Japan on a Plate

Edamame soup

Salmon art

Sea bass takes a swim

That seaweed swirl

What is the meaning of life? Why are we here? Is there a God? I wouldn't know. I live for the here and now, by which I don't mean I plan for the weekend, but that I can only rely on this moment right here. So when I found myself at Edo, (meaning estuary, also the former name for Tokyo), ITC Gardenia Bangalore for their “Japan Debate on a Plate”, I was well pleased with my philosophy du jour, because the here and now tasted sublime and I came away with the answer to at least one of the above questions, yes, there is a God, a culinary God at least.

At Edo, that would be Resident Chef Fumio Kikuta who got a helping hand from visiting Chef Vikramjit Roy and Raveen Misra, Regional Brand Ambassador, SEA Portfolio Markets and Emerging Asia who served up whisky-based cocktails that went over my philistine head but which, I was told by connoisseurs at the table, “tasted as smooth as butter”.

I was too immersed in my Salmon with confit melon and miso cream cheese, bubuarare and smoked corn mash to pay too much attention to the Green Tea whisky complete with Johnnie Walker and seaweed flourish except to admire the way it looked (yes, Superficial is my middle name), and by the time the Edamame soup, sansho crisp and foie gras foam arrived at the table, I couldn't have told you the name of my lunch companion. Not because I was imbibing freely but because I had never tasted something so delicate and inspiring. Can there be anything worse than tasting a spoonful of what looks like a science experiment and finding it tastes like one, too? The soup looked like an artist had laboured over it in both terms and Mmm, it was good.

The Chilean sea bass with tamari teriyaki and organic vegetables and jalapenos maceration followed by a dessert of Johnnie Walker XR 21 poached pear carpaccio and yuzu probiotic yoghurt ice was tantalising and refreshing. What an ode to the imagination some meals can be.

I don't know about you but to me, Food can often answer all existential queries.

The Indians are coming!

Dot, not feather, and they're everywhere. And I don't mean running away from the Saudi authorities, but on the little screen.

As the old 'Goodness Gracious Me' joke goes: Hannah Simone who plays Cece on 'New Girl'? Indian. Noureen DeWulf who plays Lacey on 'Anger Management'? Indian. Less surprisingly, Sarita Choudhury who plays Mira on 'Homeland'? Indian. And of course Kunal Nayyar on the 'Big Bang', Mindy Kaling for 'The Mindy Project', 'Navi Rawat' in 'Numbers' and Maulik Pancholy in 'Whitney' (who's also Out, thus killing two requirements in one fell swoop; it's been mandatory for years to appease the gay community by representing them as well, you see).

The Indians are not just coming, either, they've been. The frontrunners from Kal Penn ('House') and Naveen Andrews ('Lost') to Rhona Mitra ('Boston Legal') and Indira Verma ('Luther') paved the way for the public acceptance of brown faces on the telly, something Anil Kapoor on '24' must have been most thankful for.

The thing is, though, that when you cast black, brown, Korean and gay because they are black, brown, Korean and gay, it's just as racist and homophobic as Indians looking down their noses at Nigerians or telling your parents you're really Bi. Lady Gaga has been trying to tell us for ages that we are born this way, why haven't we learned the lesson and moved on?

Not that the actors are complaining, and neither am I, and who knows maybe the above have not made inroads in Hollywood because one of Cable's biggest markets is Asia, but it's important to be aware of hidden currents before they pull you under.

When you cast an actor for their fitness in a role, that's when you show an evolution in species. I think it's safe to say we're not quite there yet.

But isn't it fascinating to think of ('Burn Notice') Gabrielle Anwar's father being Tariq Anwar, and so on? Putting borders on the world and on people is just the silliest thing.

Feeling grave, anyway

Sometimes I think I need to book myself a "Crazy, Table for One". Everyone was waxing eloquent about Sandra Bullock and George Clooney's new movie "Gravity". The only stunning planetary body you will find there is Sandra's; she's worked hard and each golden, toned muscle thanks her for it. I love space movies, from "Alien" to "Mission to Mars", but I just couldn't understand why the otherwise-terrific Alfonzo Cuaron didn't figure out that for people like us we need to see, um, space. You know, the vastness of it, the silence of it, the terror of it, the nothingness of it. For the whole movie, Sandra is within touching distance of The Blue Marble. How are we supposed to feel what being untethered to anything must be like?
While "Gravity" is not boring, it simply doesn't realize its potential. Like for instance, at the end when touchdown is achieved, we want to see the heroic, immediate American response to disaster and rescue. And this is where Cuaron decides to show nothingness.
Clooney, like Pitt, meanwhile are now simply appearing in movies playing themselves it seems; you can't see a trace of effort in what they do anymore.
I wish "Breaking Bad" was still playing. That at least made terrific, crazy, wonderful sense, yo.

Ulysses goes home

He was like an avenging angel. He answered all our prayers by punishing the guilty and uncaging the deserving. And when he left the world he was happy to go. He had shed his sins, paid his dues and was free. This was Walter White, no longer Breaking Bad.

