Sumsuman Corda

(co-written with Karen Gatdula)

A unique wine tasting event was celebrated by the L’Ordre Mondial Des Gourmet Degustateurs last 19 April 2012 at the Café Ysabel Restaurant in San Juan, Metro Manila.  Dubbed as “Sumsuman” - a Pampangeño reference to the pairing of wine and food - the carefully selected wines for the occasion were matched with a variety of Filipino dishes crafted by the talented team of Chef Gene Gonzalez.

The members and guests of the Chaine and Ordre Mondial were charmingly enveloped in the turn-of-the-century Manila backdrop of the dining hall. Illumination came from Echanson Arnie del Rosario and Professional du vin Jay Labrador, as they led the wine tasting through the (no less than) nineteen dishes served that evening.

The dinner started with Galantina con Venagueta de Trufas, a refreshing take on the Chicken Galantina as it featured chorizo for added depth of flavor without encroaching on the delicate nature of the white meat. This was immediately followed by Sinigang na Ulang, Sulipan Style, a soup soured by lemongrass and kamias that highlighted the enormous Ulang (or freshwater prawn) the size of one’s hand and with antennae extending far beyond the plate holding it. Both dishes were introduced by glasses of the familiarly crisp and citrusy Cava from the cellars of Pere Ventura.

Next came an onslaught of heated and spicy flavors of the creamy Laing. Loose taro leaves cooked in coconut cream accompanied by Putong Calasiao and a surprisingly delicately-flavored Pancit Luglug. The latter a rice noodle dish of the Tagalog region dressed in a shrimp and kasubha sauce with crunchy chicharon and tuyo flakes. Also present was the Kare-Kareng Apalit or the Apalit-style oxtail stew oozing in rich peanut sauce served with a side of the sweet-saltiness of sautéed shrimp paste which cut through the dish’s silky texture. These dishes were matched by the equally clean and fruity taste of the Villa Wolf Gewurtztraminer2009 Pfalz, the wine’s delicate aroma of spice and fresh roses (with just a hint of lychee and fresh acidity) make it a perfect accompaniment to Filipino dishes.

There was a graduation to the more complex flavors of the Bicol Express, a fiery dish from sliced finger chilies and minced pork tempered by coconut cream and made aromatic from its wrapping of banana leaves. This was closely followed by Buro sa Mustasa, a DIY entrée where fermented shrimp is wrapped and rolled in fresh mustard leaves. Then a tweak on the Adobong Pusit (Squid Ink Adobo), served as soup with rice vermicelli noodles. Then the Pinakbet, vegetable stew of okra, squash, bitter  gourd, eggplant, and  stringbeans. A glass or two of a textured white wine such as the WitherHills Pinot Gris 2011 from the vineyards of Marlborough, New Zealand was just the ticket, as its noticeable heady floral aroma offset the saltiness of the dishes, its ripe peach and pear flavors giving a lingering finish to the mouth. In essence, a slightly more aggressive persona of the Gewurtztraminer to equal the adventurous flavors of the three plates just served.

After an intermission of a refreshing sorbet from unfermented coconut sap, a celebratory Filipino dinner will not be complete without adobo and lechon.  Chef Gonzalez graced the table with a chicken and pork Adobo del Diablo, a version that is twice-cooked (stewed and baked). With equal billing and honor on the table was the Lechon Balamban (or roasted pork belly), with skin that stayed smooth, glistening and crunchy.  These heart friendly dishes were paired with the equally accessible Laurus Cote De Rhone Village 2010, a medium-bodied cousin of Syrah, subtle and sensual, yet worldly wise enough not to upstage the adobo and lechon.  The wine’s complexity and depth makes it a perfect “sauce” in a glass to the dry meat dishes.

As if that was not enough, another train of meat dishes came, led by the garlicky crunch of Longganisang Lucban (small sausages Lucban, Quezon style), followed by the tenderly sauced Angus Bistek Tagalog, and trailed by the true velvet of Kalderetang Kambing (or goat meat stew) slow-cooked in tomato sauce with root vegetables and olives.  These soul-food dishes were engaged by the old-school tempranillo variety in glasses of Resalte Ribera de Duero Crianza 2005.  Its toasty oak and vanilla tones, berry notes, and long lingering finish made it a real treat for the variety of flavors of the different meat dishes.

Sighs of appreciation all around the room came when guests were served with a dessert buffet on a plate, presented as a salute to the Filipino dining custom of “patikim” (taste-testing).  The Turon Baduya (fried banana wrapped in rice paper and sweetened with jackfruit), Ube Haleya (taro root pudding), Brazo de Mercedez (meringue roll with egg custard center), and Tableya (chocolate tablet) ice cream were highlighted by the creamy and full-bodied sherry Nectar Pedro Ximenez Gonzalez Byass.  The elixir gave off chocolate shop aromas and tastes of caramel, nuts and prunes coating the mouth with intense sweet flavors.

As the guests went off happily home into the soft, warm Manila air, everyone’s smile confirmed the erasure of any doubt that Filipino dishes – be it paired with beer, whisky, or wine – are the stuff that any gourmet’s dreams should be made of.

