New pad

I have moved my blog to http://marktong.blogspot.com/ . Actually, I have done that for some time now. The new blog is divided into four main sections, the quality and post volume of each depend, obviously, on my prevailing mood and interest of the hour. Currently, “music and opera” dominates:

1. China

2. Music and Opera

3. Food

4. Travel

Please check my new pad now, and often!

Revolutionary Poetry: 长征组歌

2009 marks the 60th anniversary of the founding of the People’s Republic of China. Accordingly, this year’s art and cultural scene in Beijing has been inundated with activities with an unmistakably revolutionary theme. One such activity is the revival of the monumental 长征组歌, a Liederkreis that poetically draws up the poignant history of the Chinese Red Army’s Long March between 1934 and 1936.

The cycle starts with Bidding Farewell (告别), a serious number portraying the scene where marchers parted with their families to fight for a greater cause. In the middle of the cycle, Traversing the Snow Mountains and Grasslands (过雪山草地) depicts the great difficulty when the marchers scaled the rugged mountains in the brutal continental winter. The cycle ends with a predictably upbeat but still stunningly rapturous finale, set at Gansu’s Huining (甘肃会宁), where the choir tutti praises Chairman Mao and the Communist Party. This struggle-to-victory story flow is understandably similar to that of Flower Girl, the DPRK revolutionary opera that I attended and wrote about last year.

In keeping with tradition, the musicians wear red army uniforms (红军服) and straw sandals during the performance of the cycle. The evening’s performance also includes recitals of a few revolutionary classics, including Our Soldiers (咱当兵的人; video) and Motherland (祖国慈祥的母亲; video).

As someone who does not regularly tune into CCTV’s entertainment programming that caters to the patriotic crowd, I must confess I am not at all familiar with revolutionary music — the genre. I am attracted to and intrigued by last night’s performance not least because the performance is supposedly a defining moment in this year’s gargantuan slate of anniversary activities, but because I like to wean on and study more about this patriotic culture that grows beyond what is parochially required of all citizens in China. After all, the tickets are not cheap; and no one (at least for people like me) is forced to attend the concert. Still, judging by the way the audience connects with the music and its stars, it is obvious to me that: (1) many audience members are intimately familiar with the music’s genre and can readily recite most of the lyrics by memory; and (2) some of these stars, including Liu Bin (刘斌; bio, in Chinese) and Geng Lianfeng (耿莲凤; bio, in Chinese), are genuine heavyweights in the genre of revolutionary music, much like Pavarotti and Sutherland in opera. They draw a rabid fan following – as evidenced by fans’ enthusiastic reception upon their entrance on stage. They issue their own CDs (revolutionary music usually has its separate section at CD shops all over Beijing), run their music troupes, write new music (咱当兵的人, which was used by President Jiang Zemin to inspect the line during 1999’s military parade, was written by Liu Bin) and star regularly in CCTV’s plethora of entertainment programming. This culture is something that I am only recently introduced to; in fact, I am eager to find out if this culture exists all across China, or only in the unabashedly patriotic fishbowl of Beijing.

I was grateful to find one friend willing to attend this amazing performance with me. Our attendance was quite improbable: considering that most of these sing-along attendees — some in their uniforms — were in their 50s or 60s, we were conspicuous by virtue of our relatively young age. In the end however, we, or at least I, realized that well-written lyrics and melodic tunes find no bounds in affecting the audience and bringing the audience back for a brief ride back to history’s past.

A Train ride home, during China’s Great Migration

Words cannot begin to describe how gleeful I am to have spent an entire day traveling by train from Beijing to Hong Kong, four days before the Chinese new year, to partake in the annual homecoming ritual for migrant workers. These few days before the Chinese new year mark the annual period (春运) during which migrant workers in job-rich coastal cities like Beijing bring their bounty home and share their faraway tales. To be sure, my family in Hong Kong hardly needs me to lavish them with largesse from the north, and, most certainly, my faraway tales, already piped a few times a week back to Hong Kong by way of cellular and electronic communications, are hardly so outrageously sodden with juicy bits as to command an in-person delivery.

