Once upon a time, there was a "Taverna".

Taverna Restaurant is located on Ashley Road, in Hong Kong. It has been around since 1969 (though God only knows how.) Below is a review that I am posting anywhere I can to warn people to save their money.

While waiting for the band to start at Ned Kelly's Last Stand on Sunday night, we darted up the road to "Taverna". I have never had a more disappointing meal in Hong Kong, except MAYBE at the Spaghetti House (that's right, I think Spaghetti House is better than here.)

My friend ordered the Caesarina Salad. It was supposed to have bacon, fresh parmasean, cherry tomatoes, and egg. It had nothing (absolutely nothing) but dressing and romaine lettuce. My Pecorino Salad consisted of 5 slices of browning pear, 4 slices of cheese, a stack of wilted iceburg lettuce, and two pathetic little black olives that looked like they'd been canned shortly after opening day in '69. My minestrone soup was thin, and bland, and the vegetables looked like they were rejects from the stock pot of a dim sum restaurant in the back alleys of Mong Kok. My friend's Vongole was luke warm, and it had about 6 clams, but no flavour. One friend had a mushroom risotto that he reported as "okay". Seeing as he's the most polite person I know, this description spoke volumes. The only two bits of the meal that got any praise were the pizza that one friend ordered, and the house wine which was highly drinkable (though, as one of my friends commented, "they don't make THAT here...")

On top of that, they send you out to the street to find a bathroom. The service was okay.

I would highly recommend somewhere else for a meal.

Indelible Marks II

A smoke only seems appropriate now, so I light one in my head.
I hear the soft puff and the slight wheeze as you inhale.
You took more breaths through a filter than you did without, I think.

The mill runs, and the saw whines.
We work, this motley crew.
The college boy, soft, fat, and useless.
The dwarf and the simpleton, hard, lean, and tireless.
The drunk, the dope fiends, the Jesus freak.
The one who has been a bit of it all.
We breathe cedar and strain our backs.
We swear and tease and laugh.
We do it for the pay cheque,
but we do it because of you.
These mills are obsolete now,
but yours works.

"Six be sixes to the Germans.
They turn 'em into camps
and sell those to the Japs!
What would Henry and Eddie say?"

We both know those old vets would say the same thing.
"Work, and damn the rest."


I see you at your perch.
One elbow on the table.
One hand on your knee,
cigarette burning.
Coke bottle glasses on a bulbous nose.
You've just made a point. Taken a drag.
You squint your smile. I nod.
You speak of horses and sleds and old trucks with no brakes.
You do it with authority.
You value hard work, and the men and women who do it.

You curse those who don't, who won't.

We share your bottle, small glasses of rye and Pepsi.
In my mind we're always alone, though I know that's not true.
Dad is there in the rocker.
Edna bustles about the kitchen chatting politely, lighting you up with her smile.
(Her faded shadow filled you with grief.)
People drop in to pay for loads of wood,
to pay back money they've borrowed,
or just to have a drink with the Squire.

I'll tell you something now,
something I could never have said when you were alive.
Men don't say such things
(they shy away from them like they would
from the blast of a furnace
or a bucking chainsaw.)
I loved you like a father. Like an uncle.
Like a friend.

A long time after and half a world away,
and I'm crying in a bar in Kowloon.

Your saw is silent, Squire.
Seven quiet, lonely years
we've not heard its whine.
Blades are rusted, belts are rotten.
Nothing works.

Indelible Marks I

It's been nearly ten years, old man, since last we talked.
You weren't old then, of course.
You were far too young for the fate that met you.

Either way, ten years has passed.

I see us scratching our heads, staring at your pumpkin,
Behemoth that she was.

You scratched because you wanted to move 400 pounds of her to Fredericton the day after your daughter's wedding.
We scratched because of you, and because of the awe in which we held you.

I had ruined your most promising onions that day.
Eager to please you, I'd zealously washed them, and peeled them back,
Taken off their papery exterior to show off their dark red skin, ruining them.
You reproved me in your gentle, funny way,
Taught me the importance of their cracked and dry covering.

You gave me tomatoes that day that I placed in my dorm window,
And ate with relish as they ripened.

