Corned Beef

There was some fashion do in Colombo last evening and my wife got a free ticket. Thousands of miles and some time zones away from Paradise, I was bored staring at a computer screen that had a dimmed screen with a message that read “User Not Online.” Of course I knew she was not online, but sometimes, you just want to click the dial button for the heck of it. I think it is very manly to keep trying such things – like pressing the elevator button that is already pressed, knowing that’s already pressed by the man standing right in front of you.

Men do weird stuff like that, while women would just shut the computer and walk away to do their nails, or something much more fascinating – like yapping about Monica Bellucci’s cleavage with their besties.

So I was bored. And homesick.

I was hungry.

I was too lazy to drive-through my usual last resort in nourishment – and sustenance – the place where a clown sits in the front bench. I’m sick of the big macs, the royales and the big tasty ones. I usually buy a whole meal, pour the cola down the kitchen sink, eat the fries and forget the burger: two sachets of ketchup mixed with one sachet of mayo makes an amazing dip for the fries. By the way, I haven’t seen them serving mayo at McDonalds in paradise - have you?

Anyhow. So I was hungry. Men come from a hunting and camping background – so I followed my instincts and decided to hunt for my prey, right within the perimeter of my kitchen. Mind you my humble abode is not a mansion with a huge kitchen that houses an army – its just a single bedroom joint where kitchen accommodates just one person. Not more, not less. While rummaging and foraging, I found an old can of corned beef, a quarter of a cabbage; and I knew there was some leftover rice in the fridge from the afternoon. So, I chopped-up some onions, garlic, and the cabbage that had been living in my fridge for a while. One more week and I would have had to adopt the cabbage or christen it with a suitable name.

Moments later, the lights were turned off, some candles were lit and yours truly was cooking a romantic meal for one, to the tune of Nina Simone and her Tomato Collection.

It was rather a quick one, but was much better than the pizzas, burgers and the localized Indian food available around the corner. I couldn’t say otherwise, for obvious reasons.

Enjoyed my meal all alone, while watching some silly movie that I didn’t even pay much attention to. It would have been fantastic if I had a bottle of wine and some female company, but sometimes, life doesn’t let you enjoy the luxuries every single day of your life.

So this morning, while chatting to my charming wife, I shared my culinary adventure with her.

“What kind of a meal was that..?” was her prompt response, followed by a hearty laugh, and I am still wondering what’s wrong with eating corned beef and cabbage à la Sri Lankan style, with some rice.

I am not at all disheartened by the reaction from the Minister of Domestic Affairs, I’m going to sell the recipe to Harpo’s or Barefoot as some fusion food – all I need is a fancy name that sells itself. :)

The Lung Ching Episode

Inspired by a good pot of Pu Erh tea a few weeks ago and followed by Sigma Delta’s suggestion, I embarked on a journey to discover the teas of the world at teayana – the tea lounge in Jeddah. I have tried a few teas on the menu since, including a rare variety: the Lung Ching or the Dragon Well teas.

As the story goes, a Chinese village was facing a severe drought in 250 AD and a Tao monk advised the villagers to pray to the dragon living in a nearby well to end the dry spell. The villagers obliged, the rains followed – and the village of “Lung Ching” or “Dragon Well” entered the history of tea. A monastery bearing that name stills stands next to the well to this day.

During the Qing dynasty, Emperor Qian Long had the opportunity to taste Lung Ching tea at the Wugong Temple and he was so impressed that he had eighteen of the tea trees at the temple designated as Imperial Tea, reserved for the Emperor himself.

Lung Ching is amongst the rare, connoisseur green teas on offer at teayana. Other exotic teas in the menu include the Japanese Gyokuro, Chinese Hunan Oolong, Zheijang Yin Luo No, Tai Mu along, Formosa Jade Oolong from Taiwan and teayana’s own Jasmine Pearl tea.

“This is China’s most famous tea and simply the best of the Lung Ching variety. It has more than a thousand years of recorded history and was mentioned in the first ever tea book (Cha Ching) by Lu Yu during the Tang Dynasty.

