I hope that I will never rest on my laurels, and continually strive to have enough motivation to get up and keep going. This season I've been seized by a surge of ambition once again, a quality that developed in me during my teens and has come in ebbs and flows during adulthood. I'm feeling a sense of stability in where I am, confidence in who I am, and the development of roots here that I haven't had for years after we've moved around so much. It feels good to be planted. Despite the way cities can wear down, they inspire me. I'm happy here.
I'm now preparing to put together an audition tape to enter a guitar competition that happens every two years in which the winner gets to perform with the Buffalo Philharmonic. The entry happens in two stages- first a recording of the first movement of the concerto you choose, along with a required set piece and five minutes of free choice music. If you make the semi-finals, you pay your own way to upstate NY this summer (very glamorous), and all four finalists perform with the Buffalo Phil as the judges chooses who wins.
I don't have high hopes, but I'd be thrilled if I made it to the semis. I very honestly doubt that I will, but I know I have to at least try. I've had so many moments this month where I just want to call it quits because of my dislike for the required piece. But I can't help wondering what could happen if I just put my nose to the grindstone once again and give it my all. Behind every win there are so, so many losses. Behind every decision to try, there are so many missed opportunities that pass by, untapped, potential sinking into the ground. One of my greatest fears is to live my life squandering what God has given me and to failing to recognize his hand in my life. And so although I'm tired, when I'm honing, working, trying, pressing on, I feel like I'm alive and I somehow feel free.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
On Winning
I don't usually win stuff. I have never won anything out of a drawing. Every time I shop at Trader Joe's, I put one of those little tickets into the BYOB lottery. I have never won in my many years of shopping there. A long time ago, my entire family won prizes in a drawing at a church party and my name was the only one that didn't get picked. I often enter the Lucky magazine sweepstakes to get some of those fabulous beauty prizes. Nope, nothing.
These are pretty flippant examples, but I have barely won anything that could be deemed a little more important either. I have entered many competitions in my time, some that I've blogged about, some that I haven't; some I've entered without telling a soul. Some I have won by default because there was no one else competing. Many I've gotten a quiet rejection letter to which I nodded and put promptly in the recycle bin.
So I thought I would write about winning, because I don't usually win stuff. I did the USC Donald Miller Concerto Competition last week, and I won. The prize? I'll be performing with an orchestra for our department recital in April in Newman Hall. I am totally psyched. I've longed for playing with orchestra since my days as a cellist in California Youth Symphony. My current axe of choice not being an orchestral instrument, I've left that world behind and continued along, not wanting to pine for anything that is outside my realm of expression now. But here I have another chance to play with an orchestra- and this time as soloist! (If they can hear me, that is. Perhaps it's wise that the guitar is not an orchestral instrument. It would promptly be drowned out by just about any single instrument in the orchestra.)
I have a terrible habit of imagining every possible outcome for every single uncertainty in my life. I think it's my way of managing my expectations and protecting myself from any kind of shock or surprising emotions. Here was one scenario that I had imagined, and when they announced that I had won, it didn't feel anything like I thought it would. I felt no different than I did right after I finished playing and sat down to watch the rest of the competitors in the audience. I guess this is because my real anxiety was to play the concerto my utmost best as I had been prepping for it vigorously for some time, studying the score, listening and re-listening to my favorite recording of it while driving while imagining the orchestra and singing along to my entrances; practicing passages slowly and at tempo, drilling small sections, and running it as if it were a performance, with bright lights and a canine audience to boot. So the real release was getting through it and feeling good about it overall. Only one pseudo-missed entrance that I promptly got back on with my pianist. No other major mishaps to tell of.
And so continues the journey, onto practicing and more practicing. A burst of confidence reminded me that I need to always be pushing forward if I want any semblance of a performing career, not settling and not stopping. Another performance of the concerto at a noon concert yesterday proved to myself that I am making progress in the art of performing. I know how to manage it and I know that what matters is my heart, and the process. I know how to be in it, and my stomach doesn't hurt every time as much as it used to. And I love it.
