Means of production

Ever since leaving Britain there has been a hole in my heart, and that hole is in the shape of a fish finger sandwich.  Along with bread and butter pudding, it is undoubtedly my country's greatest contribution to world cuisine (so many to choose from!)  Yet its central ingredient, the aforementioned fish finger, is harder to find here than a decent cup of tea.

But today, by complete coincidence, one of the leaflets from Target that regularly chokes up our post box featured 50c off a packet of 'fish sticks'.  On an initial inspection of the postage-stamp-sized picture on the coupon, they seemed to resemble something not entirely dissimilar from the golden cuboids of loveliness I so miss.

An excited hour later, all the necessary ingredients were in my possession and Hannah let me into the kitchen to assemble my creation.  In these healthy times I opted to grill rather than fry, and I had to substitute a white hotdog bun for a fresh slice of Hovis.

After all my hard work it was time to bite into the gourmet dish.  Tears didn't quite fill my eyes - the quality was certainly below the standards of the sandwiches Mat would regularly serve for lunch back in Witton Gilbert.  Hannah speculated this was due to the sweetness of American bread rather than the fish sticks.  It was, however, close enough to encourage more experimentation, and I felt proud to ignite another small light of civilisation (with an 's') in this dark place.

Ingredient one.

Ingredient two.

Ingredient three.  Hey, it's the way you put them together that counts!

Hmmm...not entirely convinced.

Note the even distribution of the tomato sauce.  That takes practice.

Many fish gave small bits of themselves for my enjoyment.

Everything in position.

The slightly unconventional but acceptable addition of mayonnaise, in lieu of tartare sauce.

Fish finger sandwich and a fine Merlot.  And one satisfied customer.

Weekend away

We spent the weekend down in Monterey.  I didn't take many pics, mainly due to a lot of shocking rain, but here are a few.

The beach, up near Marina, where we stopped to pick up some drinks from the English Ales Brewery.  The service and the prices were certainly English. 

It was military appreciation at the Del Monte mall, and here is some of the entertainment on offer.  Which war did these ladies see?

Claire at brunch.

Without her, man is nothing

Long ago I was mistakenly the only man at a Haas Women in Leadership event.  History threatened to repeat itself tonight when I agreed to be Hannah's arm candy at the 9th Annual Women's Initiative Gala.  A lady from Chevron was the honorary chair so they'd sponsored two tables and, as usual, were offering free food to people who kindly agreed to fill seats.  Dress code was "business swanky", so I donned my one suit (good-for-weddings-and-funerals) and off we went to the Fairmont Hotel in SF.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief as soon as I spotted a few more males, but with 800 people attending we were certainly a tiny minority.  The organisers know their audience too, as the evening started with a massive shopping opportunity.  Women's Initiative runs business classes for lower-income women in the Bay Area, encouraging them to start small companies, gain economic independence, and boost the economy and the community.  Many graduates had stalls set up, selling everything from jewelry made from recycled materials to mini Peruvian empanadas.

Dinner was in the Grand Ballroom (of course) and the Chevron table hosted several graduates of the scheme.  I sat next to Andrea, who has just launched her own skincare business called Rebma Elyk and sold her first pot of cream that night.  And she could talk!  I also chatted to a portrait photographer, and a graphic designer who has just moved here from Sydney.  Dare I say it, but these 11-week evening classes seem to leave people somewhat more equipped to run their own company than a Haas MBA does...

Delicious food and wine kept coming while awards were given out.  As ever in this great country, it was firstly about the networking and secondly about money.  "Raise your hand if you're willing to write a cheque for $10,000 tonight," the chairwoman commanded in her speech.  Somebody did, but Hannah was unwilling to warm up the Chevron corporate credit card that much.  She contented herself with buying a box of chocolates and a pot of Andrea's hand cream.

Shopping under chandeliers.

Women are on the rise.  I've known that for a long time.

It's Christin Ayers, who's a lady off the telly!

Dessert.  Oh yes.

Hannah and Andrea complete their transaction.

First goodbye

Pete and Fini are moving to Chile in a few weeks, shortly after their baby's born.  Fini is somewhat unhappy that they aren't going to be in Argentina, but South America's basically one big country, isn't it?  I'm not sure what she's complaining about.

We decided to kick off the season of goodbye parties (one is never going to be enough for Fini, obviously) with a barbecue/asado in Walnut Creek.  Most of the usual suspects were here, and the weather added a nice British touch to the proceedings.  As barbecue usually means "black on the outside and frozen in the middle" on our side of the Atlantic, I left the grilling to Jack and Pete.

We had a full house overnight with both the Singers and the Murnanes staying chez Davies, and after a lot of nagging from Hannah Singer we went for a swim on Sunday.  It didn't last long - a few degrees lower and the water would have been solid.

The empanadas are rushed from our oven to the clubhouse.

A man and his grill.  Don't get in the way.

Pete prepares the tri-tip.  And as usual it was very tasty!

Noa enjoying time with Uncle Elad.

Shauli entertains.

Not long now.

Elise and the boy she always wanted.

Next morning, Elliot and Elise take on pancake duties.

An army marches on its stomach.

Then some of us took the plunge...

...while others were content to wait on the sidelines.

The Maya and David acrobatic troupe.  It would have been easier to balance if she wasn't shivering so much.

Warming up again afterwards.

The 34-year-old virgin

I'm amazed at how many "genuine" Americans have never visited The Cheesecake Factory.  A few weeks ago we were there with Allison (who I volunteer with).  She's a nutritionist, so has an excuse.  For me, every day is a vigilant battle not to eat avocado egg rolls followed by cheesecake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  With some boxed up for a late-night snack after.

