Life after Beckett

Robert Parker's scoring of the 2008's hitting the wires now. And by wires, I mean tasting notes from the subscriber's section of the Wine Advocate website. When these wines were in their barrels back in 2008, Parker had given a score range, like (91-93). Now that they are in bottles, he is giving a number.
In Wall Street lingo, here I go:

Lynch Bages hit the top end of estimates
Calon Segur hit the low end of estimates
Cos d'Estournel missed completely. 92+ vs (94-96+)
D'Armailhac inline
Pontet Canet low
Lafite low
Pichon Lalande missed. 92 vs (94-96)
Palmer missed 94 vs (95-97)
Mouton low
Margaux missed 94 vs (95-97)
Haut Brion inline
Latour missed 95+ vs (96-98) 
Talbot inline
Leoville Las Cases low 93+ vs (95-97+)
Grand Puy Lacoste low

 All of this inline with my expectations, not because I can particularly tell a 92 from a 96 but because I was pretty sure Parker had to calm down the '08's in order to make room for another vintage of the century, the 2010's. His initial ranges of the 2008's had been released during the financial crisis. It may have been up to him to save the fine wine industry at the time. Now the fine wine industry doesn't need any more saving, except perhaps from itself. Beyond the massive headline touting the 2010 vintage, Parker's commentary urges caution with respect to wine investment, including the possibility of serious trouble if current prices are the result of market manipulation being coordinated by the major chateaux.

Where Fortunes are Made

Let your heart be your guide. The other side already says that. How about some lotto numbers?

New Orleans Bachelor Party (last weekend)

We cleaned out the entire minibar on American Airlines but not before some old guy insisted on giving me a syllabus:

Some of us went rogue and discovered the sandwich of everlasting life: 

(Yes, that's bacon between the cheese and fried oysters.)

 When twelve dudes redecorate the kitchen...

(Did the owner (aka douchebag) give us an security deposit credit for improvement to leasehold?)

Pullman wine bar, Montreal

Nice ambiance, good food and wines by the glass selection, friendly staff, owner seemed like a bit of a douchebag.

Montreal

The rules governing the protection of the French language are true:

I've also discovered where the world's finest wine hails from:

Leaving the Middle Kingdom

I had previously talked about how the number 8 is lucky for Chinese people because it phonetically sounds like the word for getting rich. Similarly, the number 4 is unlucky because it sounds like “death.” Moreover, “14” is even worse because it sounds like “must die.” In areas where there’s a high concentration of Chinese people – like casinos, and well, China – buildings have a 13^th floor but not a 14^th floor.

When my Business Class upgrade came through, I decided to go with the strategy that selecting a seat in Row 14 would minimize the probability of having an annoying middle-aged Chinese dude as a neighbor – the kind that takes every newspaper at boarding, and proceeds to turn the pages into your airspace, occasionally knocking over your beverage. The strategy failed. That’s exactly who I got.

I washed some NyQuil down with Crozes-Hermitage and tried unsuccessfully to fall asleep. Can’t wait to blow out the rest of my frequent flyer miles and never fly United again. 

Cultural Inefficiencies and Arbitrage

This weekend is the Christie's wine auction in Hong Kong. Like every other auction I've been to, this one is also at the Mandarin Oriental. I consider going. I could hang out at registration and flirt with some of the Ivy League Art History majors behind the desk. But this variety of potential mates seems hard to come by in Hong Kong these days. In pandering to the Mainland clientele, auction house meeters-and-greeters have become mostly attractive Mandarin-and-Cantonese-speaking women. They are courteous and cordial, and do their jobs very well. From afar, we exchange smiles and glances sometimes, especially when the Echezeaux is served in between lots. But it has to remain that way. And our emails to each other will always be signed "Kind Regards." The problem is mine. They speak English very well, but their residual Chinese accents are too much for me to handle. Any question or remark, no matter how witty or charming, can only remind me of every nagging relative I have on this planet.

 Sure, I can improve my own Cantonese or Mandarin. But instead I find myself eating a pie and watching the Christie's auction online. One of the two consignors is the Vintage Wine Fund, which, as its name implies, is a wine hedge fund. They publish a monthly research note that I find to be very intelligent. So, I wonder who's decision it was to blast out 14 sequential lots of 1996 Mouton in the opening minutes of the auction. Hadn't anyone learned anything from how this style of dumpage played out in Andrew Lloyd Webber's Don't Cry for Me, Twenty Cases Lafite and Latour? Somewhere in that undisclosed seller's commission and 20% buyer's premium, wasn't the auction house supposed to have hired someone to read the news about this sort of thing? The answer is, they probably did.