The exquisite, fat but narrow emerald green tea leaves have a shiny appearance after being carefully hand fried in a large wok. The tea leaves easily sink to the bottom of the cup during infusion and a pleasant aroma arises which is refreshingly light with a hint of fruit and nut combined. The aftertaste is almost instantaneous, filling your mouth with a sweetness reminiscent of grape fruit. It may be enjoyed plain from morning to late afternoon and is best without milk.”

reads The Book of Tea at teayana.

Overwhelmed by the stories, recommendations and an undeniable charm of the stories, I order a pot of Lung Ching.

The tea arrives with a mini-hourglass that would indicate the perfect brewing time. I watch the fine grains of coloured sand seep through like a tiny waterfall, as the hot water in the pot slowly begins to turn to the colour of the morning sun.

After three minutes, I am ready to taste the exotic, light golden colour tea brewed from “fried” tea leaves. Never in my wildest dreams that I imagined tea would be brewed from ‘fried’ leaves!

The last few grains of sand seep through the narrow neck in the hour-glass as I eagerly wait to taste the tea. I resist myself from snatching a sachet of sugar on impulse, sometimes it’s hard to let go of the nasty habits of drinking tea Sri Lankan style.

I hold the cup with both hands and enjoy the warmth for a moment. As I take a deep breath, the Lung Ching fragrance titillates my senses. The aroma is gentle and inviting. I take the first sip and let it penetrate my taste buds. I love the first sip, and struggle to find words to describe the taste.

Grass.

Yes, Lung Ching tastes like green tea with a hint of grass. But, in a very good way.

---

Camellia sinensis or the tea plant grows taller than 10 meters (33ft) typically, if left untrimmed. The No 1 “King Tree” found in the mountainous region of Pu Erh, China, is 2,700 years old, 25.6 metres (85 ft) tall, with a root diameter of 1.2 m (4 ft). These ancient tea trees are protected and the leaves are not allowed to be picked. Sri Lanka’s tallest tea tree can be found in Dambetenna Estate, Haputale and it is around 18 metres (60 ft) in height.

BOA. All Pets. Fish and Reptiles.

I’m in Beirut. It’s way past lunchtime. I’m sitting in a little-old restaurant – a well kept secret in time. The tiny place is dim and quiet, except for the occasional shout that gets the kitchen staff busy with the order. There are no florescent lights that bathe the place in white light. Instead, there’s natural sunlight slowly creeping through the ally.

I see a middle-aged Lebanese woman sitting by the window, patiently waiting. For food, or company, I wonder for a moment. There is a white VW Golf Mk1 parked outside, just in front of a shiny new BMW M3.

“BOA. All Pets. Fish + Reptiles” reads a signboard on the shop across the window. “10,000 LL for Picture with Snake” says another sign. I see green lattice-like windows above the pet shop. The building looks old and the windows remind me of the old Dutch buildings in Galle.

“Tick, tock, tick, tock...” a fashionably dressed young Lebanese girl trots past the window. For a moment, I wish I were sitting by the window. 90% of the Lebanese women are very pretty, according to my expat-friend, the expert of feminine beauty. The remaining 10% it seems, are simply drop-dead-gorgeous. All I can think of, at this very moment, is food – and nothing else. Feminine beauty could wait, but I laugh out loud and nod in agreement.

Sitting here, Beirut feels very real. It feels very different from the newly-built pebbled streets, high-end cafés, designer shops and downtown in general.

The shop owner comes along, greets us and distributes the hand-written Arabic menu. I look at the decorative handout and wonder why the menu is not printed. Apparently, nothing much has changed in this place since the humble beginning. Two generations later, the menu is still hand-written by the owner cum cashier cum head-waiter, every single morning.

A few minutes later, I overhear the man himself translating the menu to the Japanese family sitting at the table behind us. This is a legendary place that is often mentioned in travel guides. The pictures that adorn the walls tell me that the tourists pick this tiny place over fancy restaurants downtown, perhaps for the bragging rights.

