with strawberry jam, decadent German cherry chocolate cake, and a range of gem-toned parfaits—edible testaments to Kobe’s mottled but vibrant culinary heritage, a checkered amalgam of France, Germany and certainly, Japan.

Nishimura has thrived mainly because of its remarkable ability to pick up on a major transition that Japanese food culture experienced in the 1960's, as it flowed from tatami mats to table-tops. This marked the advent of Nishimura’s highly westernized setto menu (literally, “set menu”), combinations of double-decker sandwiches, salads and gratins, all flanked by a bottomless cup of the original blend. Yet there is something distinctly local about one of the menu’s most popular items, Horenso Toast, comprised of 3 slabs of shokupan (fluffy, Japanese sandwich bread) layered with spinach, sautéed in generous pats of butter. It is this unobtrusive, culinary balancing act that will ensure Nishimura's survival as it continues to preside, quietly, over the city.

Busted: The "Asian" Myth

Leading the lackadaisical schedule associated with grad students has prompted me to form a love-hate relationship with daytime TV. Between flamboyant Court TV judges, All My Children, and frothy episodes of Tyra, I think its safe to say I'm heavier on the hate.

But I can't think of the last thing that's made my blood simmer the way this morning's segment on The Today Show did--Kathy Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb's overly simplified and borderline insulting simulated tour across a bizarre interpretation of "Asia."* The women, outfitted in a garish combo of silk kimonos and questionably angled bindis, enlightened their viewers on quintessential "Asian" experiences, complete with a sloppy origami lesson, a food sampling that frenetically spanned the continent (bibimbop, biryani, and bubble tea) and a makeshift petting zoo featuring a who's-who of Asian animals including a 47-year-old Macac and a Bactrian Camel. All topped with a whirlwind bhangra tutorial--insert the obligatory, "balle balle" here--from Masala Bhangra guru, Sarina Jain. Bite-sized culture nuggets, reducing age-old traditions to snappy, 30-second television spots. Excuse my lack of eloquence. But what the hell?

Though I'm no certified expert, I can certainly claim that the more mainstream American media finds it acceptable to present viewers with this weird and dare I say, Orientalist-inspired agglomeration that is "Asia", the more we are misinforming our audiences. And though I'm slightly embarrassed to quote the title of an existing Facebook group to bolster my point, here goes: "There's More Than One Country in Asia, People!" (yes, I'm a member). Japan is not China. And neither is Taiwan. But how are we to drive home this point if the all-encompassing, "Asian" umbrella is conveniently flapped open when any of these distinct nations becomes a topic of conversation?

Thoughts?

*Tomorrow on Today? South America!

The Raga Saga

I always wondered how old I'd be when I'd develop a fondness for Indian classic music, namely, the delicate twang of a sitar. The magic number, I learned, is 24*.

I was first introduced to the stuff on my family's weekend excursions to far flung corners of Japan, when my father would slip in the occasional Ravi Shankar CD as the backseat bickering between my younger sister and I bordered on unbearable. Back then ragas took on the role of a stern warning--the melodic precursor to a scolding.

As I matured, the intricate rhythms became synonymous with meals at our favorite Indian restaurants (to this day, a Chaurasia flute tune leaves me craving a deep-fried paneer pakora) often smothered by cacophonous dinner table conversations, not getting the showcase it deserved.

But this past weekend, ensconced in a plush seat, amidst the sustained silence of Carnegie Hall--give or take the occasional loud cougher...free Ricolas in the lobby, people!--I watched, entranced, as a petite figure in a swash of pomegranate pink and violet silk (ironically enough, the word "raga," is derived from the Sanskrit term for color and passion) strutted her way to center stage and offered the audience an exuberant namaskar. Perched on an elevated platform, she cradled her sitar, eyes half-closed and head cocked endearingly to the side. The gentle pitter patter of carefully constructed chords served as the lead-up to a more guttural, thunderous crescendo. The young virtuoso was soon joined by an orchestra of 34, a conglomeration of flutes, clarinets,oboes and violins, whose instruments momentarily criss-crossed cities, from the icy banks of the Hudson to its bustling counterpart along the Varanasi.

