UP THE WORKERS

Lily of the Valley for 1st May

It is fitting that I should be setting off on Labour Day to London, the birthplace of trade unionism. (It is also the birthplace of Tarquin La Folle who is celebrating his xxth birthday, which is the real reason I'm going. And because that's where the BA flight to Los Angeles leaves from on Monday). By the time I come back, the UK will probably have a different government. I shall be following events closely from Beverly Hills, over a pina colada.



In California, my next port of call, Cesar Chavez is an unlikely hero. He was a Mexican immigrant who founded the National Farm Workers Association which fought against exploitation of agricultural workers. He has streets, squares, plazas and malls named after him all over California. His birthday is a state holiday. There is a Cesar Chavez Foundation, a National Chavez Center, and the US Postal Service put his head on a stamp in 2003. In America, land of the free market - quite astonishing. Even the right-wing Huffington Post website disapproves of attempts in Arizona to stifle the importance of Chavez in American history books. Rigid European perceptions of right and left are turned upside-down in America.


Even more than a chance encounter with the dashing young Mayor of San Francisco, Gavin Newsom - Ooh, young MAAAAAN!! - I am hoping for an invitation to kaffee und apfelstrudel with the Governator. Arnie is another immigrant who has succeeded. Whatever your preconceptions about America, you have to hand it to them. It's the land where dreams can come true and immigrants can make a contribution. President Obama, yet another example, would have had Mrs Gillian Bigot eating from his hand.

Mrs Bigot attracted huge media interest and allegedly made "brown toast" of the Prime Minister with the deceptively clever question "Where are all these East Europeans flocking from?". Eastern Europe, as we know, is such a vile and horrible place that Barnsley, Stoke, Goole, Bacup (sorry Pat!) or Redcar are like a paradise to these usurpers. The snow-capped mountains of Droitwich, the pristine rivers of Hull, the rolling meadows of Glasgow are like a magnet to the marauding hordes of uneducated Ostrogoths, Visigoths and Gadjo Dilos intent on rape, pillage and diddling stalwart natives Eddie Yates and Wayne Slobb out of their housing benefit.

America is such a big and generous country it can even afford to take in immigrants like these:

THIS IS GOODBYE ... MAYBE

Until we meet again, some sunny day ....

I'm very disappointed with the small number of comments I've been getting lately. I might go into a slough of despond. Or just to Slough. And from there on to Los Angeles, San Francisco, New Mexico and Las Vegas. I shall be gone for three weeks. I've got a worrying feeling I'm really going to love Las Vegas. I might never return.

Then you'll be sorry.

So farewell, then, the blogosphere.
"I'm taking a break from blogging,
I'll be back in the spring."
That was your catchphrase.
And now, perhaps, I will.

(e.j. wayne-thribb, 54⅞)

Oooh, young maaaaan

Did you see the debate yesterday? I rather like little Nicky Clogg (he's half Dutch). He's a former Eurocrat, so he knows how to play the Brussels game. He speaks five languages! Fancy. Oh go on, take a gamble .... how much worse can it get? He's no Obama, but he is making all the right noises. And with the Barry White of economics as his right hand man, they make a dream team.

The Cable Guy

THE EARTH VOMITS

The volcanic cloud passed over Belgium yesterday. Today all is blue overhead but still delightfully clear of aircraft for the time being. Everyone is grounded - Gonzo was doing my head in yesterday, trying to get to Barcelona but any means possible. Escape by train through France was impossible due to the French train strike. Every hire car in Brussels was taken, except one solitary Polo for which Avis wanted 1,400 euros for 24 hours with a dropoff in Barcelona.

"Un taxi! Cuanto cuesta un taxi por Barcelona?" he shouted, panicking. I did a quick calculation on a piece of paper and held it up to him. His face crumpled, and he held his head in his hands. "Senora Gonzo no will be feliz."

"Oh I wouldn't bet on that," I replied airily. I think the problem was more likely that Senora Gonzo would not be available to provide a clean set of clothes. As a fully paid up member of the hair-tossing, foot-stamping flamenco posse, I couldn't quite remember which handbag I'd left my compassion in. I wrote the address of C&A on a piece of paper and wished him a bon weekend as I slammed the door shut.