While we get ready to experience the true spirit of Lebanese cuisine, the usual appetisers arrive on the table. The Olives, the mint leaves, spring onions, radish, pickles, hommus, moutabbel, tabouleh and the Arabic bread.

I decide to skip the Arak and settle for water. Brewed from Aniseed, Arak is an alcoholic beverage that usually takes a prominent place in a typical Lebanese lunch table. The clear brew turns milky and cloudy as it gets diluted in water – just like pouring Dettol in water.

We decide to settle for Molokhia – a rice and meat dish that is garnished with nuts and topped with Corchorus (like spinach) soup – as the main dish. Molokhia is a stew, but this restaurant serves the rice, meat and the stew separately for us to mix them ourselves to match our taste. Apparently, that is the “proper” way to serve the dish. An Arabic desert follows and we top up the meal with a Moroccan-mint tea.

As we wander back in to the narrow lane, leaving yet another Lebanese experience behind, I think of home. Good food, great ambience, and Boa reminds me of home. Masthana, the old canteen that used to be besides Raheema’s, in particular.

Advertising that Sails...

I saw this picture on the left on Ramesh De Silva’s blog. Simple idea, very nicely done, to promote a nearby café. It doesn’t deserve a Chilli like the comment says, for it is an original!

Then I saw the one on the right – a Rockland Rum ad in the Serendib Magazine – typical Chilli material.

The ad tries to emulate a good trend, but the graphics are poorly executed. No finesse, the lines look very rough and rugged. Logo slapped on in the middle of nowhere, as if the art director was running out the room for a loo break. No time to think, no time craft the ad.

Best of all, is the slogan: “You’ll find no other Rum like ‘dis on ’de earth.”

WTF?

People from all over the world read Serendib, and they are claiming that there’s no other Rum like this on the earth? Who are they trying to fool? Did the agency think that travellers on-board SriLankan airlines have never heard of other brands of fine rums such as Cruzan for example? Or Bacardi or Malibu at least? It’s not what the slogan says but what it means that matters.

Right now, Rocklands are looking stupid in front of the globe trotters who fly SriLankan, thanks to an agency that writes lines for the sake of revering a brand with no evidence to prove it’s obviously false claim.

And the Chilli goes to..?

‘Mrs. Claus is a right fine Woman’ aka ‘Booze or Fags’ Part ii

She knows I feel weary from lugging my sack,
So, bless her – she fetches that famous blue pack,
An’ says to me: “Santa – just fill up your briar,
An’ set yourself down in this chair by the fire!”

...reads an old Edgeworth tobacco advertisement from the bygone era.

Believe it or not, tobacco was promoted as the ideal Christmas Gift, their spokesperson being none other than the man in the red suit, himself. Some of the cigarettes, like Old Golds claimed that they were “less irritating, or easier on the throat, or contains less nicotine...” and that “conclusion was established on evidence by the United States Government.”

“Quickest way to a Man’s heart” reads the headline in a 1940’s White Owl Cigar ad that shows a pretty bimbo on Santa’s lap. “He’ll purr like a kitten when he tastes their rich Havana flavour... watch him beam with joy at their mellow mildness...” reads the body copy.

In addition to advertising, smoking was promoted by the medical community in the beginning – often recommended to pregnant women as well as patients with hypertension, to calm their nerves. From health, to fashion, to bonding, to taste – tobacco ads promoted smoking as THE thing to do in the good old days, and these claims were sometimes backed by ‘scientific evidence.’

A few decades later, most of those who ran such ads lost millions in law suits – and the tables turned.

Smoking is harmful to your health. And we know it. And yes, there is scientific evidence – more credible than the US Govt data above.

Going back to the question where this rambling began, is smoking socially acceptable?

My answer, Nope. Smoking is not socially acceptable, heavy or not. But, that’s doesn’t mean I’m against smoking.

A cigarette is your best friend. Specially when you are blue. I have watched cigarettes burn away – one millimeter by millimeter in the longest, darkest nights of my life. Trust me when I say this: A cigarette IS your best friend, no one could’ve taken its place.

