Numen, Part II

The interrogations are becoming more and more frequent, and the interrogators less and less patient. Sometimes I feel that they are here to barter for my salvation, sometimes it feels like a formality preluding to a crucifixion - not necessarily that of mine. I cannot attribute the disdain I have for these sessions to lack of rest, or food, or even compassion; something instilled in me during the early war days has kicked in and taken hold, dictating my answers with dogmatic fervour, and leaving my body with a lethargic wish for release - one that can only be obtained, perhaps, by relinquishing truths that I have convinced even myself to be accusations, false and malicious.

I am allowed a half hour’s walk around the compound before dinner time. Thankfully, the remorseless steppe winter has yielded to a more tolerable, but equally hypothermic spring. I can hear the animals in a distance beckoning with calls of their nature, but I cannot imagine anything bearing offspring in such harsh an environment. Perhaps it is true that all things Russian are impervious to cold. Perhaps the Red Army would have been able to invade us in winter, naked and laughing at our pitiful caricature of wintertide, with only a bottle of vodka to warm their bodies and a Kalashnikov to make cold ours. Such tall tales seem less incredulous now that I am so far away from the comfort of the Empire - at least psychologically, if not geographically. I wonder what will remain of the people’s land now that it is not ours to toil. Will the Americans have at our fields, our seas, our women, our children? Or will the Russians have at us, with equal consequence? Mayhap the British will lay stake for the losses their colonies suffered in the Pacific theatre? I am too small to comprehend what difficulties the Emperor will face in the coming months, and what worse it will mean for the people. What I am certain, though, is that his divinity will not save him now. The Americans are our new gods, and we lie prostate for one whose compassion or vengefulness we cannot yet gauge.

Returning to my cabin grants no reprieve - my mind feels still as cold as my body, and I await dinner with a weary hope that it will be something more palatable than usual.

It turns out to be not. Potatoes, bread and some cold meats, which would normally be considered delicacies and rarities back home. However, I still yearn for a simple bowl of rice to accompany - not the coarse, fibrous, dry cereal they sometimes have from Western Russia, but glutinous, supple and sweet rice that we used to grow in the Philippines. At least there is some local fish, though smoked and too heavily seasoned.

The night is silent, once I am accustomed to the noises of camp. They are not so unfamiliar for one who has spent days in our research facility, though sometimes it is not the noises of the night that perturb sleep - perhaps the spotlight may refract through the windows, or the smell of burning tyres may waft through the cold air. They are irrelevant, I will recall; nothing in comparison to the nightmares that beck with sleep. The irony, of course, lies in that I will not fend off sleep to save my sanity, for as I have given up on any reconciliation with my conscious, so have I accepted that during sleep is my only repentance for past sins. I slowly drift away. The clock shows thirty-one minutes after ten o’clock. A knock on the door serves to interrupt my sleep, but I cannot tell if I am more irked by the disruption, or that the matter is so urgent that it cannot wait till the morning.

“Mr. ----, they’re ready for you. Please follow me.” The call-person is young, perhaps 16 or 17. I cannot fathom him having enrolled into the army without lying of his birthdate. There is something about his accent that reminds me of the young boys shipped to us in the last months, from the mainland, only that in this boy’s voice, there is neutrality, or even arrogance, where in those of my memory, there is fear, denial, confusion, and most prominently, fatalism.

“If I may ask, what is this about? I have been questioned today, and I believe there should be nothing else to add. Nothing of import, at least, that cannot wait until…”

“Sir, I do not know why, and I apologise for the inconvenience,” he trails off with some mention of higher-ups summoning me for questioning, but what catches my ear is his apologetic tone that is sincere. Something is amiss, but I feel that the only way I can circumvent any military rhetoric that would have been placed for my benefit, is to comply. So, I follow the young man, sheepishly, and half wishing that it is mere formality (the other half wishing it is a Russian intervention that will result in my being taken to a mock trial, where I shall, perhaps, be sentenced to a swift execution).

