Verse i

High Noon

Foreign students sit, practicing English
workers, alone, with their paper-wrapped meals
already regret where they must return.

Layabouts, supine, whose eyes watch the sky
everyone moves in their own well-worn paths
close and distant never daring to meet.

The Origins of Obsession

If we could define the moment that gives birth to infatuation, would it be a single bright spark, or a slow kindling fanned by the breath of incessant thought?

What I know, is that once I've latched onto something, I will research it into the ground, usually forsaking time I should be spending doing other things, like work or sleep or domestic tasks. This is not surprising, from a girl who grew up regularly reading the dictionary, because once you look up one word, you see another. And another...

vivaboo.com

The Oath of Loyalty on Celluloid

The oath of loyalty on celluloid.

This, muttered by the man to the left of me and a seat away on the bus this morning. The words grab my attention and I look over at him and examine his rough hands, dirt under his nails. He has a bunch of bags and is reading the paper and chuckling. He smells faintly of sweat and urine.

On a workhorse route like the 38 Geary, he would be a common sight. But on the 1AX California Express, he is an anamoly. This express route caters to the suit and tie crowd, and services the tonier parts of the Richmond District and Lake Street Corridor.

I was going to take my scooter to work this morning, but was running late and was a little too tired. I'm new to riding, so I'm meticulous and a bit superstitious about everything that concerns my Vespa. If I'm foggy-headed, if I know I need to rush, I don't ride. This morning I weighed my options to the point that I made myself even later, so the bus it was.

Once I was on board and found myself close to this man, I started to regret that choice. San Francisco has hardened me. That sounds laughable- this is not a hard city. Not like New York or Philly, I imagine. But it's made me often intolerant when it comes to homelessness. I know this man has a right to be here (assuming he paid his fare), but I will admit, I hate riding the bus and being trapped with someone whose personality is boderline and who smells. That may sound wrong, that may sound elitist. I wrestle with my conscience that tells me to be empathetic and charitable, and my feelings of discomfort and slight fear. There have just been too many stories recently about transients stabbing people on Muni.

We can buy Planned Parenthood. Moxie!

The man continues to read the paper and mutter disconnected phrases. Next to me, two passengers, a man and a woman who are good friends (or at least bus buddies) talk nonstop about their kids, little league, and recent travels to Hawaii, as they do every time they are on the bus. The lyrics to Beck's Sexx Laws cycle through the back of my mind. They've been visiting me on and off since my spin instructor played the song in class last week. I stare at my hands for a while and wish the traffic wasn't so heavy.

Once, I road the 38 Geary to work, and there was a man on the bus that started to say inscrutable things in a mystical, wise voice. Phrases like, "He knows that you will be there when Molly signs the tablet," etc. Phsyically, he was a cross between Pete Postlethwaite and the giant from the Roadhouse dream sequence in Twin Peaks. And maybe I had been listening to too much of Stephen King's The Dark Tower audiobook at the time, but I was convinced that this man, in another era, would have been a soothsayer, or a proverbial wise man on a hilltop. I nicknamed him "The Riddler" and promptly told my friend, Dave, to keep an eye out for him, as we've been nicknaming enigmatic denizens of our towns since college days.

SSSsssssss!

The man on the 1AX starts spraying his head with what I think is spray deodorant. It draws me swiftly back to my junior high locker room, where the girls had all simultaneously embraced Secret Powder Fresh Scent in an environmentally destructive aerosol. The woman to my left covers her nose, and I stifle a sneeze.

I wondered about this man. He was talking a lot of nonsense, but it was pithy nonsense. He, like The Riddler, are different from the aggressive gutter punks that make me avoid Upper Haight, or the downtown lungers strung out on crack. With a prescription, with a different decision made years ago, or perhaps without a job layoff... I wondered who he could be. He sounded smart, and his face revealed a faint semblance of normalcy beneath the veneer of crazy. As I said, I am no homeless advocate, but I wish there was a solution. There probably never will be, 100%. So I don't know if this post was meant to be a mini-treatise on the state of homelessness in San Francisco, or has just become a snapshot of my rather ordinary morning.

Cityscape by Twilight

Taken as I left work at 6:30. I've always been enchanted by the glassy building in the background. My iPhone does not do it justice- it has this way of looking liquid, reflecting the sky and blending perfectly with it so that it disappears. It always looks ethereal at twilight. Someday, I need to get this shot with a real camera.