These are pretty flippant examples, but I have barely won anything that could be deemed a little more important either. I have entered many competitions in my time, some that I've blogged about, some that I haven't; some I've entered without telling a soul. Some I have won by default because there was no one else competing. Many I've gotten a quiet rejection letter to which I nodded and put promptly in the recycle bin.
So I thought I would write about winning, because I don't usually win stuff. I did the USC Donald Miller Concerto Competition last week, and I won. The prize? I'll be performing with an orchestra for our department recital in April in Newman Hall. I am totally psyched. I've longed for playing with orchestra since my days as a cellist in California Youth Symphony. My current axe of choice not being an orchestral instrument, I've left that world behind and continued along, not wanting to pine for anything that is outside my realm of expression now. But here I have another chance to play with an orchestra- and this time as soloist! (If they can hear me, that is. Perhaps it's wise that the guitar is not an orchestral instrument. It would promptly be drowned out by just about any single instrument in the orchestra.)
I have a terrible habit of imagining every possible outcome for every single uncertainty in my life. I think it's my way of managing my expectations and protecting myself from any kind of shock or surprising emotions. Here was one scenario that I had imagined, and when they announced that I had won, it didn't feel anything like I thought it would. I felt no different than I did right after I finished playing and sat down to watch the rest of the competitors in the audience. I guess this is because my real anxiety was to play the concerto my utmost best as I had been prepping for it vigorously for some time, studying the score, listening and re-listening to my favorite recording of it while driving while imagining the orchestra and singing along to my entrances; practicing passages slowly and at tempo, drilling small sections, and running it as if it were a performance, with bright lights and a canine audience to boot. So the real release was getting through it and feeling good about it overall. Only one pseudo-missed entrance that I promptly got back on with my pianist. No other major mishaps to tell of.
And so continues the journey, onto practicing and more practicing. A burst of confidence reminded me that I need to always be pushing forward if I want any semblance of a performing career, not settling and not stopping. Another performance of the concerto at a noon concert yesterday proved to myself that I am making progress in the art of performing. I know how to manage it and I know that what matters is my heart, and the process. I know how to be in it, and my stomach doesn't hurt every time as much as it used to. And I love it.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
300-Something Days of Practicing
At the beginning of 2009, I made a New Year's resolution to practice every day of the year.
Now mind you, I didn't define what constituted practicing (no time limit or requirements). The idea was to want to go to the guitar as naturally as other daily activities were, like brushing my teeth or feeding the dog. I also wanted to avoid lapses of nothingness after a big recital where I usually feel like I deserve a break and leave the instrument untouched for weeks at a time. So even if it was just a scale, to go to the guitar daily and play something- anything- was the goal.
I didn't quite keep it 100%. I think I missed about 10 days, mostly when we were out of town. For example, the day we hiked Haleakala (volcanic crater in Maui) I was too exhausted to think about anything guitar afterward. And some days I sort of cheated. I mean, playing a scale (sometimes taking about 5 seconds) did not always make me feel that I was connecting to the instrument, but was a way to check the box each day. By the time we got to December, I guess I ended up feeling a bit disillusioned and decided not to bring the guitar with me on our NYC trip (not wanting to fly with it, but with good reason!). So I did some mental practicing instead, reviewing my scores, imagining fingerings, and listening to recordings, which is actually a really effective part of practicing also.
Now a year later, I can say that I think I practice "better" than I ever have. I'm not sure if this is a result of the resolution, or just the fact that I have less free time on my hands. I am more efficient, targeting hard spots, running sections slowly instead of just breezing through the piece and taking a million breaks. Today I have no commitments at all, no students, no classes, no other work. I could practice 8 hours today if I wanted to. I'll be honest and say that I really don't want to even do half of that. I cleaned the entire bathroom before sitting down to write this blog entry. That's how much my flesh hates working sometimes (or just how much I love cleaning bathrooms?!).
As I was told at a yoga class yesterday, showing up is half the battle. So as my red practicing stool stands empty this morning, I feel sad that it is alone. I think I will go and sit on it.
