A Sushi Don't: Tenshi Restaurant

I admit that I'm spoiled with all the fresh seafood that the Pacific Northwest has to offer and as I've boasted several times (ANNOYINGLY so) already on this blog, sushi in the Puget Sound is no joke.  But I'm not terribly hard to please: for example, I'll happily have Itsu sashimi for lunch or even visit the occasional conveyor belt establishment (as long as it's not Yo! Sushi - I'd recommend Kulu Kulu in Covent Garden instead if you're really desperate for traveling plates).

Craving a light but tasty meal, John, Justin and I made our way to Tenshi on Saturday night for some low-key sushi and noodles.  The positive reviews after a quick Google search on the iPhone were enough to go on at the time and we were quickly seated before the dinner rush began.  It seemed that the restaurant was popular with the pre-partying crowd with a queue out the door by the time we left and a few regulars, which were all (so I thought) good signs.

We ordered a sushi selection (£22), a chicken yakisoba (£7.50) and an octopus starter to share.  When the sushi arrived, I was horrified as I gazed down at the tuna rolls that had what resembled blood seeping into the rice.  Justin's eyes bulged.  Some involuntary gagging ensued.  The other pieces of nigiri looked dark and far from fresh.  "Is that ... um ... is that ... blood?" I squeaked.  The waitress considered it for a moment and said, "Oh no, that's the spicy tuna.  That is hot sauce."  Then she realized she had delivered the order to the wrong table and that it was actually intended for the couple seated next to us.  "Don't worry," the lady at the table next to us chirped.  "I recognized it!" Clearly a regular, but I don't know why - perhaps she likes eating morsels of food that resemble parts props from a horror film.  I breathed a sigh of relief that the non-bloody-but-bloody-looking rolls did not belong to us but was nevertheless skeptical of the quality of our own selections.

Our chicken yakisoba was up first.  On initial taste, the chicken was flavorful and the dish sizzling hot, which is to my liking.  But the addition of red and green bell peppers was truly bizarre and the Top Ramen consistency and quality of the noodles were just inexcusable.  The oily sheen left in my bowl didn't do any favors to my opinion of the already unimpressive dish and for £7.50, I would rather grab a noodle box at Ned's Noodles.

Then our sushi arrived.  I silently prayed that I wouldn't contract food poisoning and bravely plunged into the hamachi nigiri.  It wasn't off.  I breathed another sigh of relief.  It wasn't great quality or particularly fresh, but it certainly wasn't off.  The tuna was mushy and the avocado rolls (avocado, really? If you want a cheap and easy way to rip people off, cucumber in place of avocado would certainly be a more convincing choice, no?) were, again, puzzling.  We were then presented with a two rolls that looked like it had salad stuffed inside.  "Justin, eat it and tell us what it has in it," I commanded.  He ate and proceeded to say, "Itsch jusht shalad shtuffed inshide." Bonkers.

My verdict is: visit this place when you've finished your karaoke set at Lucky Voice down the road and are suitably drunk.  Then you won't notice the bloody-not-bloody rolls or the grease.  You'll just be grateful to have something line your stomach - which is what Tenshi is good for.  A brutal conclusion, perhaps, but brutally honest.


Photo source

Summer's Not Over (well, yeah, it technically is): My Favorite Pink Drink

Summer's over.  And as much as I gave the British weather the benefit of the doubt (as in, throwing open the curtains every morning it rained in July and saying brightly with sincerity and conviction, "It's a GREAT day today!!!") it let me down.  Though the past few days have been extremely windy in London and, at times, even rainy, it's also been unbelievably warm.  So though summer's officially over, it doesn't stop me craving summery drinks, like Pimm's, or my new favorite, Rekorderlig Strawberry and Lime Cider.

First, two things you need to know about me and Rekorderlig:

1)  I hate cider.  I really do.  Someone once convinced me to try it by saying it was simply "fizzy apple juice."  IT IS NOT.  To me, it tastes - quite frankly - like vomit.  You know, that horrible taste you get in your mouth right after you've ralphed.  Sorry, but that's just what it reminds me of.