Optimism

Thinking big. This is a scooter I saw in the parking garage at the Whole Foods on California ST. I like the owner's sense of humor, and the fact that we all love our two-wheeled forms of locomotion, no matter that it's not a pretty face.

Vernalis

I'm home sick for the second day in a row, keeping good company with British drama on the TV and cats on the couch. And although the recent rains are telling me that we are still in the throes of winter, my mind can't help turning to thoughts of spring. Maybe it's just a hint of something on the breeze, or that feeling of renewal as you turn the corner and begin leaving a bad cold behind you. Whatever it is, it has me looking forward and thinking about all the things I want to do in the coming months, almost like belated new year's resolutions.

One thing I've neglected and desperately want to revive is my blogging. My posts have been spotty at best, and though I don't pretend that I'll ever be a daily blogger that will talk about things that are of immense interest to scores of followers, I at least want it to be a regular thing. Once a week would be enough. Two or three times a week would be awesome.

As if on cue, my husband walks in the door after a run, with a half-bloomed cherry blossom branch he's snapped off somewhere. An early spring. Renewal. I must be onto something.

The day Muni took the black pill

Think Muni and the mind conjures many things. A clever logo. The 8:35 express that wasn't there. Nate Jones and his ilk. For me, it's a fairly dependable conveyance to work. It is also frequently nausea-inducing, either because of its lingering scent of urine, or for the lurching driving style of its operators. But I admittedly have a delicate constitution.

The 14 Mission almost took off our car's passenger side mirror once. Emboldened by their hulking shells of metal, Muni operators think nothing of crowding you out on the City's narrow streets.

But common grievances aside, the most unheard of thing happened on my commute not too long ago. The 1 California AX Express ran out of gas. And it didn't come to a fizzling halt just anywhere- the bus decided to quit in front of the driveway of the King-American Ambulance Company on Bush Street. Now we were in a pickle.

Traffic on Bush Street is hectic to say the least. It can be like a three lane freeway, with its timed lights and aggressive commuters hurtling towards downtown. The bus driver wouldn't let us out at first for safety reasons, and then one by one the EMTs started coming out of the ambulance company, scratching their heads in awe.

EMT: "Uh, you're going to have to move that bus. We're a 911 responding ambulance center."

Muni Operator: "Well, I can't. I'm out of gas. I've called for help, but it might take a while."

Those of us on board all wondered how a City bus can run out of gas? Don't they check these things? Apparently not. Our driver, who I must state is one of the nicest guys out there, simply said, "Call Muni" when confronted with our questions.

We sat for a while, uneasy as we waited for the fateful wail of sirens that would alert us to the fact a trapped ambulance would be unable to respond to a life-or-death emergency. Thankfully that never happened. The EMTs had started gathering with the plan to push the bus and all of us in it, but then someone managed to open up a secondary driveway.

Eventually the driver let us off and we stood around waiting for a new bus to pick us up, laughing easily in the new found camaraderie the morning had given us. Once we were finally headed downtown, we passed yet another Muni bus being towed. It was like a Muni bus suicide pact. It made for the most interesting commute I've had in a while.

Waiting for a ride on Bush Street (disabled bus in background)

Is it possible to breathe without smelling?

It was an experiment that I tried to test tonight during a cab ride home, and I can report that it failed. Tonight I endured the smelliest cab in the world. So smelly that I was gagging as I clutched the handrail, climbing the stairs to my front door. So smelly that I remained nauseated for about 30 minutes after getting home. So smelly that I had to take an immediate shower with the most heavily scented bath products I could find. So smelly that I am getting the coat I was wearing dry cleaned.

I think this smelly cab ride, along with one I took this morning, are somehow punishment for my want of thrift. Recalling the first part of my day... I dropped off my car at the Honda Service Center. Running late as usual, I grabbed a cab instead of waiting for the N- Judah. The trip seemed to go well until the cab driver started to make a lot of pointless turns downtown, basically circling around City Hall. He eventually found his way to Market Street, turned down New Montgomery, and dropped me off in front of the Starbucks across the street from my office. I handed him $20 and asked for change.

"No change."

"What?"

"No change. I only have $50 bill."

"Uh-okay. I'll pay with my debit card."

"No machine. I can't take credit card. You go inside Starbucks. Buy coffee."