A volcano! Who'd have thought it, here in Europe. But there are many volcanoes here, mostly extinct, but some dormant and occasionally active - Southern Italy has its fair share - Etna, Stromboli and Vesuvius to name but three - the Canary Islands is made of volcanic rock, as are most of the Greek islands, and then of course there's Iceland. The Auvergne is a totally volcanic region, and the home of Vulcania, a permanent exhibition on volcanoes and vulcanology. Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh is an extinct volcano. My friend, Belgian Baroness Ermintrude de Pétasse de Médeux (Belgian aristos always like to have two 'particules' to remind the French that they, at least, still have a monarchy), is a keen amateur vulcanologist, and returned from Hawaii last year, where she had walked on the crust of molten magma on the slopes of Kilauea, gleefully waving her blackened shoes which were still smoking. Vulcanologist Haroun Tazieff often figures in the growing list of famous Belgians, although he was Polish born and had French nationality, on the grounds that he lived in Belgium for a number of years. On that basis, I should also be considered a famous Belgian.

Famous but not really Belgian Haroun Tazieff

When I was a child I had a book by an American writer called Laura Lee Hope who wrote a series of adventures featuring four siblings, comprising two sets of twins. A sort of famous four with a twist. This one was "The Bobbsey Twins in Volcano Land" and as a result I knew about Kilauea when I was 7 or 8, as well as about Mauna Loa, the other major volcano on the Hawaiian islands, and learned a few other Hawaiian words such as a luau (a pit barbecue), a muu-muu (kind of a loose dress), and a lei (flower garland). Even at 8 I was a polyglot!


There has been much worrying of late about the number of earthquakes, tsunamis and volcanic eruptions, and Christian fundamentalists are muttering about the end of days and preparing for the Rapture. But there are thousands of earthquakes every day of the year. This clever website shows you where the latest ones are, how strong they were and how deep down they occurred. You can even see if there's been one in the past 24 hours. Some are so small they can't even be felt. The earth is constantly fidgeting, scratching herself, burping and farting. Every now and again she feels the need to dribble or even throw up. She's an old lady, we must forgive her her filthy habits.

KITCHEN DEVIL AND DOMESTIC GODDESS

Dhruv Baker - winner of MasterChef 2010

Yet another week spent glued to the box. Between the return of Gene Hunt in Ashes to Ashes, the high drama in Stenders, and the heartstopping suspense of the MasterChef finals, I hardly even noticed the announcement of the general election date. I must say, the daunting task of cooking a famous chef's signature dish and then serving it to him makes waterboarding look like a theme park attraction.

Chefs have a rigid sense of hierarchy which is almost shocking in this democratic age. The title of Chef is a licence to shout and throw things in the manner of a tyrant such as Naomi Campbell (cf. Gordon Ramsay), but while you are working your way up the ranks you must be a lowly serf and a slave, the only thing you are allowed to shout is "Oui Chef!". The smirks of those who had made it through Alain Ducasse's kitchen to become little Hitlers in their own restaurants were proof enough.

It was less than edifying to see how these trainee Caudillos fawned and simpered when in the presence of so-called "royalty" - honestly, the Maharajah of Jodhpur probably got paid for hosting the show. One cannot grant third-world monarchs the same deference as European royalty. The Asantehene of Ghana, who is the paramount chief of all the Ashanti people, studied at a Polytechnic and once worked for Hendon council.

The Paramount Chief of the Ashanti

I am not a bad cook, although I can't be doing with "jus", "reductions", "toiles" and "timbales" and all that fiddly stuff. That's what we pay to go to restaurants for, isn't it? And where is one supposed to buy liquid nitrogen anyway? I'm a not bad everyday cook - I love my wok, or anything that will accept to be shoved in the oven to cook itself. I do a pretty good quiche, if I say so myself. My real forte is throwing together whatever is in the fridge into something edible. I never thought I'd say this, but I rather miss Harold's demanding ways. The pressure of his appetite often spurred me to creativity. I once had to make a dessert out of nothing, and came up with the most delicious apple pancakes flambeed in calvados. Necessity is the mother of invention.