Ten years and I still cry when I think of you.
Luckily, I still smile, too. And laugh. And love.

I wonder what you'd think of changes, how you'd react to new situations.

Some nights your laugh still carries up the river.

Who knew mowing the lawn after dark could be so emotional?

Poinsettias and Pinstripes.

Ah, December is upon us, and poinsettias abound in flower shops. Cheap Christmas decorations fill the shops, and bad Christmas music fills the air. Everywhere you go, you can hear the drone of Canto Pop stars singing accented remakes of Christmas classics by Britney Spears and X-ina. A layer of coal dust covers everything like a fine dusting of snow...except blacker. Yes, it is truly Yule under China's Red Star. Mao is rolling and turning in his display case.

Last week, I was finally granted a multi-entry work Visa for China. This frees me now to wander out of China at will, and so I took advantage of that right on Sunday morning. Dressed in a borrowed pinstripe suit, I caught the 7:45 ferry to Hong Kong for a busy, busy day.

First stop, San Wai War memorial.

Today is the 67th anniversary of the invasion of Hong Kong by the Japanese Imperial Army. As I've mentioned before, there were two Canadian Regiments present on Garrison Duty. My Great Uncle Eddy was with the Winnipeg Rifles. In honour of this fact, the School asked me to lay a wreath on their behalf at a Memorial service being help by the Hong Kong Consulate. It was a touching tribute, with a turn out of about two or three hundred people. Members of a Hong Kong Canadian Scout troupe stood guard by Canadian graves, all of which were marked with flags. Pipers led the Consul and her Party down the long walk from the gates of the memorial, to the cenotaph. There were some British and Hong Kong veterans of the engagement present. All in all, an emotional experiences.

As I was sitting on the shuttle bus to the graveyard, I struck up a conversation with a Hong-nadian. I asked if he was born in Hong Kong, and he said yes, but that after university in Canada, he chose to stay and become a citizen. Only in later years had he returned to Hong Kong. He asked where I was from. When I told him New Brunswick, his eyes lit up. "I studied Engineering at UNB in 1974!" In fact, he was the president of the HK Alumni association.

During the ceremony Peter Cullen snuck up behind me. Peter is a classmate of mine from St. Thomas. We met during our BEds. For two years before that, he'd been teaching in Hong Kong, while I was teaching in Shenzhen. Now, we're both back.

After the event was over, Peter and I jumped on the MTR, and headed to his apartment before hitting a pub in Wan Chai for lunch. The Cannyman is a great little pub if you're looking for dark wood, pool, wing back chairs, and deep fried haggis, all of which appeal to me greatly. This day was also the day that Cannyman hosted the Hong Kong Folk Society for its monthly session. I had been to one of their sessions 4 years ago before in another bar. The 10 or so hardy members gathered and competed for sound space with the rest of the bars patrons. It was less than ideal. The Cannyman was very small, and 3/4 of the bar was roped off for the Society, so things were looking up for this go round.

The crowd started arriving around 2pm. First on the scene was my friend David May, a fiddler from Scotland. He was one of the Three Musketeers who used to play for me when I manageddler the pub in Shekou. David is a classically trained violinist, but he was kicked out of the orchestra as a child. "I would nae play the notes in the order they were written. I liked the way I played 'um bettahr." Davie is an absolute joy to behold when he has a bow in his hand. You never know what genre he'll start playing, or from which country of origin the music will be.

The room quickly filled, and it was apparent that the Society had grown. I recognized the ten faces from before, but these were bolstered by 25 new faces. It was a huge circle, filled with fiddles, guitars (both steel stringed and nylon), concertinas, tin whistles, wooden flutes, and accordions (button AND piano.) These instruments were held by Irishmen, Americans, Canadians, Australians, Kiwis, Poms of all variety, and two amazingly talented Chinese men. It was a wonderful, wonderful gathering.

I should note there was also a gentlemen in the room holding a set of chamber pipes. I use this term generically to mean any variety of "bag" pipes that can be played in a room (chamber) without sending all other musicians, listeners, animals, and insects scurrying in order to protect their precious hearing. Though I couldn't think of the specific name of this variety, I knew I'd seen them once before, in Miramichi. They were owned by Sarah Silliker. Her father Gary informed me that they were made by a fellow in Nova Scotia, only. I know now they are called "Shuttle Pipes". 8 years later, in Hong Kong, I saw my second set, played by a fellow from England.