He escorts me down a spiralling stairwell that goes on for an eternity. The darkness that extends beyond the sixth flight of steps makes it impossible to tell if we’re getting any closer to the end (which I assume must be the bottom level, as I have yet to see any door this whole time), and after what seems like the whole night spent walking downwards, we stop mid-track. I ask him why we have stopped, and he bluntly replies that “we’re here”. With a perplexed look, I face forward in the direction of his gesture, and indeed, there is now a hallway leading equally into the infinitesimal dark, but before I can complain of this, a cohort of balding men in white coats accosts me with a barrage of concerned questions and statements:

“Sir, are you sure this is the best course of action?”
“Sir, I do not believe that the children will prove any different from the adults, and even if so, are we willing to risk that…”
“Sir, have you seen the results from last night, this is not unprecedented, but…”
“Perhaps it is better that we leave the room confined until we can ascertain what has happened.”
“… indefinitely…”
“This cannot be made known to the superiors. Chalk it down to a failed run, and…”

I cannot make head or tail of each person’s dialogue, so I signal them to silence. One man stands out in that he is young (he is the only person with voluminous and well kept hair), and is the only person to not have said a word since the start of all of this. His face is ashen and he looks petrified at the thought of my addressing him. “What do you think?” I ask the person, and look behind me to find my escort now nowhere in sight. All the better, I believe, as this would seem information that should not be privy to anyone outside the scientific community of the centre. The young man fumbles through his clipboard searching for some datum-piece to pivot an argument, “… I cannot see why we should not proceed, but perhaps. Err… if the correct ethical protocols, of course. What I mean to say, is that surely someone has thought of this before me, Sir, I do not think that…”

I interrupt him because I know that he is the only one benign enough to have kept this to himself, and every other person here, myself included, has long foregone giving conscious thought to the ‘ethics’ of the experiment. I prompt him for a yes-or-no answer: “Are the results encouraging, or do we need to re-design the agent?” He remains silent for only a moment, but the boring of everyone else’s eyes upon him must have felt like an eternity. The sweat that glistens his temples is slick with his hair-grease and his spectacles are tremor. The tension in the air is palpable, just as his pulse would be if he anyone should brave physical contact with his own. “There are not enough time-points, Sir,” he says, which is greeted by barely-audible groans and sighs from the crowd. One of his senpais even constructs a quick retort, starting with that the young scientist is but new to the study and hasn’t had time to comprehend the magnitude of the data, but I believe what he says is true - I have seen the data myself, and it is nowhere enough to be convincing - not unless we were to fabricate some figures, or bamboozle superiors with jargon and pseudo-scientific hogwash to appease them (and continue in our own, misguided fashion). Never before has an argument broken out in my presence, and authority is only tantamount to their knowing that I would see fit any action as appropriate, and that has never failed us yet. But this seems close. There is lack of sleep. Too much coffee and cigarettes. Admonishment from failures, and fear of the uncertainty - if not only for the results, then also of what will come of the institute should a superior see our cause as a failure. There is already much talk of dissent in the ranks farther away from Japan, and the repercussions have extended to even the most secure in the homeland - we are more replaceable than we would like, and more dispensable than we could care to consider. All I can hear now is the din of debate, but it already sounds like the only thing that could ever have come out of this, should we have had no results (which we do not!) - strife. I contemplate sending everyone away for a fortnight, to work on other projects that are less strenuous, but also with less impetus to be finished. Perhaps they could accumulate minor victories to later fuel attempts anew on this project. I, myself, could use a distraction. Perhaps something to do with the experiments on the dogs or rabbits. Anything to be less empathised with. Then my train of thought halts, as does the arguments. It was faint, at first, but now it is clear - a knocking on the lead doors, and though I could not recall them at the time, the distinct spine-tingling sensations of scraping at the reinforced plastic window. The proverbial nails on a chalkboard, except it was less proverbial than one could want. The sound heightens, and I am left staring into everyones’ eyes in turn. How could this be?

Scrape. Scrape. Scar. Knock. A muffled voice - could it be? The sound of the metal tubes contracting in the night’s cold (which would have been indistinguishable from any other creak or clank, considering how far underground we are. The night was not the source of the cold).
Scrape. Thumping. Knock. Knock. Knock…

The knocking gets louder and louder and is deafening beyond bear. Knock. Knock. KNOCK. “Sir! I am coming in, if you do not respond!”

“Yes, yes! I’m awake,” I yell much louder than I normally would, simultaneously sitting up in bed and grabbing my glasses from the nightstand. They are not there, as I realise that I am wearing my spectacles having fallen asleep with them on, last night. The doorknob jangles as someone works a key and swings open the door. I look at the person through squinted eyes and see his silhouette against a glaring sunrise. “Sir, you need to get dressed. They’re waiting for you.”