A Tagaytay soujourn

(co-written with Karen Gatdula)

The Confrerie marked the start of the holiday season last November 12, 2011 with another gastronomic adventure, this time in Tagaytay, just two hours out of Manila.  Not only was this event dished for personal serving but was also an opportunity to share the blessings of its members with the community by launching its 4^th Supplemental Feeding Program.

The Chaine and confreres Jonny and Milette Carlos sponsored the program, providing the adopted Barangay of Iruhin Central with a daily glass of milk and a hot meal for the next six months.  It is hoped that by training the resident mothers, they will finish the program equipped with the skills necessary to provide and sustain the dietary needs of their families.  The launch was attended with much enthusiasm from the barangay residents and their children, several members of the Confrerie led by Bailli de Manille Federico Borromeo, and barangay and local officials.

The Confrerie then proceeded to a well-deserved lunch at Kalamunda Restaurant, found through winding interior roads at the border of Silang and Tagaytay.  The restaurant is actually the residence of Carlos and Sylvia Miguel who opened up their home for private lunches and dinners by appointment.

Passing through the gates of Kalamunda, one is greeted by an airy terraced home, extensive greenery peppered by sheep and goats at a distance, and a warm welcoming handshake from Carlos Miguel.  Even with boisterous laughter from children and adults alike, a peaceful spell is still cast upon the place.

The residence’s cook is the equally charming and engaging Sylvia Miguel, who took charge of preparing the sumptuous buffet starting with a sampling of her Duck and Chicken Liver Parfait accompanied by Melba Toasts. It was just perfect to whet everyone’s appetite for the lunch to come, which was composed of a Salad of Mixed Greens, Blue Cheese and Pear with mustard seed dressing, Chicken with Herb de Provence and Mushrooms, Mixed Seafood Pudding, Slow-Braised U.S. Beef Belly that was just melt-in-your-mouth goodness, Sylvia’s pride that is the Roasted Vegetable Paella (and rightly so), and the centerpiece of that occasion, the organic milk-and-corn-fed Lechon, for which Kalamunda is steadily being known for.  Capping the feast was a creamy and light Pavlova and the delectable Chocolate Natilla with almond praline.  It was indeed a perfect lunch for a perfectly sunny day. 

The meal did not end without the group’s thanks given to Carlos and Sylvia for the unforgettable spread, and to confrere Charlie and Chinit Rufino who organized it.

Shortly, thereafter, the Confrerie departed for Sisters of Mary Girlstown at Bario Biga Silang, Cavite.  This is managed by Fr. Al’s Children Foundation, Inc. (FACFI) which was established in November 26, 1992 after Msgr. Aloysius Schwartz, founder of the Sisters of Mary congregation, passed away. It is the foundation’s aim to assist in the charity programs of the Sisters of Mary’s Boystowns and Girlstowns.  These are actually schools wherein the congregation provides not only secondary education with technical/vocational training to underprivileged children from all over the country, but also food, clothing, shelter and  medical services for free.  Thus, the foundation is very much dependent on donations and sponsorships from generous patrons, of which the Confrerie was one of them. 

After the students regaled the Confrerie with performance pieces from their orchestra of bells, and were given a sampling of their culinary delights, the group once again traveled back towards Tagaytay for a more relaxed gathering at the Discovery Country Suites for the Confrerie’s “B.Y.O.B. Afternoon Cocktails”.

The menu was meticulously planned by Maitre Hotelier Bobby Horrigan and Maitre Rotisseur David Pardo de Ayala.  The small plates passed around were a wide assortment of canapés, crostini and empanaditas, and there was the delicate Creamy Smoked Salmon Maccheroni. However, it must be said that the Fresh-Shucked Oysters with Ginger-Shallot Granita and Oysters Fricassee with Caviar Cream was simply unforgettable.

Indeed, beneath the calming twilight sky and a view of the Taal Volcano through the shrubs of the Discovery’s gardens, the camaraderie among the Confreres continued well into the night.  It was an eventful and truly accomplished day.

Of men and friends

(published in the June 2011 issue of Billionaire Magazine)

There was this scene in the movie The English Patient that I guess sums it best - Ralph Fiennes' character Almasy recounting a previous expedition: "I once traveled with a guide who was taking me to Faya. He didn't speak for nine hours. At the end of it he pointed at the horizon and said, 'Faya!' That was a good day."

That for me is male friendship. Call me a dinosaur but for the life of me I cannot get the need of men today to spill their guts out to everyone. Men are supposed to be silent (particularly about themselves), have no emotions (or at least keep it buried), and rather have their actions do the talking. As John Wayne would put it: talk low, talk slow, and don't say too much. The Duke was actually giving advice on acting. He might as well be talking of male friendships.

That's as un-PC as you can get but screw that. Time was when conversation between men would have been a grunt and a squint. Men don't spend time together to get empathy or share feelings or exchange greeting cards. They get together to get things done, whether it be building a rocket ship or getting wasted. And if it's usually the latter, so be it.

"You're not too smart are you? I like that in a man."