The HKFS does a session nicely. It's not dominated by instruments, by strictly Irish Tunes, or by, well, folk music. It's is lead by the person to the left of the last person to play. If they have a song to sing, or play, or a story to tell, they do it. If they don't, they take a pass, knowing it will be a long time before things come full circle, so to speak. The craic was mighty that day. One of the best sessions I've ever had the benefit of siting in on. I look forward to the next session in January.

Just when you think you're having it tough...

Was having a "Woe is me" morning. Like many teachers, I started thinking that what bad things happened at school mattered in the real world (bad by school standards: truant kids, lost marks, uninspiring essays, et cetera.)

Went to my room for a little self-commiseration and Facebook. Learned that one of my former students has died. 19 years old, struck by a car. Lingered for 4 days. Now dead.

Perspective comes swiftly. I have no problems.

I send my sympathies to Sara Holt's family and friends.

Flight of the Bumblebee.

Woke up at 5:30 this morning to work. Went to the office. Computer had a boot disk problem. This is the issue that IT "feex" last week. Files were saved on that computer, so no work could be done.

Back to my room. 6:10: Noise in the corridor.

Open my door, and Sharon Hawkins is there telling me her room is filled with wasps, or hornets, or some sort of stinging creature. I sympathize, but not empathize. No stingers in my room.

Back in to room. BZZZBBZZBZZZBBZZZ.

Fuck.

Only one, so I Sh-, Sh-, Sh-, then out the door to mark at the office.

BZZZBZZZBZZZBZZZ.

8 or 9 of the bastards flying around. 7am, and my day is off.

Smile. Don't curse. Do NOT hurt anyone.

27 days in and I'm having my first China Day. Not bad, not bad at all.


Excuse me.


AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

There. Much bett-

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

-er....

Compare and contrast.

I've been itching for a foot massage since I returned to Shenzhen. I despise most massage, and believe that today's Chinese Masseurs are descended from a long line of Imperial Court Torturers. Foot massages are different, though. They sit you in a room, and give you tea, and bring in wooden buckets of steaming water and rose petals. You soak your feet for 10 or 15 minutes, and then they wrap your legs in towels that are just a notch below painfully hot. After wrapping both legs, they unwrap the first one and start the foot and leg massage. Fifteen minutes of oils and rubbing later, they re-wrap that leg, and unwrap the second. It truly is a pleasant experience.

That in mind, I eagerly awaited Wednesday night when my friend Eimoon and I had decided to go for a massage.

Allow me to introduce Miss Eimoon Jin. 'Moon was a waitress at my friend's Thai Restaurant when I worked at McCawley's. We became good friends. She is not Han Chinese, but is of the Dai Ethnic Minority Group from Yunnan Province. (The Dai are a people that split off from the Thai people, and populate the areas of Northern Thailand, Laos, Myanmar, and Southern Yunnan province. Their language is distinct from Thai, and their culture has also deviated.) Eimoon's name means "Little Moon" in Dai le, the language of her particular subgroup of Dai. She speaks Dai, Mandarin, Thai, and English. I'm mildly infatuated with the young lady.

Wednesday evening arrived, and I was heading to our appointed gathering place, when my phone rang. It was a mildly inebriated Eimoon begging forgiveness, but she had met a couple of people from her home town, and they had invited her for supper. They were running a bit late, and she wondered if we could post-pone our meeting for a half an hour. Nae problem. I headed down towards our path anyway, and took in a half hour off people watching, an absolute favourite pass time of mine. 5 minutes after the alloted meeting time, my phone rang again. A more inebriated Eimoon who didn't think she'd be able to enjoy a foot massage as she was a little too lit. She asked if I'd like to join her and her friends at their apartment. I weighed my options and sitting in a room full of drunk people I didn't know and couldn't communicate with seemed more appealing than going for a foot massage alone. I headed in her direction.

