‘Damn it, now we have iodised salt, so the brine will have iodine in it. I wonder if that changes the martini. It must make it taste different from the martinis they drank before salt was iodised.’
‘I’m sure it does. Actually it’s potassium iodide.’
‘It’s good to know things like that. I suppose it’s possible to find non-iodised salt.’
‘It’s worth looking into. The French also put fluoride into their salt.’
‘Damn. We have to find our way back to pure salt.’
‘And get thyroid problems from lack of iodine?’-Frank Moorhouse, Martini: A Memoir
The last time I was in Germany I made the amateur mistake of forgetting to bring sufficiently English reading material. Conversational English was all well and good, Kirsten’s friends generally being fluent or at least competent by comparison to my German. However it lacked the verbal dexterity and linguistic extravagance which I inevitably crave. This time Frank Moorhouse’s book filled the role in style. A memoir of sorts, it is told through an exploratory history of the martini and series of discussions and incidents from the author’s life which orbit the cocktail most deserving of the classic title.
From time to time a writer in residence at King’s College, the opening scene is set in Cambridge — the bar at Browns restaurant to be precise. Much of the book unfolds through dialogue in similar settings, the extract above being a perfect example and the one that influenced me to buy the book in the first place, having opened it at random. Every element of the drink is covered from the alcohols involved to the glass to the garnish to the botanicals at work within, and always the author is able to weave a compelling tapestry between inconsequential facts about the martini and personal musings upon and insights into both the drink and life. Undoubtedly pretentious at times (as any memoir, itself the height of self-indulgent arrogance elevated to an art form, ought to be) and yet wonderfully rewarding with dozens of asides to slip into conversation at that next cocktail party.
On an unrelated note I might point out that I have absolutely no opinion upon the new Transformers trailer. That major liberties were being taken with their appearance was already common knowledge, so one can hardly claim to be surprised at what one sees here. Evidence of substance remains at best veiled.
Here in Germany the majority of the Christmas celebration occurs on the evening of the 24th rather than Christmas Day itself. This includes a visit from der Weinachtsmann, the slightly ominous sounding German equivalent of Father Christmas, which kept Nele buzzing all day long. Prior to that we attended a children’s service at a local church which included a nativity performance by a group of cute (if worryingly blonde haired, blue eyed — “Only the best!” Kirsten quipped) kids.
Traditional food differs from the English dry turkey and sprouts of which I am far from fond. On Christmas Eve the most common dish is actually a kartoffel (potato) salad, although due to the high apfel (apple) content of ours I redubbed it kartopfel salad. This was eaten with grandparents (and presumably any other immediate family members), while lunch on the 25th was for the household alone. Duck or goose is the main dish depending, I suppose, on the number in attendance. Kirsten cooked her first goose athough I had a slightly Hansel and Gretal moment upon being handed an entire hind quarter of the beast. It was difficult to shake the feeling that I was being fattened up. Not that it stopped me — it tasted great!
Although my flight to Germany was delayed by several hours due to foggy conditions and Gatwick supporting a swathe of redirected flights from Stanstead, it seems that this is actually to be considered rather fortunate. Kirsten informs me that over the following two days several hundred flights to Germany were cancelled as the fog thickened. Once here I was fairly exhausted so did not manage to check out Hamburg’s legendary Christmas market. One of my fellow passengers on the plane was an ardent proponent of the event which, unlike my original understanding, features little shopping and rather more Glühwein (literally “glowing wine” and not Glugwein as some foreigners mishear it) and food.
Yesterday I put up the Weihnachtsbaum (Christmas tree) with Nele and Kirsten. Although Kirsten is entirely set on real trees, the downside stretches beyond merely dropping needles everywhere — this one didn’t even fit in its base. What this actually involved was her father gesturing to the tree, handing me his “best saw” and being told to go for it. I would love to say that hilarity ensued, but actually sawing away with virile vigour I think I got the job done admirably. Once it was opened up we found it was what Kirsten described as “rather asymmetrical”. My explanation that this is what real trees look like didn’t go down terribly well. Decorating the tree was a somewhat less energetic enterprise than hacking bits off. Nele could only reach the lower branches so required some adult aid, while the lights required replacing a bulb before more than two thirds agreed to operate. The end result was a pretty, homely tree.
Kirsten and I spent this evening at a secluded woodland hotel booked by her parents as a Christmas present. She was treated to a massage and the dubious joy of having various substances of apparent health qualities liberally applied to her face. I declined hoping for a pre-dinner shower only to discover the water had been turned off. Dinner itself was an awesome four-course affair at a restaurant several minutes drive away but owned by the same people.
Mel Gibson’s 
As I’ve said previously, I have never played the launch game before, so there is a sense of accomplishment in snagging a Wii for my sister on the day of release. Although I knew of them by reputation, I had not used 
Wii then moved on to Zelda which demonstrates the console’s “proper” gameplay. Undoubtedly some of the control usage is a gimmick and fishing swiftly becomes infuriating, but generally it is surprisingly easy to use in everything from horseriding to swordplay. The graphics are certainly not on par with its rivals, and nor are they meant to be. It is a significant step up from the GameCube and Zelda in particular shows the polish that good artistic direction can produce even without the raw graphical power at which the competition excel. Any complaints? One is that although the speaker contained within the Wiimote is a nice touch adding a little more depth to sound cues, it delivers a poor quality, tinny sound which can be quite out of place if you have a decent speaker setup. Another is that having only a single analogue stick can cause some camera control issues. But these are minor quibbles when this system is just so much damn fun. Nintendo’s idea of fun is evident in warning images that have emerged from the console’s Japanese manual, resulting in a flood of “subtitles” by various fans, my favourite being the above.
About a week ago, no doubt still soaring on a lingering Bond high, Ravi and I frivolously discussed the possibility of holding a poker game in black tie. At the time the situation seemed to merit it. One week later we found ourselves going ahead with it because, well, we hadn’t done anything suitably silly for far too long. Booking a T staircase supervision room for its large table, eleven of us (including Angie, Sparkie, Sonya, Irina, Andy and a certain Fellow) gathered to do battle. Where lack of money could not, the dress code lent suitable charge to the proceedings along with a variety of alcoholic beverages to taste. It also enabled the establishment of a new tradition when going “all in”, now to be accompanied by undoing one’s bow tie with a flourish (requiring, of course, that all participants wear real ones). Perhaps puerile and definitely one of those “only in Cambridge” flights of fancy, it was definitely worth it and provided and a perfect end to a pleasant term.