I went in. The line was outrageously long. Frustrated, I gave up and ultimately let this joker keep a $4 tip.

I already thought at that point I was being punished for my extravagance, yet after work, driven by hunger and weariness, I once again opted for a cab. This almost proved to be my undoing. I jumped in the first cab in line outside the Palace Hotel, and immediately realized I had entered an alternate hell.

The first odor that hit me was the acrid smell of urine. I patted down the back seat to make sure it was actually dry. I looked at the cab driver, an unkempt man with long, greasy white hair and beard, and coke-bottle glasses. Could it be him? I automatically told him where I needed to go, and it was too late to get out as the cab started to drive.

As my nose adjusted to the urine smell, other scents, primarily feet, musk, and sweat, began to permeate the air. It was almost as bad as the smelliest Muni train I was ever on, but worse in a way because it was more personal. In this confined space, the stench wrapped its reeking arms around me and held fast. If the odor had been visible, I imagined its color to be dark yellow.

I had recently watched HBO's Grey Gardens, which in parts depicts Jackie O's cousins Big and Little Edie Bouvier Beale living in the squalor of a decaying East Hampton mansion. They live among feral cats and racoons, with a five foot tall pile of trash amassing in their kitchen. I imagine that is what the cab driver's own dwelling must be like. I imagine that's exactly what it must smell like.

I took short, shallow breaths for the next 20 minutes. I tried yawning with my mouth over my hand to get more oxygen. I prayed for green lights all the way home. I stifled a gag just blocks away from my house. Hang on. Just please hang on, I told myself.

And then more money gone. Sixteen dollars for the worst cab experience of my life. I need to get my priorities straight and soon.

image from http://www.wilson-graf.com/w/?p=23156

Hello Oakland! I shook hands with Derek Smalls

Tonight I enjoyed a rare treat- Spinal Tap Unwigged & Unplugged at the Paramount Theatre in Oakland. I've been a fan of the mockumentary This Is Spinal Tap since I first saw it my freshman year in college- so much a fan that I can recite every memorable line and song lyric from the film.

So you can bet I was thrilled to see Christoper Guest, Michael McKean, and Harry Shearer (Nigel Tufnel, David St. Hubbins, and Derek Smalls, respectively) rock out my favorite tunes from Spinal Tap and A Mighty Wind, all unplugged and unique adaptations. The unplugged versions of their songs showcased just how talented these guys are as musicians, while their harmonizing vocals stood out even more in the absence of screaming electric guitars.

What made the evening even more special was that my friends- John and Lou's- dad, who grew up with Harry Shearer, managed to swing backstage passes. Going backstage truly was like a scene from the film- we were ushered into a holding area where a spacey woman with an English accent distractedly shook our hands and introduced herself:

"It's quite full back there yet, we'll take you back in a second... okay, we can take you now."

She summoned us forward into a narrow, crowded room, where Guest, McKean, and Shearer were milling around. The actor who played Viv Savage was also there- I overheard he lives in San Francisco.

We hovered awkwardly at the back of the room until the crowd cleared a little, and shuffled over to Harry Shearer. John and Lou's dad chatted with Shearer and we all introduced ourselves and grinned and shook hands. I tried to take a picture with my cell phone, but predictably the memory was full. We were suddenly interrupted by a tall man in a sequin-trimmed suit, who extended a hand out to Shearer, at which point he turned to all of us and said, "Thank you so much for coming." It was our cue that our visit had come to a close.

Notably missing from the VIP room backstage: hors d'oeuvres in the form of pimento-less olives and cold cuts with oversized bread, hard alcohol, cocaine, women in tight, shiny pants, wafting cigarette smoke.

On our way out, we actually got lost backstage trying to find the lobby. It was a very Hello Cleveland moment and a perfect ending to our evening.

My friend Matt, me, and the Gorenfelds
in front of the Paramount Theatre

Simulacram iv: Then and Now

I was thrilled to see an article in today's San Francisco Chronicle, releasing photos taken by United Railroads photographer John Henry Mentz, in the aftermath of the 1906 San Francisco earthquake and fire.

Many of these photos have never been published, and offer us a fascinating glimpse of our City in the wake of the disaster. Tomorrow marks the quake's 103rd anniversary.

