An array of bright, zesty flavours at Chin Chin, where the only problem was having to choose only some of the items from what looks to be a menu that is all hits, no filler.
Most of these words are Suzanne Carbone’s, from her “Guess who came to dinner” article in The Age (online – I truly hope it didn’t make it to print). I also hope it is satirical or, at least, some sort of deranged fantasy. Unlike Sam Newman and his Footy Show pals, I don’t usually define “satire” as “I’m a talentless goon”, but in this case I am willing to make an exception as the alternative – that it’s for real and has been put in the paper – is too horrendous to consider.
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I NEVER thought I’d get to read a story called ”The night I met Oprah Winfrey”, but there it was, prominently displayed on the virtual front page of The Age.
Of course, it wasn’t actually called “The night I met Oprah Winfrey” because some enterprising sub decided to go with the headline “Guess who came to dinner in Toorak” to highlight the fact that we really are still stuck in the 60s here. And not the good 60s, either; the 60s where… well, where people of means are still stuck, which is to say the 50s. Or earlier.
Ten thousand people crammed into Federation Square yesterday to see the TV star for 12 minutes but last night Suzanne Carbone ended up at a private dinner for 20 in Toorak with her and then inflicted her breathless name-dropping recount on innocent newspaper readers some of whom [I wish I could say "most of whom" but I have no real confidence in that assessment] really couldn’t give a rat’s arse about the self-promotions of the rich and exploitative.
Suzanne’s friend Megan Castran always dreamt about Oprah visiting her in Australia – which is a specific and unnervingly limited ambition, when you really think about it – and Suzanne is so starstruck that she can report that “if there’s someone who can make dreams come true, it’s the Big O.”
Mrs Castran met Oprah in Hawaii in 2006 and sat in her Chicago audience the year later. After the show, she gave Oprah her business card and the TV star told her she would call if she was coming to Australia.
Oprah stuck to her word. She told Suzanne last night there was something special about Mrs Castran’s business card. ”There was something about her energy. I kept it in the right-hand side of my desk.”
Mrs Castran has held taco nights at her luxurious home for 20 years and when inviting Suzanne to last night’s dinner, she said it was to celebrate her birthday, which was on Wednesday. Oprah was the icing on the cake.
Mrs Castran, surrounded by devoted husband Paul and children Max and Zoe, had invited 20 close friends including golfer Stuart Appleby and his wife, Ashley Saleet, Natasha Stipanov, Ronnie Atlas, Sarah Walker and Meghan McGann, all people who Suzanne clearly thinks we have heard of and probably hopes we’ll be as breathlessly impressed by as she is.
The doorbell rang at 6pm and Mrs Castran screamed when she saw Oprah. They hugged and Oprah handed over two bottles of tequila, Porfidio and Parfida. Well, it was taco night and tequila shots were in order.
A beaming Mrs Castran, declared: ”This is one of life’s great moments.” [Suzanne doesn't report that her devoted husband, Paul, rolled his eyes here, but I'd hope he did.]
Dozens of cameramen, sound recordists, producers and PR people from Oprah’s Harpo Productions buzzed around [Dozens!]. Pearl restaurant staff took over the kitchen to prepare canapes and the tacos.
Oprah, wearing jeans and a shirt with her hair expertly blowdried, as usual, [I'm so happy that Fairfax, with it's recent cost-cutting, hasn't dispensed with the services of someone who can spot "expertly blowdried" hair] sat with us outside by the pool and picked up the taco shell with her hands – like the rest of them. Suzanne doesn’t report whether an “Old El Paso” commercial was then filmed, with people discussing the merits of hard shell tacos vs soft, but I can only assume – given the relentless name dropping so far in the article – that it didn’t happen. They learnt that she sleeps five hours a night. She reiterated that we Aussies are so ”darn friendly”, saying: ”There is a vibrance (sic) and confidence in Australia that I haven’t seen in other places.” [Suzanne omits to tell us that Oprah was saving her voice and communicating in poorly spelled notes. Either that, or she is also skilled at picking up spelling mistakes in speech.]
Then she made an announcement. ”Everyone here is coming to Sydney!” There was applause and cheers.
Pastry chef Christopher Montebello from South Melbourne speciality cake shop Let Them Eat Cake made a flourless chocolate cake of Uluru with Oprah sitting on top. Singer Paris Zachariou serenaded Oprah with his own ditty, cheekily called Billionaire.