But go to any newspaper or online publication and all you'll ever see is how well the auction went and how strong the wine market is. The key headline numbers include the whopping total sales, the percentage of lots sold, and the percentage of lots that fetched above estimates. Most of these numbers mean nothing, or rather, they mean about as much as the official unemployment rate disseminated by the Chinese government. The quotes are also, always the same. Read one auction article and you've read them all.  "9 out of the top 10 lots were purchased by unidentified Asian buyers." This supports the idea that if you invest in wine now, some maniacal Chinese guy will pay you more for it later. Nobody has an incentive to speak or write in an otherwise manner.

What's more interesting to me is when there are tables of Chinese people at the Mandarin Oriental, who, rather than engaging in peacock bidding wars, are quietly enjoying the free lunch and wine.  But of course, this won't be written about. And to me, that's fine. It's exactly how I extend my phantom life.

When I first initiated my position on the 1996 Mouton, I knew I was getting into "Cultural Arbitrage." In a previous post, I had mentioned that the price of the 2008 Mouton had more than doubled on rumors that a Chinese artist would be commissioned for the label. The 1996 is the only other Mouton with a label drawn by a Chinese artist. In December, I noticed that the supply of the 1996 on the market was small. It was also priced significantly lower than the 2008. So I bought some. Did I actually believe that the newly rich Mainland Chinese were lining up for bottles of fine wine  because of a Chinese label on it? Of course not. Would Louis Vuitton bags be such a hit if they suddenly replaced "LV" with "Made in China" all across the design?

Bubbles often occur when there's a great investment sales pitch that people can jump on without feeling guilty about not doing any homework. Example: "The Internet is going to change the world. Nobody knows what the proper valuation is, but if you don't invest now, you'll miss out." This type of lazy investing is similarly receptive to the opaqueness of China: "the demand of a billion new people coming into the market!" The wine community is one that very much enjoys not doing any homework. Add to it Cultural Arbitrage - the smirk on an American, British, or Hong Konger's face at the thought of some goofy Chinese general's son wearing socks with sandals, paying indiscriminately for a brand name - and a trading opportunity is born. The bet is not on the reality, but on the perception of reality: my perception of other people's perceptions, and my small, evil role in supporting it: "Alistair, I'll buy everything you have at that price, but do me a favor, if anyone asks who the buyer was, just say it was a Chinese guy."

Eighteen hours prior to the start of the Christie's auction, I sell out a big chunk of my 1996 Mouton position. If prices are low when the hammer falls in the roomful of actual Chinese people - as opposed to imagined ones - then I can suspect I was right.

Ironically, this auction itself is an example of how the Internet has indeed changed the world. You can now virtually stream into the Mandarin Oriental and make online bids against the crowd. All of this, when the auction gets underway, informs me in real-time that my cultural cynicism has made me into a very good wine trader. But the composite score of my awesomeness remains tragically limited by my inability to flirt with desirable auction house women who speak with a Chinese accent. So I guess we'll have to call this weekend a draw. Next up on the season's schedule, is Sotheby's in April. Maybe they'll have an online chatroom.

A Tale of Two Kitties

According to Google Maps, the length of my block, from intersection to intersection, is 200 feet. It's on a harsh incline. The kind that Ivan Drago loves.

 I've made two friends on my block. They understand about as much Cantonese as I do. In the wee hours of the morning following Valentine's Day, they listened to my resolutions. "No more carbs!" I proclaimed. They meow in approval as another french fry from my lazily wrapped kebab drops to the floor. I continue to find myself very interesting. Their eyelids go into screensaver mode in unison, in the same way that human married people's collusively do when they just want me to leave. "No, wait, wait, did I ever tell you about Paris?"

I wake up with that "oh-fuck" feeling and go to get a coffee and apologize to the cats. But someone has already torn down their house and they are gone.


No cars will pass through my block for the rest of the day. The road has been taken over by street vendors - some legal, some not - just like any other day. They are all women. And they are all about 90 years old. Some of them are under four feet tall. I'm still trying to figure them out. Each one has this palette of stuff. Sometimes, there is consistency: lettuces, potatoes, garlics. Fine. But other stands have this weird mix of a dollar store selection - Chinese slippers, Dale Carnegie in paperback, combination locks inside an open wooden case labeled "Chateau La Tour Carnet." I left for the gym one time, and this one old lady was playing with a wooden plank as if she were a child dreaming about an imaginary boat from a faraway land. She smiled like one too. When I got back from jockeying the elliptical, she was still holding the plank under her arm, and was playing with a newly found treasure: a shiny watch. "What time is it?" she asks me. "It's one." This seems to make her happy. 

