When you feel like Japanese food

Despite there being at least 10 thousand kilometers between Paris and Japan, there is no shortage of Japanese restaurants in Paris. Let’s be clear however that a great majority of them are first, not really run by Japanese and second, serve an almost boring palette of food—the ubiquitous sushi (I would not guarantee their flavor or freshness) or brochettes (beef, chicken or fish) with rice. They are not really representative of the delicious range of flavors that true Japanese cuisine is capable of. There is one part of Paris that everyone agrees is the place to find a somewhat more authentic experience. For some reason the area around Opera and Pyramides is chock full of little Japanese places that go beyond the obligatory sushi and sashimi combination. Its the perfect place to wander around in if you have a Japanese craving to satisfy.

Aki, one place that I discovered thanks to a good friend, serves Okonomiyaki, a traditional dish that is usually served in the Osaka and Hiroshima regions. It looks somewhat like a pancake, if you can call one that is stuffed variously with pork, fish, dried shrimps, udon noodles and vegetables, all of which are covered in a thin covering of batter and fried accordingly. It is usually served with a sweetish kind of sauce. It is a particular kind of dish (and a bit peculiar looking) but the taste grows on you. It is especially good on these cold wintery days when the body requires something substantial to resist the cold. I have to admit that okonomiyaki is not the only reason to visit Aki. At lunch they serve a great formula of half a bowl of udon noodles, served steaming hot in its delicious broth and rice with katsu don or breaded pork. The noodles are delicious and you’ll find yourself drinking down the soup. A welcome respite from the heat of the soup is the bowl of rice with the katsu. It’s a hearty lunch guaranteed to fill you up at the very least until dinner. For others who prefer fish, this menu also comes with grilled salmon instead of pork. All in all it’s a delicious lunch that costs no more than 12 euros. Quite a bargain and its real Japanese food to boot!

Une jeunesse perdue?

Dans Une fille sans Qualités, Julie Zeh tente de traduire le désespoir de la jeunesse actuelle. Non le désespoir des jeunes de pays défavorisés comme les enfants soldats, mais plutôt l'absence de repères de la jeunesse actuelle. Génération sida, l'avenir semble (et le sera probablement, dixit la pessimiste que je suis) bien sombre: chômage, destruction de la planète, maladies (cf l'étude qui vient de sortir, sur l'augmentation rapide et préoccupante de la stérilité masculine). Dans ce contexte, à quoi croire? L'amour ? Un mariage sur trois finit en divorce, voire un sur deux en région parisienne. La religion? La mécréante que je suis n'est pas particulièrement convaincue, surtout en voyant l'augmentation du fanatisme...

Le personnage principal du roman , Ada, incarne parfaitement cet état d'esprit, et se décrit d'ailleurs comme une arrière petite-fille des nihilistes. Elle semble passer à travers sa vie, jusqu'un nouvel élève arrive au lycée. Lui ne croit en rien non plus, mais en revanche est fort intéressé par la théorie des jeux et du prisonnier (et dire que je croyais que mes cours de micro ne servaient à rien. Ma lecture a donc été utile, et c'est assez réconfortant de voir que finalement tout sert -cela dit, si cela avait était en plus utile sur le coup, cela m'aurait évité une note catastrophique au partiel!). Il décide alors de tester en réel la théorie avec l'aide d'Ada, en mettant au pied du mur des personnages extérieurs qui devront alors choisir entre la coopération et la dénonciation.

S'ensuit quelques centaines de page sur le déroulement de l'opération. C'est loin d'être inintéressant, mais en revanche c'est un peu longuet. L'auteur étant allemande, on a également un aperçu de l'atmosphère régnant en Allemagne et en Pologne à l'époque de la chute du mur de Berlin. Et c'est tout autant passionnant (voire plus en étant mauvaise langue) que l'histoire en elle-même.