2) I had my first glass of Rekorderlig on my birthday, which was in December.  It was snowing outside and I was quivering in my UGGs - as far from summer as you could get.  But one sip of the stuff stolen from a friend's glass transported me to a sun-drenched roof terrace: crisp, cool, refreshing and deliciously sweet, it tasted like John's idea of disgusting and my idea of yum.  Basically, it tasted like a carbonated strawberry gummy bear (without the pukey taste, of course. And it goes without saying that if carbonated strawberry gummy bears aren't your thing, then please - by all means - don't try this at home).

So if you're not afraid of the sweet stuff and you're in a part of Britain where summer still lingers, then I highly recommend a sip of this - even if you're not a cider drinker.  I mean, just because I'm drinking Rekorderlig doesn't mean you'll find me with a Magners in hand any time soon.

Climbing @ The Castle, London vs. Edgeworks, Tacoma

I woke up this morning and realized I couldn't raise my arms above my head.  You might wonder why anyone would automatically want to raise her arms above her head upon waking, but I have this habit of flopping over onto my stomach when John gets up an hour and a half before me, putting the pillow over my head, and adopting a pose reserved for those chalk drawings of murder victims.  Seriously - try it, it's like, soooo comfortable.

Anyway, I should probably clarify: physically, I could raise my arms above my head, but not without a great deal of pain.  This is because I went indoor rock climbing yesterday (for the second time in my life) with John and my little brother, Justin, who happens to be a very experienced and advanced climber.  This kid is about my height and skinny, but he's got arms like Popeye The Sailor Man. He claimed he didn't even know how muscly his arms had gotten from climbing until he looked in the mirror one day and didn't recognize his own arms due to the size of his biceps.  He is ripped (he was also randomly approached by a middle-aged woman at SeaTac Airport and told that he was a "very good looking young man").  Moreover, he creeps along climbing walls nimbly, his movements graceful, decisive and calm.  And unlike the other climbers - novice or not - who wear name brand climbing trousers and tops, he climbs in none other than skinny jeans, a graphic tee and a pair of thick, black rimmed (non-prescription) glasses.  Basically, he's a badass.

On Saturday, we traveled to The Castle Climbing Centre in North London, to see how it compared to Edgeworks in Tacoma, Washington, where Justin usually climbs and where I had my first climbing experience.  Upon arrival, we were met with the overwhelming stench of ... feet (you know, that smell that stays in your memory forever if you ever took gymnastics as a kid or played in one of those ball pit area things).  Once I got over my initial inner retching, we signed in as Justin's novices (experienced climbers can register two novices at a time) and he was given a short quiz by one of the staff members.  We were all made to sign statements saying that we acknowledged climbing is a dangerous sport and that we understood we could die (yes, this was on the form) if not practiced properly and under correct supervision, clearing the centre of any liability.  John and I rented some cheesy shoes and harnesses for £5 per person and paid a fee of £12.50 each to climb.

One noticeable difference between The Castle and Edgeworks is the space.  Granted, we were probably there at peak time on their busiest day (Saturday afternoon), but there was literally hardly any room to manouevre - and if you weren't quick enough when bouldering (free climbing short walls without ropes, which help develop your strength and technique), Spidey Man on the other side with his North Face cargo shorts would simply encroach on your territory, rolls his eyes and sigh at you until you were pressured to move or fall off.  Nice!  Climbers bouldering would literally jump and hit the person behind them belaying.  People formed queues to climb and, whilst waiting, used that opportunity to eye each other up.  No one smiled.  Most scowled.  Annoying drum & bass (and I happen to like drum & bass - this was ANNOYING drum & bass, which is another category) played at a threatening volume behind us.  Between that and the foot-fungus smell, I started to feel a little queasy.  