Now mind you, I didn't define what constituted practicing (no time limit or requirements). The idea was to want to go to the guitar as naturally as other daily activities were, like brushing my teeth or feeding the dog. I also wanted to avoid lapses of nothingness after a big recital where I usually feel like I deserve a break and leave the instrument untouched for weeks at a time. So even if it was just a scale, to go to the guitar daily and play something- anything- was the goal.
I didn't quite keep it 100%. I think I missed about 10 days, mostly when we were out of town. For example, the day we hiked Haleakala (volcanic crater in Maui) I was too exhausted to think about anything guitar afterward. And some days I sort of cheated. I mean, playing a scale (sometimes taking about 5 seconds) did not always make me feel that I was connecting to the instrument, but was a way to check the box each day. By the time we got to December, I guess I ended up feeling a bit disillusioned and decided not to bring the guitar with me on our NYC trip (not wanting to fly with it, but with good reason!). So I did some mental practicing instead, reviewing my scores, imagining fingerings, and listening to recordings, which is actually a really effective part of practicing also.
Now a year later, I can say that I think I practice "better" than I ever have. I'm not sure if this is a result of the resolution, or just the fact that I have less free time on my hands. I am more efficient, targeting hard spots, running sections slowly instead of just breezing through the piece and taking a million breaks. Today I have no commitments at all, no students, no classes, no other work. I could practice 8 hours today if I wanted to. I'll be honest and say that I really don't want to even do half of that. I cleaned the entire bathroom before sitting down to write this blog entry. That's how much my flesh hates working sometimes (or just how much I love cleaning bathrooms?!).
As I was told at a yoga class yesterday, showing up is half the battle. So as my red practicing stool stands empty this morning, I feel sad that it is alone. I think I will go and sit on it.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Bienvenido, Gustavo!
Classical music needs to change with the times.
And the LA Phil is doing just that in the hiring of Venezuelan superkid Gustavo Dudamel. Tonight, in a spirited performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, along with performances by Youth Orchestra LA and various other student groups throughout the city, the LA Phil demonstrated its commitment to investing in the future of classical music through reaching a broader demographic of audiences than ever before. At a free concert at the Hollywood Bowl sponsored by none other than my favorite superstore, Tar-jay, 18,000 Angelinos gathered to hear the new young maestro lead the city's finest.
Sitting around me, I gazed at the various snippets of the population that were enjoying the sound of the Philharmonic in the cool evening air. To our left, a Latino family of four, with two small children huddled in blankets. To our right, a group of young professionals, UCLA grads based on my skilled eavesdropping of their conversation, kind enough to let us borrow their bottle opener for our four-buck chuck. Two rows in front of us, some older Caucasian ladies bouncing their heads along to Beethoven's every beat. On the stage some thousands of rows in front of us, some of the world's best musicians in their summer garb white-jacket attire. Above the stage in the hills, the iconic Hollywood sign; to its right, a cross planted on the hillside and brightly lit, and directly above us all, a full moon.
Dudamel's conducting was shown on four large screens directly on both sides of the stage, which was a good thing considering how far back we were. I took note of some of the more unusual forms of his conducting, all of which had a tinge of mischieveousness and flair about them- a shoulder roll here, an extended fist pump there, a sidelong glance and surprise cue to the brass section. Mouthing the words of "Ode to Joy" to the choir, never was a cue out of place or without a burst of energy that radiated throughout the entire Bowl. Always a steady beat, his left hand full of expressive gestures, and his curly hair dancing on the podium.
There was an excessive amount of hype leading up to Dudamel's arrival in Los Angeles. The city has been plastered with posters of his face everywhere, on buses and benches, always with an open-mouthed expression, his hair flying and "Pasión!" or "Vibrante!" in big capital letters next to him. So far was the reach of his PR that I even found myself reading an interview with Dudamel in my September Vogue magazine. (Yes, there are articles in Vogue- good ones too, once you get past all the ads.) New York music critics lamented not having a hip, young conductor of their own at the time of his hiring. But was all this hype just a marketing ploy? Was Dudamel being used by the forces that be as a poster boy for the Philharmonic, a mere tool to bolster ticket sales? Because it's cool to be young, artsy, passionate, and, dare we say- ethnic?