But the presentation of a bounty and a tale is not the point. This annual period is also when migrant workers would go out of their way to find their way home, despite the all-impossible task of scoring a ticket when millions of other souls would try to do the exact same thing; despite the fact that China’s domestic train system would be stretched way beyond its designed capacity; and despite the fact that a good portion of this migrating population would actually travel without an assigned seat, be left standing in the train car for hours upon hours before legs would buckle and knees yield, only to still manage to drag their carcasses home and then be awakened from the dead by the heroic cheers of their home crowd upon their return. The point: I want to participate and immerse myself in the migration process in order to fully understand what it means to survive the journey and find destination, where, allegedly, pompoms gyrate and firecrackers await for the hero returning from the capital city. A train ticket would buy me an immersive experience that my Dragonair ticket, bought a month ago, never would. Thus, three days before I were to fly back, I canceled my flight and opted instead to take a train — with a standing room ticket for the most honest, proletarian form of experience — from Beijing to Shenzhen. From there I would take the MTR home.

On the night of my departure, Beijing’s temperature dropped precipitously from mid single digits to negative teens, yielding a severe condition that was depicted, ever so creatively, as “colder’n a witch’s titty” by Kaiser Kuo, a friend in Beijing. Because I came to the train station prepared for a Siberian winter, I was happily surprised to find a train compartment filled with fuzzy warmth upon entry. While this warmth was partially attributable to the train’s adequate heating system, I suspected that the fuzziness was chiefly due to a combination of air-tight insulation and the sheer overcrowding in the train car. The train car in which I stayed, apparently designed for 120 sitting folks and another dozen or so stand-uppers, ended up engulfing, by my count, more than 200 homecoming souls. This insular body heat, together with the corresponding body odor and bad breath, was much of what I had to come to terms with on the way home. The standing room was jam packed with standers and littered with bounty bags. The compressed crowd reminded me of the Hong Kong MTR during the rush hours, but such comparison would end as soon as I reminded myself that I never had to stand in the MTR for 23 hours with neither a bed nor an assigned seat.

As soon as the train started to move, the first order of business, for those with standing room tickets, was to jostle for valuable space. Reclining surfaces for leaning onto, valuable; middle aisles, not. Since I didn’t act quickly enough, the only spot left for me to claim was between a six-foot tall man and a broad-shouldered college student; both, like me, were left standing in the middle aisle, with neither reclining surfaces to lean on nor enough space to fold ourselves in a more restful, genuflecting/squatting position.

The unintended intimacy with my two fellow passengers could have been very awkward had we not attempted to strike up some conversation – after all, parts of our bodies would occasionally touch each other for the ensuing 7 to 8 hours. The tall man has been working in Beijing for the past 7 years, first as a construction worker and now as a HVAC manager at a commercial building in the CBD area. The man, with an acutely chiseled countenance and a robust body frame, was at first terse in his conversation and overly protective of his privacy. But after half an hour or so, he warmed up enough to slowly reveal his usual loquacious self, and started talking incessantly about his work and life in Beijing. He beamed a clear partisan affection for Beijing, and was obviously very proud of what he had achieved while managing about in the capital city. He was excited about going back to his hometown, near Ganzhou (赣州), for the first time since he left for a job opportunity in Beijing, a heavy handling gig in the construction of one of those spaceship-looking buildings in Zhongguancun (中关村). He was also slightly perturbed by his prolonged absence – that he wouldn’t recognize his rapidly developing hometown. A cloud of anxiety also gathered around him as he explained how everyone back home had expectations of him, and how he, the supposedly vagabond shoes-wearing king of the hill Beijinger, would now not only recount his experience in the vast land’s capital but also spread and share the material wealth. That was the focal point of his anxiety: he confessed that while he brought dozens of MP3 players, cell phones and other electronics, he may still not have enough units to go around. More significantly, he may not have bought enough good-quality trappings to satisfy the mushrooming level of expectations. After all, in this age of ferocious advertising and relentless product placements, his folks back home are all too familiar with the iPods and iPhones of the world, and the knockoffs (山寨机) that he could afford and bought, considering the not-so-insignificant quantity needed, were anything but. His honest re-weaving of the social fabric of his more down-to-earth hometown vis-a-vis that of a rapidly cosmopolitan-izing coastal city like Beijing caught my full attention, but apparently didn’t impress the computer engineering college student well enough to keep him from leaving our conversation and submerging into his PSP screen.