A cigarette is all you need. In the crazy, demanding world of advertising, sometimes all you need is a smoke to stimulate your gray cells and find that illusive ‘idea’ that’s been hovering around you. Viola! A Breakthrough.

A cigarette is an ice breaker. How many times have I, and of course many thousands of others all over the world, piggy-backed on a cigarette to approach a pretty lass and break in to a conversation? Tough life for non-smokers – a chewing gum doesn’t work the same.

A cigarette is the ultimate. There’s this story about a Russian chick who drank for the first time, ended up in some bloke’s bed and lost her virginity. She wakes up in the morning and comes to her senses, quite shocked at herself, reaches for the bloke’s cigarettes in disbelief, and lights one up. Realising what she has done, she suddenly screams: “Oh my God, oh my God, if my mother only knows that I’m smoking a cigarette..!”

A cigarette demands respect. Yours truly – a father of two – still doesn’t light up a cigarette in front of his mother.

A cigarette keeps you warm inside. Have you ever been stuck in the middle of nowhere, freezing? A coffee is a good substitute, but you cannot have a coffee in your pocket; plus you can’t have them one after the other.

A cigarette is fashionable. Just ask anyone who smokes. Or look at the brands that sell “slims” or “100’s” – or the “tips” and accessories that go in to any woman’s or man’s wardrobe. Or look at the success of “Zippo” – it says it all.

A cigarette is a great leveller. I have turned many a volatile situation in my favour by simply offering a cigarette.

A cigarette is worth a lot more than its value in rupees. Ask the guys who get parking spots in my building.

A cigarette is for everyone. It knows no gender, race, age, disability or anything of that sort that divides and discriminates the human race.

A cigarette is for every where. You could take a cigarette for a walk, to the park, or to the beach, have it in the car, out of the car – just about anywhere. You can’t take your tea, or the booze along the same way, could you?

A cigarette takes away the tension. No wonder it was recommended to pregnant women.

A cigar or a pipe makes you look intelligent. There is an aura of intelligence that emanates from the smoke – especially if it is a black and white family portrait.

A cigar makes you look very sexy. I’m thinking female, blonde, blue eyes, Martini, black stilettos. Get the picture?

Cigarette is the best invention of the mankind. Totally useless, completely hazardous to one’s health but sells in millions everyday all over the world, even without a word of advertising – amidst various bans and counter-promotive measures. Now, top that, Einstein.

Smoking, is an art. Just like the Wines, Whiskeys, Coffees, Cheese and the lot, the art of smoking is to be mastered. The islanders only know the taste of local virginia flavour, but there’s a fine tobacco for every mood, taste, and the occasion. From cigarettes to cigars to pipe-blends and rolio’s; the art of smoking can only be mastered by trying out the various blends and origins – not by reading in the books. There’s hardly any tobacconists in our town, what a pity.

Tobacco is part of our heritage. Rothman’s, one of the oldest British brands ventured in to the international arena starting from Ceylon at the beginning of the century. They opened a factory in Ceylon in 1935; which was unfortunately shut in two years due to shortage of staff. Today, we export “Thanshers” cigars to few select countries – that’s the only remaining legacy of the tobacco industry.

From the distant tribes of Africa, to the Arabs who smoke “shiisha” or the hubbley-bubbley, smoking is a communal affair. We love company, and the company is brought to life by the booze and the smokes, largely. As long as the company enjoys a smoke, I do not see anything wrong with someone smoking – heavily or otherwise. Only rule, remember the smoke travels and affects people around you, unlike alcohol.

Having said that, here’s my epilogue: Smoke, if you must, at your own will and at your own risk. Try not to be an addict, because smoking kills – 27,000 in my island and a staggering 5.4 million throughout the world, every year.

Images from“Not a Cough in a Carload” online exhibit curated by Dr. Robert Jackler, Stanford University. Permission Pending.

In Response to ‘Booze or Fags?’

“What’s more acceptable and tolerable? Being a heavy drinker, a heavy smoker, a bit of both or a teetotaler?”

Mathawaada asks in a recent post.

