From Sai Kung, my friend Trevor and I boarded another bus deep into Sai Kung Country Park to Pak Tam Au , one of the trailheads to stage 2 of the well-known MacLehose Trail.  The plan was to hike south and catch a boat that would take us back to Sai Kung later for a fresh fishy feast.   A thick October fog had set in on the hilly terrain, cool and humid in a way that makes you shiver yet sweat.  We trekked along a paved pathway through thick vegetation, staring up into walls of green.  At the top of Chek Keng Peak, the fog broke slightly and I was treated to my first real view.

The trail snaked up and alongside the mountain, then curved downward until we came upon a pathway that led us directly to Tai Long Wan, or “Big Wave Bay.”  Families frolicked in this hidden beach, splashing in the waves, flying kites and drawing pictures into the sand.  We came upon a beachside cafe, its patio overlooking the cove.  The plan was to stop for quick refreshments, but the menu and humidity lured us into staying.  We ordered up some noodles and kicked up our feet.

The pristine waters and lush forest seemed a million miles away from Central Hong Kong, where construction workers were currently dredging dirt from the harbor to create land for development.  The calm of Tai Long Wan was yin to the cacophonous yang of Central and Kowloon.  This must have been the Hong Kong that Britain fell in love with, I thought.

Sluggish from our mid-afternoon meal, we continued on for another hour or so, stumbling across a few small villages along the way.

Rare was the glimpse of an actual resident — perhaps they were all fishing — but the path was dotted with many a cow patty, reminders of the old farm lifestyle of the New Territories.

The sun was beginning to set, so we skipped the rest of the trail and hopped on a boat that took us back to Wong Shek Pier near the Pak Tam Au trailhead.  As the rickety bus careened back down the mountain, we leaned back in our seats, tired and sweaty and completely relaxed.  A multi-course seafood dinner awaited us in Sai Kung, the perfect end to an already perfect day.

Note: Most hikers complete the trail from south to north, starting from Long Ke near the High Island Reservoir (accessible by taxi) and ending at Pak Tam Au, where they can take bus 94 back to Sai Kung.  Beachgoers can forgo the more difficult trails by taking shortcuts directly to the beach, or by taking a boat directly from Wong Shek Pier or Sai Kung ($400-600 HKD).  But why miss out on the breathtaking hike?  Full guide to the MacLehose Trail.

View more photos of Tai Long Wan and the MacLehose Trail #2 on Flickr.

.

Read about it on Trazzler!
Add this to your wishlist: Slurping Noodles by the Beach in Sai Kung Country Park, Hong Kong

I’ve decided to do a product comparison between the “As Seen on TV” EZ Scrambler (that comes with the EZ Cracker) and another great product that I call the EZ-er Scrambler.  I admit that I’ve never used the EZ Scrambler before, but it seems pretty straightforward.  I’ll let you decide for yourself which is better.

1.  EZ Scrambler
The EZ Scrambler is a fancy kitchen gadget shaped like an inverted vibrator.  According to the ads, it works in just three easy steps.

Step 1: Stick an egg on the end.
Step 2: Give it a whirl.
Step 3: Crack the egg open, preferably using the EZ Cracker.

POOF!   A magical, yellowish-gray substance comes out.   Repeat for each egg.

Total Cost: FREE! ………with the purchase of an EZ Cracker for $19.95 plus shipping and handling.  See for yourself in this ear-splitting commercial featuring the old Snapple Lady.  (The EZ Scrambler makes its debut at 1:30.)

2.  EZ-er Scrambler
If you didn’t think anyone could top that ingenuity, check out the product that I use for myself.  It works in just TWO, count ‘em TWO, easy steps.

Step 1: Crack your egg(s) into a bowl.
Step 2: Whisk with fork.

POOF!  Scrambled eggs.  No need to repeat.

Total Cost:  FREE! Wait for it… nope.  Just free.

