Cry, beloved country. Cry. Cry for your anointed sons, who sprung forth from your loins for after 53 years of peace and harmony for they are defiling the hallowed halls of the Parliament with their witless speech. They have forgotten that you have been built on the basis of brotherhood and harmony. Stirring the masses with ribald speeches of hate and sowing distrust among your children, these rabble rousers desecrate the vision and the dreams of our founding fathers and mock their sacrifices.
Weep, Oh! Weep. For politicians fight one another and forget that the common enemy of your children are Poverty, Injustice, Crime, and Diminishing Competitiveness. It is not their own brothers and sisters irregardless of their skin colour, religious affiliation, sexual preferences, choice of dressing or political inclination. Weep for them, those who have been abroad and studied in prestigious colleges. When they come back as politicians, they too are ever to eager to jump into the foray together with their baser cousins and use Religion as a tool to divide. God, whom praises about His Mercy and Compassion have been sung by his followers throughout the ages. They play the accuser, judge and executioner. Dominus Illuminatio Mea.
Lament, oh lament. Lament for them who beat their chest and cry. The poor, the displaced, the aged and infirm who have no where to seek shelter and solace. Those who roam the streets and sleep by the side walk. The downtrodden, the orphans, the meek, the victimized, the illiterate, the voiceless. Those who hunger have no use for figures, percentages and ratios. It is only the rich and idle who argue about the pie as a diversion while they loot, plunder and hoard.
Be proud, my beloved country. Be proud of your sons. For they have grown up to be wise and are able to resist the temptation to resist the diatribe of racial and religious polemics. Where politicians have failed, the citizens have shined and shown that they are mature and wise enough to refuse being sacrificial pawns in the struggle for political survival.
Forgive me, my country. Forgive me for calling you mine. My country, your soil, your flesh where lies buried, the bones. flesh and ashes complete with the dreams of my grandparents and parents. Forgive me for calling you mine for we live in a time where we are told to go home to our ancestral land not for treachery, not for crime but for the reason of being different. For holding on to a set of values that would be morally just by any reasonable sentient being. For the crime of demanding for accountability and transparency.
This one was misleading. The Menu stated Confit of Free Range Chicken with Corriander Pistou and Foie, but what was serve was Chicken Roulade in Jus with Foie. Not even a whiff of Pistou in sight.
It is always easy to blame and accuse. Perhaps after 53 years of independence we should be introspective and ask ourselves whether we ourselves should be blamed. Before we accuse others of being racists, are we ourselves racial chauvinists? An entire generation of Chinese-Malaysians where a majority can't speak in Bahasa or even in Chinese dialects but use Mandarin as Lingua Franca. Even if they do speak Bahasa, it is laced with thick accent. Our Politicians fare no better. Would Judy Chu appear to be credible in the US Congress if she spoke in Pidgin English?
The flags are all folded up, the feel good rallies are but a memory now. But our country plods along like a big vessel with all of us aboard without an inkling about the course.
Merdeka Day saw me satisfy my lust for a Ménage à quarte food orgy at Sage again. Last week's meal was less praiseworthy and I used my discretionary powers as the editor of this blog to suppress and veto it, like an Information Minister in a semi dictatorial country. This week's is more crave worthy and rather worth braving the incredibly ridiculous jam to get into MidValley Gardens plus the presence inescapable public holiday Mall Trolls.
Both the entrees were commendable. The Tataki of Wagyu was slightly singed at the edges which added a beautiful smokiness to the rare beef and the lovely light salad complemented the sinfully rich meat beautifully. The Panache should be listed as one of the gastronomical wonders of Sage and unlike their more plebeian cousins elsewhere, it was generously flavoured with Saffron. The mains were wrongly described as a confit. What was served was Chicken Roulade with natural jus and I was a bit miffed that the serving staff did not mention that the menu had been revised as I was curious how the corriander pistou would taste like. Pistou is French Pesto minus the pine nuts.
Their covert operation of menu revision was seen again during dessert, where the Caramel Ice Cream was substituted sensibly to Cinnamon which was a good thing because it would have paired better with the Sous Vide pear which although was fragrant, tasted a bit bland. Beautiful contrasts in the dessert. Hot, cold, soft and crunchy. The meal ended with Macchiato and an a silent wish that our country will survive the hailstorm.