Since coming to Hawaii I’ve felt that restaurateurs don’t really take full advantage of the natural setting they are blessed with. Even in Waikiki you find far too many restaurants tucked away inside hotels like old heirlooms locked inside a safety deposit box.
My ideal Honolulu restaurant looks a lot like Mariposa, which is located on the top floor of Nieman Marcus in Ala Moana. It is worth dining at for the ambiance alone. Elegant palm frond fans slowly churn the air around the vaulted ceiling, and the dining space opens onto an elongated lanai overlooking Ala Moana beach park and the marina. This is the Hawaii you’ve been looking for.
The food, when I lunched there, was enjoyable, though not noteworthy. The best thing was actually the puff pastries with strawberry cream that came before the meal. Everyone in our party could have eaten just that and been satisfied. I ordered some kind of beef and mushroom ragout pasta dish that was competently prepared, although a little heavy on the pepper, and I love pepper. Only dessert was a letdown. The mousse I went with was not very mousse-like, a veritable dearth of rich decadence. The other desserts didn’t look much better. Maybe we should have stuck to the puff pastries.
Overall, though, the food plus the experience catapults Mariposa to the top of my list for the ultimate lunchtime destination.
Here’s the board I picked up a few weeks ago: a banana-yellow, nine ft. Griffin-shaped T&C. From my amateurish outings I’ve gathered that it’s a nice blend of easy-ride and performance, more maneuverable than the great white I terrorized the surf-loving populace with for most of last year, but not as demanding as the Tommy Tanaka I had been struggling with in the interim. Assuming I can get myself a little more board fit, I’m anticipating some great outings as the surf begins to pick up along the South Shore.
Great grand-ness. There’s nothing quite like a meeting of the generations.
When my dad saw the Specialized Crosstrail I was using for my daily commute, he decided, in typical fashion, he had to go out and one-up me. Eventually he settled on an ‘06 Trek 5200 road bike, which is more like a two-and-a-half-up. For reasons mentioned in previous posts, I now find myself in possession of this beautiful precision machine. I am the Toyota driver who finds himself behind the wheel of a Porsche. There have been a few adjustments as I learn what this beast is all about, and there is certainly no going back.
Still, it’s a little sad to be parting ways with my Specialized. It’s kind of like an amicable breakup – hopefully we can still be friends. As a tribute I put together a little data visualization of my bike commute in 2009. One data set that did not make the cut was gallons of sweat generated, number of showers at my office (0) and coworkers offended by my fresh odor.
It’s been a long time since I saw Deconstructing Harry, but there is a line from it that has always stuck with me. It is spoken to Woody Allen by Billy Crystal, his best friend/rival in the film. It goes something to the effect of, “You’ve devoted your life to creating art, but I create art in my life.” I always felt attracted to that idea of approaching life as an artistic endeavor.
During a recent exploration of Haleiwa with friends, we came across what looked from a distance to be a surfboard yardsale. Since I’m in the market for a new board, I hijacked the agenda and herded the group in that direction. It was no yardsale. It turned out to be the residence/gallery/performance space of the Ron Artis family. The Artis family is kind of like the Jackson family without the dark, twisted ambition: eleven musical children who play in the family band for whoever happens to wander into their studio. At the helm of the family is Ron Artis, who makes his money from various artistic pursuits such as painting murals on submarines and turning the busted surfboards of professional surfers into works of art, many of which are on display in his front yard.
Talk about creating art in life. And for the record, the band rocks.
For my birthday this year I was treated to Honolulu’s ultimate dining experience: Chef Mavro, which ranks among Gayot’s top 40 fine dining establishments in the country.
Things kicked off with (1) an amuse bouche of gazpacho with little flakes of dried ham and a cilantro leaf floating on the surface. Fresh and zingy.
The first course of (2) escabeche of Big Island abalone and Manchego cheese croquette was one of my favs of the evening, mostly due to the subtle succulence of the abalone. I’m a sucker for peppercorns and the like, so the coriander probably contributed to my favorable impression. Mavro’s current menu pairs wines with dishes, meaning you get a fresh glass of something different with each course. The escabeche was matched with an ‘04 Vollrads Riesling. While I’ve never been a huge fan of Riesling, it provided a wholly appropriate fruity counterpoint to the appetizer.