Kneeling on the floor next to us was an affable couple, a husband and a wife who were both janitors at a military hospital in Beijing. They told us that they moved to Beijing to work at their current jobs a few years ago after getting recommended by a militarily-connected relative in Jian (吉安), their hometown. While reminiscing their previous journeys on the same train in the years gone by, they were initially perplexed by how this year’s bounty bags were plumper, and the fellow passengers’ wardrobe sharper, despite all indications of a recessing economy and a tougher road ahead, even for these richer coastal workers migrating home for the new year. They professed that, while their jobs were relatively secure, they could observe society’s economic anxiety by how people would spend at the grocery store or at the eateries – that the days of unruly big spending, noted the wife, were gone. Her theory was that these migrant workers had to channel the “all is good” message back home, lest their family back home be disgraced by a returnee not living up to full expectations. Her intuition was grim but, in my view, dead-on.

A few hours later, the sardine-like packing eased up slightly because, as if by osmosis, some folks eventually found less crowded cars to stand in. Some other passengers would arrive and disembark. It was by this time that we had more space to move around, untangle our legs, and either find fresh faces to chat with or just slip away into solitude.

As folks began to acknowledge each other’s presence and acquaint oneself with others, they loosened up not only their guard but their bounty bags too: a few took out fruits, biscuits, breads and noodles to share with fellow passengers, cultivating a season of warmth and good fellowship in an improvised pot-luck feast. The camaraderie of this working class underscored all the goodness of humanity, and presented a welcoming contrast to the foreign media’s oft-Hobbesian portrayal of an unruly Chinese populace…at least that portion of the population practicing ruthless entrepreneurship and those now embroiled in food safety, toy safety and corruption scandals.

After standing on my feet for 18 hours, I finally found myself an empty bench of seats vacated by a group of disembarking passengers. In the subsequent hours, I rolled myself into a deep coma, thoroughly exhausted but amazed by my two legs – a couple of workhorses that never let up and buckle. When the train finally stopped in Shenzhen, I felt renewed and profoundly enriched. The erstwhile day slipped by as if in a blink of a moment. Two hours later, and after a dinner with a friend gracious enough to cross the HK-China border to meet up with me at the Shenzhen train station, I reached home, glad to see my parents and happy to unload my bounty of a thoroughly sumptuous, uniquely relishing experience.

Dudamel conducts Bernstein and Mahler in Beijing

This past Friday evening, my friend and I attended a concert by Simón Bolívar National Youth Orchestra of Venezuela, conducted by the 27-year-old phenomenon, Gustavo Dudamel.

Gustavo Dudamel in Beijing.

Simón Bolívar and Dudamel performed two pieces: Bernstein’s West Side Story Symphonic Dances and, after intermission, Mahler’s First. The rendition of Bernstein’s West Side Story was, for me to put it mildly, less than enthusiastic. The outcome was stiff and uninspiring, and lacked the interplay between jubilance and mellowness, as well as the mischievous energy that was called upon by Bernstein. The performance was sourly disappointing, not least because I was eagerly looking forward to this performance after having read and heard so much about Dudamel, who was to become L.A. Phil’s youngest-ever music director starting next (2009-10) season, and the Orquesta Sinfónica Simón Bolívar, one of more than 200 youth orchestras in Venezuela funded by the Venezuelan government with the aim of uplifting poor neighborhoods and children who live in them through structured music education. Simón Bolívar, considered the apex of this wildly successful art and social experiment, has won accolades and praises not just for its narrative as a pioneering, broad-reaching social program but also for its symphonic prowess and artistic balance. Therefore, when we heard something that was more like my high school band than one with multiple DG recordings, at least I was so crestfallen that, before the Bernstein was half completed, my mind was drifting away, not into Manhattan’s west side as Dudamel probably had hoped, but to endless permutations of how to salvage this Friday evening if we were to skip after intermission.

After intermission, we went back nevertheless, with her Proustian reminder that, even if we had tried, we couldn’t have found a better place to be on a brutally cold Friday night in Beijing than in the embrace of the National Centre for Performing Arts. And boy, we were glad we didn’t bail! When the first sets of A chords came out, we knew right away that our concerns were unnecessary – they came out with plenty of force and confidence, projecting one-part of controlled balance and one-part of sensual opulence. The Gesellen passages were superbly rendered with meticulousness — evoking, rightfully so, memories of listening to the Wayfarer Lieder with Kubelik and Fischer-Dieskau, on which part of the first movement is based. The galore continued with a majestic entrance to the second movement, intermingled with a velvety, triple-time mid-passage. The third movement was spacious but not in any way dragging. The voicing of the Frère Jacques passage was smooth and gleeful, with a perfect relay of windwinds meandering through Mahler’s handcrafted dazzle. By the fourth movement, I was wondering how much, during the Bernstein, I had missed under the cloak of my suspicion and unwarranted anxiety. The fourth movement was perhaps the high point of the evening, with monstrous horns, plush strings, and a percussion section that made me feel inadequate.