Of course we men are stupid. That's genetic. We don't remember anniversaries, are bad at taking hints, terrible at giving gifts (take the Three Wise Men for example - do they give baby Jesus a cuddly bear or cute squeeky toy? No! Like any guy they were most likely at a gasoline stop convenience store buying beers when somebody suddenly remembers: "dude, we have to give baby Jesus a gift!" "We do?" "Like, totally!" "Word. Just pick up that ... uh, gold, frankincense, and myrrh? Whatever. Don't forget the beer."). And - despite countless rantings of women for men to force themselves to acquire this ability - are simply unable to muster the necessary brainpower to be psychic and predict what they want without them having to tell us. But coupled with that stupidity is a real man's sense of certainty, that certitude, of right and wrong, of who we are, what we do, and what we're supposed to do (whether what we're thinking or doing is smart is another thing altogether). These days that manly sureness is gone, replaced by a roomful of doubts due to some angst about missing parents or a bicycle that was stolen in childhood, or a high school sweetheart lost due to a letter never sent, or some other piece of crap.

"Come with me if you want to live." That line, popularized by Arnold Schwarzeneger in the Terminator movies, was actually first uttered by a human, Michael Biehn's character in the first Terminator movie. The line became one of the more famous pieces of movie dialogue for it's simplicity. And certitude. No doubts, no angst. Just a simple declaration. I miss those days when a character could say such lines with a straight face. Now, even James Bond (albeit played greatly by Daniel Craig) has issues, as seen in Casino Royale and Quantum of Solace (the latter for which he was seen seeking closure, sheeeesh!).

Who needs a man with issues? Nobody does. The last thing I need is a plumber who breaks down all of a sudden because the pipes he's trying to repair reminds him of ... I don't know, inadequacies? Men don't have issues, we just get drunk. Or start hitting things. Preferably soft walls or much weaker men. Rick didn't spill his guts out to Sam, he just sat there sullenly drinking his whiskey. And when he did lose it, for a moment, to whine about how "of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world" Ilsa had to walk in on his, he stops himself and asks Sam to play a tune while he stares blankly out to nothingness.

Come to think of it, Rick was actually quite chatty. I prefer McQueen's Bullitt, a movie with no speeches for the lead character, no opening up, no apologies. He just drove his 1968 390 CID V8 Ford Mustang very fast and shot bad guys using his cool quick-draw shoulder holster. Also Lee Marvin in Dirty Dozen, silently and very relaxedly blowing up Nazi's. If he got any more relaxed he'd be asleep. Or remember Samuel L. Jackson's character in Snakes on a Plane. Yes, I know. It's stupid. But I did say men are stupid right, so who cares? And when Samuel L. Jackson's character stood up, sure of himself and his anger that the snakes must die, not for a moment does anybody think about the absurdity he is about to mouth: "I'm tired of all these m....f.... snakes in this m....f.... plane!" He shoots the plane window, the snakes get all sucked out into space, and all is again right with world.

Men don't go whining about their feelings. Well, at least not in public. Feelings are to be shared, privately, with wives. And even then, it's a constitutional right of men that women don't divulge such confidences to other women. At least, not within their hearing range.

"Nobody cries in baseball!"

So what's the point for men to have friends if they don't share feelings or confidences anyway? Frankly, I don't know. Although it's certainly more fun to do stuff if there are other people around. The problem is, "other people" would normally, can't be, women. A guy just wants to be left alone, in peace, while watching a boxer ripped apart in the ring. He doesn't want to hear the cluck clucking behind him about how sad it is for the widow and the kids the boxer will leave behind. A guy just wants to drink, munch on pork rinds, and shout: "hiiiit him againnnnn!!!! Keeeeel heeeeeeem!!!!" (preferably with a deep voice and not a screech).

I must say that having an audience while one does things would be good. And having somebody watch your back while you do things wouldn't hurt as well (hence the importance of wingmen). That's why in the olden days, men don't bring women to dinosaur hunts. They detract from the concentration and just suck the fun out of the hunt. With fellow cavemen, you won't have to bother on whether the other caveman is feeling thirsty or uncomfortable or if walking exposed to sunlight could damage the skin. There's nobody around bitching about the other cavewomen while watching for your reactions. And at least other cavemen won't go sullen when through your fault everybody becomes lost because of your refusal to ask directions.

That's why the famous friendships are always between men. Because they're so much more fun. Simple, stupid, yes, but without drama. Do you know of any famous female friendships? Aside from Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas (uh ... ahem!), nobody else comes to mind. Fine, Laverne and Shirley. And those women from Absolutely Fabulous. But that's it. Ok, fine, the Golden Girls. Thelma and Louise. Fried Green Tomatos. And those women who made that quilt. And the Joy Luck Club. And Little Women. But that's it ok? Anyway! Ok! Ok! There's also Charlie's Angels. Oh and there's (gnashing of teeth) those Sex and the City girls (we'll get back to them later).