Sutter Street between Steiner and Pierce in 1906 (at top) and

present day (at bottom)

Union Street between Steiner and Pierce in 1906 (at top) and
present day (at bottom)

DIY Fungi

My husband, Jason, recently brought home a mushroom log from the Ferry Plaza Farmer's Market. When he first showed it to me, I thought it was some nasty-looking panettone, or some other sweet euro-bread that I don't like.

It's actually a Mushroom Mini Farm, and is sold by Far West Fungi

out of Moss Landing. Ours is a shiitake mini farm. This thing is really cool. You punch a few holes in it, keep it in a plastic bag, and in a few days you have a mushroom harvest! It's like a science project watching the mushrooms grow, seemingly getting larger hour-by-hour. Our mini farm should last 4-5 months and produce 3-4 crops.

We harvested our first crop last night and enjoyed shiitake mushrooms with garlic, sauteed in butter and served over whole wheat fettucine. Yum.

Curious cats and shiitake log

The War Dead

On Sunday cameras were permitted to cover the arrival at Dover Air Force Base of a flag-draped coffin bearing the remains of Air Force Staff Sergeant Phillip Myers. It was the first time in 18 years that the media has been able to document the solemn arrival ceremony of the U.S. war dead, now that the ban first set by former President George H.W. Bush has been relaxed by the Obama administration.

I listened to a report detailing this ceremony on NPR today. It involves transferring the soldier's coffin from the cargo plane to a military mortuary van.

"We march up in a formation — the seven of us — two columns of three and one behind, calling the cadence — left, right, left, right," (one) soldier says. "There's no music … even the commands we call out — they're not loud."

Another soldier discussed how he couldn't permit himself to show too much emotion, because he didn't think that's what the fallen soldier would want. Several of the soldiers interviewed wondered about who it was inside the coffin- were they young or old, a man or a woman, a private or an officer?

There are people on both sides of the argument about media coverage. Some feel that it invades the privacy of grieving families, while others maintain that a lack of coverage hides the human cost of our wars.

I am all at once drawn to and repelled by such accounts of tragedy and sorrow. Modern culture is increasingly voyeuristic, and I do admit I click on all the worst news stories each morning when I start up my computer- sometimes regretting my choice. I read the articles' comments from posters, admonishing the media for only reporting the grim news stories. Yet we are all reading them.

My husband doesn't like my morbid curiosity and penchant for true crime stories, while I don't like the ultra-violent cable shows he enjoys, which, he points out, are just fiction. I'm not sure what that says about me. Am I a realist? A pragmatist?

I am certainly not as pragmatic as my father. He once told me the story about how he was on a flight from Vietnam to the Philippines during Vietnam war time. He was traveling in a cargo plane, and, overcome with tiredness, he lay down on one of the coffins there. "God, dad, didn't that bother you?" I questioned him, disturbed by the thought. He replied that it didn't at all, there was no other place to lay. He is a hard-boiled stoic, to a fault. And while I don't like to shelter myself from the truth, I do think that I possess a sensitivity that meets ignorant bliss halfway.

The Long Way Home

Path of Rejuvenation

I've lately been fond of leaving work and taking a longer route home- one that follows The Embarcadero, to Bay Street, through The Marina along Crissy Field, and then onto Lincoln Boulevard as it winds through the Presidio and eventually out to 25th Avenue.

The views offered from the bluffs along Lincoln, overlooking Baker Beach, are breathtaking. I love slowly winding down this stretch of Lincoln, one eye on the road and one eye gazing out over the dusky, shimmering Pacific. It's the perfect ending that sets the tone for a restful evening. It's like hitting a reset button that erases the daily rubble we create.

View at dusk from Lincoln Boulevard overlooking Baker Beach

I must confess I drive this route. I try to not make a habit of driving to work, but sometimes it's a necessity- if I need my car for something after work, or if I am going to be excessively late in the morning. But The Long Way Home gets addictive. I really should try it by bike, as my friends Jake and Greg do.

The Phantom Trailers

Last Thursday I took The Long Way. I left work at 7:00, and by the time I reached the Presidio it was dusk. Driving on Lincoln, I was in the more forested area, just after Merchant Street. In the fading light, I came upon men standing along the edges of the road, and what must have been about 50 trailers. Were they filming a movie? Was it some sort of convention? Was it a mirage?

The next day, they were gone. Okay, so that's not so spectacular, but I like to imagine it was some twilight vision and they were never really there. Maybe that idea would be more plausible if I had seen wagons and men on horseback in 19th century dress, instead of modern-day trailers and guys in T shirts and baseball caps... but one can fantasize.