As the quote suggests, the islanders are a bit “heavy” on their drinking and smoking, and they do not seem to know their limits. We gather around a table by the beach-side and order a bottle. Heck, there’s only two of us, but we still start with a bottle. Then we call our friends to join in. And we order another bottle, and another... until they close shop or the till the sunrise warms our cold butts.

There is no way one could spend an entertaining evening with his buddies drinking plain tea and eating kimbula banis in this paradise. One plain-tea (and a cigarette perhaps); and there will be the waiter slapping the bill on the table and hovering around, worse than the flies that usually occupy the said “hotel” table.

We have an almost zero coffee culture, no hang-out joints and there are no nice Virgins in Colombo for hours and hours of tête-à-tête. Nice Virgin Stores, with lounges, I mean. The rare chill-out joints would be ‘giving the look’ once they see that the time we spent justifies the coffee(s) we bought. Even the Galle Face Promenade has lost its glory, it isn’t a nice hangout anymore.

Where could people like us spend some quality time in peace with the gang?

The only place that welcomes anyone with open arms is a joint that sells alcohol. So we get there and start with a bottle – by default. The moment one has had his first sip, he is in a dilemma. If one is going to get caught drunk, it might as well be worth it, right? So why stop at a quick drink, why not go all the way? Same result: expect trouble from the cops (if one is driving) and trouble from the home-front, both alike, in equal doses.

Besides, hendello’s, fish fingers and the seafood rice are a class apart from kimbula banis, anyway.

It’s nothing else but our social “standards and norms,” our habits and attitudes that contribute to a culture that drinks by the bottle. We don’t allow small shots at home, so we tend to go for large bottles out of home. People don’t order a “round of drinks” in Paradise, and we seem to think that only sissies drink by the glass.

So one drinks by the bottle and he gets drunk. He gets drunk, and he is a menace. Period.

Drinking isn’t bad. Its just the “style” of drinking in paradise that elevates it to a problem. Put that in advertising lingo, consumption of alcohol isn’t a bad concept; it’s the execution that sucks.

People all over the world have a glass of alcohol before, during, or after many a meal. It could be the beer that accompanies the chips, or the wine that compliments the bread and the cheese. Or the mug of “Kvaas” that sits in the middle of the communist soup kitchen. The French consume cheese by the truckloads and still have no cholesterol problems like us, and they owe it to the wines. Yes, there is scientific evidence.

The Black Label Centenary Edition even had the nutritional information printed on the bottle – making it one of the healthiest drinks in the world – in comparison with most beverages that are deemed harmless. See the irony?

Anything beyond moderation (heavy) is a menace, not only alcohol.

One could drive a car after having a glass of wine or a beer in countries that have understood the meaning of the word “moderation.” We, the islanders of paradise who practice and preach Buddhism that’s build on moderation, has no clue what it means; and get pissed-drunk and end up in trouble. Day after day. To the point where our good women wouldn’t marry a man who “drinks and smokes” – even occasionally.

Blame yourself, not the alcohol. Alcohol isn’t a cure for boredom, a solver of problems or a diet. Alcohol isn’t a career – and don’t make one out of it either. My appreciation of alcohol can be found in an earlier post here, if one is looking for some entertaining read.

So, going back – my simple answer the original question: no one tolerates a “heavy” drinker. Not even his own mother. And “heavy” drinking is NOT socially acceptable – not even in a colony of drunks.

On the other hand, drinking in moderation is quite acceptable, and it is quite ok for a “lady” to have a drink or two too. There is a whole culture – an art, almost – based on consumption of alcohol, extending from choosing the wine to fit the menu, to how to hold the glass. A drinking etiquette for the ladies and gents – to drink in a civilised manner.

Knowing your whiskeys and wines are an art; so is the cocktail culture. If you know how to serenade your lover in an elegant style with a fine bottle of French wine, you are a Winner. If you know your way around fixing shots and have mastered the artistry of having them (including the one where the shot is placed in a woman’s cleavage and lifting her up to gulp it), you are a friggin’ champion..!