As befits an occasional food writer, I am always on the lookout for new ideas but my native frugality always holds me back, when I see a tempting prepared dish in M&S I always reflect that I could make it myself for half the price. I rarely do, though. My signature dish is couscous royale, which is as easy as pie. Easier, to be honest. For the past few years I have made a festive invitation couscous on New Year's Day, to which you are most welcome next January 1st if you are in the neighbourhood.



I have recently taken to popping into the Chinese supermarket near my office on a Friday afternoon and picking up a bag of frozen dim sum, which I then bung in the bamboo steamer and Ming's your uncle. I'm such a regular customer I now greet the manager with a cheery "Ni hao!". "Bonjour Madame" he replies, impassively.

I am looking forward to tasting some new dishes in America. Only three weeks to go! Smokin' Squaw McGraw threatens to feed me her "kick-ass" chilli and some sort of meat in chocolate sauce. And we all know how awful American chocolate is. It will be a chance to test out Billy Connolly's theory of Mexican food - that it's all the same dish, just folded differently. The manufacturers of these"wraps" I bought recently would seem to agree:

Burritos, tacos, tortillas, fajitas, enchiladas, quesadillas .... just keep your hands off my chimichanga. And a dollop of potato salad on the side ....

HOT CROSS BUNNY

I am a bit late with my Easter posting, but it's been a helluva week. Back from Paris Monday morning and nose straight to the grindstone. The leader of the Spanish Lyric Orchestra of Brussels, Don Gonzago de Sol y Sombra, known to the troops as Gonzo, has had me stamping, kicking, flouncing, tossing my hair and clicking my castanets. Quite the hot cross bunny, I was. And I only work in the back office. He is of the old school Mediterranean macho breed, requiring both hands holding, which means he has to hold the baton between his knees. His French is poor and his English non-existent. My Spanish has been picked up along the road, between hanging out with South American dissidents in Geneva and the occasional vacaciones. Hence my usual morning greeting is "Venceremos! Vamos a la playa" which tends to make him even more confused than he is already.

Tango dancers by Botero

Back in Paris, Vi and Desmond had their charming little granddaughters Hermione and Hepzibah out for the weekend, so I took them all out for a lovely Lebanese meal at Phénicia. It's posh Leb, with tablecloths, Fairouz warbling discreetly in the background and subdued lighting, none of your doner kebabs and belly dancers wobbling their navels in your face. Vi and I clinked kir royales and Desmond woke up long enough to order a pastis, before demolishing a selection of mezze, which if I remember correctly, consisted of kebbe (lemon shaped meatballs with a crunchy coating), stufffed vine leaves, spicy sausage, tabboulé and Lebanese flat bread. The Hornblowers have healthy appetites, and even the children attacked a main course. I had skewered lamb, which was tender and perfectly cooked - just pink inside. The wine was Lebanese Chateau Musar and surprisingly pleasant.

Children get bored easily, so I lent Hepzibah my camera to keep her quiet. She took some rather good pictures of the food:

Kebbe by Hepzibah Hornblower

but being a typical 9-year-old, found the Botero painting on the wall hilarious. It's a bit out of focus. Can you see which part of the painting it is, boys and girls?

Hepzibah found the "bot" in Botero

Travel broadens the mind, they say. I often return from Paris with some new musical discovery, since my friends there are into music big time and always manage to introduce me to something new. I was pleased with myself to find they were all into Beirut, who I found all by myself and brought to your attention last year. My latest musical discoveries are Scousers The Coral, Corsican-born singer-songwriter Bertrand Burgalat, and AIR, a smooth electrojazzy duo who had a hit a few years back with "Cherry Blossom Girl". You may be more down wiv de kids than moi, so these bands may already be known to you, but I was delighted to find that even my French colleagues had not heard of Bertrand Burgalat. While we were all having a Sunday afternoon siesta, Vi soothed us with recordings of the talented Regina Spektor and An Electronic Tribute to Abba, which was not half as corny as the original.

Happy Easter to all, and remember, Jesus died for you.