The one thing I am still waiting (and more likely) to see during my crepuscular ambling through the Presidio is a coyote.

photo from http://www.flickr.com/photos/schuberts/349047938/

Into the Bright

Today I left my office just after 6 o'clock, and the City was bathed in perfect light. The air was crisp and uncomfortably chilly, highlighting the sharpness with which the light delineated things like buildings, cars, and people.

This is the sort of late afternoon light you see only in winter or early spring, closer to white than gold. It's the light that precedes sunset and is on the cusp of the magic hour. It's soft and diffuse, yet blindingly brilliant.

My commute home is westbound, and there was something that revived my spirit, something about the cool air on my skin as I had to close my eyes against the silvery brightness of the waning afternoon.

silvery brightness - Dolores Park

The Nowtopian, January 2009

Bohemia

Tonight Jason and I went to Yoshi's in Oakland to see Béla Fleck perform with Toumani Diabate. My bottle of nigori sake mellowing me out, I was so satisfied to sit and listen to banjo and west African kora and take in my surroundings.

After the show, we decided to have a quick drink at Cafe Van Kleef. I think of this bar as bohemian with a touch of the diabolical, and it's haunted- always a bonus for me. One of the first times I visited, I asked the owner about the haunting, which he matter-of-factly confirmed as he sipped a glass of red wine behind the bar. A band was playing, made up of a woman on accordion, a guy on fiddle, and a guy on bass, sounding like the band that would have accompanied the devil in The Charlie Daniels Band's The Devil Went Down to Georgia. I had fallen through the looking glass, the mood was perfect.

Tonight my mind wandered and focused (as it often does) on the idea of the bohemian proletariat. Let me elaborate... I am by no stretch blue collar, but I do consider myself among the ranks of the modern-day worker. I enjoy the fact that I work hard all day, and that makes possible my ability to go out after work and enjoy live music, a drink at a pub, what-have-you, so long as it distances me from the workaday world.

A few scenarios recur in my mind: Kafka's Prague, with his Protagonist, "K.", going out after work with the local anarchists, or Edna St. Vincent Millay, tossing back drinks at La Rotonde with her fellow Lost Generation expats in Paris. Bringing it closer to home, I like to imagine men in fedoras clinking pints at the House of Shields circa 1930, right next door to my present-day office.

We are doing just as they did, and belong to a brotherhood and sisterhood that has spanned time since the advent of the modern work culture.

Architectura Victoriana

Farewell to a Piece of Pre-Quake History

I was recently reading about the cottage at 1268 Lombard Street in Russian Hill that was demolished. The cottage was built in 1861, and had housed blue-collar workers through the mid-20th century until it was purchased by a family in 1945. The house had fallen into disrepair, and despite the protests of preservationists, the house came down on Tuesday. The wood frame shingled cottage was an example of Italianate architecture that was popular at the time of its construction.

1268 Lombard Street

The Italianate style is a departure from the Queen Anne Victorians with their towers and spindles. Italianate homes featured flat roofs and broadly overhanging eaves, among other elements. The style was meant to invoke the villas of Renaissance Italy. (1)

Examples of Italianate Victorians on California Street

A Mystery Solved

The destruction of the house on Lombard Street had me thinking of old Victorians, and reminded me of the time I researched a question that constantly plagued me while I stared out the bus window on my morning commute: What did the garages on Victorian homes used to be? I mean, the homes were built before cars were in use, so they must have had some other use? My guess was that they were either stables or perhaps a place to store carriages. I was wrong on both fronts.

I contacted Stephen Haigh, of the Victorian Alliance of San Francisco, who provided me with his succinct yet thorough explanation. I love the way Mr. Haigh matter-of-factly wraps it up at the end:

On Wed, Apr 30, 2008 at 8:59 AM, Stephen Haigh wrote:

Your question regarding what the space was used for prior to garages is a good one. Depending upon the builder or architect the first level or basement level of a victorian sf home could be used for: storage of food stuffs and other house hold items, laundry services, a tiolet for use when in the garden, a downstairs recreation area or parlor. Some of the older homes had kitchens and dining rooms on this level. Most sandard row houses had at least a 7 to 8 foot high basement, which kept the main living area of the parlor and dining room above ground level and thus warmer and dryer. Windows were built below the bay. Most horses and thus carriages were housed in special buildings for that purpose so you now find car service garages housed in what were originally built for cariages and horses. This is my explanation. Steve Haigh, Pres CSF Victorian Alliance.