***

As I embarked on a post-college career, the peer pressure lightened as my friends realized that there was more to alcohol than imbibing it as quickly and cheaply as possible.  But as irony would have it, I chose a path that would keep booze inextricably tied to my career.  Restaurant publicity is not without its many tasty perks, and I relished in the many opportunities I had to learn about food and beverage.  There was much to soak in about the world of wine, handcrafted beer and artisanal cocktails, all of which I immensely enjoyed — by the ounce.

It soon became clear that my nonalcoholism would catch up to me.  I distinctly remember a conversation I had soon after starting my job.  The topic was media dinners.

“You can handle your alcohol, right?  I’ve known people who get a little too crazy after a few cocktails.  It’s still a professional setting.”

“Sure, I can handle myself,” I replied. By not drinking.

And so I sipped my way halfheartedly through media dinners, wine and beer tastings, happy hours and all sorts of cocktail parties where colleagues reveled in the free-flowing drinks.  Being a part of the restaurant business, I’ve always felt obligated to order a drink even though I know I can’t finish it.  I love watching a good bartender showcase top-notch mixing skills, or having a sommelier pair the perfect beer or wine.  I did my best to hide my affliction, always dutifully drinking as much as I could before I secretly abandoned the glass.

It wasn’t long before colleagues started to notice.   My friend Caroline on Crack was the first to call me out during a trip to V-vin, the bar at Valentino in Santa Monica.  We were there for the cocktails, Caroline’s specialty, and to be a good sport, I scanned the cocktail list looking for the tamest one I could find.  I settled on the Frizzantino, a cocktail listed as strawberries muddled with balsamic and mixed with lemonade and Prosecco.  I can handle a schmancy bellini as long as I eat, I thought.  The bartender, extremely nice but completely unaware, said he was going to make me his special version.

“But I don’t want a special version,” I admitted. “I’m sort of a lightweight.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’ll keep it light for you.”  He handed me a bright red drink now imbued with rum and Vermouth.  Damnit.

Even after noshing on a plate of gnocchi with Caroline, the telltale flush began creeping into my face.  “Will you finish this for me?”   She looked astonished.  “You haven’t even drank a quarter of it!”  “I know!  I warned him not to put rum in it…”

Caroline took a picture for posterity — my infamous quarter-finished cocktail now lives on as a subtle link on her blog.

***

In some cases, Asian Red Face was not a sufficient enough excuse for some of my friends and colleagues.  “I know plenty of Asians that get red,” they would retort.  “They can drink more than you can.  You just have to build up a tolerance.”  My weak “I can’ts” were dismissed as cop-outs.

I soon met Stevie, an instant friend and dining buddy who was fearless in his taste for great eats.  On his trips to LA (he lives in NY), we hit everything from sushi in West LA to dim sum in Alhambra to trendy hotspots in Venice and West Hollywood.  I soon discovered that we shared the same problem: genetics.  Stevie, who is also Chinese, would get many of the same symptoms I did after drinking.

As it turns out, there is more to Asian Red Face than just blushing.  As a recent article in the New York Times explained:

The flushing response, which may be accompanied by nausea and a rapid heartbeat, is caused mainly by an inherited deficiency in an enzyme called ALDH2, a trait shared by more than a third of people of East Asian ancestry — Japanese, Chinese or Koreans. As little as half a bottle of beer can trigger the reaction.  The deficiency results in problems in metabolizing alcohol, leading to an accumulation of a toxin called acetaldehyde in the body. People with two copies of the gene responsible have such unpleasant reactions that they are unable to consume large amounts of alcohol.

Stevie learned early on to be confident about his nonalcoholism.  “No thanks.”  It was that simple.

I soon began adopting his nonchalance and stopped ordering drinks for appearances.  “I’ll have a Diet Coke” and “Water’s fine” were accompanied with a smile and a thank you.  When alcohol was an inevitable part of an event or dinner — as it always is at restaurant PR functions — I stopped pressuring myself into drinking more than the few sips I needed to taste it.  I grew more self-assured over time, and it wasn’t long before people stopped asking questions.