“Yes,” my lips are trembling, “I’ll be ready in a moment.”

The rest of the day is a blur.

of worthless coins and checkered flags

that long and lingering sigh of a person, dejected but calm,
who holds the answer to all his guilt in tightly gripping palm;
who's come to terms with what he loves and what he wishes to,
with knowledge that out with all old, and make believe anew.

a lonesome glance over his shoulder, if only to make last,
an impression, a severed pact, with ideals gone and past;
today i bid farewell, so long, such gazing to the skies askew,
who could have told this stoic bold soul that deeds are made for all but few?

who were to care? with paltry laughs that shrug off all given respect,
through glimmer eyes that blinded now have come to take their own aeffect;
when came the day through yonder lights that left him here with naught but rue,
and placed upon the clouded grey where once there were pure skies of blue?

'tis but a thought in which you've loved! oh, mighty son who has it all,
in practice there is no such thing, at least not for what sins may fall;
so reckon now with little pride that utopian gist you must shoo,
and have it gone away for good, this amor that you bid adieu.

and with such lust for perfect things, you leave so little for yourself, in hoping that they were to make for fate, for love, for hate, forsake, forbade;
in colours of the eastern earth, you swear your fealty to such things bereft of reciprocation that is worth shade - eternal gifts made of cheapest jade.

Numen, Part I

On cold, winter days such as these, it is often impossible to get out of bed. The piercing, Northern winds are unbearable - born of the frigid Arctic and kissed by the Russian steppes, there can be no hell worse than my dry skin bared to such relentless assault; and there is no greater dishonour that my captors could do me than parade me for what little worth that I have left in these conditions. My leg is weak, though not in the same way that my comrades feel - their weakness is from malnutrition, starvation, famine and wear - where mine is from discomfort, at worst. A biting, almost gnawing sensation, with the occasional pins and needles from my war wound that acts up on its own whim, though exacerbated by this damned cold. I will admit that though I cannot give in to any luxury of pity or nostalgia, my suffering has been infinitely less severe than others. My only recompense, and curse, is that I live, and what haunts me in my sleep keeps me awake when I try. There can be no escaping the begrudging that is this past, just the same way that there is no reprieve from the blistering winds. But I cannot justify a complaint, for even with the worst days of winter, the cold, the abuse, the ridicule and the uncertainty is nothing compared to what past. And the past is always there, echoing with every recount I am forced to give, every time I look into the mirror, every button I do of my pristine military outfit, and worst of all...

... worst of all, every time the wind howls; for it reminds me of that eerie cry of a child.

It has only been four years since the end of the war. Four years that, for others in a situation similar to mine, would have been horror and loathe, though for me, it has been anything but. I must explain, before I further my story - General Shiro has been kind. He was kind, and I believe he continues to try to be so, at least more so than his contemporaries. When the war ended, he did not forsake us for the safety of Japan. Instead, he would to sacrifice himself to captivity of the infidels - the Americans or Russians, I do not know - a moral hara kiri, if you may, that was undertaken in the hope of salvation for his underlings, such as myself. Salvation, perhaps, that was promised him on our behalf, only to be delivered as a watered-down version of compassion, or a begrudging necessary evil for whatever devices the Americans have as ends. I can see it in the eyes of the guards. For every interrogation, every query session, they stare staidly and without emotion, but beyond their visages, I know the want to kill or torture or maim me - I know it because I have felt it, myself.

During the climax of the recent global conflict, there was word of the Americans having developed a weapon that would change the tides of war - a weapon that we could not anticipate or prepare for, because the technology they used was entirely unheard of, much less predictable. At the time, I regarded such news as rumour and hearsay. Perhaps revolutionist scare tactics or Russian sympathiser mental warfare drivel. Or maybe even American propaganda to affect the morale of the people - not that there would be any tarnishing of the people's iron will. Nevertheless, we were scientists and men of logic. General Shiro himself made sure that if there was any truth to the rumours, evidence would be accumulated, and if enough was amassed, precautionary measures would be taken. For the ones amongst us who were at the forefront of military weapons research, we laughed and joked at every new and updated version of these stories. Once, over tea and biscuits, a young but jaded officer said he had read reports of fleets of British and American ships crossing the Pacific, but could not be detected by sonar nor could be seen with the naked eye. Another would report of an airship so big, it would blot out the sun over the entirety of Japan should it grace our skies. Yet another spoke of undying Russ conscripts whose clothes, now more sanguine with the blood of Germans than from the Red Army dyes. In effect, they were all probably tales conjured by bored officers to scare the new recruits (some of them being too young to have facial hair yet).