The series finale was, in a word, uplifting. I don't know what's in Vince Gilligan's brain but it should be patented. It's as though he knew what we wanted. We wanted Jesse to survive, we wanted the amoral gang who had him like a hamster strapped to a wheel decimated, we wanted Todd to die painfully by Jesse's hand, we wanted Hank's body found, we wanted part of the money to go to Walt's family (he had suffered so much for it), we wanted, at long last, the truth to fall from Walt's lips.

We wanted Walt to pay, yes, but we felt his pain, too. How do you reconcile those two things? Gilligan did it by keeping to the tenor of what went before for five years. In the final shots of Jesse screaming in relief and an at-peace Walter White who can now fold his black-and-white wings, Gilligan stayed true to the Breaking Bad motif of madmen, retribution and redemption.

Walt was dying in a cabin in the woods, so lonely as he's plugged into his chemo that he begs The Disappearer to stay for a while. Any alternate scenario would be welcome to this. So he begins his last journey, dons his final avataar. He terrorizes the couple who shafted him on Gray Matter Technologies; they are so loathsome that we, too, enjoyed the mathematical precision of Walt's revenge. Jesse's cohorts make another appearance, as does Hank in a flashback which was a lovely touch; we liked the former and admired the latter and we wanted to bid them a fare-thee-well.

When Walt rigs the machinegun and mows down Todd's uncle's band of unlovelies I, for one, was screaming Yes! They deserved their bloody end, as did Lydia in a ricin denouement that was part of Walt's wonderful orchestra of Judgement Day.

When he tells Skyler that his whole odyssey was not just about family, “I did it for me..I liked it..I was good at it...I was alive”, well, that was it, wasn't it. A man whom destiny led astray twice finally took it in his hands. He could have been rich and accomplished via Gray Matter but he was nobody both at work and at home. So when he had nothing to lose, he became a legend, a man whose brain and talent was nothing short of masterful.

In the final shot where he lay on the ground and the cops moved in, the look of satisfaction on his face and the way the camera angle panned his body surrounded by the law, you immediately thought this was a night they would speak about in whispers in drawing-rooms when they spoke of Walter White, the great Heisenberg. You can't help but feel to your bones for a man like that.

I feel to my bones for Bryan Cranston, bringing Walt to life with a look in the eyes, a swelling of the chest, a pursing of the mouth. And precision. Always precision.

I feel to my bones for Vince Gilligan whose own Gray Matter is a thing of terrifying proportions.

What a trip it's been.

10 Things.....

...a girl can't do without:

1. Black nail-polish. 2. Red lipstick. 3. J Brand jeans. 4. White button-down. 5. Black jacket.  6. Mulberry bag. 7. SK II. 8. Blahnik pumps. 9. Moleskine notebook. 10. Fictional character to fall in love with. (Mine's Stacia Kane's 'Terrible' from the Downside Ghosts series.)

Yes, please

Ate at this table in a Goa home recently and I have to say, it's exactly what I want in my own dining-room. Just whispers taste, doesn't it? And yes, to accompany the rolled napkins, a butler served. Sigh.

No, thanks

Isn't that online jewellery advertisement on Indian TV highly questionable? The male character is so off-putting I want to reach for an oil cloth and wipe him off, and the wife asking what's the occasion for his attention - I wouldn't want it if he was the last man on earth; searching for another species to procreate with would make better sense. Perhaps the ad men knew half-way there that something was not quite quite. I noticed a distinctly Jaws-like soundtrack playing, you know, to match the husband.

Almost as barf-inducing is the “Made for First Love” phone ad where the boy talking to his GF doesn't stop with the most vacuous conversation you will hear this side of the Milky Way. Hey, I was young once and in love twice but in my defence I never engaged in vapid talk. Surely at 18 it's all Kerouac and Kafka?? No? Wtf.

Free your mind

First superheroine comic book from India. Not bad. I always admire people who broaden their horizons and try something new. Created by that Shekhar Kapur, written by Samit Basu and quite gorgeously illustrated by Mukesh Singh. Now that we're all part of the Nerd Herd courtesy The Big Bang Theory all you now need to know is that I spied it at Blossom, Bangalore for Rs 320.

Riffs & Raffs

Was this year's Emmys the worst ever? I think so. Neil Patrick Harris seemed unhappy and dry-lipped; the only time he semi-sparkled was in the gay bandinage with Jane Lynch. Tina Fey and Amy Poehler showed him how it should have been done. That riff with NPH - “I think it would be degrading. Yes, but we would be degrateful” was just genius. I mean these girls are in the same class as Hugh Jackman and Billy Crystal; they are professionals who have what Jim Parsons noted was the key to it all when he commented on Bob Newhart's genius: Timing.

The winners were the least expected, like a bad Agatha Christie story. The one whose name I can't remember from “Nurse Jackie” who came on and said 'Thanks, um, I have to go now'? Honey, you ain't Jessica Lange who is famous enough and talented enough and cool enough to get away with something like that.