Mr Castran, who has done well for himself in real estate, joked: ”Anyone who said money can’t buy happiness doesn’t know where to shop.”
Commenting on being wealthy, Oprah said: ”You should try it.”
Oprah asked about Australian values, our lifestyle and even mentioned ”sex”, curious how parents educated their children about the birds and the bees.
Ross Wilson, who came with wife Tania, performed his classic song Eagle Rock and Oprah danced around the pool. Wilson said: ”It can’t get better than that.”
At 7.30pm, Oprah departed with her Uluru cake, pausing on the tennis court to reflect: ”I got to meet real people in a real family setting. That was as good as it can ever get.”
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Sure, there are tongue-in-cheek elements – the “pausing on the tennis court” to reflect on real people part. But it all seems to be predicated on the basis that we will recognise the names dropped and will therefore be able to really place it as absurd. Or maybe that’s just my limited knowledge of a social set that the rest of Melbourne is familiar with…
It’s wet today. Relentlessly raining. The sort of day that would be best spent in bed with The Fry Chronicles and regular cups of tea. A preferred course of action, but not possible when breakfast plans have been made. Nothing other than the promise of a strong coffee, excellent eggs and fabulous company would have shifted me – fortunately that was precisely on offer: meeting Eric at Le Traiteur guaranteed both.
But first… to get there. Le Traiteur is a short walk, but that wasn’t an option. I decided to take the tram.
Which is where I saw an ad for the Salvos Stores “Buy Nothing New” month. Which made me ranty. The limitations of posters as an informative medium meant that the emphasis was on the fact that buying nothing new for a month could win participants $15,000 in cash and prizes. Have we really reached a point where we are unlikely (or seen to be unlikely by advertising creators) to participate in something that benefits the community unless we stand a chance of personal gain? Not to mention the incongruity of rewarding thrift with dosh. What next: Make Poverty History To Win $20 Million! Buy the Big Issue – Help the Homeless and Go Into The Running To Win A Penthouse! Donate to Flood Victims – Sail Away In Your Own Luxury Yacht!
Fortunately I have passed the particular stage of perverse logic where seeing a promotion so badly mangled would prompt me to embark on a spending spree of lavish consumerism. I will try to minimise my spending on unnecessary items this month, but I will not enter a competition to be rewarded for doing so.
There are many ads I hate, but some of the companies responsible are less than obliging when it comes to posting them on YouTube. The fact that I’ve found both the “I’ve made the right choice” McDonald’s ad and this Hungry Jack’s one on the web leads me to suspect that the respective companies are proud of their hideous campaigns.
This is not offensive in the same way as the Maccas ad (or its equally horrid “sequel”); it’s merely annoying. It seems that HJ’s are (is? I really can’t figure it out – what is the apostrophe in the name for, anyway?) trying to dress their junk fare up as “fresh”, but it falls flat. For a start, the bloke has to inspect his burger closely to identify the ingredients – I’d rather that, having tasted it, he’d be able to do that automatically. Then, when he tells the woman that it contains aioli, she breathes “Garlic mayo!” in wonderment, as a way of letting all us dolts in our lounge-rooms know what this exotic ingredient is1.
At least it’s given me another catch-phrase I can use inappropriately. Try it! It’s fun. Just interject a breathless “garlic mayo!” at meetings, in conversations… it’s truly versatile.
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1. It bothered me that the writers were patronising the audience so much, but seeing Matt Moran in the Masterchef Masterclass teaching a handful of Straya’s best amada chefs how to make garlic mayonnaise leads me to conclude that I over-estimate the knowledge of the audience.
The McDonald’s advertising account executives are probably not aiming their commercials at me. I can’t remember the last time I ate McDonalds (possibly because it would have followed an irresponsible amount of drinking) and I can’t imagine ever being drunk enough to do that again (not because I’ve reached a higher plane of maturity, but because I tend to do my irresponsible drinking closer to home, far from the dubious temptations of a quick’n'dirty cheeseburger). There’s really nothing that could entice me to sample their product, so I am not surprised that the latest campaign leaves me cold. What I am surprised by is how confused I am by the ad. Perhaps I have inflated expectations of my levels of insight, but I had expected that McDonalds ads were too stupid for me, not that I was too stupid for them.