Was it this easy all along?

This past November, I took the first step in embracing my nonalcoholism.  Robby and I were at Daniel in New York, placing drink orders to accompany a meal of a lifetime. We contemplated wine, as Robby surely would have been able to drink most of it, but he had his eye on The Revolutionary, a bourbon and absinthe cocktail.  “I’ll have that,” he said.

“And you, miss?”

I looked up our waitress and smiled.  “I’ll take the virgin mojito.”

“Great choice, miss.  I’ll have them right away.”

I remember my first drink vividly.  It was in high school, and a fellow classmate had procured a bottle of vodka from her big brother’s stash.  “You should try some,” she encouraged.  “Here, it tastes bad, so I’ll mix it with Coke.”   She filled half a glass with soda, topped it off with the Smirnoff, and handed it gingerly to me.  I cradled the glass, sipping my first ever cocktail.

Eechhhhhhh.  I gagged.  It tasted like sugary hairspray.  “It’s supposed to taste like that,” she said.  I shrugged.  It was time to go home, so I took a few more sips and hitched a ride back with a friend.

As I enjoyed some late-night grub and television in my pajamas, I began to feel giggly and lightheaded.  Whatever was on television at the time was immensely funny albeit increasingly blurry.  A warm blush crept into my cheeks.  Out of curiosity, I glanced into a mirror.  I found myself staring directly at a raven-haired tomato.

“I’m so red!” I laughed aloud.  “Omigod, am I drunk?”

In Vegas, it’s the curse of beginner’s luck.  If you win money the first time you play a game, you’ll spend the rest of your days trying to replicate the success of that first lucky strike.  Thinking back, I should have seen the warning signs that the odds were against me.  The immediate dizziness, the bright red flush — all after a few sips of vodka.  But all I could think about was that goofy, ridiculous grin on my face.

It would the first in a long line of fruitless attempts to enjoy drinking.

***

Like any intrepid college student, I was privy to the importance of booze in campus life.  In the sport of college drinking, there were the heavyweights, the beer bongers and keg standers and shot gunners that filtered alcohol like water through fish;  the welterweights, who could hold their own against the best of them; and the lightweights, mostly girls  whose voice pitches would go higher and higher after a few cupfuls of jungle juice.

Then there was me.  The runt.  The watergirl.  Desperate though I tried, I failed to keep up with the lightest of lightweights.  I’d barely make it through a half-cup of any sort of alcohol before I began to feel sick to my stomach.  Friends and classmates, all self-proclaimed drinking experts, gave me every piece of advice they could.  “Don’t use sugary mixers.”  “Just stick to beer.”  “Eat bread.”  “Take a Pepcid AC.“  That last one came via my dear friend Lo, who discovered that Pepcid kept her from getting the common “Asian Red Face” affliction.

I tried all the suggestions.  Turns out that no amount of antacid medicine would prevent the red-face, the dizziness, the awful migraines and nausea that I almost always experienced after drinking.  Over time, I began to drink less and less.  I hid my shame by proclaiming that I was tipsier than I really was.  It was easier than friends insisting that I was not drunk enough and needed to catch up.  At bars, I would order a cocktail or beer just to have something in my hand so that generous young men wouldn’t offer to buy me a drink.

There was one instance in which I had determined to finish an entire beer.  I had learned that a full stomach kept me from getting too sick, so over the course of the night, I had devoured some thousand calories worth of junk food in order to temper the Heineken I was drinking.  Four hours and several bags of chips and Funyuns later, I tasted the flat, bitter swill of victory.  It was gross.

***

Part II of “Confessions of a Nonalcoholic”

#Travel – Gary Arndt, @EverywhereTrip

Everything Everywhere
Gary is the prototype wanderkind, a sojourner with a free spirit and brave independence that has kept him on the road since 2007.   He’s been everywhere, seen everything (hence the name, I suppose).  I enjoy perusing his site simply to get ideas about where I should go and whether or not I should leave everything behind and go travel.  I have not, however, sold a software company like he did to get the sort of funds you need to travel. Also of note, Gary takes great photographs.