 The Pakistani guys who run an actual carpet store have carpeted the sidewalk in front of and around their property. An old lady sits on one of them and starts to spread out her own makeshift shop 'o' scarves. The same cop comes every day to enforce the law, but he can't do anything about it because she moves so slowly that it takes an hour to pack everything up. Of course each day she's back and lays out her goods in 30 seconds.

In the evenings, a couple of versatile old ladies (only in their 70's!) operate a fly-by-night operation on the elevated end of the block. A large white van - the kind that you own if you either deliver plutonium or snatch women off the street - pulls up to the curb - and some low-end middle-aged thugs come out and make deliveries of pirated DVDs, phone cards of questionable provenance, and the most random crap in the world, like a cardboard box of restaurant-takeout-tupperware. Presumably, they also collect money. Perhaps they also say, "Thanks, Mom."

 A lonely old man peers out from a large storefront – the kind of square footage that rents for over a million a month – and goes back to tending to his single shelf of soy sauce bottles.  I like to believe that beneath the layers of dust, there is a trap door or a false wall that leads to a cellar of vintage soy sauces the Japanese soldiers never found; or any other romantic narrative that can sedate the befuddlement of my inner-economist.  

 This is a Hong Kong that has refused to move on. Or cannot move on. As I prepare to enter my peculiarly placed corporate apartment, I turn around, see an empty space, and hope that my feline friends have found a newer world. But of course, I hear a "meow."

Can the Party Continue?

 Everyone on the street has been agreeing on one idea: 2010 will be another great vintage, and the chateaux will be releasing at very high prices, similar to those of 2009. This has led to a rush of people stockpiling their "cellars" (whether moldy passageways beneath castles, state-owned warehouses in China, or Excel spreadsheets at hedge funds) with back vintages that appear to be good relative value. For example, a UK merchant recently sold through many cases of 2006 Palmer @ 1100 GBP/cs (RP 94) as it looked inexpensive in comparison to the 2009 Palmer (RP 94-96), which was released at 2400 GBP/cs.

While I've certainly been a beneficiary of this uncoordinated, collective market movement, I have another view regarding the 2010 en primeur campaign, one that nobody wants to talk about. I believe it will suck so much cash out of the wine investment economy, that no one will want to buy more Bordeaux again for a while, thereby limiting the short-term upside of prices.  In the long-run, there is also a problem: the one where every vintage is a new "vintage of the decade."

Whereas great wine used to be predominately determined by the weather and the idiosyncrasies of each individual French producer, these days, technology plays an increasingly important role. Disastrous years simply don't happen anymore because the technical knowledge is much better across the board. And with the current levels of revenue at stake, everyone in the Old World  is investing in technology.

But maybe the bulls are right about China. And by bulls, I mean everyone. Maybe there will just be enough billions injected into the wine market by mainland Chinese, supplemented by the emerging markets of India and Brazil. Things, however, don't stay cool forever, and the elasticity of demand changes over time. We've seen Japan and Russia walk away, and America finding substitute goods in the Russian River Valley.

I'm also skeptical about this recent boom in the Bordeaux Second Growths. "Demand in the Far East is broadening," says the street.

I will bet my left testicle it's not consumption demand.          

I know many well-off Chinese people who have lived in the US/Canada for decades who couldn't tell you the name for the "Bull's horn bun" that they used to eat in Hong Kong. (It's "croissant," by the way.) And so, I have a hard time believing that after a couple years of interest in wine, that there will be long lines forming at Zhejiang wine shops with people clamoring for, "more Ducru Beaucaillou, please."

But what IF, it's entirely investment demand out there? Assume 100%. And assume that 100% of "investment" is "speculation." Can a Chinese sell-off cause a crash? Not really. Because there is a pervasive problem of fakes in China, there will be no re-exporting. No merchant in the world will buy wine that has set foot inside the mainland. So if Chinese demand should taper off, I think it will first lead to stagnation in the UK market, followed by a gradual readjustment of release prices from the chateaux. A parallel exit by Western investors might take place, especially if interest rates creep back up. A dramatic bubble explosion it seems, would require a global financial crisis of the variety we saw in late 2008. But I would not be surprised to see immediate panic, if a credible rumor surrounding, say, Hong Kong's alcohol import tax, were to surface.