After I’d seen it the first time, I was gobsmacked. Stunned by the relentless pandering to the fragile male ego with the (professional, capable, career-woman) wife representing the (gorgeous, debonair, flirtatious) Simon as balding and spreading to her (balding, spreading) husband who smirks in his (misguided) confidence that he is a true prize. In “ad break” viewing, it seems as though the wife is perhaps deliberately bringing up her Simon story as a means of stoking her husband’s ego. She knows that he’s insecure, and that he remembers her dashing teenage suitor, and thinks that this re-telling of the reunion scene will banish the insecurities he’s carried throughout their marriage.
Then I watched it more closely.
Now, when she started on her little tale (“You’ll never guess who I ran into today!”) I think she had every intention of telling it like it was. Then, she registers his tone when he responds snarkily “yeah, I remember Simon from school” (notice the intake of breath, and her changed expression). Up until then, she had no idea of his simmering resentment of Simon, but now it’s clear. She decides – in the interests of protecting his delicate self-esteem – to reimagine the whole scene in a way designed to placate him.
Who is McDonald’s selling to with this? Surely not the “wives”, who might recognise this awful charade and would therefore be unlikely to respond positively to it being shown up in such a harsh light. Surely not the “husbands” who might start to question their wives’ sincerity whenever they are favourably compared with an unarguably handsome man. And it’s not the kids, who are embarrassed – and, quite possibly, terrified – by the revelation that their dad could be a similarly sad, pathetic, deluded little man.
Best possible scenario? The agency is deliberately white-anting Mickey Ds.
Another in an intermittent series that could well be subtitled more things I hate1:
Knowing that the 8.00 kick-off was tradie time, but still getting up at 6.15 “just in case”
Knowing I’m going to get a dehydration headache, because I’m already thirsty but having that doorbell-will-ring-just-as-I’m-having-a-wee anxiety. And the it’s-going-to-be-a-two-hour-job-so-it’s-not-like-I-can-relax-once-they-get-here anxiety
Wondering if they were serious when they said (last week) “I hope you make good coffee” because 1. I don’t and 2. it’s your fucking job that you are being paid a fuck load of money for and you expect me to make you a fucking coffee? I didn’t break the window on purpose, and this is the second day I’ve had to hang around waiting, so fuck off
Wondering whether I’ll recognise the next insurance ad based on a glazier calling a metalworker because he’s put a hole in a verandah, and the metalworker calling an aircon mechanic because he’s stepped through the window unit downstairs… (and hoping that it will be an insurance ad, not a Worksafe ad)
Trying to figure out how I’m going to lock up the cats and run downstairs in the time allowed before they decide I’m not at home, given that the intercom is not working at the moment
Knowing that I’m going to have to do all this again, when we decide to get the intercom fixed.
And, now that they’re here:
Feeling as though I can’t watch a week’s worth of Rock of Love Bus because it’s a guilty secret that only the IQ and a few people on the internet know about and it’s not “real” if I’m not caught watching it in real life
Being too embarrassed to crank up the stereo to enjoy Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass with Casino Royale, which comes up so rarely on the shuffle that it needs to be celebrated
Trying not to take the muttered “frame’s so rotten, paint’s all that’s holding it together… that, and putty” personally.
News Ltd has a complicated relationship with the internet. On one hand, they seem to view bloggers and tweeters as news parasites, stealing their hard-won, quality content for snarky posts. And then there’s Google, aggregating news so that we freeloaders can read it without annoying popup ads. In order to stop this online anarchy, Rupert Murdoch proposes charging for access to News’ online content:
Quality journalism is not cheap. The digital revolution has opened many new and inexpensive distribution channels but it has not made content free. We intend to charge for all our news websites.
Did he say “quality journalism”? I would pay for quality journalism, however I don’t see much evidence of that in Murdoch’s publications. In fact, I don’t see much of it in local papers – printed or online – at all. If Fairfax joins News in charging for online access, I’ll be no less informed than I currently am. I’ll continue to get my news from the ABC, the BBC, the Guardian and the New York Times. If the non-government news providers join in and start charging for access, I might consider paying for the Guardian and the NYT. Would I miss out on local news? No, the ABC has it covered.