On the other hand, famous male friendships are numerous: from Bert and Ernie to the Odd Couple. In between there's Wyatt Earp and Doc Holliday, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony, Don Quixote and that fat guy, Watson and Crick, Masters and Johnson, Smith and Wesson, Clinton and Gore. Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs. The (very brief but undeniably great) partnership of Fr. Merrin and Fr. Karras. Han Solo and Chewbacca. Plus those guys from the Streets of San Francisco. Lethal Weapon (1-4). The guys from The 40 Year Old Virgin and Wayne's World. Chet Huntley and David Brinkley. The Three Stooges. Laurel and Hardy. The Beatles. Michael and Scottie. Jaworski and Arnaiz. McGarret and Dano. Sam and Dean Winchester. And, of course, there's Ocean's Eleven.

Which brings us to the Rat Pack. Not that travesty the Brat Pack. The real thing. That epitome of macho cool and effortless swagger. Of Frank, Dino, Sam, Peter, and Joey. In short, of guys doing all those stupid things and getting away with it. From the original Ocean's Eleven, to those Vegas shows, to Robin and the Seven Hoods, the Rat Pack just sang, drank, flirted, gambled, smoked as if the Surgeon General was in their pay. (He probably was. The Rat Pack could justifiably be considered as one long commercial for Jack Daniel's and Camel cigarretes.) And their jokes weren't even that funny. Example - Frank (to Dean): Why do you drink so much? Dean: I drink to forget. Frank: What do you want to forget? Dean: I don't know, I forgot a long time ago. Classic. George Clooney and Brad Pitt? Pleeeeaaase!

And the jokes kept coming. Despite Frank getting suicidal over Ava, Dean wanting to sleep early to play golf the next day, Sammy getting booed due to his inter-racial marriage with May Britt, Peter being Peter, and Joey frustratedly reminding people that he is an actual member, the Rat Pack just kept "the gasoline" flowing, trying to keep "the rain" away. Which reminds me of a time I was drinking with a friend. His girlfriend left him recently. We hear the news and say: "That sucks. Sige, next round on us."

That's it. No two hour sharing of feelings. No sharing by which we could "somehow, er, cathartically dispel all that heinous shit." By the way, that's a line from the movie Heat (another great guy buddy movie. And if you can't tell which is the central friendship in that movie, you're a woman).

Which brings me to the unpleasant topic of "bromances". I mean, what the hell is that? Wiki defines it as "a close but non-sexual relationship between two (or more) men, a form of homosocial intimacy." See? It contains the word "homo"! Ok, homo is not a word but you get the point. Homer Simpson would. There is no such thing as a bromance. It's either the relationship is gay or not gay. If you start sharing feelings or listen to Kenny G. with another guy (or, as Paul Rudd said, listen to Coldplay), you're gay. I don't care what Oprah says, men don't show feelings in public, don't exchange intimacies or emotional issues with other guys, or - what the heck - don't use facial cleansers (specially in public washrooms). Actually, if you care about what Oprah says, you're gay. Period.

Not that there's anything wrong with that (as Seinfeld would say).

Anyway. Where was I?

"Lost without my Boswell."

As usual, the shrinks have the last say. Rannveig Traustadottir, professor of social science at the University of Iceland, writes:

"Although the majority of men may not have close friends they do not conduct their lives in isolation. Block (1980) found that most of the men in his study had a variety of same-sex relationships. These include what Block calls 'activity friends,' such as a weekly tennis partner or drinking buddies; 'convenience friends' where the relationship is based on the exchange of favors; and 'mentor friends' typically between a younger and an older man.

While women's friendships are usually defined as self-revealing, accepting, and intimate, men usually shy away from intimacy and closeness. Authors identify at least three barriers to close friendships among men: competition between men, traditional masculine stereotypes about 'real men,' and fear of homosexuality (Fasteau, 1991; McGill, 1985; Miller, 1983).

In a discussion of gender differences in friendship, Sherrod (1989), points out that although men rate their friendship as less intimate than do women, at least in terms of self-disclosure and emotional expressiveness, men's friendships nevertheless serve to buffer stress and reduce depression in the same way that women's friendships do. Sherrod also reports that when men do achieve a high level of intimacy with other men, they usually follow a different path than women, one that emphasizes activities and companionship over self-disclosure and emotional expressiveness."

All the foregoing probably explains why men hate Sex and the City. Feminists brush it off by merely citing sexism. Sexism has nothing to do with it. What rubs off men the wrong way with it is this: although men like doing stupid things together, at least they're doing things. And we happily admit what we did was stupid. Sex and City women don't do anything except whine, bitch, and prattle about themselves. And, what's worse, is that they're proud of it. I don't know of any guy who hates Police Woman (Angie Dickenson version), Princess Lea, or Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Because these women do something! Police Woman catches bad guys (after swinging her lush hair and shouting "freeze!"), Princess Lea battles the evil empire, while Buffy slays vampires. Sex and the City women? As Robert De Niro's Al Capone in The Untouchables (another great buddy movie, the mentor-mentee relationship between Connery and Costner is really one of the all time greats) would say: "They ain't got nothing!"

Which leads us to that quintessential example of male friendship: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson.