Jim Parsons, Anna Gunn and Michael Douglas were the only worthy ones up there. Jon Hamm not getting his is a matter of national shame (as, I have to say, was his beard); almost as absurd as waiting for years to give Scorsese and DiCaprio their dues.

But my Breaking Bad boys walked away with the honours, didn't they? That made me a happy camper.

Worst-dressed: Connie Britton. If it's too heavy to hold, don't.

Best-dressed: Kaley Cuoco. The right shade, the right off-centre design. Julie Bowen's Zac Posen creation was a close runner-up.

Worst walk-in-wear: Cobie Smulders whose dress was so tight she minced across the stage like Louis XIV.

Wtf moment: Carrie Underwood's underwhelming performance. So Yesterday.

Cast off

The Killing's casting is just as inexplicable as anyone thinking Nutella cookies are not all that. Why does Mireille Enos/Detective Linden have to be so dour, and not in a House-like, fascinating way? Her dialogue delivery is as dead as her facial expressions and no viewer is going to feel even a twinge of empathy for her fate. Now Holder, (Joel Kinnaman), on the other hand, has the requisite good looks, a dollop of animation and the desperate junkie manner to pull at a few heart strings at least. 

The series is interesting despite the way the main protagonists have been outlined, although it's obvious the writers are spinning it out for as long as they can with the slightly-crazed plot twists. The Mayoral hopeful (who wouldn't have a soft spot for Billy Campbell) and (spoiler alert) his aide who is obviously in love with him, (and I'm not talking about the chick), and the ex-mob father is what keeps my interest level up but if they don't do someting about Linden soon....Couldn't they kill her off and rope in Carla Gugino, for God's sake?

The other entirely insupportable element in this show is the way the mothers behave. With Linden, when the teen son has fever, she says take some painkillers and I'll be home when I can. He plays truant and she doesn't ask why. He badmouths her and she tells him Don't Do That. All with the same fish-eyed look she does everything else.

The mother of the dead girl turns out to be as inept as Linden. She says No to everything and when one child dies abandons the other two and leaves so she can deal with the rotten cards Her life has dealt Her. With mothers like these, one would rather be abandoned on a Church doorstep.

Seats reserved

Had my first laugh of the day seeing the British Airways ad To Fly To Serve. They certainly do - to the white protagonist featured on it. Try being black and flying from India to Europe on BA and you'll know what hell is like. A place where you are not served food on time, where the food you are served isn't fit for dogs; where the stewards look at everyone with that kind of cold contempt you last saw reserved for Sidney Poitier on In The Heat of the Night; where you disembark to catch the connecting flight from Heathrow to John F K and suddenly it's gold class treatment for everyone on board, most of whom it goes without saying, are NOT black. It's like when Australia Tourism suddenly flooded Indian TV with ads featuring Indians who said they found the Holy Grail in Brisbane, Perth, Sydney whatever - after a spate of racist attacks against Indian students in Australia was widely reported by the media. How stupid does everyone think we are. Very.

A crowd of cherries

I feel a bit Zen at the moment. As if the world has been balanced. Can you blame me after an embarrassment of riches via the Season 3 premiere of Justified, Sons of Anarchy and Breaking Bad? But first things first.

Downloaded and watched the full Spartacus series and wept and wailed as the final episode aired. What must it feel like to be Steven DeKnight? To have created something that people will remember forever? I've never seen a cast like this, unknowns for the most part who gave us a piece of themselves and gained immortality because they are so damn good at what they do. After Andy Whitfield I thought Liam McIntyre would “fall from fucking sight”, haha, but one episode in you could tell he had the intensity, not to mention the most sweetly vulnerable mouth, that would see him fly to Olympus. When Manu Bennett's Crixus died, the show almost stuttered to its end right then and there because his persona was always so aggressive that he ruled every frame he was in from the beginning of the series. Gannicus, by the time he was a “martyr on the cross”, had become a hero not just because he had that John Woo thing going on albeit with two swords instead of guns, but because he is so good-looking it hurts. And what a bit of directing his end was: Crucified, there he was reliving his time as a God of the Arena with the crowds going wild.

But the villains in Spartacus, aye, there was a crowd of cherries on top of the cake. Craig Parker as Glaber, Nick E Tarabay as Ashur, Todd Lasance as Caesar, Simon Merrells as Crassus, these are Gods of the Acting Arena. While my heart belongs to Nagron, I will go see anything with these guys in it in the future.

I have had to switch allegiances now that Spartacus is over, and there's nothing better in betrayal than Breaking Bad. Which other show can have an entire episode on a fly (that's not a euphemism) and keep us riveted? Watching Walter White turning from mild-mannered Chemistry teacher to a villain of Heath Ledger's Joker proportions is an exercise in how brilliant television writers can be. Imagine, in the first place, selling this storyline to studios. It is absolutely addictive, ha; such fun to watch a story evolving in an unexpected way: Junkie losers have moral cores, gentle husbands turn into wolves, drug dealers live by gentlemen's codes. I live my days spouting Jesse Pinkmanisms, bitch, and gasping at how easily Walter and his wife cross over to their Bonnie&Clyde avatars. If they can do that, what hope do the rest of us have really.