Without a doubt, Dudamel’s baton managed to control all of that artistry with precision, raising Simón Bolívar’s spirit and energy as he saw fit. And mind you, Simón Bolívar was not an easy baby to control: it had about 150 musicians for the Mahler and over 200 for the Bernstein. By the time the Mahler was marching towards its grand finale, Dudamel was at his best, unleashing a galloping orchestral splendor filled with dramatic outbursts, ending the evening with a feeling of finality and authority. I have always been a huge fan of Mahler, but always in a subdued, measured kind of way. But the way I reacted to Dudamel’s Mahler was alien to me — it was warm, emotional, and fulfilling. Toasting to that, this Mahler by Simón Bolívar and Dudamel was as good as any Mahler’s First I have heard.

White Castle casserole

White Castle sliders are heavenly. So is anything oven-baked, as I’ve zestfully attempted many times before, with bacon, cheese and eggs (like a bacon quiche). But I haven’t been so ridiculous and comical as to try to combine the two. But now that someone has made a casserole with White Castle sliders with bacon and cheese in a quiche-like bake –with great success I must add — I think I may just be inspired enough to give it a try soon…

Serious faux pas at Let’s Burger

I have yet another chance to revisit Let’s Burger, the burger joint inside The Village at Sanlitun. The food was, as I expected, quite good — I had an order of its crispy fries and a grilled chicken salad — the latter I actually found to be quite fantastic. The smoky grilled chicken was augmented with what I believe to be a welcoming honey glaze, and was roughly cut and served over a bed of beautiful greens. The greens were fresh and tossed with just the right amount of sweet Russian dressing. At less than forty yuan, it was a steal.

Food experience aside, I witnessed two horrifying incidents inside the open kitchen that would likely kill any desire to go back. I sat at the Robuchon-like dining bar, which had a full and uninhibited view of the kitchen area; I was sat directly opposite the washing station. This area was between a bun toasting station and the pantry, where coffee was brewed and wines poured. This was also the area where I witnessed both faux pas of the evening. The person responsible for toasting all the hamburger buns was standing on the opposite side of the dining bar, just half a meter to my left. He was very good at his job — he would diligently take out the buns from the plastic wrapper (four buns in a wrapper), meticulously place the buns in their upright positions and carefully slice open the buns, and feed the bun into the conveyor-belt toaster. And that was all that he needed to do all night: slice the buns, place them onto toaster, and hand off the toasted bun to the hamburger dresser. He was so good at his routine that each repetition was nearly identical to the last, so mechanical and perfectly executed as to leave no room for error or criticism. That was the case until, of course, when disaster struck: when he was opening one of the plastic wrappers, some mysterious force was exerted out of nowhere, in such a disastrous direction that one of the buns, instead of staying inside the wrapper or on the cutting table, decided to roll over and into the washing liquid in the sink, at the washing station nearby. It was obvious that he was verily horrified by the unscripted event, but with no time for second thoughts whatsoever, he picked up the bun from the sink and placed it right back on the slicing table. I couldn’t tell if it was contaminated with detergent, but by then its top was visibly wet, as evidenced by the wet gloss on top of that naughty bun, as juxtaposed against the three others from the same wrapper that had no such wet gloss. Just as I was hoping that he would give a second thought and decide to throw the bun away, he picked up his knife, and after slicing open the bun, quickly put the bun into the toaster. With the disaster seemingly evaporating into thin air (and the fouled wetness toasting away) and truth that only he and I would know, he briefly looked up, and most certainly had to find my bewildered eyes fixated on his! He looked away, as if nothing happened, and less a minute later, the bun that had earlier found itself touching the washing liquid in the sink was getting bused to the diner at the other side of the restaurant.