But tonight's performance was no let down, nor was the young maestro's ease with the orchestra and impeccable execution of a masterful work. The excitement was palpable. After a three curtain-call standing ovation, Dudamel tried to say a few words to the public. Stumbling through his English, he eventually transitioned into Spanish, with cheers erupting through the audience. "Today I am proud to be Latino. I am proud to be South American, and I am proud to be Venezuelan. But most of all, I am proud to be American!" More cheers, more curtain calls, more unifying language - "No North America, South America, but one America!" His words feels appropriate for the age of Obama, an age built on a vision of America without red states and blue states. As Adam Green says so poignantly, if Bernstein was a symbol for the Kennedy years, then surely Dudamel is a symbol of the Obama era.
I thought about the words from the Spanish subtitles of Schiller's poetry on the big screens: "Abrazos, abrazos, el millon!" A fitting message for the arrival of a conductor bringing new energy to classical music, one that is not only fresh and hip, but fueled by the enduring message of great composers like Beethoven. Vibrante indeed.
Encore! The final movement of Beethoven 9 played again with a chorus of fireworks.
And the LA Phil is doing just that in the hiring of Venezuelan superkid Gustavo Dudamel. Tonight, in a spirited performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, along with performances by Youth Orchestra LA and various other student groups throughout the city, the LA Phil demonstrated its commitment to investing in the future of classical music through reaching a broader demographic of audiences than ever before. At a free concert at the Hollywood Bowl sponsored by none other than my favorite superstore, Tar-jay, 18,000 Angelinos gathered to hear the new young maestro lead the city's finest.
Sitting around me, I gazed at the various snippets of the population that were enjoying the sound of the Philharmonic in the cool evening air. To our left, a Latino family of four, with two small children huddled in blankets. To our right, a group of young professionals, UCLA grads based on my skilled eavesdropping of their conversation, kind enough to let us borrow their bottle opener for our four-buck chuck. Two rows in front of us, some older Caucasian ladies bouncing their heads along to Beethoven's every beat. On the stage some thousands of rows in front of us, some of the world's best musicians in their summer garb white-jacket attire. Above the stage in the hills, the iconic Hollywood sign; to its right, a cross planted on the hillside and brightly lit, and directly above us all, a full moon.
Dudamel's conducting was shown on four large screens directly on both sides of the stage, which was a good thing considering how far back we were. I took note of some of the more unusual forms of his conducting, all of which had a tinge of mischieveousness and flair about them- a shoulder roll here, an extended fist pump there, a sidelong glance and surprise cue to the brass section. Mouthing the words of "Ode to Joy" to the choir, never was a cue out of place or without a burst of energy that radiated throughout the entire Bowl. Always a steady beat, his left hand full of expressive gestures, and his curly hair dancing on the podium.
There was an excessive amount of hype leading up to Dudamel's arrival in Los Angeles. The city has been plastered with posters of his face everywhere, on buses and benches, always with an open-mouthed expression, his hair flying and "Pasión!" or "Vibrante!" in big capital letters next to him. So far was the reach of his PR that I even found myself reading an interview with Dudamel in my September Vogue magazine. (Yes, there are articles in Vogue- good ones too, once you get past all the ads.) New York music critics lamented not having a hip, young conductor of their own at the time of his hiring. But was all this hype just a marketing ploy? Was Dudamel being used by the forces that be as a poster boy for the Philharmonic, a mere tool to bolster ticket sales? Because it's cool to be young, artsy, passionate, and, dare we say- ethnic?
But tonight's performance was no let down, nor was the young maestro's ease with the orchestra and impeccable execution of a masterful work. The excitement was palpable. After a three curtain-call standing ovation, Dudamel tried to say a few words to the public. Stumbling through his English, he eventually transitioned into Spanish, with cheers erupting through the audience. "Today I am proud to be Latino. I am proud to be South American, and I am proud to be Venezuelan. But most of all, I am proud to be American!" More cheers, more curtain calls, more unifying language - "No North America, South America, but one America!" His words feels appropriate for the age of Obama, an age built on a vision of America without red states and blue states. As Adam Green says so poignantly, if Bernstein was a symbol for the Kennedy years, then surely Dudamel is a symbol of the Obama era.