While I believe that these macro factors should make one weary of buying into the generally accepted types of wine portfolios, there are still creative opportunities for wine investment that over a long-term horizon remain less sensitive on the downside to sudden shocks, and in my view, an attractive alternative asset class. I'll talk about these in a future post.

- Pinotchio, CFA level 0.

A fleeting trace of time and place

In Osaka, before we were poisoned, I was going on about the mainland Chinese cutting the tannins of '82 Lafite with a splash of Coke. "The Chinese hardly invented that," said Max, a celebrity chef in Beijing. "The Spanish have been doing it for ages."

Here in Hong Kong, I read about the kalimotxo (red wine, coke, and vermouth) at Mesa 15, and proceeded up Hollywood Road to see whether for dinner, I might get some tapas too. Hollywood Road, to my parents, who have not lived in Hong Kong for decades,  remains the antiques street where all of the Indians sell all of the carpets. While a fair number of these storefronts still exist on the flanks, Hollywood Road continues to thematically shift toward a bar and restaurant extension of nearby Lan Kwai Fong and Soho. And so it's there, Mesa 15, across the street from the large Central Police compound that Google Maps has labeled "Former." It used to be that British officers enjoyed partying nearby, while the lower ranks went to Wan Chai.  What did Hong Kong, under Chinese rule, decide to do instead with all of these prime real estate locations? The waitress doesn't know either.

Terrence arrives and we order drinks.  I ask for a white Rioja in Cantonese - or more accurately - I say "bahk-Rioja" in response to a Cantonese question while looking at a menu that's entirely in Spanish and English. The wine comes in what I can best describe as a stemless midget water glass. There's only one place in the world I remember these from, and I had drunken there for an entire year: Pakito, the Basque bar across the street from my apartment near Bastille station in Paris. I was fond of drinking there alone after a difficult day at the restaurant. The owner would thumbs-up my order of Irouleguy d'Ansa every time. It was cheaper than a beer and always filled to the brim. There is no swirling of a glass that's full, and attempts at sniffing for aromas will be reminiscent of the first time you went bobbing for apples. But that's the point of this working man's glass. After a day of unloading deliveries and shuttling between the dining room and the dishwasher, there's no energy left for remembering, regretting, or hoping. No place for an ephemeral nose of pear chutney. All you want is a cold drink.

And so, at Mesa 15, I find it difficult to reconcile my memory associations of the glass with the carefree-summer-days memory associations of its contents. Or sitting across from a Chinese-Canadian guy who has spent more time in Costa Rica than in Asia, as he says the word "duck" in Spanish and the waitress confesses to not knowing Spanish, at a restaurant where the primary language on the menu is Spanish. And weighing that against my own non-trivial language blunders back in France, while staring out the window at the Police Compound that Google Maps has now listed as "Former," on the road that my parents know as the one where all of the Indians sell all of the carpets.

I pound the wine.

"New money." Terrence says.
"Excuse me?"
A dish has arrived. A martini glass of carbs and protein that is off the charts in artistic merit.
"The new money would try to figure out what this dish actually was and how it was made and all of that. And the old money would already know. We just eat."
I nodded, and continued to stare, and still could not decide which of the two dishes we ordered this was: duck or patatas. Or maybe it was just a generous amuse bouche.

It turned out to be either the duck or the patatas, and we ordered more things. When all of the food and wine had come, Terrence decided he needed more food, and I wanted more wine. We headed to the outdoors upstairs of Staunton's Wine Bar and were joined by a literary friend of Terrence's. I offered her a kebab.

"Thanks, but I've eaten already."
"So have we."

 I finish my Pinot, recommend her the Pinot, order a Shiraz and continue with the Shiraz until last call. The three of us go to Globe and I take a pint of Hoegaarden and sit next to two not-bad-looking Chinese girls at the bar. They spoke great English and in front of them were empty wine glasses. I invent a brainteaser on the spot involving our glassware - a knockoff of the Die Hard 3 water bucket problem.

"We're not good at math," they respond.
"How's that possible? You're Chinese!"
"That's a very communist thing to say."

Terrence laughs and says I should write a book: "How to Make Friends in Foreign Countries."

I try to tally my night's consumption, but each glass, each grape, each continent, each memory, blurs into a downhill stumble back to the corporate housing apartment I currently call home.

Terrence's friend looks concerned. When I depart, she asks him whether I'll be alright.
 "Tomorrow, he'll be pissed he forgot the kalimotxo."

Is bigger better?