Another incident happened a few minutes later, when a tournant was cutting carrots right in front of me. He was also very good at his job…holding and using the knife properly, and making mechanical cuts so precise that, had anyone seen the final result without looking at the process, would have concluded that it was the work of an industrial mandoline. But human mandolines made mistakes: a piece of carrot would eventually fall onto the ground. Like any other diner, I hoped that he would pick up and throw away that fallen piece of vegetable –which he did. Like any other diner, I was also hoping that he would then go about to wash his hands before going back to his station to work on his vegetables –and horrors! his hands were, merely seconds after touching the floor and with no side trip to the tap, now fiddling with other pieces of vegetables. What would happen if those vegetables were not slated for cooking at all but were tossed in a salad?

After these two incidents I could bear to see no more. I promptly finished my meal and left. I am sure many kitchens are like that (I have, to be quite honest, witnessed a few), but this is the first time that I have seen a serious kitchen offense (two, no less) played out, without redress, in an open kitchen. When the proprietor decides to open the kitchen, the reason has to be simple: to key the diners in for a show. It’s supposed to be a window to a scripted fairy tale, and not supposed to be a window to the reality of commercial cooking. As a gut check, we all know that live shows would, from time to time, find themselves in an unscripted situation, but any reasonably good director would have a scripted solution to an unscripted situation — how about: (a) throw away any dirty food, and (b) wash hands after having touched, or even the remote possibility of being perceived to have touched, something dirty? I am prepared to see the dark side if I demand to walk into a closeted kitchen, but I am not prepared to see what I don’t want to see if the open kitchen is there for all to see. And when disaster happens, the staff should well know how to go to Plan B. But there was no Plan B; there was only Plan A. Let’s Burger still has good food, especially its crispy fries, an outstanding selection of potato dips, a juicy cheeseburger to die for and an excellent grilled chicken salad I mentioned earlier in this post. But for all its greatness, the massive offenses that I witnessed first hand would give me serious second thoughts before I dare to ever venture inside again.

Table 1280

I haven’t given much thought on museum dining, but after having recently checked out Table 1280 at the High Museum of Art in Atlanta, Georgia, I have found a renewed interest on this sub-genre. Table 1280 serves up elegant, contemporary American cuisine in a hip, contemporary setting. Designed by Renzo Piano, the restaurant has comfortable seating, plenty of sunlight cozying up the interior space through ceiling-to-floor windows, and a precision-meets-elegance aura that fits snugly inside the Richard Meier-designed Museum.

1280 Burger, with Grafton Cheddar, bacon, and steak fries, at Table 1280.

The burger came perfectly cooked to my requirements and laid out in the same sort of geometric elegance that befalls Meier’s architecture. Sitting right by the ultra-wide windows, I had an unobstructed view of the High’s interior courtyard, and could feel the nurturing, warm hands of the late-autumn sun. My seat was so comfortable that I almost forgot I had a couple of important exhibits to catch (treasures from not only the Louvre but also the V&A).

Due to a tight traveling schedule, I wasn’t able to check out Table 1280’s elegant bar, which seems to offer an impressive wine list and a hideout for spending time with friends. Nevertheless, I was verily impressed by its delicious food, comfortable environment, and the way in which Piano’s inrerior blends perfectly with Meier’s exteriors. For any one of those reasons above, I would readily recommend Table 1280. But for all of those reasons, I would even rank Table 1280 on par with some of the great museum dining establishments I’ve come to love: Seventeen Seventeen, the superior restaurant inside the Dallas Museum of Art; the easy-going Pentimento at the LACMA in Los Angeles; the jaw-droppingly pompous but undeniably impressive The Modern at New York’s MOMA; and amazingly hard-to-book but cozy Map Cafe inside the Museum of pre-Colombian Art in Cusco, Peru. Perhaps I’ll do a post on these restaurants one day.

Burgers in Korea

As I research more about burgers, I found this awesome post on burgers in Korea by Daniel Gray, the man behind Seoul Eats, a great blog for chowhounds in search for a good plate in Korea. Don’t miss the post and the blog!

In search of the best burger in Beijing

A mundane burger often reminds me of those years when I lived in America, when I often had to subsist on mass-produced burgers that I’d imagine tasted like dirty socks soaked in sewage-diluted ketchup. A great burger, however, reminds me of the good times I’ve had, mainly in two places: Texas, and California. Texas’ burgers are memorable because the beef is always fresh and flavorful, and often charcoal-grilled with cracking mesquite wood that gives an additional layer of sweetness. Californian burgers are great because they dare to be inventive: new ingredients (e.g. organic greens), new sauces (e.g. sweet aioli, jalapeño-flavored salsa), and new ways of ordering (e.g. secret menu, at In-N-Out).

