Saturday, January 22, 2005
Thick and Fast
... no this post isn't about sex. Sorry. You want high-crass, hang from banister athletic sex? Go read her.
Thick and fast is how the judgements fly on this utopian island city that I am becoming less inclined to call "home".
I'm being accused of being a rich, pretentious twat simply because I've made the heinous sins of mentioning my career, my forays into "fine" French dining in Singaland, and my passion for slicing people up with a sabre. It's almost enough to make a person want to stop writing, except re-minisce doesn't really care what his audience thinks about his life and just likes to ramble. (and anaesthetise them all gently into submission. Ha. You will leave credit card details after this post...)
Well, I don't know. It still warrants an answer of sorts, and though this will all read like a long, defensive response, it's not really. It's more of a dispassionate take on an issue that happens to involve myself, but that's not really fundamental to this discussion. Many of my posts are written that way, with me not really feeling particularly worked up about stuff and seeking to keep my tongue firmly in my cheek (and my head off the keyboard most days, thanks to my stupid on-call schedule) seeking to poke fun at the fabric of the sociological myths that keep us turning over as a nation. (fabric is wearing a bit thin though...)
Note the lack of angry mannerisms, obscenities, or even juvenile hand-drawn e-cards involving rude bits of male anatomy (re-minisce favours high-resolution cards featuring rude bits of female anatomy by the way.)
This time no hyperlinks will be posted, so the "author" of that particular post can rest assured that the sanctity of his sacred, funnyfull, interesting and enthralling-in-his-own-mind website shall remain inviolate. Meow.
First off, as everyone has been keen to tell me, different folks, different strokes.
I won't fall headlong into the stupidity-beartrap of claiming that I'm poor. My chosen career path ensures a stable income - I'm sure there's people out there who will resent even that, but... shrug. Stupid people exist the world over (look at the United States of WhositWhatsit, the whole country's being led by one...) and money wasn't the reason I chose to do this job anyhow. (somedays, sitting in silent reflection amongst my kin after being dealt that loaded question, the combined noise of gears turning furiously within our heads as we eloquently reply "because...
.......
..
."
is deafening. Then our wonderful reg saves the day by expounding about how, in our younger days, we must all have been more naive and idealistic.... in the old days. when a bowl of noodles cost five cents, and policemen wore shorts... and presumably, underwear...)
Plus there are sacrifices. Okay, perhaps not quite as many selfless sacrifices as a model makes entering the lethal minefields of Miss Universe/Galaxy/Cosmos, but there are sacrifices nonetheless, and post-call today my body is definitely reminding me that sleep deprivation is not the least of these.
But I'd certainly hesitate to call myself rich. On our salary? Are you kidding? We make the same as teachers (some would argue even less) and we don't even get to torture hapless children while we're at it. Unfortunately this tends to result in unpleasant complaint letters from totally unreasonable, irate parents.
"Rich" are the kids (read - house officers) who drive to work in their evo eights, or their ferrarris. Whose parents earn monthly salaries that dwarf those of lowly minions (ie Medical Officerse) like myself, and who have no doubt told their children not to be stupid and sign up to the medical cause, when there are plenty of other jobs out there that pay better, and give you a decent shot at some form of quality of life.
(incidentally, re-minisce has yet to hurl himself into lifelong debt purchasing a car, which is probably why he can afford his supposedly poncy habits and hobbies...)
So no, re-minisce is not rich. But re-minisce does splurge occasionally on food - it's not to get into a girl's pants (well. Not usually. Heh.) mind you, but simply for the experience. People simply won't begin to understand when I write that fine dining isn't about how much you pay for the wine, or the miniscule main course, but about the whole experience. About the flawless service, the smiling somellier who genuinely takes an interest in his client's wavering inclinations and helps him/her choose the perfect wine, about the immaculate food that tastes as amazing as it looks, about the way everything blends into a unique and memorable experience - simply because it is the exception rather than the norm. And sex does not have to be the coup de grace of the evening... sometimes just going with a friend and having a couple of warm, quiet laughs is the finishing piece to an already perfect evening. Sometimes it's even about making the effort to take an hours trainride and another half hour trip by cab - a pilgrimage of sorts - across a barren land to reach your "mecca" of sorts - and be pleasantly surprised to find that it's everything you imagined, and more. Which is high praise indeed from a cynic.
Too often I've heard it said here that fine dining is about exorbitant prices, miniscule servings, and being seen (ie poncy gits flashing money).
It's not supposed to be that way; the times T and I have wandered out to posh restaurants in the UK we've gone as complete unknowns, and had wonderful evenings trapped in our own little bubbles, talking about weird mishmashes of brit/singaporean issues that nearly nobody else in either country would be able to follow.
The thing is, somehow there is this stereotype in singapore - and les amis falls headlong into it (which was why I was disappointed) that fine french is about insipidly anaemic eating and ridiculous prices.
And when faced with a rather poor, unremarkable evening and a large bill to boot I do feel cheated. We (ie us diners, and them restauranteer types) haven't figured it out yet... it's a two-way relationship. We demand - but pay for - quality, they provide it. (Iggy's at regents hotel does a fair job by the way.)
Yes, I do feel strongly about it. But no, perhaps Singapore isn't the place to voice my opinions, lest I be labelled a pretentious git.
Speaking of which, anybody who labels fencers rich poofs is, quite frankly, a fool who has never even attempted the sport. Fencing is addictive, and after the initial investment in equipment, not as expensive as everyone thinks. Different strokes, different folks. Some people choose to spend obscene amounts buying devices to stop them falling off mountains, others choose to splurge on ultra-smooth wheelie thingies that attach to their feet.