"I'm ... um ... hot," I complained.  I looked at my watch.  We had only been there for 10 minutes.  Sigh.  I longed for the sky lit, air conditioned, fresh-smelling surroundings of Edgeworks.  And some smiles.  At Edgeworks, even at busy times, the walls are well spaced and no one is - literally - on top of each other.  Staff and climbers - novice and experts alike - are friendly and courteous.  Most of all, they look like they're enjoying themselves - you know, like, having fun?  Did no one at the Castle climb for fun?  Or did I stumble upon Climbing Olympics 2011?  Sheesh.

Nevertheless, I chalked the attitudes up to big city living and put my best climbing foot forward to scale my first route.  My first climb was easy but the fourth was a little challenging.  I tried the route once and gave up, asking Justin to let me down.  Then I tried it again, reached the same point, and again asked to be let down.  The answer came back as "NO."  What?  What do you mean no?  I DON'T WANT TO BE UP HERE ANYMORE.  MY ARMS ARE TIRED.  I THINK MY THIGH JUST SPASMED.  "No, you're gonna DO IT," barked my small but Popeye-the-Sailor-Man-limbed brother below me.  I whimpered a little and thought about my huge behind just hanging out in the harness.  I sucked in my core and decided to climb (well, I had no choice - my little brother wouldn't let me down!).  And I got to the top (to be fair, I was powered by anger and if you know me well, you know my anger serves as pretty good fuel for most things energetic).  "Now, don't you feel GREAT?" my brother asked me patronizingly but with a gleaming smile as I came down.  I wanted to smack him, but I was pretty pleased with myself, so I grumbled something unintelligible and unhooked the rope from my harness.

An hour and a half later, my arms were shaking (and here I was thinking I had good upper body strength from all that dynamic yoga) and my hands kinda raw.  It was time to go (though I had acclimatized to the foot smell by now).  Will I return to The Castle?  Only if I'm desperate for a climbing wall (i.e. never).  Otherwise, I'll wait until I get home to Edgeworks and have another go there.  


There, at least the people are nice and the foot smell is minimal.

Lang Lang @ The iTunes Festival

Last Monday, I won tickets to see the pianist Lang Lang perform at the iTunes Festival held at Roundhouse in Camden, courtesy of the London Symphony Orchestra.  For those of you who aren't familiar with this classical musician, I'm pretty sure he is currently the (or at least, one of the) hottest-young-talent-in-the-classical-music-scene-like-right-now.  You can catch up on his accolades here, as I won't use this space to list them but instead, focus on his performance that evening.

As my pianist mother was unavailable to take an overnight flight to London for the concert and John was busy being busy and important, I invited Ruth to come along.  We had an amazing pre-concert meal which far surpassed my expectations, at Made in Camden.  We ordered small but innovative tapas-style dishes which included delights such as miso chicken, pickled watermelon rind, fennel salad, seared tuna and roast pork belly.

Heading up to the main stage, we found that the opening act, 2Cellos, was already performing: comprised of two very attractive Croatian musicians, they first played separately as soloists, then together as a duet (and later with a drummer), on electric cellos.  The first part of their program consisted of classical pieces accompanied by piano but they quickly changed it up with more crowd-pleasing favorites such as covers of Green Day, Red Hot Chili Peppers and even a cringe-inducing U2 cover of "With Or Without You", to which the man behind me and Ruth sang with unbridled passion (and terrible intonation, might I add) whilst clasping his hands around his girlfriend's waist.  (Note: if that was my boyfriend, I would have dumped him right then and there).  There's a fine line between cool and cheese and I think that, unfortunately, 2Cellos crossed that cheese line when they stepped into classic rock territory.  Smooth Criminal was cool, Welcome To The Jungle was not.  They were entertaining, however, and most importantly, hot.  So, quite frankly, what they lacked in the aural pleasure department, they certainly made up for in terms of eye candy.  That's rather sexist, but so what?