So imagine my shock to learn that Jack, a true red-blooded American, who has even represented this country at war, had never visited.  That was something we could easily put right, so after being momentarily distracted by a stop at Pyramid Brewery ($1 off growler refills on a Friday) we arrived at C-Fac and skipped the 45 minute queue by grabbing a table at the bar.  Just one of the benefits of being a regular.  Although I was disappointed not to be greeted by name.

We leisurely worked our way through some margaritas and dirty martinis, and Jack enjoyed shepherd's pie (my Dad's favourite) before taking home a triptych of Key Lime, Caramel Pecan Turtle, and Adam's Peanut Butter Cup Fudge Ripple slices.  They disappeared without much delay when we got home, the walk having worked off at least 15 calories each.  Breakfast at Denny's tomorrow?

Picking from a menu this size is a serious business.

This is my Sean Connery impression.  It's better if you're there.

Jack vs Cheesecake, and there's only going to be one winner.

The gannets descend.

And the award goes to...

Chevron, that wonderful company that helps the community and does a little oil drilling on the side to make ends meet, won an East Bay Award for being the Best Corporate Citizen of 2011!  The East Bay Leadership Foundation holds these awards annually, and Chevron takes the coveted crown from last year's winner, Round Table Pizza.

In practice, this meant that Hannah and I were coerced into filling two seats at the Chevron table in exchange for (that's right!) free food and drink.  The event was actually nice and frou-frou, being black tie and in a local motor museum.  We dined next to Ferraris, Bugatis, and (most importantly) Jaguars.  The smell of oil and clutch fluid as we entered the hall made me feel rather homesick for our little MG Midget, whose parts are currently strewn across several UK garages, but alas the museum's collection did not include any of that particular model.

It was a particularly American gathering, which meant strangers talked to us!  After three minutes chatting with Robert (retired psychiatrist) and his wife he announced that they were so enjoying this conversation that they would love to spend more time with us, and proffered his business card.  "Really?" I thought.  "I would judge this interaction as nothing more than average."  But I am now comfortable with American professional insincerity, so thanked him warmly and expect never to hear from them again.

It was also quickly clear that this was a place where money talked.  As soon as I trotted out the "your government does not allow me to work" chestnut when asked what I did, people seemed to lose interest in me.  I had to prove that I was a charming, engaging, and intelligent individual before I'd win them back.  So I inevitably spent a lot of time looking at cars, silently, alone.

The meal was great, catered for by our very own Scott's of Walnut Creek, and the Chevron table was full of lovely people (because it's a lovely company).  Hannah's boss Matt got to go up on stage and receive the award, but the standing ovation that the individual winners got was a little slower coming for the corporate oil-company victor.  Californians!  Luckily a lot of our table-mates were Texan.  They understand things down there.

Oi!  Move out of the way of that gorgeous classic Jag!

Inside, with some cheap Italian Ferraris.

This is more like it!  A 1963 E-type.

Meanwhile, at the Chevron table.

The great and the good (and us).

Yummy.

Woo, go Chevron!

Hannah would like to thank her parents, her supportive husband...

Shakes-beer

Hannah was out at a Chevron do tonight, and so I turned to a website that has been my saviour on many occasions.  No, not that one where you can chat with ladies of questionable morals, but FunCheapSF.  Where can a bored person go to have some fun on a Tuesday night?

The answer, it transpired, was Cafe Royale in San Francisco.  Why?  Not least because Shakespeare's Henry IV and Henry V were being performed there, for free, at the bar, by the aptly named San Francisco Theater Pub company.

This isn't the first time they've done plays in this bar, but it is their first Shakespeare.  They have some fairly strict rules, such as several scenes of any play they do must take place in a drinking establishment, at least one character in every scene must be drinking, and a scene doesn't finish until that drink is consumed.  All very commendable.

I arrived early to get a seat and enjoyed a cheese sandwich and a beer, just to get in the English mood.  I even had a (decidedly non-English-like) chat with Betsy and Jackie, two visitors from Georgia - the state, not the former Russian republic - who were enjoying their first time in SF and thought they'd try something "West Coast".  Shakespeare in a pub, how much more Californian can you get?

Then it all started, and it was very good.  The actors were superb, and although I don't believe any kings historically spoke with American accents I was willing to overlook that.  Ever since school, where Mr Clark doled out the parts in Macbeth and we had to read it through in cod-Scottish tones, I've had to admit that the language is just plain difficult, but tonight I sat back and let it wash over me.  I expect the beers helped too.  If only Mr Clark had incentivised us with alcohol.

It was all a little intimate.  The action moved around the small room, as we were mainly meant to be in the Eastcheap pub The Boar's Head, heavily featured in the play.  We were basically sat inside several scenes, and at one point Prince Hal clapped me a few times on the shoulder.  Henry IV expired on the pool table, and a grumpy Katharine of France sat down next to me scowling.  Plus ca change.  Also, squeezing three plays into an-hour-and-a-half meant that things trotted along at a breathless pace, and the strain of 16th Century English did tell on the brain after a while.  So I bought another drink.

And then, with the wooing of Katharine and Falstaff's expulsion, it was all over.  There was much clapping from the small but enthusiastic crowd, and I concluded that a muse of fire had indeed ascended this brightest heaven of invention. If Shakespeare had been there, his drinks would have been on the house.

The stage is set.

Enjoying a drink with Prince Hal and Sir John Falstaff.

Henry IV, uneasy that his son is spending so much time in a pub.

The action moves to the bar.

Princess Katharine, unamused.

The king is dead.

All the men and women, merely players!