One of my first investments in wine was Chateau Mouton-Rothschild in magnum (1.5L) and double magnum (3L) format. In sommelier training, I was taught that larger bottles, especially those of First Growth Bordeaux, evolved better over time. The basic idea is that aging happens slower when there is less exposure to air. Because the mouth and neck of the magnum are the same sizes as those of the standard bottle, the wine/air ratio is much higher, yielding slower oxidation.

Large formats are also rare. They may constitute just 5-10% of the producer's entire vintage. In fine dining, it is considered prestigious to unleash one of these upon your guests.

This is why for years, large formats have traded at a premium. In my first trade, I quickly snapped up the magnums when I was offered a choice between cases of magnums or bottles for the same price. (6 x 1.5L or 12 x 75cl). The reason for par pricing was that Asian demand came primarily for standard bottles. Once the emerging markets learn more about wine, every broker on the street told me, magnums would trade over bottles again.

In the following months, I began to notice slight discounts for cases of magnums - about 2%-3% relative to bottles. My initial impulse was to buy more. After all, if everything went to hell, I would certainly be able to drink a magnum by myself in a single night. But then, as now,  I understand that the only way I can afford to stay drunk is by trading sober. If a glass of wine can take me back in time to catch a glimpse of women and countries I will never see again, a cup of coffee awakens the mercenary tools I've tried many times to leave behind - statistics, game theory, economics. The symbols and equations, I had forgotten long ago in that massacre of brain cells that transpired between final exams and graduation.  All that remains is anecdote. A treasury bond trade from the downfall of Long Term Capital Management a decade ago came to mind, and I decided that the magnum/bottle spread would continue to diverge.

In the current market, magnums trade at a 10%-15% discount to standard bottles. No one in the industry has a solid explanation. "Asians drink less" can't even be the reason, with half-bottles also trading at a similar discount.  The largest merchants and traders in the world continue to be baffled, and my own Excel spreadsheet shows global magnum stocks accumulating and not turning over.

"But mom, it was supposed to work!"
"Of course not, silly. Serving big bottles makes you look cheap when you're entertaining."
 "I'm sorry?" [Picturing a Jeroboam of '61 Latour rolling out at Tour d'Argent.]
"Big bottles are fine for home use. But only for things that keep fresh. Guess what we bought at Sam's Club today?"
"Oh."

Went back for the wines

For dinner we went to Bacar right next to Cicada. The two share a wine list. I started with a dry Riesling from New Zealand that was so easy I practically did it as a shot. Next, officially speaking, came a 2006 Hawkes Bay Malbec/Merlot blend. Didn't care for the details. It was a red. And there was a plate of spicy chorizo in front of me. When that came to an end- and it did not take very long - lamb, chicken, and cod showed up, and the sauces were hummus coriander, peri-peri, and cilantro-coconut. I wanted a huge Pinot, and found one called Rex Goliath. I recall now, from my days in Paris, a secret-of-sorts that Legras was the producer for the house Champagne at Tour d'Argent. Less confidential I'd imagine, is that in America, Rex Goliath is the house red for Red Lobster. Forced into a different direction, I went with a 2005 Rioja. It outperformed all expectations.

Proceeded to Staunton's which was dead at 10:00pm on a Sunday. At the bar, one woman complained to another the entire time, dominating 98% of the conversation. Something about "weight" and something about a "relationship." Behind us, an English guy blabbing on about the World Cup's superiority to the Super Bowl. I was at a loss for coming up with my own generic complaint. The Marlbourough Pinot, while not great, was passable. I finished it and left.

Recovery day

The weather in Hong Kong today has all the essential components to make even me, venture out-of-doors in a pleasant sort of mood. Seventies, moderately sunny and breezy, I take on the risk of being spotted by my family who does not know I'm in town for the tail-end of that orange-giving, tea-drinking, pretend-like-you're-not-hungover week known as Chinese New Year.

From my new rental in Soho, I take one set of outdoor escalators up the mountain and spot a booth - one of those elevated tables that has bar stools with backrests - at Cicada where I decide I want to take lunch. They've gone three walls today, and as the warm breeze comes in, my greaselust lightens to an order of fish and rice and beans and vegetables. I can name three types of wine I do NOT want on a day like this, and one of them is Cicada's hand-written special: an afternoon coma inducing Robert Parker 92 points South Australian Shiraz. Their Wine by the Glass list, however, is very appealing with about 9 selections for each red and white, with all major continents covered. But I feel potential for a comeback to the gym today, and ask for water. One benefit of being a Chinese person is that I get tap by default, as opposed to having to panhandle for it after being offered "still or sparkling."