Anyway, by the end of 2Cellos's rather ear-splitting and not-altogether-pleasant conclusion, the standing crowd (it was, after all, a festival) was officially primed and geared up for Lang Lang.  We waited.  Aannndd ... waited.  And waited.  At or shortly after 9 pm (read: about thirty or forty minutes later), dramatic fog swirled about the stage and a countdown was shown on the large screens above the audience, chronicling all the acts that have previously performed at the iTunes Festival.  When the countdown ended, there were an awkward few minutes when nothing happened and confusion ensued.  Where was he?  What was going on?  The Steinway was there, the fog completely covered it, but it was there.  Where was Lang Lang?

Finally, he emerged, in a black sequined jacket, nonetheless, and waved to the audience.  "HI!" he shouted into the microphone.  "How's everybody doing tonight?  Thanks so much for coming out!  Are you ready for some music?" he continued.  "YES!!!" the crowd, er, screamed.  "OKAY!" he said.  "Then let's enjoy Liszt together!" he exclaimed, before swirling over to the piano.  "Huh?  What?" said a girl in confusion behind me.  Oh dear.  Did someone not tell you, honey?  That this was going to be a classical concert?  Me neither.  It was too easy to be misled by the 2Cellos performance, the fog, the lights and the countdown.  Here I was thinking Lang Lang was about to launch into Radiohead's Karma Police, when he actually began playing an extremely, extremely fast version of Liszt's La Campanella.  Once I got over my initial shock that he wasn't about to play Radiohead or any other popular music, for that matter, I had to get over my shock of the speed he was playing Liszt at.  The piece opens with an arpeggiated sequence, which, when I play it (and as written in the score) requires both hands.  Lang Lang played it entirely with his left hand.  After I recovered from that revelation, I was then faced with the fact that for the duration of the concert, there would be a movie of time-lapsed clips of city streets and nature playing on five, floor-to-ceiling screens behind the artist.  I was confused.  Were we supposed to focus on the music?  Or the movie?  Was the music supposed to act as an accompaniment to the movie?  Or were the producers concerned that Lang Lang's classical performance would not sustain the festival-going audience and decided that visual stimulation was needed?

Then, a few people at the front began making their escape, after the third or fourth piece.  And a few more after that.  Lang Lang paid no notice and only paused to wipe his brow, smile and bow after each piece.  I rocked back and forth on my heels and looked at my watch.  I understood the desire to play a full program of Liszt, but there were several other romantic pieces he could have chosen that would have been much more appropriate for the venue - that is, crowd pleasing.  Yes, I said it.  Play the slow, tender pieces at the Barbican or Cadogan.  Play them at Carnegie Hall.  But I'm afraid that for a venue and crowd like the one at Monday night, something more bang-y would be required.  Rachmaninov.  Brahms.  Even some of the Chopin Marches or Impromptus - ANYTHING!!!  I was beginning to be bored out of my mind - and this is coming from someone who loves (and plays) classical and in particular, solo piano music.

But those who were left in the crowd (and it was still a good size) were, to my surprise, incredibly committed: no one heckled, no one even dared to breathe.  The cameras zoomed in on his fingers; his articulation was impeccable.  We marveled at the sheer speed at which he played some pieces, though I wondered if that tempo was actually necessary or in fact, detrimental to the interpretation.  However, you could hear a pin drop in the Roundhouse during the pianissimo sections and I was amazed at the audience's dedication.  I shamefully booked it as soon as he finished his first encore.  Don't get me wrong, I was very grateful for the tickets and the opportunity to see such a famous and sought-after musician perform.  It's clearly a once-in-a-lifetime chance and I enjoyed it for what it's worth.  But from a critical perspective, the performance as a whole just didn't work for that particular venue.  The layout and design of the concert seemed disconnected, confused and incongruous with the music that was actually being performed.

I don't want to say that Lang Lang resembled a fish out of water at The Roundhouse, because after all, he's practically a rock star - in some ways, it was the perfect place for him.  He has an energy and charisma about him that engages his audience, no matter the venue.  Yet, I know that should I see him again, I'd definitely rather be sitting in a concert hall.


In the meantime, entertain yourself with this video of 2Cellos performing Smooth Criminal - they're hot, no?:




Photo source

Some Say Being An Angloyankophile is a Lonely Business ...