The Mission

Burger is not something that pops into my mind when I talk about my foodie experience in Beijing. While many Beijing hotels have coffee shops that can offer a decent burger, albeit at exorbitant prices, I have yet to find, until now, a burger joint that I could confidently recommend to others. Hooters, Durty Nellie’s and Paddy O’Shea’s serve up good burgers as pub grubs, but I recommend those places with reasons that are far more important than, say, to get a half-decent burger. Therefore, I decided to undertake a mission to find the best burger, as I know it, in a town better known for roast ducks wrapped with steamed pancakes than beef patty on a bun — with one additional requirement: that any restaurant’s burger must be the #1 reason why I, or anyone to whom I pass on my recommendation, would want to go to that restaurant. Therefore, places like Durty Nellie’s and Outback Steakhouse won’t count. With some input from some well-fed Beijingers, I tried out twelve burger joints in a little under five weeks, and came up with four good recommendations, below.

The Taste Test

Tim’s Texas BBQ (Guanghua Road)

Tim’s offers an all-American Border burger laden with bacon, cheese, jalapeños. The beef patty was supremely grilled with a dense, robust flavor. The bacon had a nice, smoky nose and a chewy texture. The winning ingredient was the pungent jalapeños, which nicely cut into the excess fat of the beef and the bacon and provided that extra zing. Tim’s also serves up a superb chopped beef brisket sandwich, which by itself is worthy of a separate visit (or, if self-indulgence shall be forgiven, of a same-visit, side-by-side burger-sandwich face/off).

Exploit: one Border burger, one frozen margarita: ￥80.

One East on Third (Hilton Hotel Beijing)

With foie gras, black truffles and Waygu beef, the Waygu burger oozed more pomp and circumstance than cheeses and mushroom juices. It was tough for me not to feel a little pugnacious after shelling out ￥325 just so that I got to feel like an aristocratic jackass for half an hour. Nevertheless, I have to admit that, strictly in terms of taste, the burger was actually more than just a garbled pile of dollar signs; I would freely admit that it was not too far away from the majestic double truffle burger royale that I had at Daniel Boulud’s joint in New York two years ago.

Exploit: one Waygu burger, one glass of Californian red wine, one expresso: ￥420.

Let’s Burger (The Village at Sanlitun)

This is a straight-up, burger-only joint that serves up some juicy patties in a bistro environment. My order: an Australian double burger with six ounces (by my estimate) of ground sirloin. The Australian was amply dressed with lettuce, tomatoes, two fat slices of bacon, and a fried egg. I felt like my life was ticking away as the burger was being devoured. The only thing that kept me from putting the burger down and calling it quits was the devil in me, reminding me that if my blood vessels were to clot and if I were to drop dead on the spot, I would still die a very, very happy man. On my first visit, the patties were a little disappointing because they were overcooked, bland, and devoid of beefy flavors, but on my second visit (revisiting the exact same order), the patties came to life with all the beefy aromatics and succulent juices. The fries were hand-cut and well-fried, with a crunchy shell and a soft, starchy body. A winning feature at this joint was the impressive array of dipping sauces (over ten of them!), including two that I would recommend in a heartbeat (if I still have one): a creamy remoulade and a flavorful wasabi mayonnaise.

Twice exploited: The Australian, one order of hand-cut fries, one glass of house red: ￥150 per exploit.

25 Degrees (Hotel G)

Named after the temperature (in Celsius) between a raw and a well-done burger,  25 Degrees provides the diner an art-meets-science flavor to the burger experience. One can design and build one’s own burger with dozens of a la carte toppings to choose from, or pick from three excellent preset choices. My choice on my first visit (preset #1) was a ground-sirloin burger dressed with carmelized onions, arugula salad, thousand island dressing and a wedge of Gorgonzola cheese –this combination reminds me of Father’s Office burger in Santa Monica, California, which has a nearly verbatim rendition, except the bun: Father’s Office uses a fluffy and long French baguette, while 25 Degrees uses a round, wheat/rye bun. This resemblance of taste, however, is not entirely accidental, as 25 Degrees is an aspiring burger concept originated in Los Angeles, a stone’s throw away from Father’s Office. In any case, 25 Degrees’ burger was a protein-carb-veg juggernaut with a good balance of flavor (juicily beefy but not oily), taste (the Gorgonzola danced merrily with the caramelized onion), and texture (the crispiness of the arugula salad jazzed perfectly with the softness of the onions and the chewiness of the beef). Like the original joint in Hollywood, the lettuces, tomatoes and sliced pickles were served on the side and readily available for the truly ambitious table-side burger engineers. The French fries were generously sprinkled with sea salt and thyme, and arrived at the table crispy and piping hot.