I thought about the words from the Spanish subtitles of Schiller's poetry on the big screens: "Abrazos, abrazos, el millon!" A fitting message for the arrival of a conductor bringing new energy to classical music, one that is not only fresh and hip, but fueled by the enduring message of great composers like Beethoven. Vibrante indeed.
Encore! The final movement of Beethoven 9 played again with a chorus of fireworks.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Writer's Block
It is now October 1. Did I really just not blog for the entire month of September? I am probably losing readership by the second. Hi, I missed you. I haven't had a free second to collect my thoughts in awhile. Anybody out there?
Here's the brief update on what's happened since the end of August. Started a new job at the Pasadena Conservatory in which 19 guitar students were thrown in my lap. Starting another new job today working for the Guitar Foundation of America doing membership/development stuff. Teaching two adult group guitar night classes back to back in Culver City on Wednesday nights after being in class basically from 11-5 straight. Taking three classes and prepping for a duo recital in December.
By far the most exciting thing this semester is my Arts Writing class at the journalism school. Unfortunately, I think that has actually contributed to my writer's block this month. I have been totally in awe of the people in this class, so much so that I haven't really felt like writing much. I guess I didn't feel like I had any interesting to say, and wondered if I could say anything very well at all. Introducing ourselves on the first day, we went around and said what who we were and what we do. Half the people in the class had written for newspapers and cultural magazines. Meanwhile, I wondered what a lowly musician like myself was doing in a room full of journalists who can claim pieces from the Village Voice and LA Times as their own! I felt like a total shmuck. Most of the students are in a specialized program at the journalism school for covering the arts, and they have some sort of artistic interest or experience- fashion, dance, photography, reality TV production, acting, you name it. A truly amazing group of people.
Every week, we are given an assignment, we read our work aloud for the class and everyone critiques it. It is sort of like a master class for musicians except your performance is you reading your writing, and thankfully that can be done ahead of time. I am getting really great feedback though, and am so blown away and touched by a lot of my classmates' writing. Some of it is so beautiful, witty, or clever that I often can't believe we are writing about the same topic.
So I'm going to continue to write, now that I've gotten over my cold feet, and received a boost of confidence from class yesterday and from a brief office hour meeting with my Pulitzer prize-winning professor in which he really encouraged me. The most important thing is that I keep doing it, without the self-imposed pressure that it has to be brilliant or profound every time. I am going to try to blog even more frequently just to help me process everything that is happening this year. Next week's assignment is to see a really disturbing film and give a 500 word review about the separation between art and message. We'll see how that goes.
Here's the brief update on what's happened since the end of August. Started a new job at the Pasadena Conservatory in which 19 guitar students were thrown in my lap. Starting another new job today working for the Guitar Foundation of America doing membership/development stuff. Teaching two adult group guitar night classes back to back in Culver City on Wednesday nights after being in class basically from 11-5 straight. Taking three classes and prepping for a duo recital in December.
By far the most exciting thing this semester is my Arts Writing class at the journalism school. Unfortunately, I think that has actually contributed to my writer's block this month. I have been totally in awe of the people in this class, so much so that I haven't really felt like writing much. I guess I didn't feel like I had any interesting to say, and wondered if I could say anything very well at all. Introducing ourselves on the first day, we went around and said what who we were and what we do. Half the people in the class had written for newspapers and cultural magazines. Meanwhile, I wondered what a lowly musician like myself was doing in a room full of journalists who can claim pieces from the Village Voice and LA Times as their own! I felt like a total shmuck. Most of the students are in a specialized program at the journalism school for covering the arts, and they have some sort of artistic interest or experience- fashion, dance, photography, reality TV production, acting, you name it. A truly amazing group of people.