This was followed by (3) opakapaka Grenobloise wrapped in brick, with baby cauliflower heads that had a caramelized flavor. The brick was delicate and crisp, like the lid of a creme brulee. It came with an ‘06 Grof Degenfeld Muscat, my favorite of the evening after the Pinot that accompanied Mizuho’s lobster.
Next was (4) a little stack of Colorado lamb medallions in a cinamony curry sauce, a curious eggplant fritter concoction and a spicy ‘06 John Duval Plexus. This was good and all, but it paled in comparison to my taste of Mizuho’s Keahole lobster paella plus ‘06 Saint Clair Pinot Noir. Holy schmokes! She was griping about the saffron puff rice, which looked kind of like Rice Crispies, but for me it tasted like pure inspiration.
Before dessert we were served a little cleanser course of melon balls in a gelatin laced with strips of mint leaf. Consider this palette cleansed!
Dessert: (5) Lilikoi malasadas. A little different from the ones you get at Leonards, these were filled with guava coulis and topped with super fresh pineapple-coconut ice cream. The dessert wine – again something I’ve never been fond of – was a 5 year Blandy’s Malmsey Madeira.
It might be years (or never) before I get to eat there again, but it’s a meal that will linger in my memory.
Next Door, located in Chinatown, like every other place worth hanging out at, plays the role of Honolulu’s de facto warehouse club. Ambiance-wise it’s an appropriate mix of rawness and refinement, with a bit of grubbiness to give late nights that slightly dirty feel – you know you like it like that. Not that Mizuho and I have had the opportunity to experience such a night there. We are responsible parents, after all.
The place gets a pretty impressive roster of dj and band talent rolling through – acts that might typically play much larger spaces in other towns. I can imagine that the close quarters of Next Door make for an intimate and intense music experience. And you’d better like to sweat.
When we went there (early on a Saturday) there was some kind of amateur film event happening. Although the films were decidedly heavy on the amateur, there was a buzzing energy to the place and a palpable sense of community. Maybe one of these days in the near future, we’ll get a chance to go there and get sweaty.
A few weeks ago Mizuho and I enjoyed a (very) rare night out, and headed, inevitably, for Chinatown (the only game in town). We decided to check out Manifest, one of a few significant new openings in the past year. It’s a beautiful spot, the kind of space that Honolulu needs even more of. A comfortable blend of cafe, bar and gallery. A sense of style, but not unapproachable. I had to order a Mojito to see how it measured up against 39 Hotel’s masterful rendition. It didn’t, but was good enough. There was a white reggae artist (you know the guy, dreads and a fondness for Jah – he’s everywhere) strumming out some very kind BGM. Not much of a crowd, but it was a Saturday and we were out early. Go there.
Positioning is a tricky thing. I mean, on the one hand, you kind of have to admire the balls shown by the creative team in charge of branding the Motorolla’s alleged iPhone killer, the Droid. They basically looked at the conceptual space owned by iPhone – most humanistic, engaging, downright gregarious smartphone on the planet – and in textbook fashion invented the most polarizing brand personality possible: a cold, inhuman robot.
Differentiating, check.
Appealing? Hells no! R2-D2 might register as a positive association, but they’re making the thing look more like some kind of Skynet device come to imprison humanity. I mean, I get that it’s not an iPhone. Confusion allayed. But you know what? I still prefer my gadgets warm and cuddly. Just look at that photo above. It reminds me of HAL from 2001.
In short, based on the campaign so far, I don’t give a rat’s ass what Droid does. That thing has obviously been sent from the future to destroy us.
On December 1 Kyle turned the big three. We threw a fete the day before to recognize the occasion, and were blessed with more stable weather than last year. They grow up fast – Kyle is up and walking, learning, for better and worse, to express his opinions more strongly, and starting preschool.