I got to build my own burger on my second visit: one identical to preset #1 except that I chose Gruyère over Gorgonzola. The result was equally impressive, and the taste was not materially discernible from the original in Hollywood. I mean, why mess with the battle-tested recipe when the original is already working brilliantly well? I also got to check out the wine list, which in my opinion was slightly excessive (in price) for a burger joint but nevertheless impressive given its geographical and varietal depth.

Twice exploited: one preset #1: ￥175; one build-my-own burger, one half-bottle of red wine (shared with two other friends): ￥180.

Conclusion

25 Degrees. Taste notwithstanding, 25 Degrees wins the ambiance test too. It has a hip but unassuming decor, and superior music. By contrast, the bistro-style dining and Henry Mancini-esque music at Let’s Burger are just a tad too formal. With a knowledgeable staff and attentive service, 25 Degrees also has the best service among the final four.

With pac’s Strictly 4 My N.I.G.G.A.Z. album playing in the background, my mind drifted, momentarily, back to the yesteryear when, after a burger at the original 25 Degrees, I would drive on Hollywood Blvd., with my windows rolled down, Cali. rap music blaring from the Cadillac in front and multiple Louboutin clogs clicking away on the sidewalk. That reconnection to the past, attentive but unobtrusive service, and plain ol’ good food are the reasons why 25 Degrees has my vote for the best burger in Beijing.

On Liu Xiang’s pull-out…why didn’t he just walk towards the finish line?

The most important and obvious news today is that Liu Xiang has pulled out of 110m hurdles, meaning that the most anticipated moment in this Beijing Olympics — a showdown between the national hero and Dayron Robles of Cuba — will not transpire.

Liu Xiang did and will continue to inspire millions of young athletes in China, and many around the world. His performance in Athens was a watershed moment in Asian sports history, not least because he delivered on his promise that Asians can beat the best sprinters in the world.

Liu Xiang will always have his place in Chinese sports history, but by comparison, today’s episode makes Li Ning’s (李寧) 1988 appearance even more special and endearing. By the time the Seoul Games began, Li was way past his prime. Li sustained an ankle injury but he endured Seoul because China gymnastics had no up-and-comers (接班人) at that time. He may have fallen, but he got up, finished his routines, and smiled for the whole world to see. He wasn’t made any less of a champion by falling, only more so because he got back up, because he smiled with dignity. In that respect, Li Ning is the true hero of the people (人民英雄). Nobody needs to finish first all the time; it is the spirit that matters.

I believe in what Liu Xiang’s coach, Sun Haiping, said when he announced on TV that Liu Xiang’s injury was serious. But I also wonder, if it were all that serious, why couldn’t Liu just skip the race, return to the stadium in street clothing and address the crowd regarding his health condition? If Liu felt that he was fit enough to be present at the lanes, couldn’t he have at least walked to the finish line? I wish he did. Because that would have been a class act, just to cross the finish line even knowing that he had no hopes of winning. I wish he did, because tomorrow’s newspapers would have been adorned with this image: Liu Xiang crossing the finish line, despite having limped through the distance, with two fists in mid air, full showing that he would refuse to quit. That would have been the Olympic spirit. That would have been THE moment for the Games. That would have been the image that Li Ning conveyed to us back in 1988. Now, tomorrow’s newspapers would likely be plastered with Sun Haiping’s tear-soaked face and the dreadful image of Liu walking into the darkness of the stadium interior. No matter how anyone spun it, today’s episode was still a quitter’s act. Liu Xiang may still come back (though, by my judgment only, not likely), but his act today would have left an indelible mark in the psyche of Chinese people — the same kind of mark that, if you shall allow me, Li Ning could have left if he had fallen from the rings and, neither smiling nor bowing out with grace, walked straight to the changing room amidst spectators’ bewilderment and confusion.

I wish Liu Xiang could have walked to the finish line. He would not have delivered a winning time, but he would have delivered a lot more.