... but it's not.  It used to be, but it's not now.  Now, I'm fortunate to have a social calendar that keeps me busy and one that I don't always - in fact, rarely, on the weekdays - share with John.  And I think that's important.  Because if you move to a new place with the intention of living there for at least more than a year, you need your own friends or else a cloud of resentment kicks in and that can make you very, very unhappy.  I know this because it happened to me and it took me a while to establish my own routines, my own social circle - my own life.

But while I'm thankful for all the new friends I've made here in the UK, both British and American, I also love and cherish the friends who visit me here in London - even if they're from far away.  And I especially love it when they bring gifts like these:

Adeline came down from Edinburgh to stay a couple of weekends ago now and we had a positively girly weekend, sampling almond croissants and pain au chocolat as big as our faces and then subsequently cleaning such faces at Space NK with complimentary Eve Lom and Clarisonic facials.  She brought me this amazing fairtrade organic green tea from Suki Tea (above left), some of the National Galleries of Scotland's famous shortbread (which is already gone, I'm afraid) and the adorable brooch (above right) to jazz up my jackets.  I'm holding out for this Bodum teapot to make my tea in.  Saturday evening may or may not have resulted in lots of red wine and memorizing the "best" phrases from The Chronicles of Riddick but we made up for our sins during Sunday morning yoga and a cleansing shopping trip on Regent Street.  I was sad as soon as she packed up to go.

But last Friday, I had the joy of meeting up with Anna and her mommy (Anna, of Le Petit Elephant fame) for cake and tea at Fortnum & Mason's The Parlour, where we were greeted upon arrival with mini ice cream cones the size of my pinkie finger for each of us.  We oohed, we ahhhed.  We discussed their recent Le Tour de Lakes - cycling tour of the Lake District - and caught up generally, as I hadn't seen Anna since our Mount Holyoke days in ... oh, 2005?  And then Anna pulled this out of her bag for me:

S'more making materials!  I told you I get the best presents.  Complete with "stackermallows" - marshmallows flat enough to make the perfect s'mores.  One whiff of the Honey Maid graham crackers and I was instantly transported back to kindergarten (we were allowed four graham cracker squares for a mid-afternoon snack).  I tried making the s'mores in my microwave, but the marshmallows exploded, sending me into a state of sweet, gooey mess - but they were still delicious.  John has yet to try a s'more, but I think he'll substitute the Hershey's with a block of Cadbury instead.  I'm no snob when it comes to s'mores, however, and though I prefer Cadbury to Hershey's you gotta make them the campfire way ... with the original.

I love my friends, old and new.  But mostly, I'm just grateful to have such amazing ones.

Tube Rave: Thank You, Holborn Station Staff - For Saving My Blackberry From An Untimely Death

Much worse things have happened, but at the very moment my Blackberry slipped from its cute Cath Kidston cover, bounced on the platform twice, and neatly slotted its fine self between the train and the platform onto the tracks below - I burst into tears.

I blame the novocaine.

You see, I'd just finished my seventh root canal appointment at the dentist and had gotten off the train at Holborn because an announcement was made that King's Cross was closed.  I didn't even WANT to get out at Holborn.  My jaw ached.  My teeth hurt.  My right cheek was semi-numb.  And I was hungry.

First, I walked away, convinced my phone was well and truly dead.  Then, when the train had passed, I peered over the edge and saw that it wasn't, in fact, dead, but rather forlornly lying face down on the side of the tracks nearest to the platform.  Feeling sorry for it and realizing it could be saved, I decided not to run the risk of being electrocuted or run over by a train and instead, tried the little "Information" button loudspeaker thingy on the platform.  A loud dial tone ensued by no one answered.  Everyone stared.