Anybody who connotes anything homosexual between the two misses the point. Beyond the fact that Conan Doyle's 1880's England sees nothing wrong with two single men sharing a flat, the bond and trust built between the two is grounded on the fact that both are familiar with, have dealt and must necessarily face violence. This may be hard to understand for today's metrosexual guy whose only exposure to combat is when he hits the gym or pounds the treadmill (or, even more childish: paintball or ultimate fighting). Holmes and Watson (as envisioned by Conan Doyle) have been tested repeatedly in real life crisis (like their creator) and developed a certainty (that word again) regarding their masculinity. They, like all real men of the past, can afford to have, be comfortable with, deep friendships because they already know who they are, without self-doubts clouding their judgment or their relationships.

Holmes and Watson, furthermore, complemented each other. Not to emotionally grow or "be all that they can be" nonsense. Holmes stayed the same curmudgeonly, arrogant, drug addicted, calculating machine from the moment we see him to the moment he retired to his Sussex bee farm. No. The friendship was valuable for how they were able to get things done. In their case, solving crime. They didn't compete against each other, they fought alongside each other. One trusting the other's abilities, courage, and reliability. Holmes was the intellect, the detached observer, and instigator. Watson the steady nerves, the expert marksman, the approachable ladies' man, as well as faithful chronicler. The important thing was to get the job done. Holmes and Watson may be fictional but all the great men friendships, fictional or real, are the same on this simple fact: The friend for a man is the one who could help him get to Faya as agreed.

They say that society imposes certain rules and demands. Obviously, the impositions on men and women are different. Male friendships, while certainly different from the friendships formed by women are still friendships and none the lesser. For all their simplicity and apparent absurdities, bottomline is that men would be lost without their Boswells. And we can all drink to that.

The conductor rumples his barong

(published in Billionaire, December 2010)

Allegro

“I brought along my barong, is it ok?”, he asks. Jojo lugs bags full of photography equipment. I have a notebook and pen. We all exchange hands and smiles. He is taller than us. The only non-Filipino. He seems quite at home.

Olivier Ochanine, Philippine Philharmonic Orchestra’s music director and principal conductor. He excuses himself to retreat to his office. We agree to meet in a few minutes in the hallway of the CCP.

Jojo begins to scout the area. He looks for lighting and background. He settles on the driveway of the CCP, fronting the fountain. The sun is bright. The guards look unsure of what we’re up to. They obediently follow our instructions and remove a trashcan blocking Jojo’s shot.

“To be here now”. John Lennon was quoted as saying on what rock and roll means. To me, the same goes for classical music, eternal as to be always in the present.

Olivier arrives. We all look around awkwardly. I suggest we do the interview first. We sit in one of the benches.

A Frenchman who journeyed around Europe and practically grew up in the US. The traveling “has certainly helped me understand music better. Expanded my sensibilities.” Music is a story and every musician essentially deals with the telling of that story.

“As I grow older I’ll definitely be able to tell the story better. Take Tchaikovsky 5. I will keep noticing new things about it. 50 years later, I’ll still be looking how to do Tchaikovsky.”

“Must it be? It must be! It must be!”, wrote Beethoven on the score sheet of his String Quartet in F Major, Op. 135.

Adagio

Mercifully we move to the photo shoot. In fact, Jojo was shooting the whole time we’re talking. I notice Olivier never loses awareness of Jojo’s presence. He has done all this before.

In shirt and jeans, we go to the driveway. He gamefully poses along the steps of the CCP entrance. Smile. Click. We move inside the CCP. No sweat.

Jojo found a decorative doorway in front of the Tanghalang Nicanor Abelardo. Perfect for the shoot. Olivier asks if it would be better if he gets his barong. He goes gets it.

“It’s not too rumpled, is it?” We tell him it’s meant to be rumpled. That actually it looks better with the rumple. He looks puzzled. Shrugs. Jojo aims. Olivier doesn’t know what to do with his baton. I sat on the carpet watching them shoot. Click. Click.

Why not a shot outside with you in barong? Jojo asks. Ok, says Olivier. And he walks outside. A casual, natural way of walking, to a suggestion that seemed the most natural. For that moment.

"Ah, Mendelssohn!", Snoopy listening ecstatically to Schroeder.

The next day, at rehearsal, he greets me cordially. But clearly music is on his mind. He moves in front of the orchestra and smiles. All nonchalance. I expect him to tap his baton but he doesn’t. The violinists in front keep talking but he doesn’t mind.

“I played the flute and the bass.” That was his life previous to conducting. “I think it has made me more understanding of the orchestra. I fight for the orchestra as I was one of them before.” It certainly made the PPO musicians comfortable with him. Him they do not fear. He is them. They work with him. He grins to make them all quiet. They start.

The music for today are Filipino songs. It’s for Corazon Aquino’s death anniversary. Dulce Amor sings In My Heart. It was moving. The musicians know it. Olivier acknowledges it. A majestically slow Bayan Ko follows.

Somebody from the wind section mistimes. Olivier sings the notes to demonstrate the force necessary for that portion. No wisecracks. But many banter among themselves. Smile at the ready. They listen. They start again.

“One aspect of a country’s growth depends also on its cultural components – this includes the arts, which in your country are yearning to be shared by Filipinos with fellow Filipinos but also with the rest of the world. The amount of talent in this country is impressive.” Letter of Olivier Ochanine to Philippine President Noynoy Aquino.