What empirical evidence we had was from inconsistently translated intercepted messages, and unreliable 'tongues' from ranked war prisoners and dubious spies (both German and Italian, for none of the Japanese spies were left abroad during the last few waves of returning to Japan). For us at the Unit, we knew that our biological warfare was far superior to any the opposition had. The Germans had superior firepower, which they willingly shared (or, at least, were willing to share in the near future), and the chemical agents that were last encountered had been replicated and deconstructed sufficiently to produce antitoxins and cures. We were well ahead in the arms race, and we were sure of it - until that fateless and wretched day where all those stories became a singular truth and horrific reality. The dual echoes that rumbled deeper than the sounds of cursed earth still deafen my ears when the mornings are silent. It reminds me of the children pounding at the metal door after the experiments commence... boom... boom...

... knock... knock... knock...

An American private is here to usher me to an interrogation session. I still have the lowest two buttons of my uniform to fasten, but all formality has eluded me for months. I do them up anyway as I open the door. The short walk between venues is still too much for my scarred leg, and I have to pause thrice. The private seems accommodating enough, but I feel his detest - the curdling of his blood for every second more he has to spend accompanying me, driving his trigger finger closer and closer to his sidearm. The thought of a swift bullet to the temple is somewhat soothing - there is promise of redemption and release, intermingled with some newfound instillment of justice, or perhaps some twisted form of Stockholm syndrome.

I am sat down at a simple metal table and chair, which when juxtaposed against the oil paintings hung on the wall and embroidered drapes, gives off the air of impromptu and arrest. I recognise one of the paintings as a somewhat amateur reproduction of one of van Gogh's 'Sunflower' series. It reminds me of better times. The inquisition starts off casually, with the Captain turning on fluorescent lights and adjusting for me a microphone. I know that behind the one-way glass, higher-ranking officials are watching and evaluating my answers, but I cannot be sure of anything beyond what I have heard from the briefings we had before scorched earth protocol was enacted. In any case, all that is moot and of little practical value in light of General Shiro's post-capture announcements.

"Tell me about the Vault facilities," the Captain begins. I believe he knows that I know he's asked my peers this question multiple times, and he seems disinterested in the answer I will give beyond that it reflects what others have said. "Are you aware of the number of Vaults there are?"

"The facilities operated independent of each other. I do not know of others besides ours," my lie is somewhat benign. The independence of each Vault was implemented before researchers or subjects were moved into them as a safeguard against exposure and infiltration. I was more interested in the unbiasedness of such a setup, but even I could not resist stealing glimpses at unattended folders and carelessly placed records to see what the other Vaults were up to.

The Captain starts the recording of a tape-machine. It isn't the conventional reel model we use at our institutions, but is about one third of the size and there are multiple wires leading to a socket in the wall. I am intrigued as to how data is stored on the device if it were to not use reel or film.

"Please state the details of your Vault, your name, position, and serial number clearly into the microphone."

I subconsciously check my English. Though it is formidable even compared to my peers, the Empire's education was reverted to be facilitated entirely in Japanese before I had completed high school. I would not care less for simple grammatical errors, but the challenge of being assessed puts me once again into my old academic stance. It feels good, once again, to be authoritative and somewhat important.

"Vault 7-31 of PingFang under the Empire of Japan. My name is ----, Senior Researcher and Physician number 13884."

"And what projects were you involved in during the past three years."

"All of them," I reply curtly (and smugly), assuming he knows the nature of our experimentations.

"I believe all your experiments were biological in nature?" his tone was more that of confirming than questioning, and I nod in agreement - all the physics Vaults had been relocated to Mongolia a year before for unknown reasons, and I was not privy to what went on in their facilities.

"Please state your answer verbally, Mr. ----."

"Yes. They were predominantly biological and chemical."

"And they were purposed for war?"

"I do not know about that, my interests were purely academic and for the betterment of medical research," this of course being a lie. We were formally told that such was the case, and this would be how we should answer any interrogation, but we all knew the real purpose of much, if not all of the studies conducted at the Vault.