Every week, we are given an assignment, we read our work aloud for the class and everyone critiques it. It is sort of like a master class for musicians except your performance is you reading your writing, and thankfully that can be done ahead of time. I am getting really great feedback though, and am so blown away and touched by a lot of my classmates' writing. Some of it is so beautiful, witty, or clever that I often can't believe we are writing about the same topic.
So I'm going to continue to write, now that I've gotten over my cold feet, and received a boost of confidence from class yesterday and from a brief office hour meeting with my Pulitzer prize-winning professor in which he really encouraged me. The most important thing is that I keep doing it, without the self-imposed pressure that it has to be brilliant or profound every time. I am going to try to blog even more frequently just to help me process everything that is happening this year. Next week's assignment is to see a really disturbing film and give a 500 word review about the separation between art and message. We'll see how that goes.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Guitar Heroes
There is something about having a space set apart for your work that makes it easier to go to with the intention of working, and easier to leave with the satisfaction of having completed something meaningful.
In our little apt, we have a dressing room closet that has a built in vanity. When we first moved in, P was working from home and set up his office in this little area, using the built-in shelves to hold his various monitors and stock ticker screens. After that job was over, I claimed the vanity for myself and the closet became a mish-mash of unorganized storage. In doing a little redecorating this weekend, I realized that this little space could actually become a very sufficient practice room for me. As a small space, the sound is great in there as everything I play bounces right off the wall and I'm able to listen in a way that has eluded me while practicing in the living room or bedroom.
In my dreams, we have a detached studio from our house that is soundproofed for recording, has tons of beautiful guitars, is perfectly cooled and humidified, and decorated with concert posters and pictures of famous guitarists. Well, that day has not come yet, but this little space is more than satisfactory, and I dug up these photos of my own personal "guitar heroes" to keep me company in my new little studio.
Agustin Barrios Mangore (1885-1944), Paraguayan guitarist and composer who wrote beautiful 19th century sounding music during the 20th century. Also incorporated South American folk dances into his compositions and introduced European audiences to elements of his culture.
The great maestro himself, Andres Segovia (1893-1987), also referred to often as the grandfather of classical guitar. The first musician of the 20th century to bring classical guitar to the concert stage throughout the world. Without his work and life, there would be a huge gap in the repertoire and stature of the guitar.
Francisco Tarrega (1852-1909), great Spanish composer of the 19th century who wrote original music for classical guitar and was a great pedagogue of the instrument. He was in the "no nails" school of thought and history says he got a really beautiful sound out of his animal gut strings.
Ida Presti (1924-1967), my personal hero as of late. I think this photo is so beautiful- the elegance of the lace on her dress, her incredible focus, the perfectly poised hand position. She was one of the only women of her generation to play the guitar, and to play it extremely well. Part of the famous Presti-Lagoya duo, she died tragically at the age of 42 and had she lived longer, her virtuosity would have been given its proper place in guitar history. I also believe she would have inspired many more women to play the guitar.
I have a lesson tomorrow with Pepe Romero, another guitar hero of mine. He is larger than life as a teacher, with the wisdom of a sage and the warmth of a close relative. There is philosophical meaning hidden in every carefully worded statement he says in his thick Spanish accent. Surrounded by the spirit of all these heroes, I am hoping the motivation will run strong throughout this new semester.
In our little apt, we have a dressing room closet that has a built in vanity. When we first moved in, P was working from home and set up his office in this little area, using the built-in shelves to hold his various monitors and stock ticker screens. After that job was over, I claimed the vanity for myself and the closet became a mish-mash of unorganized storage. In doing a little redecorating this weekend, I realized that this little space could actually become a very sufficient practice room for me. As a small space, the sound is great in there as everything I play bounces right off the wall and I'm able to listen in a way that has eluded me while practicing in the living room or bedroom.
In my dreams, we have a detached studio from our house that is soundproofed for recording, has tons of beautiful guitars, is perfectly cooled and humidified, and decorated with concert posters and pictures of famous guitarists. Well, that day has not come yet, but this little space is more than satisfactory, and I dug up these photos of my own personal "guitar heroes" to keep me company in my new little studio.