(1) The Old House Web http://www.oldhouseweb.com/

Derby Style

In the world of horse racing, jockeys wear racing "silks" that are custom-designed and unique to the horse owner. Horse and rider are thus easily identified during a race. I love the colors and the patterns, which are often traditional symbols like stars and crosses.

Of Gentlemen and Hooligans

There are so many styles and subcultures now, that I feel nothing is shocking. I wonder if, throughout the centuries, everyone looked the same and had the same style. Were societies lacking in permutations? There must have always been some nonconformists out there.

Scuttlers

Scuttlers were neighborhood youth gangs in England that sprang up in the working class areas in and around Manchester during the late 19th century. They distinguished themselves from other young men in their neighborhoods by their distinctive clothing. They wore brass-tipped pointed clogs, bell-bottom trousers cut like a sailor's, and flashy silk scarves. Their hair was cut short at the back and sides, but they grew long fringes, known as "donkey fringes", that were longer on the left side and plastered down on the forehead over the left eye with oil or soap. Peaked caps were also worn tilted to the left to display the fringe. (1)

The gangs fought with a variety of weapons, but they all carried knives and wore heavy buckled belts, often decorated with pictures such as serpents, hearts pierced with arrows, or women's names. The thick leather belts were wrapped tightly around the wrist so that the buckle could be used to strike at opponents in a fight. The use of knives and belts was designed to maim and disfigure rather than to kill. (1)

A Scuttler gang photo (Greater Manchester Police Museum)

Bartitsu: The Gentlemanly Art of Self-Defense

If you've heard of bartitsu, the first thing that likely comes to mind is Sherlock Holmes. Bartitsu arose as a response to the problem of self-defense in an increasingly urban, industrialized society. It was adopted by the middle and upper classes, who were becoming alarmed by the emergence of street gangs like the Scuttlers. That, coupled with a current fascination with Asian warfare and a new obsession with "Physical Culture", contributed to its popularity. (2)

Bartitsu was the brainchild of Edward William Wright (later changing his name to Edward William Barton-Wright), who was born in 1860. As an adult he worked for a time in Japan, where he studied jiujitsu. He combined what he had learned from his martial arts studies into bartitsu, which incorporated the gentleman's walking stick as a weapon.

Bartitsu has been devised with a view to impart to peacefully disposed men the science of defending themselves against ruffians or bullies, and comprises not only boxing but also the use of the stick, feet, and a very tricky and clever style of Japanese wrestling, in which weight and strength play only a very minor part. (Barton-Wright, 1902)

Teddy Boys

The British "Teddy Boy" subculture arose in the 1950s, and was typified by young men wearing clothes inspired by the Edwardian era, such as long draped jackets (sometimes with velvet trim), white shirts with high-necked, loose collars, high-waisted narrow "drainpipe" trousers, and chunky crepe-soled shoes, or Brogues. The subculture became associated with American rock and roll music, and some groups formed violent gangs.

Boys smoking, Portland Road - photograph; photographic print; silver gelatine print

Two Teddy Girls, Battersea Fun Fair

(1) Sarah Chalmers. The First Hoodies. Daily Mail: pp. 60,61. January 17, 2009.

(2) A consequence of the Industrial Revolution was the decline in the physical condition of Britain's increasingly sedentary middle and upper classes. A new obsession with purely athletic sport and gymnasiums emerged as a result. Tony Wolf, Bartitsu.org. January 15, 2007.

Wild Beasts revisited

I came across the work of artist Paul Volker a few years back when I was searching for a memorable birthday gift for a friend. Volker paints mostly animals, married with pithy text, using house paint on plywood. He was able to create a custom piece for me and I enjoyed the quirky email exchange that passed between us while sorting out the details. Here are a few of his pieces. Check out the "wild beasts" link in the archive on his website.

Simulacram iii

Lunch on Cathay Pacific

Image from one of my favorite sites, AirlineMeals.net, where you can browse photos and descriptions of thousands of in-flight meals.

Butterflied prawns wrapped with bean curd skin, steamed rice, Chinese mixed vegetables, garlic bread, seasonal fresh fruit, baked pear tart with fresh berries.

Photo taken by: Luke
Route: Hong Kong-Taipei
Class: business