So, here I raise my glass to the fine art of drinking.

Cheers!!!

PS: My two cents on smoking to follow. Soon.

Pepsi gets a New Look

The cola of the new generation now fashions a new look. A new logo, a new bottle.

From a design point of view, Pepsi seems to be following the arch-rival, once again. Coca-Cola revamped their look so cleverly people hardly noticed the change. They went back to basics, dropped the added frills and fancies, cleaned up the “ribbon” and dropped the drop-shadow under the logo. Instead of going with Photoshop filters and adding bevels and “effects” like most new-age designers would do, they went back to the original, a simple wave that you and I could draw with a pencil, and colour with just one red marker pen. Coca-Cola also brought in the original brand name in the new “Zero” Can. Cleaning up, and consolidating brand-power. Clever.

Pepsi followed suit. They changed the famous “globe” in to something that’s supposed to be a “smile” – but went overboard. It looks more like Pacman gone wrong, or a “kindi” (sarcastic) smile, in our lingo. This smile also reminds me of Barack Obama’s campaign logo for some odd reason. Then, they went and fiddled around with the logo-type. Instead of keeping the well-established font, Pepsi went back to their 1964 one-calorie “Diet Pepsi” Can and brought it back to 2009, with a touch of femininity. A girlie look for the new generation. Perhaps to match the cosmosexuals who would love a Pepsi at their favourite nail-bar.

As if the damage was not enough, they played with the shape of the bottle too. The new Pepsi bottle now features an uncanny phallic-resemblance, complete with foreskin. For better grip, someone commented...

Pepsi did exactly what Coca-cola did. Dropped the 3D effects and gradients from their logo and cleaned it up. Opted for simple typography, no depth or drop shadows anymore. Chose a flat blue colour background that you and I could colour with a marker pen. And consolidated on the visual identity: just look at the bottles below.

Well, that’s the new generation, growing under the shadows of the old.

The evolution of the Cans, the phallic-bottles and the new aluminum range from Coca-cola and a century of Pepsi:

Being a Single-dad in Colombo

An alarmingly high percentage of my friends are divorced and the rate seems to be going up. Having been a single-father raising two kids in Colombo, I have learnt a bit about life-at-large for a single-dad the hard way.

Here are some 15 Useful Points to Ponder before you decide to untie the knot if you plan to live in Colombo after divorce:

1. Get divorced, don’t take the kids. Your kids will think you are an arse, and the estranged ex will think you are worse. Trust me its better to let go of the kids and watch your heart fall to pieces than to fight a system that doesn’t support single-fathers.

2. Rent an apartment, not a house. Never tell the landlord you are divorced when renting. Ideally, take along one of your best female friends and let them assume that you are a happy family. Better yet, take your mother along.

3. Image is important: You are not divorced; its just that your wife is overseas. When you take off to Kandalama or Hikkaduwa for the Sinhala Hindu New Year, tell everyone you are going overseas for a quick trip. That way, the elusive wife doesn’t have to show up for another good year.

4. Never attend the kids’ PTA meetings alone. Its torture, torment and bad memories from our school days, all put together in a two-hour slot that feels like eternity. Again, take your best female friend – she will enjoy the rumours later, and you will enjoy the attention.

5. You can’t keep a maid if there are no women living in the household. If there are women living in the household, you don’t need a maid. That’s Catch 22 personified for you.

6. Start an affair. The society will think that you are less-likely to rape their wives and sisters and you will be classified “Safe to be With.” If not, you’ll have to pretend that you are gay. The choice is yours.

7. You don’t attract women if you walk around with two gorgeous kids. There are no proper parks in Colombo where pretty females go jogging – that only happens in Hollywood, in the movies.

8. Have dinner early, ideally pickup something on your way home. Late dinner means driving all the way to Pilawoos; and pumping gas for 500 rupees when the meal costs much less. Better yet, pick up some food and a six-pack of Beer so that you could have beer and forget the food – and still be within budget.