"That isn't what I've been told by your colleagues," he assumes an assertive but aggressive stance. The Captain's moustache is twitching furiously, clearly eager to get to the end of this, to get answers to questions that he could not ask any of my underlings or even any superior from a different Vault. Only I could sate his need for answers, and I felt the need to press this situation to its very end, perhaps even milk it for every advantageous worth I could, even if such an advantage were to be merely my own pleasure.

"What have you been told, pray tell?" I am sure my English syntax bothers him more than my lying at this point.

"That you have been developing biological weapons for the war effort and that your only chance at redemption, salvation, and even survival depends on your divulging it." Before I can utter a response, he adds "I do the questioning here. It would do you well not to forget that in the future."

I lick my lips, which are now dry with anxiety the same way my brow is sweating with anticipation.

the thing about this belief that i hate the most

at first, i couldn't understand the bigger scheme of things. i couldn't fathom why he or she or you or i should hate each other because our imaginary patrons were not the same, or why they may tell us to never lay arms upon one another - except when we do not share the same imaginary patrons, in which case it's a justified free for all. i could not  comprehend why and to what ends wars are fought, or persons oppressed, or people demeaned, or lives shunted, all for the sake of incomprehensible greater goods. and i accepted that. i accepted that there could be no way that a person so feeble as myself could warrant or see through my invisible proxy's eyes. soon, i grew weary, and all these matters were not - they did not matter any more - and i could, for a moment, understand that there was no way i could understand.

then came effort without reward, and reward without effort. punishment without sin, and perhaps most incomprehensible of all, wrongdoing without punishment. i could not hope to question why my imaginary patron falls before yours, or why yours would before mine, or if there was only one of many, then why we could not agree to appease the same friend?

and i hated every bit of this, with the renewed hatred of the old lack of understanding.

but most of all, i grew to hate that which was petty and menial, and inconsequential in the bitter eyes of the cosmos. i hated that you could not be with me because we did not share the same fanciful friends and fairies. i hated that, though they told us many, many things, this alone would be the reason why we could not be together. and i hated 'it' as much as i hated them. i hated that you could bend and break some of your creeds, of whose basis i cannot even empathise with, but because it was told that i am of different breed and understanding and foresight and lack thereof, then i am evil and corrupt and taint. and therefore we cannot, should not be together.

now, i hate that this defines me, and who i am, regardless of what i have or would do, and we cannot learn to love because your ephemeral make belief has dictated so - and vice versa has mine.

tomorrow, i will hate that i do not believe any more in them, but still i lie prostrate before my imaginary patron. without heart, without belief, without understanding, and by far, without trust (any longer). i hate that i do not want for it, and yet it has become so embedded in me - they have become so embedded in me - that i will continue to do so, perhaps until the day i die.

i hate that i have become that which i do not believe; i hate that in the same way you will always come to hate me for that which i sought so hard to disprove that i am not.

and at the end of it all, i will hate most that regardless of what you or i, he or she, they or us, have chosen (or better still, brought up) to believe, it will all mean the same: that you cannot see me as more than something less.

the only thing that will, perhaps, create in me more hatred, is if i find out that it has been regardless of what i believe - that you would have hated me anyway.

cik yam’s infinite eyes

lustrous with a silver gleam, with backdrop polished black,
diamonds on onyx reprieve that through light does refract;
a subtle soft like velveteen that lining clouds soothing comprise,
i stared into the abyss long and deep, those fateful cik yam’s eyes.

though in her silent contemplation surrounded by din,
her darting pupils betray what comprehension lies within;
enough to show, that makes mine know, though rays may yet reflect,
untainted eyes that she possesses makes her stare perfect.

to gaze into (and then upon) such innocence belies,
like galaxies, like fireflies, like ocean waves are cik yam’s eyes;
oh, if i pray, that they would see but naught of any horrid worlds,
remain demure and winsome, those ephemeral white pearls.

so soon you would have sunrise pass, cik yam, like a butterfly flit,
i hope to see through such stained glass, those holy eyes of infinite.

why i could never be with a poor, brown, muslim, asian, ugly sod.

you need not be a scientist, of genetics or social trends,
an evolutionist who knows of humankind’s most early ends;
to see he’s of inferior race, who offers but most lowly genes,
who can’t provide my progeny with looks or minds or witless means.