I was at an Anoushka Shankar concert, watching the young and overwhelmingly talented artist collaborate with the NYC-based Orpheus Chamber Music Orchestra, a unique musical transaction penned by her legendary father, the sitar maestro himself. I was most impressed by the way the orchestra instruments, Western in origin, took on a second life as they traded their typical harmonies for a highly amorphous musical form, which is "not a tune, melody, scale, mode or any concept for which an English word exists."

The grueling practice sessions behind the concert are chronicled on the Orpheus website, and serve as a candid portrayal of a cryptic musical journey, for those musicians being acquainted with the raga (and all its bells and whistles) for the first time. Rather than getting lost in translation, though, the two musical forms, when combined, were able to infuse one another with greater meaning.

*This was also how old I was when I discovered I could appreciate Autumn foliage along the Merritt Parkway, eat contentedly at a restaurant solo and kind of enjoy getting up early on Saturday mornings.

An Epicurean Affair

This post is dedicated to a fellow foodie and my friend, Dave. Wish you were here!


Combing through a mountainous heap of press releases at my new internship (a temporary stint at the Metro newspaper) I do a double take upon seeing the "Saveur" logo emblazoned across an e-mail. It's a food magazine I've come to revere lately, for its worldly sensibilities, commitment to simple--and almost primordial--home-cooking and breathtaking layout. The mag released its acclaimed 100 must-have food items list, aka, The Saveur 100, last week and I'm psyched to know that the big cheese himself, James Oseland, is available for interviews. A flurry of phone calls leads me to an enjoyable conversation with the Epicure-in-chief, a pleasant and spirited gentleman with a penchant for pressure cookers, DIY ketchup and Indonesian fare.

Upon identifying my desi connection, James fills me in on an Ahmedabad trip he took last year to shoot a spread on Gujarati cooking. "It's really a work of art," he gushes, forcing me to re-examine a world of cuisine I've apathetically consumed for the majority of my life, never really paying special attention to seemingly inconsequential details--vibrant flecks of cilantro that accessorize most vegetable dishes, the glittery film that coats traditional date and nut rolls (aka, varak, or thin sheets of pounded silver) and even the Zen-like patience required to sprout lentils, a prominent feature in many typical Gujarati meals. James excitedly informs me that the article will most likely run next year, and before I know it, he's inviting me and a guest to a Saveur event the following evening, a celebration in honor of the 10th anniversary of the publication's hit 100 list. Rumor has it that a secret 101st item will also be announced that night.

The next evening, with my favorite foodie in tow (thanks, Raj) I find myself in a crowded test kitchen midtown, bowled over by the scent of caramelized onions and baked goat cheese. Saveur's breathtaking evening menu includes a tart, made with the aforementioned ingredients, a succulent veggie lasagna, a pork and white bean cassoulet, bite-sized black and white brownies, and the piece de resistance--two oversized cheese trays, overflowing with slivers and slices of cheddar, brie and camembert, sprinkled with unlikely embellishments including thyme and parsley. We can hardly contain ourselves as we join a line full of fellow food journalists and wide-eyed plus ones, eagerly clutching their disposable bamboo plates (attractive AND biodegradable? I'm digging this!). Mid-bite, I spot an animated man in a breezy, carrot-colored Balinese shirt, ushering crowds of people towards the dinner spread. We walk over and introduce ourselves to James, while I share a Saveur-inspired anecdote: months ago, Raj and I ditched an afternoon of what was, in theory, supposed to be wedding planning and opted to churn our own butter instead, thanks to an intriguing recipe from the magazine (try it, it reads more like a magical potion than a set of instructions). James laughs appreciatively, chats for a minute or two, asking me when his interview will be published, and thanks us for coming before resuming to mingle.

During the course of that delicious evening, we warmly laud the announcement of the highly anticipated 101st item on the Saveur list (parchment paper), catch a glimpse of the Italian home-cooking sensation, Lidia Bastianich, and even squeeze in a quick, jittery hello with one of my all-time favorite writers, Suketu Mehta--needless to say, those few hours were rich with all the ingredients for a night to remember.