***

#Food – Jonathan Gold, @thejgold

99 Things to Eat in L.A. Before You Die
I’m sure the majority of you already follow JGold, so me doing a #FollowFriday featuring him seems pretty pointless.  But this recent culinary bucket list is still worthy of mention, as it tackles specific foodstuffs rather than Gold’s usual list of 99 Essential Restaurants.  Unlike many of my counterparts, I refuse to go through and see how many of them I’ve already accomplished — the foodie’s equivalent of taking a ruler to your dick — rather, I just enjoy Gold’s writing for what it is.  On top of that, I’m super stoked that I now know of Chili John’s in Burbank, which serves a childhood favorite of mine: chili over spaghetti.

***

#Media – Jeff Bercovici, @jeffbercovici

“The New Journalism“
Jeff is a media columnist for AOL’s Daily Finance site.  He recently penned this op-ed on the state of media in today’s frenetic world.  He accepts what he calls the “democratization” of journalism, and while he is one of the “old media,” he admits that journalism had become a “hoity toity profession” in the last half of the century.  I admit I’m more impressed by his even-tempered sardonicism more so than his argument.

And just out of pure whimsy, here’s a shot of a cloud that looks like a UFO.  We spotted this on the I-15 back to Los Angeles.  Random and fun — just like our weekend in Vegas

Yes, I am ashamed.

January and early February’s colder temperatures and unusually frequent spates of rain have only worsened the cabin fever.   I began to daydream of New Zealand, Argentina, South Africa and other countries of the now-summertime Southern Hemisphere.

But just last week, the clouds receded, the smog cleared and the most brilliant sun cast its merciful rays on southern California.  In the middle of February.

For Valentine’s Day, Robby and I skipped out on Amateur Night at the restaurants and soaked in the 77-degree weather at Will Rogers State Historic Park in the Pacific Palisades.  We hiked the Inspiration Loop Trail, a rather tame but scenic trail around the park.

Families were milling about the park, picnicking on the lush grounds and playing pick-up soccer on the polo field.  Young future equestrians practiced jumps at the stables, while their non-riding comrades fed bits of hay to the horses.

Under any other circumstances, in any other city and in any other season, this is a portrait of extreme ordinariness.  But then you think, it’s the middle of February.

Sometimes you just need to be reminded that you live in one of the greatest cities in the world.

View more photos on Flickr.

The commercial is classic.  All “As Seen on TV” product commercials begin the same way, with some idiot failing at life until using whatever random contraption is now available for three easy payments of $19.95.   Here, we have not one, but THREE idiots cracking eggs with all the intelligence of a baby chimpanzee.  (If any of you have indeed cracked an egg as demonstrated below, I am sorry.  For you.)

Update: My friend Vikram pointed out to me that this commercial does not come with a bonus EZ Scrambler, but rather the Bacon Wave.  Any lover of bacon will be righteously infuriated.  Even though it’s “a $20 value… YOURS!  FREE!”

More wastes of money:
7 Truly Useless Kitchen Gadgets – Good Bite
Top 10 Most Useless Kitchen Gadgets – Houston Press

“I’ve often wondered what the proper protocol is for tipping the waitstaff at food blogger dinners that are comped. The consensus seems to be that if it’s a dinner arranged through the PR company that represents the restaurant, that the PR company makes sure that the staff is taken care of.  Is that true? … I don’t want to gyp anyone, you know?”

It’s a good question.  And so it brings me to the Culture of Comp.  Is there a standard of etiquette for comps?  Where is the line between freebies and freeloading?  What are the expectations between those who comp and those who get comped?  Let me share some thoughts with you from a PR perspective.

To Tip or Not to Tip

When a PR company hosts a media dinner or event, they will work with the restaurant/bar owner to ensure that the waitstaff is properly tipped for their time.  We are the host, you are the guest.  Dinner is on us.  If you offer to tip, we will smile and refuse.  But thank you for offering!  Sometimes media request to visit on their own.  In this instance, tip is appreciated.  Standard practice is to tip on the total of the comped meal.