Some of us choose to spend what little remains of our salary on learning how to decapitate someone. Shrug. It's all good.
Thick and fast is how the judgements fly on this utopian island city that I am becoming less inclined to call "home".
I'm being accused of being a rich, pretentious twat simply because I've made the heinous sins of mentioning my career, my forays into "fine" French dining in Singaland, and my passion for slicing people up with a sabre. It's almost enough to make a person want to stop writing, except re-minisce doesn't really care what his audience thinks about his life and just likes to ramble. (and anaesthetise them all gently into submission. Ha. You will leave credit card details after this post...)
Well, I don't know. It still warrants an answer of sorts, and though this will all read like a long, defensive response, it's not really. It's more of a dispassionate take on an issue that happens to involve myself, but that's not really fundamental to this discussion. Many of my posts are written that way, with me not really feeling particularly worked up about stuff and seeking to keep my tongue firmly in my cheek (and my head off the keyboard most days, thanks to my stupid on-call schedule) seeking to poke fun at the fabric of the sociological myths that keep us turning over as a nation. (fabric is wearing a bit thin though...)
Note the lack of angry mannerisms, obscenities, or even juvenile hand-drawn e-cards involving rude bits of male anatomy (re-minisce favours high-resolution cards featuring rude bits of female anatomy by the way.)
This time no hyperlinks will be posted, so the "author" of that particular post can rest assured that the sanctity of his sacred, funnyfull, interesting and enthralling-in-his-own-mind website shall remain inviolate. Meow.
First off, as everyone has been keen to tell me, different folks, different strokes.
I won't fall headlong into the stupidity-beartrap of claiming that I'm poor. My chosen career path ensures a stable income - I'm sure there's people out there who will resent even that, but... shrug. Stupid people exist the world over (look at the United States of WhositWhatsit, the whole country's being led by one...) and money wasn't the reason I chose to do this job anyhow. (somedays, sitting in silent reflection amongst my kin after being dealt that loaded question, the combined noise of gears turning furiously within our heads as we eloquently reply "because...
.......
..
."
is deafening. Then our wonderful reg saves the day by expounding about how, in our younger days, we must all have been more naive and idealistic.... in the old days. when a bowl of noodles cost five cents, and policemen wore shorts... and presumably, underwear...)
Plus there are sacrifices. Okay, perhaps not quite as many selfless sacrifices as a model makes entering the lethal minefields of Miss Universe/Galaxy/Cosmos, but there are sacrifices nonetheless, and post-call today my body is definitely reminding me that sleep deprivation is not the least of these.
But I'd certainly hesitate to call myself rich. On our salary? Are you kidding? We make the same as teachers (some would argue even less) and we don't even get to torture hapless children while we're at it. Unfortunately this tends to result in unpleasant complaint letters from totally unreasonable, irate parents.
"Rich" are the kids (read - house officers) who drive to work in their evo eights, or their ferrarris. Whose parents earn monthly salaries that dwarf those of lowly minions (ie Medical Officerse) like myself, and who have no doubt told their children not to be stupid and sign up to the medical cause, when there are plenty of other jobs out there that pay better, and give you a decent shot at some form of quality of life.
(incidentally, re-minisce has yet to hurl himself into lifelong debt purchasing a car, which is probably why he can afford his supposedly poncy habits and hobbies...)
So no, re-minisce is not rich. But re-minisce does splurge occasionally on food - it's not to get into a girl's pants (well. Not usually. Heh.) mind you, but simply for the experience. People simply won't begin to understand when I write that fine dining isn't about how much you pay for the wine, or the miniscule main course, but about the whole experience. About the flawless service, the smiling somellier who genuinely takes an interest in his client's wavering inclinations and helps him/her choose the perfect wine, about the immaculate food that tastes as amazing as it looks, about the way everything blends into a unique and memorable experience - simply because it is the exception rather than the norm. And sex does not have to be the coup de grace of the evening... sometimes just going with a friend and having a couple of warm, quiet laughs is the finishing piece to an already perfect evening. Sometimes it's even about making the effort to take an hours trainride and another half hour trip by cab - a pilgrimage of sorts - across a barren land to reach your "mecca" of sorts - and be pleasantly surprised to find that it's everything you imagined, and more. Which is high praise indeed from a cynic.
Too often I've heard it said here that fine dining is about exorbitant prices, miniscule servings, and being seen (ie poncy gits flashing money).
It's not supposed to be that way; the times T and I have wandered out to posh restaurants in the UK we've gone as complete unknowns, and had wonderful evenings trapped in our own little bubbles, talking about weird mishmashes of brit/singaporean issues that nearly nobody else in either country would be able to follow.
The thing is, somehow there is this stereotype in singapore - and les amis falls headlong into it (which was why I was disappointed) that fine french is about insipidly anaemic eating and ridiculous prices.
And when faced with a rather poor, unremarkable evening and a large bill to boot I do feel cheated. We (ie us diners, and them restauranteer types) haven't figured it out yet... it's a two-way relationship. We demand - but pay for - quality, they provide it. (Iggy's at regents hotel does a fair job by the way.)
Yes, I do feel strongly about it. But no, perhaps Singapore isn't the place to voice my opinions, lest I be labelled a pretentious git.
Speaking of which, anybody who labels fencers rich poofs is, quite frankly, a fool who has never even attempted the sport. Fencing is addictive, and after the initial investment in equipment, not as expensive as everyone thinks. Different strokes, different folks. Some people choose to spend obscene amounts buying devices to stop them falling off mountains, others choose to splurge on ultra-smooth wheelie thingies that attach to their feet.
Some of us choose to spend what little remains of our salary on learning how to decapitate someone. Shrug. It's all good.