Members of the PPO go in and out but the rehearsal goes on. He is imperturbable. The musicians absorb his tranquility. The Frenchman who wandered around Europe and studied in the States who now lives in Manila. He consciously or not “gets” the Filipino. And the music? They nail it.

“Olivier Ochanine: loves his job, the musicians he works with, and the city he lives in. Nice trilogy, no?” Facebook entry, 17 August 2010.

Scherzo

“Basically, I'm for anything that gets you through the night - be it prayer, tranquilizers or a bottle of Jack Daniels.” Frank Sinatra.

“Olivier Ochanine: having a nice San Miguel..... then off to bed.” Facebook entry, 24 August 2010.

“Technology has, in a way, made it more difficult to take a more unique approach.” Globalization certainly made it easier for more people to access more music. But, he notes ruefully, “one can also easily get lost in the shuffle.”

“I’ll always be learning.” To gain wisdom in music is vital. There is today a certain degree of an “artificial quality to conducting in general. The emphasis is on technique. But you take a musician like Vladmir Horowitz or Ashkenazy, they certainly experienced more in life and it showed in their music.”

Herbert von Karajan. Zubin Mehta. George Solti. Leonard Bernstein. Great names. Leopold Stokowski shook hands with Mickey Mouse in Fantasia.

“At the most fundamental level, a conductor must stress the musical pulse so that all the performers can follow the same metrical rhythm.” (Encyclopedia Britannica, on the “Conductor”)

Olivier Ochanine: “As a conductor, the orchestra is my instrument of choice.” But isn’t classical music too Western? Irrelevant for a poor developing country like the Philippines? “Perhaps.” But he brushes the idea off. “In the end, the importance of the music is not really the melody but how it changes your mood, what it does to you.”

He talks about bringing the music closer to the common folk, to children, to prisoners in jail. He talks of gigs in malls. But, he grins, “I’m a purist” and admits that malls aren’t the ideal places acoustically.

On May 29, 1913, the Rite of Spring, with its intense depiction of primitive fertility rites, premiered and promptly led outraged Parisiens to riot.

“I haven’t really observed anything in that regard”, on whether the Filipino’s Catholic upbringing affected how they play or appreciate music. In fact, the musicians seem quite open to whatever music needs to be played.

Admittedly, however, the audience could do with a little more introduction to other works of classical music. Their receptivity to, say Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik would be more enthusiastic than to “the Turangalîla Symphony by Messiaen.” But that’s part of the job, to introduce the old with the new, to promote music to Filipinos.

Three days before the concert he celebrates his birthday. A gazillion greetings on Facebook. Many from Filipinos. The taga-Prances is at home in Manille.

Olivier: “Music should be inspiring and at the same time inspired.” Albert Einstein: “It would be possible to describe everything scientifically, but it would make no sense; it would be without meaning, as if you described a Beethoven symphony as a variation of wave pressure."

Sonata

In 1687, conductor Jean-Baptiste Lully died after stabbing his foot during a concert with a large staff that was used at that time as the baton. The baton has now been changed to the light stick that you see nowadays, harmless, with as yet no eye being poked by it on record.

Details from the concert program - 8:00pm, 10 September 2010, CCP. La Musique Francaise (Sayaka Kokubo, viola. Olivier Ochanine, conductor).

Olivier takes to the stage. His stride is relaxed, quick. He shakes hands with the first violinist. He faces the audience, smiles. Happy to be here. That you’re here. “We're glad that you're here. The orchestra needs the audience, the energy that it gets from the audience." He is comfortable in his skin.

Olivier: “Where I am is where I am.” Also, “where I am is where my home is.” He is certainly at home on the stage. On the podium, facing the orchestra, the audience at his back. He looks like one immersed completely in the place. And yet detached, free.

The first piece is Berlioz’s Harold in Italy. Olivier good-naturedly told the audience to hold their applause until the end. They clap at every break.

After the intermission, they play Milhaud’s Le Boeuf Sur le Toit. However, it is with Honneger’s Pastorale d’Ete that the orchestra truly hits its stride, approaches sublimity.

“An orchestra is a psychological being, with different personalities. What makes an orchestra special are the inner voices, the colors that you feel but can’t really hear.” (Olivier Ochanine)

By the last piece, Maurice Ravel’s Bolero, the orchestra’s musicianship is as tight as the snare drum that drives the music. Finish. The audience wildly erupts in applause. Olivier returns to the podium, grins and jokingly threatens: “Ok, you asked for it.” Strauss’ Thunder and Lightning Polka. But it is the PPO’s profoundly intimate rendition of the Intermezzo from Cavaleria Rusticana (by Pietro Mascagni) that the audience is sent out to the warm, salty Manila night. Light steps, happy, strangers smile at each other. Life is good.

“In the end, the importance of the music is not really the melody but how it changes your mood, what it does to you.”

Encore

“Olivier Ochanine: hmmmmm, did I mention I love my job? oh yeah that's right. I did.” Facebook entry, 20 August 2010.