I arrived at the apartment with a few quarts of beer in tow. The television was playing a dubbed DVD of the new Bond flick (frig, those Triads are fast.) The coffee table was heavily laden with dishes of food. 'Moon sat on the couch drinking a wine glass full of Tsing Tao. Her two Dai friends were chatting and smoking. There were two other people on the couch who didn't seem to be in on the party, but were watching the movie. The girl looked familiar, but I couldn't place her, and the gent never once looked in my direction. After introductions, and glass filling and a cheers, the conversation carried on. In Dai.

Actually, this wasn't a bad thing. I was dreading arriving, and being the centre of attention, having people staring, commenting on A) How fat I was; B) That I was bald; C) That Canada was "wery bUdiful" (though they'd never been there or seen pictures of it); D) any number of average conversations between Gwei Lo (literally "Ghost Man" though often translated as "Foreign Devil") and Chinese last 30 seconds and then dries up into awkward silence. This gave me the opportunity to take in my surroundings.

The apartment was newish, and it was obvious that many people lived here. The "dining room" had a curtain hung to separate it from the living room, and a mattress could be seen on the floor. The balcony had been transformed into a closet and there were three bedrooms down the hall. I reckoned there were 5 people living there. (I've since come to realize that there were at least 8.) While I watched, another young lady wearing a traditional Dai skirt came out of the bedroom and sat on the couch to watch the Bond flick. It was at this point that the baby started to cry. The familiar looking girl ran down the hall, and brought back an infant that had a huge cranium. This head had its own weather system. The child got passed from Mother to 'Moon, to the boys, to me. He was a great baby, never cried, and was not afraid of the Gwei Lo. I commented on the monstrous head, and everyone laughed. In their respective languages they all referred to the child as "Big Headed Baby."

While I was holding the child and talking to him about the condition of the Hang Seng market, and whether I should invest in China or not, his mother asked Eimoon something about me in Mandarin. She apparently thought I was familiar, too. After a few minutes of questions back and forth, we realized that her husband, Kevin, had been my number 2 chef at McCawley's. This of course explained the child's head size, for Kevin was always called "Big Headed Cook" at McCawley's.

The evening flowed along with the beer. By the end of it, everyone was talking to everyone else, language differences be damned. At midnight I had to break the party up because, well, it was midnight, and I'm an old man who gets up at 5:30. The night ended with promises of a repeat performance next week at Eimoon's place, and then we were off.

Another reason I thoroughly enjoyed this night was watching Eimoon speaking in Dai, and reminiscing about growing up in her village. Though I couldn't understand the words, I could understand the conversation. These three were talking about a lost time in a village with no electricity, no toys, no money. Simple life on the farms. Hard work. Made up games. It was like watching a group of Maritimers discussing their childhood.

The next night, I had plans with some of my friends in the Expat community. We had booked a private room at a Muslim Restaurant just around the corner from the school. We ordered a full roasted lamb. I arrived a bit late and the crowd was already loosened up. Chins were wagging, and smart ass comments were flying. Jokes about the fat Welshman, and the skinny Scot, and the americans speaking Chinese with New Mexican accents. (The Bald Canadian had a pass. The boys are mildly in awe of the fact that I managed to woo Miss Eimoon.)

All this ruction and riot came swiftly to an end, though, when Little Bo Peep's lost sheep was carried into the room. Everyone was handed a plastic glove. And then the barbarism kicked in. It was a bit like a silent movie though. Everyone drinking beer, chewing lamb bones, and faltbread, and not a word was spoken. After 10 minutes of this someone said "How do you shut up ten fat pricks?" There was a ripple of laughter, followed swiftly by more silence...

When the lamb was half devoured, the waitress brought in a huge bowl of Xin Jiang Stew. This is a spicy stew from Northwest China (Xin Jiang province), full of potatoes, noodles, chilies, and chicken. The broth is red and lovely, and perfect when soaked up in flat bread.

After a couple of hours, I took my leave and walked home. I reflected on my two evenings, and how different they were, and how similar. It was nice to feel comfortable in both settings, and to be able to gather with friends for food and drink.

No real conclusions to draw here, other than I won't starve.

Hope all is well.