Je n'ai pas très bien compris (et pourtant j'ai longuement réfléchi à la question, mais on ne se refait pas, on est simplette ou on ne l'est pas) si les événements avaient réellement eu lieu. L'histoire est censée être racontée par l'avocate ayant défendu l'affaire, et l'auteur est avocate. En revanche, le livre est décrit comme un roman, et rien n'indique que l'auteur est réllement ét impliquée dans le procès. Imagination ou réalité, de toute façon, l'histoire donne quelques inquiétudes pour notre avenir (ou cela de nos enfants)...

On m'avait recommandé Les liaisons dangereuses, et vu le casting (John Malkovich seul serait déjà suffisant), je ne pouvais pas être déçue. Et quand Warner fête son anniversaire je raque (c'est le principe des anniversaires, non?). En revanche généralement on passe un bon moment, et cela n'a pas failli.

Pour les gens cultivés, le parallèle avec le livre de Laclos doit naturellement se faire. N'appartenant pas à ce monde-là, mon lien se fera avec Sex Intentions (il faut être de ma génération pour connaître...). On fait avec ce qu'on a...

Les comparaisons ont tenu le coup dans un sens comme dans l'autre. Situés à deux époques différentes, les deux films apportent un éclairage différent (notamment en terme de glamour! Ne jamais négliger l'importance des tenues vestimentaires dans l'impact qu'ont les films, on oublie parfois leur aspect sociologique).

Dans cette version, on savoure la savoureuse prestation de John Malkovich (toujours impeccable quel que soit son rôle), Glenn Close lui rendant la pareille avec brio. On prend un coup de vieux avec une Uma Thurman adolescente, et on découvre que Michelle Pfeiffer n'a pas joué que dans Batman.

C'est joussif même si c'est probablement assez peu moral (heureusement la fin est très politiquement correct), mais après tout chacun sait que je suis une personne peu morale. Manifestement je ne suis pas la seule puisque le film se situant à quelques siècles de nous, on voit des situations identiques tous les jours. Doit-on se rassurer de voir que l'homme reste immuable à travers le temps, ou au contraire s'inquiéter?

a little bit of couuuuuuuuuuuuuuntry

L'un des plus belles choses de l'amitié, c'est le partage et la découverte: temps, activité, goût. Ma culture étant passablement inexistante, je suis toujours avide d'apprendre. Alors quand Y. m'a fait écouter Dolly Parton, j'étais intéressée, puisque je n'avais jamais entendu parler d'elle (est-elle d'ailleurs connu en France?). Les chansons que j'ai entendu ne l'a classifiaient pas pour moi comme chanteuse de country (dont pour moi l'unique référence existante était les Dixie Chicks; mais pour une fois mon inculture a une excuse: sérieusement qui écoute de la country en France?), mais une interview de Jessica Simpton dans le Vogue (américain, qui en France s'intéresse à Jessica Simpson faisant la promotion de son album country?) m'a fait comprendre que Dolly Parton était manifestement un monument culturel dans le domaine du country.

Alapage faisant le reste en proposant des promotions sur ses albums, le pigeon marketing que je suis n'a pas résisté, pour mon plus grand bonheur. Evidemment l'album, et les vidéos vues sur Youtube renforcent l'image des américaines du Sud: de vieilles peaux voulant faire jeunes, avec le stetson et les santiags.

Alors pour ça, et pour les chansons dont certaines valent vraiment le coup, Dolly Parton vaut qu'on l'écoute. Voici une vidéo qui vaut le détour pour la tenue de Dolly et pour sa chanson (sans ironie aucune!).

Saving a precious book from destruction

I first heard about the Sarajevo Haggadah when I went to Geraldine Brooks' reading. Instead of reading directly from her newest work titled People of the Book, Geraldine started by telling her rapt audience the story of the Haggadah's rescue from destruction. Now, as I didn't know much about Haggadah's in general, I was fascinated by the whole story. A Haggadah is an illustrated manuscript that contains the traditional text of the Passover to accompany the Passover sedar. The Sarajevo one is beautifully and sumptuously illustrated in gold and precious minerals. This is a remarkable fact given that at the time of its creation in the 14th century, Jewish theology of the times forbade graven images. It is one of the rarest examples of Jewish manuscripts and one of the most valuable in the world. The Sarajevo Haggadah has survived all these long years and was saved from destruction at least twice by Muslim protectors. In the first famous instance, Ms. Brooks recounted the story of Dervish Korkut, the Sarajevo national museum director who saved the Haggadah from German hands during the war by secreting the book under his coat when General Hans Joseph Fortner visited the museum. When the general demanded that the Haggadah be handed over to him, they told him that another general had already asked for it. Korkut then hid it till it was safe to bring out once more. When Sarajevo erupted into civil war during the 90s, the Haggadah was once more saved by its Muslim director when he braved mortar fire in order to save it from destruction.