Fictional men and their fictional styles

(published in Billionaire, October 2010)

Was watching Die Hard the other day. Frankly, I was watching it for Alan Rickman. He was probably the guy who invented the techno-Euro-suave terrorist. With his trim beard, well-barbered hair, precisely cut clothes, and relaxed smooth way of talking, Rickman’s Hans Gruber simply stole Die Hard (although he did fail to steal the bearer bonds of Nakatomi Corporation).

How could one not appreciate a guy with semi-automatics and surrounded by hardened terrorists who whistles relaxedly in an elevator, pauses, then compliment his hostage by saying: “Nice suit. John Phillips, London. I have two myself. Rumor has it Arafat buys his there.”

And Gruber doesn’t stop there. Upon seeing the models of Nakatomi Corporation’s buildings, he lets out a groan of pleasure and ad libs from Plutarch: “"When Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept for there were no more worlds to conquer." Then, almost apologetically, he mutters smiling: “The benefits of a classical education.” That is style. Pity that John McClane threw him off the Nakatomi building.

The thing is, style is really that important for men. Or at least fictional men. And they’re probably even more important than fictional women’s style or fashion. Who remembers what Elizabeth Bennet wore, or of Catherine Earnshaw, or even Ms. Marple? As one lady friend of mine says, it’s a given that women will have their fashion or style. So except for Holly Golightly or Annie Hall (and we’re talking here of their cinematic versions), apparently it’s the men’s sense of style that seems to have the greater significance, particularly as to how the story progresses.

Thus, as Alexander Pushkin tells us, Onegin was a "dandy on the boulevards ... strolling at leisure until his Breguet, ever vigilant, reminds him it is midday." This automatically tells us loads of details about Pushkin’s lead character: that he was a man of leisure, vain, worldly, and yet kept a certain amount of discipline about him. Characteristics that would manifest itself in the dueling sequence of the verse novel.

Breguet would appear as well in Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo, this time worn by Baron Danglar, one of the enemies of the Count. Here, Danglar’s “watch, a masterpiece by Breguet which he had rewound with care ... chimed half past five in the morning." Again, certain facets of the character are revealed: his wealth, punctiliousness, and deliberation. All of which the Count had to take into consideration when carrying out his revenge against Danglars.

However, perhaps no other novel carried the weight of the character’s personal style to the plot and denouement than that of The Age of Innocence. Edith Wharton’s devastatingly sad tale of a man caught between two loves and two worlds is rife with details of Newland Archer’s appearance and the New York that he navigates. Thus, Archer would be careful to wear the correct leather shoes to the play, making sure that the flower in his buttonhole is neither to showy nor too shy as to be invisible, his cufflinks are worn within the precise amount of distance from his coat, his cigar cutter hanging rightly by its chain, along with the turnip watch. In the movie version, Archer would have a little bit of difficulty in writing with his pen, complaining that while such is very modern it’s still not as good as the old pens.

But it is in the way Archer selects the flowers for the two women in his life that makes the manifestation of the fictional man’s sense of taste and style highly relevant to the internal struggles going on within the characters’ minds and soul. To his fiancé May, he sends pure white lilies-of-the-valley. To his real love Ellen, he sends bright yellow roses. The contrast between the religious overtones that the lilies represent, along with its notes of innocence and virginity, to the blatant, intense, and overt sexuality of the roses couldn’t be more apparent. That he was buying the flowers from the same shop and at the same time is incredibly telling as well.

True, The Age of Innocence does make much symbolism of what the women wore or how they carry themselves. Thus, when May’s wedding dress was depicted as muddied and torn, it was supposed to depict the marital problems between her and Archer. But in the end, it is Archer’s style that grabs us because it says so much about him. May and Ellen and the rest of New York in The Age of Innocence are revealed through what they say or do, not really by what they wear or how they appear. In the case of Archer, a man who wears the most conservative of clothes that could not be faulted by his peers and yet retreats to his study to appreciate the smell of his newly delivered books, we get to know that he is a man bound by duty to his family and class, and yet looks longingly at the possibilities offered by going beyond them.

Obviously, no such conflict can be found with Hercule Poirot. Very elegantly tailored, well coiffed mustache, very shiny patent shoes, a large turnip pocket watch. He is the very embodiment of what Agatha Christie thought a Belgian detective would look like: loud, expressive, emotional. Nevertheless, Christie does give one telling detail: Poirot’s extreme cleanliness.

This is important because, no matter the obvious differences between Poirot and Sherlock Holmes, the similarity with regard to their clarity of thought is palpable. So, despite Arthur Conan Doyle giving Holmes a quite bohemian lifestyle, nevertheless, the need for the character to have a deep regard for personal neatness and cleanliness is quite indicative of how both authors believed external order to be a manifestation of their characters’ internal order.

Holmes appearance and style, of course, are so central his personality and perhaps is the single most important reason why the movies find him such an appealing character. Thus, we know that Holmes keeps his correspondence fixed by a knife stuck into the mantelpiece, that he keeps his tobacco in the toe-end of a Persian slipper, he plays the violin well into the night, he target practices inside his room by making out the letter V in honor of Queen Victoria, he takes cocaine for relaxation, is clean shaven, and he is very correct in his clothes. The last detail is important because it again reveals Holmes to be a man of method and precision. He is also not above crawling around in the dirt to pursue a lead. And that is also the reason why depictions of Holmes wearing the famous deerstalker are wrong. One simply does not wear the deerstalker anywhere but in the countryside.