Agustin Barrios Mangore (1885-1944), Paraguayan guitarist and composer who wrote beautiful 19th century sounding music during the 20th century. Also incorporated South American folk dances into his compositions and introduced European audiences to elements of his culture.
The great maestro himself, Andres Segovia (1893-1987), also referred to often as the grandfather of classical guitar. The first musician of the 20th century to bring classical guitar to the concert stage throughout the world. Without his work and life, there would be a huge gap in the repertoire and stature of the guitar.
Francisco Tarrega (1852-1909), great Spanish composer of the 19th century who wrote original music for classical guitar and was a great pedagogue of the instrument. He was in the "no nails" school of thought and history says he got a really beautiful sound out of his animal gut strings.
Ida Presti (1924-1967), my personal hero as of late. I think this photo is so beautiful- the elegance of the lace on her dress, her incredible focus, the perfectly poised hand position. She was one of the only women of her generation to play the guitar, and to play it extremely well. Part of the famous Presti-Lagoya duo, she died tragically at the age of 42 and had she lived longer, her virtuosity would have been given its proper place in guitar history. I also believe she would have inspired many more women to play the guitar.
I have a lesson tomorrow with Pepe Romero, another guitar hero of mine. He is larger than life as a teacher, with the wisdom of a sage and the warmth of a close relative. There is philosophical meaning hidden in every carefully worded statement he says in his thick Spanish accent. Surrounded by the spirit of all these heroes, I am hoping the motivation will run strong throughout this new semester.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The perfect summer meal
Out of all foods, there is only one thing that I crave, at least once a week in the incessant dry heat of a Los Angeles summer. Withholding it from me for any amount of time leaves me dazed, lethargic, and completely incapacitated. Without a mid-week charge of it, I simply can't make it until Friday. I have developed a serious addiction this summer and with good reason- it's refreshing, affordable, blends a perfect combination of a variety of flavors, and maybe even sort of healthy. This incredible food is a bowl of Korean buckwheat noodles in ice cold beef broth known as naeng myun.
For the virgin naeng myun eater, the temperature of the dish may be a bit startling at first. There are few foods that I know of across all cuisines that are served as cold as naeng myun. Yes, cold soups exist as do cold appetizers, but cold entrees that are this cold are few and far between. Often, naeng myun is even served with a heap of shaved up ice on the top of the soup, and though it may sound strange at first, I assure you there is no better treat on a 90 degree day. Typically, naeng myun comes in an ice cold stainless steel bowl, the lump of long chewy buckwheat noodles usually cut in half for you by your sever, the tangy beef broth enveloping julienned cucumber, daikon, and if you're lucky, Asian pear, half of a hard boiled egg, and thinly sliced pieces of sirloin to top. Naeng myun is often eaten after a Korean BBQ meal as a sort of palette cleanser (because what better way to polish off a a few pounds of meat than with a pound of noodles?), but for a warm summer evening it is a most perfect stand alone meal.
Two main varieties exist: mool naeng myun and bibim naeng myun, the latter of which is coated in a sweet and spicy red pepper paste instead of a beef broth like the former. Some restaurants make a happy combination of the two by putting just a dab of red pepper paste into a bowl of mool naeng myun, which is becoming a fast favorite of mine. Another great innovation is the 50/50 bowl with a metal divider in the middle and a portion of the two varieties on either side.
The consistency of the noodles is of utmost importance and can really make or break a naeng myun dining experience. The noodles are thinner than Japanese soba noodles, and should be soft, but have a bit of chewiness at the first bite, vaguely similar to the way Italian pasta should be served al dente. (In Taiwanese the word for this is kew, but I'm not sure there is really an English equivalent.) Some restaurants here in LA also use a noodle that is made out of what they claim is a healthier starchy plant called arrowroot, which is black in color has a bit of a thinner and even softer consistency than buckwheat. As with all varieties of soup noodles, also of incredible importance is of course, the broth. Traditionally, vinegar and mustard are available at the table so you can mix the acidic, sour, and tangy content of your broth to your palette's exact pleasure, but at a few places in this fine urban playground, the broth is so perfectly sweet and zesty with the addition of the chef's secret ingredient (rumored to be Sprite) that absolutely nothing is needed.