From the bare yet known facts about the Sarajevo Haggadah, Geraldine Brooks has fashioned a richly imagined tale of its creation and travel till it comes to rest under the auspices of the Sarajevo National Museum. Ostensibly the story is told through Hanna Heath, a young Australian restorer of ancient manuscripts who is selected to restore the Sarajevo Haggadah. As Hanna works on the manuscript, she discovers several tiny artifacts embedded within ---a wing fragment, a strand of white hair, salt and wine. From here the narrative splits into two directions, with one strand unfolding the tale behind each ancient fragment while the other strand tells Hanna’s story.

While the story is told through Hanna, there is no doubt that the main protagonist of this book is the Sarajevo Haggadah. It is clear from the writing here that Brooks has done an enormous amount of research in order to imagine the tale of this important book. In vividly tracing the trajectory of the book from its creation in 14th Century Seville by a young African woman illustrator, to the time of the Jewish Expulsion, through its sojourn in Venice in the 17th century and 19th century Vienna and the harrowing years of WWII and the Saravejan war, Brooks has crafted a rich tapestry of stories that will beguile any reader. “Saltwater and White Hair” are especially moving. I had to pause after these chapters to recover my breath before I continued on.
Occasionally the device of using Hanna’s story as a jump of point for the more ancient tales is a bit jarring but the Haggadah narrative is so compelling that it more than makes up for it. And perhaps, because the stories behind the Haggadah are so compelling, it makes it difficult for Hanna’s story to be as compelling. Nevertheless she is a plucky and likeable character and it is through her that we get a real insight into the work that goes into restoring precious old manuscripts. “Of course, a book is more than the sum of its materials. It is an artifact of the human mind and hand. The gold beaters, the stone grinders, the scribes, the binders, those are the people I feel most comfortable with. Sometimes, in the quiet, these people speak to me. They let me see what their intentions were, and it helps me to do my work.” It is hard to resist such a heroine and you’ll come to root for her as I did. But much more than rooting for Hanna, you'll come to root for all the people who have heroically saved this precious relic.

Here's a page from the Sarajevo Haggadah..

The Centre de Georges Pompidou recently concluded its conference series with Alberto Manguel. There were four conferences in all, on various topics relatd to myth, storytelling and history. Because I am a huge fan of Alberto Manguel, I took advantage of the conference to listen to him speak and lecture. The session was on myth and it was with Marina Warner and Abdelfattah Kilito. I have to confess to being a little disappointed with the conference itself. The speakers were undoubtedly learned on their various topics but the conference itself seemed to lack a coherent direction. It seemed pretty much like three different speakers on three different topics, all vaguely related to myth. Still and all, it was worth the visit if only to listen to Manguel. And since I had Manguel in mind, I grabbed a slim volume of his, to read in between various tomes. And I chose the right one since this slim volume is all about Jorge Luis Borges, another favorite author of mine. If you haven't had the pleasure of reading Borges, I heartily recommend it. He has an almost quicksilver imagination and a most felicitious turn of phrase. Its not necessarily the lightest material to read but its well worth it.

Anyway, back to Manguel, when he was 16 years old, while working at Buenos Aires’ Pygmalion bookstore, Manguel was asked by Borges if he would like to be his reader. Borges had already gone blind by the time he asked, and in fact had gotten into the habit of asking any and everyone. And so for four years, Manguel would visit three or four times a week to read to him. His book, With Borges, distills those years.