Stay tuned for a Metro NY piece on the Saveur 100, scheduled to run on Jan 21, 2009.

Mission: Irresponsible

A few have commented on the absence of a Mumbai blog since the Nov 26th attacks. The truth is, I've been percolating. Splicing the personal from the political is never easy. Especially when each of the gutted, ravaged dots on the map of South Mumbai, when connected, compose family history.

Long before I was even a hazy figment of their imaginations, my parents spent many an afternoon at The Sea Lounge, a charming cafe on The Taj's first floor. To this day, they fondly recount these meetings, and if asked, my father might even be able to tell you what my mother ordered on their first date. Years later, as a toddler, I waddled, clumsily chasing wayward pigeons in Apollo Bunder near the Gateway of India (mere steps from where the terrorists first made their stealthy entrance, aided by inconspicuous dinghies) as my nanaji, or maternal grandfather, coaxed me to toss them fistfuls of grain. And more recently as a college student I practically begged my aunt and uncle to take me to the now gun-shot ridden Leopold's Cafe after thumbing through Shantaram, Gregory David Roberts picturesque ode to to the city. The stories are countless.

Now that all the blood has been shed, fingers pointed and tensions stirred, my dissatisfaction has more to do with the way those formally charged with telling the multiple stories--local journalists--handled their duties. These story-tellers had the power to be influential participants during this perilous siege, but to put it mildly, they blew it.

"We've forfeited the rights to our tragedies," exclaimed Arundhati Roy in a Guardian op-ed, soon after the siege. For as the hellish attacks unrelentingly gnawed at Mumbai, almost instantaneously, the world—the one defined by the slick, 24-hour-news channels, at least—tuned into what was christened, “India’s 9/11.” Throngs of hysterical reporters dominated TV screens, charged with spreading their interpretations of the saga both domestically and internationally, throughout the course of the attacks. In our Friedmanesquely flat world, however, hardly any global event is spared from the cable news bulldozer, threatening to compress nuanced conflicts into sentimentally charged sound bytes. Though the atrocities themselves were analyzed and dissected since that fateful November night, another highly consequential post-mortem is still underway—that of the media’s role and influence during this blaze of terror. The few critiques that are appearing though, come from the domestic front in the form of left-wing news web sites, controversial op-ed columnists and even local bloggers, who are stepping forth with their versions of the story, dissatisfied with the media’s highly sensationalist and frenzied coverage during the 60-hour siege.

When the Cold War paradigm for mainstream media was dismantled, in America at least, many wondered what the next dominant framework would be. It’s safe to say that “9/11 rhetoric” is the highly anticipated successor: “Fanatical Muslims replaced Soviet Communists and, like the reds, these enemies could be anywhere." In many ways, it's like President Bush merely pressed the re-start button on the Cold War talking points machine, and now, we see democracies across the world—like India—doing the same. As an ever-present tool, the rhetoric surrounding the war on terror is appealing, just as the Cold War was, lacking an exit strategy, with no tangible end in sight.

Though the mainstream media is ideally, supposed to function as the watchdog of any democratic government, the infiltration of corporatism is slowly hacking away at this idealized notion. As witnessed in the case of a relatively established democracy, like India, in light of the Mumbai crisis, the mainstream media acted as an extension of the government’s interests, whether it came in the form of an almost a knee-jerk desire to point fingers at Pakistan (although ultimately, a connection was revealed) or cloaking over the complexities of the conflict with a highly simplistic, 9/11-inspired, “good versus evil” script.

As traditional media no longer mirrors the democratic values that were once bestowed on it, it becomes crucial to turn to a sphere that is more congruous with ideas like diversity of opinion, accuracy and transparency. Cyberspace, in many ways—with the appropriate gatekeepers, of course—is the ultimate embodiment of that democratic space. In the case of Mumbai, we saw that space timidly but articulately speak for the city, following the November siege. Like anything democratic, however, it will be support, in the form of citizen viewers and readers and participators that can truly empower it as the perfect arena for a multitude of voices to co-exist, debate and ultimately, inform.