During media cocktail parties and charity food events where the drinks are free, it’s especially nice to leave a tip for the bar.  Although you have been invited as media, the bartenders aren’t gaining anything from your presence.  A token of appreciation for their hard work is more than welcome.

Plus 1s and Then Some

I often get requests for media to bring guests.  Whether or not I can accommodate is dependent on the restaurant and event.  There is no harm in asking; just understand why we might refuse.  A restaurant owner has limited funds for PR/marketing, and has put his/her trust in us to use those funds in the most efficient way possible.  Sometimes this means saying no to a writer’s significant other, or to four people from the same publication, or to a blogger’s friend who “tweets a lot.”  On that note, offering to pay for your guest is a nice gesture that won’t go unnoticed.

Free, and Freeloading

I’ve heard the stories from other industries: stampedes for gift bags, a guy who was threatened over a free pair of Crocs, you name it.  (Thanks to Caroline on Crack for the stories.)  It also happens in the restaurant business, and the stories are at once hilarious and horrifying.  I once had someone order every single item on the menu of a comped dinner, taking home a soup kitchen’s worth of doggy bags.  Another person was known for going to food events and stealing bottles of wine.

What a strange world we live in, where people who make their living through getting free things just can’t get enough of free things.

By far the worst offender is a guy named Ray Engel, who would always insist on free tickets to charity food events so that he could do a “review.”  His site, PartyHotline.net, is garbled nonsense.  Scroll to the bottom of the site, and you will see that he sells his comped tickets.  “If you want to come here and join with $100 cash, you’ll immediately get over 20 invitations to free events; plus extra free tickets, free passes, and free gifts.”  I’m outing him because he’s utterly despicable.

I’m happy to report that these people are few and far between.  And none of them have been bloggers!

Expectations

This is a contentious subject, one in which I’ll attempt to reconcile the different standards of ethics out there.   Should a writer/blogger receiving a comped meal feel pressured into writing about their meal?   Well, no.  But, yes.

There is an implicit “you scratch mine, I scratch yours” relationship between publicists and media.  If a writer has gotten plenty of free dinners on my clients’ dime and I’ve seen nothing in return, the writer can expect to see less and less invitations.  Likewise, a writer who has produced great buzz on my clients’ behalf will see more invitations…. as well as story ideas, exclusives, etc.

I have a great respect for the media and their opinions.  I don’t expect glowing reviews all the time, nor do I expect that every invitation will turn into a story.  But I do expect fairness and accuracy.  Constructive criticism over unwarranted vitriol is always preferred.  We want our clients to get better, not feel bitter.

It seems like a lot of unspoken rules, but what this all boils down to is the mutual respect between host and guest.  It’s what we in the restaurant business call hospitality.

“A guest has not to thank the host, but to host the guest.”
– Russian proverb

What you see before you is Air New Zealand’s new “Skycouch,” a specially designed row of economy seats with a flip-up cushion that extends the seating area so that passengers can lay flat across the seats.  The armrests retract flat so that guests can spread out across three seats comfortably.

In order to book the Skycouch, passengers will have to purchase two full-price seats and the third at half-price — a completely worthwhile deal on those long haul flights between New Zealand and well, just about anywhere else in the world.  There will only be 22 sets of these Skycouch seats on each flight, and not every flight will have them.  Only the new Boeing 777s will contain the Skycouch seats when they first go on sale in April.  Air New Zealand plans to retrofit the rest of their entire long haul fleet by 2012.

Air New Zealand’s won some major marketing points in my book — between their “bare essentials of safety” video to economy-class couches, I might just book a ticket so I can hang out on a 777 for 12 hours.  Kidding.  Although I do hear Auckland is gorgeous in April.

Take a look at more drool-worthy airline cabin design photos from Qantas, Virgin and JetBlue.