While his sessions with Borges were reading sessions, it was enough for an astute observer like Manguel to capture Borges’ essence as a writer. For fans of Borges, myself included, this is an invaluable addition to his writings. There is no doubt that Borges was a prolific and more importantly, a beautiful writer but short of having access to academic works or his biography, it is rare to find a volume that discusses his philosophy of writing in such a succinct yet elegant manner. We can never underestimate Borges influence on writing or other writers and even on his country. As Manguel points out, “Borges renewed the Spanish language…that his generous reading methods, allowed him to bring into Spanish felicities from other tongues: English turns of phrase or the German ability to hold until the end of a sentence its subject.” But more than refreshing the Spanish language, Borges’ writings have fixed Argentina permanently into the collective consciousness. “When Borges began writing, Buenos Aires (so far from Europe, the perceived center of culture), felt vague and indistinct, and seemed to require a literary imagination to impose it upon reality. Now Buenos Aires feels more real because it exists in Borges’ pages.” That’s quite a feat if you think about it.

My favorite passage, is that which talks about books. “For Borges, the core of reality lay in books, reading books, writing books, talking about books. In a visceral way, he was conscious of continuing a dialogue begun thousands of years before and which he believed would never end. Books restored the past.” As someone who lives and breathes books on a daily basis, this is one credo to live by.

The Duchess

Fans of period pieces, Kiera Kneightly or Ralph Fiennes, or all three would be extremely happy with The Duchess. Based on the book written by Amanda Foreman, The Duchess tells the story of Georgiana Spenser (three guess who her famous descendant is), the Duchess of Devonshire. She is married off at the tender age of 16 to the significantly older Duke of Devonshire, one of the most powerful men in the England whose singular desire from their marriage is to have a male heir. Unfortunately she is unable to provide one. Desperately unhappy, she uses her increasing popularity to dabble in politics and is a leading light in fashion. Their marriage becomes even more strained and unhappy, when the Georgiana unwittingly installs the woman who would become the Duke’s mistress in their home. And if that weren’t complicated enough, she herself soon embarks on a torrid affair with Charles Grey, who later becomes Prime Minister (and some say, the Grey in Earl Grey Tea). Whew.

This is clearly a lavish production. It is one gorgeous scenery after another, from the opening scene we first see Georgiana as a carefree teenager to the imposing grounds of Devonshire where she comes to live during her marriage. The costumes are all lavish and the hairpieces even more so. It could so easily have been a movie where its production values overwhelm the movie itself. Happily in this case, the actors are all able to overcome such lavishness and turn in genuinely fine performances. Kiera is in fine form here (and I dare say, appears less bony and angled than in her other films) and her performance is spirited yet shows the desperate sadness that shadowed much of the Duchess life. Ralph Fiennes turns in an even more masterful performance as the chilly and boorish Duke. What is incredible about his performance is the smidgen of sympathy he elicits from the audience, when we normally shouldn’t feel an iota of it for a rather loathsome character. I don't know how he does it, but you see from the cracks in Fienne’s features and from his nuanced performance, a person who is the way he is because of the way he has been brought up. And he is unable to be otherwise. It is really heartbreaking to watch as two such dissimilar people wreak such havoc on the other. Watch out for that scene where the Duke marvels at how free the children are. Special mention should be made of Hayley Atwell, whose abundant charms at least provide a credible reason for the Duke’s inability to sacrifice her for the gorgeous creature that is Georgiana.
One thing that this movie tries to highlight is the absence of power on the part of women during these times. And how truly restricted they were by the duties imposed on them by society. Scoff now as we do at the idea of women having the duty to bear children, especially male ones if one had a title or two to safeguard, back in those days, it was very much the be all and end all for women. How sad then to think that special and spirited women like Georgiana had to resort to using their fashion based clout to bring about events. And isn’t it ironic that Georgiana’s almost uncanny ability to use publicity foreshadowed so fittingly the Lady Di’s own incredible mastery over both the press and public? While Georgiana may have been forced to accede to her more noble husband’s wishes, her descendant certainly outmaneuvered hers when the time came.