But this is old news, I hear you say. Why’s she banging on about this now? Well, there’s the “other hand”, the one that News likes to bite, but still expects to receive food from. A couple of weeks ago, during the exciting days of the Liberal party leadership meltdown, #spill on Twitter was a vital source of gossip and updates. What quality content did the Herald-Sun come up with for it’s online coverage? They pulled a bunch of tweets and published them. How do I know this, when I scrupulously avoid reading the Hun these days? I received this from a fellow tweeter:
I see you got quotes on the Herald-Sun website in their Abbott-Twitter story!
Yep. One line from a long twitter exchange with @teacoffeetea was taken out of context and dumped in a Hun story. The fact that it didn’t make sense in isolation only further illustrates the Hun’s limited understanding of the medium. And, as much as I like to think that my observations are all gold, pure gold, I’d be hoping for more if I were to pay for the content.
erformance Review. To celebrate the end-of-cycle review meeting, teams were asked to complete a review of the performance review process. I’m sure that once all these have been collated, we’ll be called together to review the reviews of the performance review process.
At least now I know for sure what hollow laughter sounds like.
“… and can I just run through the specials for today?”
It depends.
It depends on how softly you speak versus how noisy the dining room is. [Tip: try to make yourself heard - it's not that difficult. Read the diners. If they are leaning in towards you, looking pained, raise your voice a tad.]
It depends on whether there’s already a chalkboard with the specials written up. [If there is, don't recite them - we can read. Perhaps make sure they are visible to the diners, but don't bring the board over to the table.]
It depends on whether you can actually remember them without having to go back to check on what they are.
It depends on whether you are prepared to answer the (not unreasonable) question “and how much is that?”.
Oh, and if the restaurant has printed a separate page of the day’s lunch specials don’t distribute it if, at 12.15 on a Monday, the kitchen is already “out of gnocchi”.
1. Fettucine is not an acceptable substitute
and
2. It’s the beginning of lunch at the beginning of the week so being “out” of one of the week’s lunch specials is, well, special.
I feel as though I’ve been drifting for a while here1 with no real purpose. Part of that I’m going to attribute to seasonal motivational fluctuations (I’m sure that’s a thing), but that can’t be the whole of it. For a (very brief) moment I was considering participating in NaBloPoMo (a post a day, all month – the bloggers’ equivalent to NaNoWriMo2) – a bit of discipline might be handy, even in recreation – but the moment passed. Even as I hovered my mouse over the sign-up button, though, I knew that doing it would result in half a dozen desultory posts of this nature, and then back to random intermittence. That’s defined as lose-lose, whichever way you look at it.
Perhaps that’s why I decided to move the blog – a [virtual] change is as good as a [virtual] holiday? Except that… a [virtual] holiday is about as refreshing as you’d expect it to be.
So, this is all by way of saying: a new address hasn’t magically jump-started my motivation to write. In lieu of being refreshing and original, then, I’m going to rant about Larissa Dubecki’s latest restaurant review to save you the frustration of having to read it.
More, after the jump (which is after the footnotes).
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1. “Here” is a vague concept, of course. I’ve only just come here, but… well, you know what I mean.
2. Unlike NaNoWriMo, however, NaBloPoMo happens every month, so I’ve got a chance to not do it twelve times a year.
It’s a happy coincidence that combining the words “Twitter” and “haters” results in a variant of the word “Twat”. That was the word I uttered after reading Rebecca Wilson’s column on Twitter today.
Wilson hates Twitter because, unlike “Facebook and blogs (which) appear to serve some useful purpose, Twitter just does not – it is puerile, inane and a shocking waste of time”. Moreover, Twitter users are “vacuous people with too much time on their hands who like to believe we actually care what they are doing”. Wilson has a column where she is paid to spout her own vapid opinions, but she resents the fact that Twitter allows everybody to do the same. She seems particularly peeved that tweets are limited to a character count (she doesn’t seem to be able to settle on whether that count is 140 or 160), although I doubt she’d prefer more extensive “blow-by-blow descriptions” of the “tedium and uselessness” of the lives of people she obviously despises. (How somebody can be “turgid” within 140 characters is a mystery.) Perhaps it’s because she can’t summarise her own vacuousness to the form that Twitter is, to her, “the single most hideous technological breakthrough of the past decade” (she’s never tried Microsoft Songsmith, then, but that’s another story).
erformance Review. To celebrate the end-of-cycle review meeting, teams were asked to complete a review of the performance review process. I’m sure that once all these have been collated, we’ll be called together to review the reviews of the performance review process.