The best part is that my current summer addiction will not break the bank. Quite the opposite. After trying dozens of hallowed naeng myun shops in the largest concentration of Korean businesses outside of Seoul itself, we have now discovered the best deal in all of Koreatown to be at a hole in the wall joint that offers two huge bowls of naeng myun for $10. Add a plate of marinated short ribs and the bill becomes a whopping $14. Why things are so cheap in K-town we just don't understand; these deals are only known by Korean people and thankfully my husband has enough proficiency to be able to read the signs. At moments like these, I am so glad I married Korean, although he feels the great injustice of having to speak Korean to the servers in order to get the special deal while I smile and remain mute. But we keep going back because we really don't want them to go out of business, and at this price, we just don't understand how they won't.
Come visit and we'll take you to our secret haunt.
For the virgin naeng myun eater, the temperature of the dish may be a bit startling at first. There are few foods that I know of across all cuisines that are served as cold as naeng myun. Yes, cold soups exist as do cold appetizers, but cold entrees that are this cold are few and far between. Often, naeng myun is even served with a heap of shaved up ice on the top of the soup, and though it may sound strange at first, I assure you there is no better treat on a 90 degree day. Typically, naeng myun comes in an ice cold stainless steel bowl, the lump of long chewy buckwheat noodles usually cut in half for you by your sever, the tangy beef broth enveloping julienned cucumber, daikon, and if you're lucky, Asian pear, half of a hard boiled egg, and thinly sliced pieces of sirloin to top. Naeng myun is often eaten after a Korean BBQ meal as a sort of palette cleanser (because what better way to polish off a a few pounds of meat than with a pound of noodles?), but for a warm summer evening it is a most perfect stand alone meal.
Two main varieties exist: mool naeng myun and bibim naeng myun, the latter of which is coated in a sweet and spicy red pepper paste instead of a beef broth like the former. Some restaurants make a happy combination of the two by putting just a dab of red pepper paste into a bowl of mool naeng myun, which is becoming a fast favorite of mine. Another great innovation is the 50/50 bowl with a metal divider in the middle and a portion of the two varieties on either side.
The consistency of the noodles is of utmost importance and can really make or break a naeng myun dining experience. The noodles are thinner than Japanese soba noodles, and should be soft, but have a bit of chewiness at the first bite, vaguely similar to the way Italian pasta should be served al dente. (In Taiwanese the word for this is kew, but I'm not sure there is really an English equivalent.) Some restaurants here in LA also use a noodle that is made out of what they claim is a healthier starchy plant called arrowroot, which is black in color has a bit of a thinner and even softer consistency than buckwheat. As with all varieties of soup noodles, also of incredible importance is of course, the broth. Traditionally, vinegar and mustard are available at the table so you can mix the acidic, sour, and tangy content of your broth to your palette's exact pleasure, but at a few places in this fine urban playground, the broth is so perfectly sweet and zesty with the addition of the chef's secret ingredient (rumored to be Sprite) that absolutely nothing is needed.
The best part is that my current summer addiction will not break the bank. Quite the opposite. After trying dozens of hallowed naeng myun shops in the largest concentration of Korean businesses outside of Seoul itself, we have now discovered the best deal in all of Koreatown to be at a hole in the wall joint that offers two huge bowls of naeng myun for $10. Add a plate of marinated short ribs and the bill becomes a whopping $14. Why things are so cheap in K-town we just don't understand; these deals are only known by Korean people and thankfully my husband has enough proficiency to be able to read the signs. At moments like these, I am so glad I married Korean, although he feels the great injustice of having to speak Korean to the servers in order to get the special deal while I smile and remain mute. But we keep going back because we really don't want them to go out of business, and at this price, we just don't understand how they won't.
Come visit and we'll take you to our secret haunt.
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