Tabloid Cricket? A Sport 'In Transit'

I honestly can't believe I'm writing about sports. (are pigs flying?)

But here's a piece on the evolving nature of Indian cricket as it transitions from a national sport to a league-based system, sparked by a guest speaker in my Sports & Globalization class last night. He repped the NBA's international operations branch and kept emphasizing how the advent of league cricket in India was making it easier for his organization to spread its tentacles there. Interestingly enough he mentioned a potential--albeit hush, hush--project between Hindi movie producers and the NBA in the hopes of generating popularity for the sport. Rumor has it that Kobe Bryant already met with a Khan or two. Bollywood Basketball may be closer than you think. But you heard it here first :)

In the meantime--my two cents on the IPL.

Monstrous flames blaze from his leg-guards, while a majestic drumbeat thunders in the background. At center stage is Shah Rukh Khan, kingpin of the commercial Indian film industry, outfitted in a black and yellow Kolkata Knight Rider’s uniform. As an entourage of extras join him, together, they engage in a spirited dance routine, set to an exuberant song entitled, “Korbo, Lorbo, Jit Bore” (Bengali for, “we will do it, fight for it and win it”). The pulsating drums quicken.

Such is the introduction to one of the first music videos to emerge from the Indian Premier League (IPL), and a flamboyant effort to catapult Kolkata’s state-based cricket team to fame. As the video continues, Khan undergoes a dramatic costume change—he trades in the uniform for a shimmering cloak—while the Bengali is replaced with snappy English lyrics: “We’re too hot, we’re too cool, we’re Kolkata, we rule!” It’s a messy amalgam: part folk song, part war cry, with a pinch of Bollywood and the flourish of a cheerleading routine. Is Indian cricket undergoing an identity crisis?

In many ways, the 60-second music video encapsulates the hazy transition that cricket is currently experiencing—in India, at least. Sports and national consciousness have often been linked, whether it is ice hockey and Canada, soccer and Argentina, or baseball and the United States. Throw in a turbulent colonial history and it further complicates the connection, as exemplified by India’s curious and constantly evolving relationship with cricket. What started off as a way of challenging the occupiers at their own game during the days of the Empire soon became a sport that was synonymous with patriotic virtue post-independence, as India attempted to define its national identity on a world stage. It is only appropriate, then, that cricket’s latest avatar comes in the form of intra-national competition, laced with all the symbols of market capitalism, reflected by the eight, state-based team that make up the IPL.

“A new cricket league is trying to spin off India’s colonial inheritance into a money making symbol of a brash, emerging nation,” writes New York Times journalist, Somini Sengupta. Others, including Rajdeep Sardesai, the editor-in-chief of a prominent Indian news channel, have described the sport’s new incarnation as “cricket’s version of tabloid journalism…it is much more about glamour and entertainment than about what happens between the players."


It should be noted that the version of cricket touted by the IPL is referred to as the Twenty20 brand. This brand is a slicker, more TV-friendly counterpart to the dowdy five-day matches introduced by the British. The name, Twenty20 refers to 20 overs—cricket’s version of an inning—granted to each team. It slowly becomes apparent that the ritualistic nature of the five-day version is being whittled down for the convenience of media sponsors and television channels, a sure indicator of the power that market forces have over the structure of a sport that has existed for centuries.

Ultimately, is the Indian Premier League just another product of globalization, the great leveler and homogenizer? Though it has only been in existence for less than a year, it is already ripe with all the ingredients for a marketer’s wet dream—high-powered stars, mammoth sponsors and an audience of thousands. This is not the only time cricket has transformed in shape, responding to the socioeconomic changes around it. One can only hope, though, that rather than getting lost amidst the powerful distractions, the essence of the game remains.

PS: For those of you who think cricket is limited to the Commonwealth, it's slowly making a presence in New York. The NY Times' "10 Best Books of 2008," (a highly anticipated list released yesterday) includes 'Netherland' a novel that highlights the sport against a post 9/11 backdrop.