with beliefs i could never live and empathise with, nonetheless,
that zealotry that begets hate and death that’s left the world a mess;
of course it’s only little time before his mind deteriorates,
and leaves his person for some promise of virgins and fathomed fates.
i shudder to think of such loathe, that comes and goes as he may be,
and how would it that he should come to impose such beliefs ‘pon me?
alas, they’re all the same these men, he’d treat me lesser than a mule,
i could not be with such a swine (which he’d make me give up, the fool).

prince charming, of ideal and pale, who muscular and eyes so deep,
where have you gone? what of your lust? why don’t you take me for your keep?
and left me here with scrawny man, of colour - short and ugly, too,
offensive to the very end, insensitive on every cue;
i do not want, i could not wish to teach him to become as you,
pray, let me be, this darkened man, the day i met you do i rue.
if only you could banished be, with all your lack of tactfulness,
repulsive to the very end, you cause me only grave distress.

if only you were somewhat smart, or witty, kind, funny perhaps,
with money to sustain my wants, to make me forget failed regrets?
alas, this man, he is but naught, and none of these could ever be,
the poor, the ugly, repugnant man, who leaves distaste vulgar with me.

and furthermore, if i’ve not said, is his weird culture i’d never grasp,
it’s ghastly, and revolting (like him), that makes him someone i can’t trust;
his people, how they’ve oppressed mine - of race, religion, chance and fate,
the only thing he invokes in me is unpalatable, abhorring, hate.

more than what he is made of, is what he is made up to be,
pathetic, loveless, unsightly, too, and condescending such is he;
possessive like a beast he’d only want to have me made to wed,
for all his selfish whims and wants, if only to take me to bed.

so go away, you poor, brown man: you ugly stupid, muslim boy,
and leave me to my deserved man - even if he treats me like a toy;
i could not care if you would to offer me all your heart and more,
i can’t see past your shallow failings or of your superficial flaw.

oh, how i dream for my true love, that with passionate, sensual lust,
and all you have to offer’s naught, so fsck off, you’ve none of my trust.

jamie's italian (also known as the place where food expectations go to wither and die)

after many years of being in perth, i had the opportunity last night to have dinner at jamie oliver's italian restaurant. back in the day, i was quite the jamie fan, and i think that his shows used to advocate cheap, healthy, and easy-to-make food. with those themes in mind, i was, though, somewhat pragmatic, and knew that the perth dining scene is very much lacklustre - the service is left wanting, and the quality of food is generally sub-par. that being said, an old friend had been in town for only a few days, and i thought why not, if were to ever give jamie's a try, it would be now or probably not ever.

the good

my friend and i started off with fresh crab bruschetta, which looked very much like the stolen image here (as will be all the images here, as i was by far, too hungry to even consider taking photos of the food, instead wolfing them down as soon as they arrived):

i was pleasantly surprised, and for an entre, i suppose it served its purpose. at this point, we were still in waiting for a table, and were quite happily catching up at the bar over drinks, and i would think that the appetizer complemented very well. the crab was fresh, the lemon zest was distinct, but not overwhelming (which is a pet peeve of mine when having seafood dishes). just a bit of chilli and italian herbs, which was to taste, but i found the bruschetta bread itself was very tough - enough that the provided serrated bread knife seemed short of its task. over my travels, i've come to realise that different people have quite varied expectations of bread, in general, so i wouldn't discount this as a bad point just yet, however, it was at around 8 when we were served, and i would expect the bread to be crispier (not to a toast, though), and perhaps more fresh at such peak dinner hours. but, that's probably a personal preference.

my friend had ordered the mussel and squid spaghetti nero, which looked quite bland. not to judge any food by appearance, though, i did manage to swipe a couple of forkfuls when she were no longer able to finish her meal (my vast experience by having two younger sisters who would never finish their meals has taught me to always be prepared to finish off at least a third of the meal afterwards, perhaps more if the meal is lacklustre, and if that were to be the benchmark, this meal did not make the cut by my friend's standards). she did end up getting chilli flakes to season, as quoted, "i can't get rid of that asian part of me," which is all too easy to empathise with. in any case, the pasta dish was respectable, enough oil to keep the pasta discrete, but not enough to make it 'to greek standards', which may be a tad too much for myself. the amount of mussel and squid was disappointing, though, and having grown up with (the old) south-east asian expectations of having more filling than staple (which does not seem to be the case for my italian friends, who would want more of the pasta), i think it's a preferential improvement that i would have more... stuff in it.