9. Learn to cook, it will certainly help. You could start with the “bites” that go with the beer. See 8 above.

10. There are no “Single’s Soups” or any “Single-Serve” heat ‘n eat stuff on Keells shelves. Except for some cheap, tasteless alternative.

11. Maintain a healthy lifestyle. Get someone to sleep-over and party like a rock-star after the kids go to sleep. Friday night is the best, because you don’t have to do the breakfast and snack boxes for the kids the next morning.

12. Greet the traffic cop at the gate when dropping the kids off to school. He might be the same guy stopping you on Havelock Road when you are driving back from Zanzibar at 2.00 in the morning, well marinated.

13. Be generous. Let the kids spend the weekend at your mother’s, sister’s or the friends.’ And, you could spend the weekend in someone else’s house.

14. Cops might knock on your door at 3.00 am on their regular rounds and wonder where the woman of the house is, when they see the kids. Improvise and have fun, they must be idiots to ask silly questions.

15. Il Gelato has a great range of Ice Cream. Kids will love it, and so will you. Incidentally, pretty women love ice cream too.

Last, but not least: If you are a married male with kids, contemplating divorce – don’t. There must be a way to fix things, unless you are married to a Gestapo.

Wild Elephant Reserve

After being absent for closer to 15 years, I returned to my Paradise Isle in 2005, feeling like an alien. Everything has changed, and I have changed the way I looked at everything too.

Things were different, things were difficult too. The red-tape, narrow-mindedness, hypocrisy, ignorance, sexism, racism, incompetent government sector, public transport system... irritated me. It was hard to come to terms with a nation that shuts down by 8.00 pm.

On my part, the worst thing was, I didn't have the desire to drink arrack anymore. I was a disgrace to the islanders, for I have lost the ability to cherish the beverage of the nation. And I felt horrible. I felt like Ranasinghe Premadasa dining at the Buckingham Palace – totally out of place – drinking vodka by the shot or gin n tonic while there were bottles and bottles of pure coconut arrack exchanging hands. Slowly, but surely, I acquired the taste for the golden syrup again. And guess what, here I am, about to reveal one of the best arrack drinks, ever.

I say, Vodka+RedBull, go fly a kite. For, we, the islanders of Taprobane, have something that can kick your nether-regions for good.

Say hello to Old Reserve n Wild Elephant.

Credit goes to Mash and Chintana for trying it out and figuring out the perfect, tongue ticking, lip-licking, sweet-mother-of-all, silky smooth combination, when we were in dire straits having run out of chasers towards the end of my birthday bash.

This is a yummy concoction, drinkable by the gallon, and has no known side effects. Since there is a clear difference between side-effects and after-effects, we assure you that there are absolutely no side-effects, at least not discovered as yet. After-effects, of course, are not guaranteed; as it would vary from the consuming gentleman to gentleman.

This drink is beautiful in colour too. Ideal summer drink, perfect to be consumed by the seaside watching the sunset, as one could possibly see the setting sun and the rising sun both in the same glass. If poets could draw, and artists can sing, this is the drink to make it happen.

Cheers!

The Good-Spirited Game

The 128th Battle of the Blues is just few hours away.

There is no big match without alcohol, and thought of noting down some “alcohol facts” for the benefit of my fellow good-spirited sportsmen.

1. Alcohol isn’t Mama. As a well known doctor expresses it, maternal milk is man’s first anesthetic. In his infancy, the drinks were on her and they were wonderful – warm, satisfying and soothing – turning his wails into coos and making him feel comfortably sleepy. But comes a time when diet broadens out in the direction of solids such as beef steak and baked potato, and milord is supposed to be on solid ground permanently except for soups and something to drink now and then. Even so, the subconscious mind carries the memories of the simple life chez Mama which appeal nostalgically when cares and complexities get a man down in the middle. He yearns for consoling warmth that will soften up his troubles and make him feel good. Alcohol will do this comforting job, but it can't solve life for him “like Mama did.” It will take the cares off his back for an hour or an evening, but it can’t carry them by the day, week or month. Certainly it will never lick them for him. And if he is so infantile, so unweaned as to imagine it will, he is a psychic sissy.