Of course, Philip Marlowe has his own style to set him apart from his predecessors. While not a cocaine addict or sugar junkie (like Poirot), Marlowe prefers to smoke Camels. But then again, to indicate how different he is from other men, he is a pipe smoker at home, at a time when pipe smoking is for granddads. And it is a testament to his professionalism that he is seen wearing nothing extraordinary but his Luger, Colt, or Smith & Wesson. Interestingly enough, he plays chess, which, to even heighten the symbolism of the thing, he plays mostly against himself.

From the other side of the fence would be the correct and formal style of Michael Corleone. Whether it be in Mario Puzo’s book or Francis Ford Coppola’s telling, Michael Corleone is the same: correct, bland, almost invisible. This is a thing missed by most men who watch the Godfather movies. Contrary to what is usually though of Michael, he is not quick to show off his wealth, power, or how dangerous he is. What is constantly emphasized by the books and the movies is how much he wanted to blend in among the businessmen and community leaders he so much wanted to be and never will. Thus, the gold cufflinks, the tie-clasps, and the Italian suits were all supposed to convey a middle-aged businessman in the 1970’s. Al Pacino did wear shades, which unfortunately conveyed a more sinister look to Michael Corleone but even that was actually there to protect the gang leader’s eyes from the effects of diabetes. In the end, Michael Corleone’s appearance reveals to us what he really is: the former college kid who wanted to be a normal member of the community, the monster who wanted to deny his true self, the pathetic figure misunderstood for the wrong reasons.

Of course, for the sheer fun of combining blandness and lethality, one could not better Tom Ripley. Here, the style is simply not to have a style. Everything is hidden. From his ordinary, inoffensive face, to the correctness of his clothes, to his utterly impeccable manners, Ripley would be a great friend or neighbor to have were it not for the fact that he is a brutal but methodical serial killer. But it cannot be denied, the man has style: from his thin beautiful French wife Heloise, to his learning German, ability to cook French cuisine, appreciation of wines and art (even forgeries of Derwatt), gardening, painting with water colors, to playing the harpsichord. He loves his Patek Philippe (on a brown leather strap) and, perhaps as indication that every man has his snobbish side, couldn’t stand the vulgar tastes of David Pritchard (who’d eventually be found dead), with his round eyeglasses and wristwatch of “the stretchable gold-bracelet variety, expensive and flashy, with gold surround for the watch, gold-coloured face even” (which Ripley thought suitable for a “pimp”).

But then, when discussing fictional men and style, it all comes back to Bond. James Bond. We don’t really need to repeat much of what has been written about him. Entire articles have been written about his tastes, jewelry, food, wardrobe, cars, weapon, and women. Like Marlow, he drinks copious doses of alcohol. And contrary to what many people think, Bond, like Marlowe, has whiskey as the favored drink. Not vodka. Not vodka martini, shaken not stirred, which has actually the effect of watering down the martini. Not the Vesper, which he only drank in the book Casino Royale, and really doesn’t contain any vermouth whatsoever. In the books, he has probably drunk more whiskey’s, champagne’s, and sake’s than he has ever drunk martinis (whether it be vodka or gin).

But the thing with Bond and which most people miss is how “the job” takes up almost his entire existence. His wardrobe is easy to wear and carry, his luggage (battered Louis Vuitton’s) he prefers more for their durability than for their style (unlike The Jackal, in The Day of the Jackal), he has a battered gunmetal cigarette case, old set of golf clubs, and shoes that have seen a lot of wear and tear. The Rolex Oyster Perpetual is there as it can never be broken even in the most violent of fistfights. Indeed, “battered” is a word that keeps cropping in Ian Fleming’s depiction of Bond. The effect here is not the Bond of the movies, invulnerable and unflappable, but a man nearly past his youth on the cusp of middle age, who has just seen too much and yet knows no other existence but to create mayhem. Indeed, even the Vesper was not drunk out of enjoyment or for some gastronomic showing off. Bond drank the Vesper as he thought it would make him perform better in his card game against Le Chiffre. In fact, one of the reasons “Bond” was chosen as his name was to give the connotation of reliability, of one who could get the job done.

But precisely because Bond was misunderstood, particularly as to how glamour bafflingly crept into the movie versions, that the so-called “anti-Bond” was made. Everything about Harry Palmer was supposed to be about ordinary. He was ordinary. From the government issued thick black-framed glasses, to his trench coat, to his working class background and accent, Harry Palmer’s style was to be as ordinary as possible. He was so ordinary that Len Deighton didn’t even bother giving him a name and it had to come to the movie version for him to have a name and even then the makers of The Ipcress File (including Michael Caine) decided on the most ordinary name they could come up with.

In the end, it’s the man who makes the clothes not the other way around (as the cliché would rather make us believe). It’s what’s inside the man, even the fictional man (as envisaged by his author), that matters. The rest are just commentary.

In any event, as Hans Gruber would say: “I could talk about men's fashion and industrialization all day but I'm afraid work must intrude.”