she finished off dinner with a creamy panna cotta, which, i thought, was exquisite. definitely creamy, and gelatinous enough to give that satisfying wobble upon perturbation, a spoon cuts into the dessert easily without breaking or (god forbid) crumbling. the fruits of the season were raspberries, which were well enough, though i would have liked fresh ones instead of the (likely) tinned ones with just a hint too much of syrup to attemptedly mask the mushiness of the berries.

the bad

by some twist of fate, we ended up ordering decent (though not amazing) dishes for my friend, but had no such luck with my own. the baked king salmon was anything but royal, and the following picture shows exactly what i expected from a salmon dish in general (at a fancy restaurant). if i were to prepare salmon myself, which i do on a regular basis, i would go with fillets at least twice the size, and baked very lightly to preference (although i cannot imagine anyone with respectable tastebuds having a preference for thoroughly baked salmon. just saying).

what i received, instead, was a sliver i would barely serve my cat, about the size of a third of the slab depicted above. it was cooked well enough, but for the price paid, i definitely expected (much) more. the salad as a side was actually horrendous, being fresh but with no complementary taste, and the ricotta and balsamic did very little to help the dish. i will not deny that i ended up finishing every piece, but only for that i was famished having skipped breakfast and lunch (which probably makes for a bad food review to begin with), but if served anything similar when i were not as voraciously willing to swallow the worst of my own cooking, i would have probably returned the dish. included were three thoroughly roasted carrots, which are normally to my liking, but again, this dish was able to disappoint. the thick(er) parts were caramelised well (i say thicker only because they weren't even as thick as the ones above, perhaps only half the size, tapering off into what can only be described as threads for roots), but they were overdone such that the taste of charcoal lingers, which would have made my experience worse if i had the misfortune of not keeping them for the very last. i've been to shady pubs and small restaurants while in uk where even disappointing dishes were made tame by the presence of well roasted roots - and for jamie's, i would have hoped for at least parsnips and perhaps a turnip (i have a fondness for the former which might have made me hate this dish much more if it had ruined my perfect streak of having only had brilliantly prepared roast parsnip thusfar). all in all, i would not recommend this dish at all, and having never rated a meal below 2 on a scale of ten, the same way i would never award a 9 or higher, i have to say that for its price (and perhaps, expectations, which may be a slight bias), this one deserves a 2.

i still ordered dessert, though, perhaps if only to provide potential saving grace (i would not have done so had i not been in such wonderful company), and as anyone who knows me well enough will testify, the choices were limited to one of the chocolate dishes. chocolate & hazelnut arctic roll, it was, and, again, it is unfortunate that i cannot say the result looks like the image below:

the sponge roll was average, at best, nothing that you wouldn't buy off the shelves at a tesco or woolies, and the ice cream could be easily mistaken for some run-of-the-mill home brand. i would not expect, perhaps, gourmet ice cream, such as my touted connoisseur, but this was downright dreadful. tasteful only because i knew to expect the tastes, and the purported butterscotch sauce nowhere to palate (or even to be seen), i believe i could have prepared better myself for a quarter of the budget. perhaps i've been too biased by my (somewhat) high expectations of desserts, but even if they were selling a brand name on marginal or average items, this is far from justifiable.

the ugly

for the expectations i had, jamie's did not deliver even in the slightest. the prices are standard for eating out here in perth (which translates to about 1.5 times what i would pay elsewhere), but the portion sizes are dismal. i never really understood the whole idea of smaller portions when you're 'fine dining', and this does nothing to convince me otherwise (let's be honest, jamie's isn't actually fine dining, either). perhaps it's a (badly constructed) ploy to make you feel you're not paying all that much for something less? perhaps it's so that you can order more dishes and taste more? whatever it is, it's not working for me, unfortunately. i didn't feel i was paying for ambiance or experience, either (the waitresses were very polite, which is expected, but always nice, especially considering perth's unpredictable qualities of service), the bill came to $110, and i would happily live off kebabs and maccas for a couple of months than go again (well, not really, since i would probably end up cooking for myself as per norm, but the point still stands). all in all, i would rate my experience as disappointing, and probably would not go to jamie's perth again for a very long while. i would offer cheaper, tastier alternatives (even bars have some better servings in the central perth area), but this is not a food blog and i believe i've worn your attention far too thin. 

p/s: if jamie oliver should ever find news of this, please, for the love of all that is savoury, change it or bin it.