I raced up the stairs, up the two flights of escalators to Holborn station.  By now, I was REALLY hungry (and only John knows the extent of my hunger rage) and rather emotional - again.  I approached the nice looking ticket-checking/gate-guarding tube man and said, "Um, m-m-my phone ... it's ... I ... DROPPED IT. (hiccup hiccup)  I'm SO SORRY.  It's (hiccup) ON THE TRACKSSSSS," I cried.  "There, there!" he said, patting my arm.  "It's okay, do you remember where you dropped it?" he asked kindly.  "Um ... (hiccup) I was going eastbound ... towards King's Cross, on the Piccadilly line," I stuttered.  He spoke into his radio quickly, "A lady has dropped her phone on the tracks on Platform 4."  "Don't worry," he said as an aside to me. "It happens ALL the time.  And besides, it's only a phone!"  I hated myself for the tears, but again, I blamed the novocaine.

I watched the man as he helped numerous amounts of people find their way across London and cheerfully opened gates for people with heavy luggage or children.  I decided he was a Very Nice Person.

Then the Very Nice Person leaned over a few minutes later and said, "They've found your phone, but the station supervisor needs to stop a train before it enters onto the platform and retrieve it from the tracks."  I was pretty horrified.  I hadn't thought my stupid phone dropping incident would delay trains, if even momentarily.

The station supervisor emerged a few minutes afterward, waving my phone at me. "This yours?" he said sternly.  "Yes," I said gratefully.  "I'm so sorry!"  He wasn't amused.  "Now you need to pay up £20 because I had to stop a train to get it and it was a massive inconvenience."  "Really?" I asked.  "Um, YES, REALLY," he said.  "Okay, that's fine," I said, reaching for my wallet.  He burst out laughing and slapped his thigh.  "I love it, you really believed me!" he said, wiping his eyes.  "I'm so sorry, I feel really bad and I'm very sorry for the inconvenience," I said.  "Look," he said. "You're not the first one and you're not the last.  So please don't feel bad.  It happens all the time.  Don't feel bad."

I felt pretty bad.

So I did what John finds extremely embarrassing: I popped over to Costa coffee and bought two bags of mini muffins, proceeded to run behind the station supervisor and waved the muffins at him over the gate.  He pretty much looked at me like I was crazy.  "Please take these!" I shouted as tourists stared at the mad woman with mascara-tracks down her face waving bags of mini muffins.  "You shouldn't have done that, you know," he said.  "You really shouldn't have bothered."  "I know, but I wanted to thank you for being so nice and for helping me, so please give the other bag to the other man who helped me - thank you!" I babbled.  He took the muffins, thanked me, and I scurried away to call John and tell him about my adventure.

The end.

Cake Time Is Back!

Followers of this blog will know that I used to bake - a lot - and I chronicled my baking adventures in a series of posts called "It's Cake Time!" (see my proudest accomplishment here).  It was kind of like therapy but with the added plus of weight gain, since John would demand request I make things like, oh, an entire carrot cake and subsequently eat, oh, one slice, leaving me with carrot cake for the rest of the week to either consume myself or fob off to anyone who'd take it.  

My excuse was that we had an excellent oven in our Maida Vale flat - one that made cakes rise perfectly.  I also had at my disposal several amazing pieces of Circulon bakeware that John bought me for my birthday last year, so, left to my own devices with a few sticks of butter, caster sugar and self-raising flour, I made many variations of cakes in sandwich, loaf, and cupcake form for us to enjoy.

Since we moved to Angel, however, I hadn't baked until this weekend.  I could tell the oven was sub-par to the one we had before and I didn't want any baking disasters - because if there were ANY baking disasters, I'd swear off baking forever.  I have low confidence in my cooking and baking abilities.

But when we were invited over to Tom and Dani's for a picnic on Sunday and instructed to "bring dessert", I thought it'd be the perfect opportunity to make some cupcakes ... complete with Barbie sprinkles, of course:

And chocolate icing for the boys, for fear they'd be turned off by the Barbie sprinkles (I'm not kidding - the sprinkles were branded):

I didn't go too crazy with my first batch of cakes in the new flat, so I used a simple sponge cake recipe ... but having had an overall success with these, I'll be venturing into carrot and chocolate cake territory soon.  

*Pink Peep courtesy of A Wife Called Chuck