2. Alcohol isn’t business success. It can be helpful in the form of diplomatic refreshments which build up aquaintance and thaw commercial ice. But that’s all, brother.

3. Alcohol isn’t a substitute for human society. The ingrown guy who drinks solitarily because “the bottle understands him better than people do” isn’t helping his troubles any. He is only thickening his shell. Doing so, poor hermit, with something convivial which, if normally used instead of misapplied for self-pity purposes, might have eased his shyness and gained him some friends.

4. Alcohol isn’t a solver of emotional problems. If your gal has turned you down for the other fellow, or your marriage has hit the rocks, don’t expect liquor to compensate. The label on the bottle makes no such promise.

5. Alcohol isn’t a cure for boredom.

6. Alcohol isn’t a stimulant. On the contrary, it’s a sedative, a relaxer. Upper story gets the biggest and quickest share, thereby shushing the Department of Don'ts and Restraints. Overdoses can unleash a whole pack of sleeping dogs, ranging from frisky to the ornery – which is a common sight at the match. Moderate doses can set the conversational ball rolling and coax introverts to come out from behind their false whiskers.

7. Alcohol isn’t a diet. It is a food, however, of a very special kind, an ounce of 100-proof whiskey contributing to about 100 calories, which the body uses as fuel. In an emergency, this prompt acting boost of energy is invaluable. But, alcohol can’t repair body tissues; only protein does that.

8. Alcohol isn’t a career. Not even a part-time job. It’s recreation. Tension relief; tested and trusted by many Royalists and Thomians alike.

9. And the last point: Alcohol doesn't mix with gasoline. We are not sissies, and we too have driven apparently better after having a few than before. Yes, you are more relaxed, perhaps in a better mood to make those positive decisions and direct movements that sometimes avoid an accident. But some State Authorities are physiological rather than psychological in their attitude. They say if you have had a couple of drinks, you'd better not drive. And they add – at sixty miles an hour your car is doing eighty-eight feet per second. This is the wrong time – facing a crisis – to be a split second – or forty four feet or so – slow on the brake.

In other words, when you drink, don't drive, and vice versa.

As for the rest, you know quite well how stupid and annoying and downright troublesome even dangerous a drunk may seem to you when you're thoroughly sober. So when you’re in your cups, try to tuck away in your mind somewhere that you are that undelectable drunken bum, and not the charming, daring, seductive, brilliant, lovable, heroic creature you seem to yourself.

A good rule, perhaps. Be merciful with other drunks. Don’t hit them, you may hurt them and be sorry. Don’t humor them, they may stay with you and you’ll be sorry.

Better advice. Avoid them.

Best advice. Don’t be one.

Said Cicero: “Let us drink for the replenishment of our strength, not for our sorrow.”

Long live the spirit of Royal-Thomian.

Amen.

Source and Inspiration: The Esquire Drink Book

Of tea, hotels and restaurants

Ah, lovely Sri Lanka.

We are officially, The Democratic, Socialist, Republic of Sri Lanka. If we are democratic, how could we be Socialist? or a Republic? That's how confused we are.

Then of course, the fitting associate to the name: the national flag. The “lion flag” is designed with many a meaning, every single design component has a reason for living. Even the colours are chosen carefully, representing the various ethnic groups and stuff.

The best part is, the lion (stands for the Sinhalese) is defending its position against the two minorities (represented by green and yellow stripes). Why aren't the two minorities backing the lion, defending the country, in one united force? Is it just a 'careless mistake' in designing the flag that took so much effort and thinking - or is it just the way it was meant to be...?

I wonder.

Then, there are these "hotels" by the roadside that are actually "restaurants." If there's no lodging, why call them hotels? Go to any of these "hotels" and ask for a 'tea' and you'll get a sweet concoction that is 50% sugar, 10% cream, 10% tea and 30% hot water. (or something like that). If you want to have a good ol' cuppa, remember to ask for "plain" tea, and also don't forget to mention how sweet it should be.

The usual standard is three sugars (yes three!), and you'll start humming like a bee once you have one.