Leaving Narita

The airport shuttle from the hotel (USD $37) as opposed to the taxi (USD $200) only leaves every hour, so I'm now at Narita much earlier than desired. Despite years of travel and knowing the mathematical incorrectness of it, I still run the hedge of doing post-check-in activities - security, passport control, monorail to correct section - much too early, just to get them out of the way. As a consequence, now as always, I'm in some stupid wing with lots of gates, a bookshop where I don't know how to read anything, the JAL First Class Sakura Lounge that I can't get into, and one bar.

Naturally, I'm at the bar. It's 9:00am and I have two options: 400 yen for a coffee or the Kirin liter special for 1000 yen. The four old Japanese guys behind me are going for the beer. I'm in disbelief until I remember that old people wake up at 4:00am, therefore this is just an afternoon brew for them. I order a coffee.

I'm only modestly tired for waking up at 6:30 after a night of both sake and wine. Perhaps my body healed stronger after the poison. Or maybe I'm just getting teased and will throw up all over the plane. I was 4.5 kg over the baggage weight limit because of the sake I'm bringing back to HK and got a mention. Fortunately, the lady at the check-in counter only asked me to make a ceremonial removal of items: 3 small books, and sent me on my way.

In the Japanese calendar, the year is HeiSei 23, referring to the current emperor's reign. My coffee tastes like it was brewed in Hirohito 1. Tired of writing, I board the plane early to secure overhead compartment space for my large-ish backpack and coat. It's a long walk back to 69H, and already I know this Cathay plane is a downgrade from the Cathay plane that I'd come to Japan on. It's older, and the movies play at pre-designated times, and there's no electrical outlet on the back of seats. I turn around to pee, but discover to my surprise, no bathroom at the back of the plane. As I walk up 20 rows of Asian people reading Asian newspapers, I realize one thing: Asian people love to read Asian newspapers.

The Upside of Rice

Despite my very best attempts at self-sabotage, something I've been very good at recently, I am now officially a Certified Sake Professional.

I don't need the gods to be any more pissed at me than they already seem to be, so I will try to fulfill my karmic obligation by teaching something here.

While you will not be able to Good-Will-Hunting the next douchebag foodie who laughs at your order of warm sake at Sushi Samba, the following is a basic general set of skills for self-defense:


Sake, pronounced Sah-Kay, is made exclusively from rice, water, and a moldy rice called Koji, with yeast and some decision on lactic acid. Alcohol levels are generally a touch higher than that of wine but not always. The top-end of sake is Ginjo and Daiginjo. These terms, generally, are designated based on the milling rate of the rice. If a rice has been milled to 60% of it's original size, that's a good thing. 50%, even better. This number might be on some labels in the middle of Japanese characters. It's not the alcohol percentage.

The word "Junmai" refers to a sake that contains no added distilled alcohol. At the Ginjo and Daiginjo level, distilled alcohol is not a bad thing. It's added for technical reasons and not as a fortifyant. (Pretty sure that's not a word.) Therefore the highest price point can be shared by Junmai Daiginjo and regular Daiginjo.

Taste mostly comes from the rice. Smell mostly comes from the yeast. So, come Valentine's Day, if someone says you smell like Aiyama, (rare sake of rice from "The Love Mountain") you probably smell like Strand-901 foamless industrial yeast.

The cloudy sake is nigori. It can be dry or sweet. It's usually less pricey than Ginjo and Daiginjo.

Sparkling sake is what you serve to people who are nostalgic for Zima.

Sake can be enjoyed at various temperatures to accompany different occassions. Yes, you might not want to boil a Daiginjo. It's delicate nature would likely be crushed. But there are plenty of fun things you can do with a bottle labeled "Junmai" or even "Ginjo."

So, the other night after dinner, we had some sake left, and I found myself staring at a pint of Asahi...
It's OK. I'm a Professional!

The American Embassy

I'm back to eating solid foods now, even if the number of calories a day is still in the hundreds. And no, I didn't get a toy with my Happy Meal. And, no, that is not a Happy Meal.

Chicken McNuggets here come in 5's. Due to recovery, it will be a while before I can say I want 4, only to have the cashier say they only come in 5's, whereupon I say, "no I meant I want 4 orders of 5's." In fact, it will probably be a while before I learn the Japanese word for "4" let alone have an actual conversation. In a week's time, I have successfully hit the trifecta of answering Japanese questions with separate and isolated responses of "si, oui, and dui," before stumbling upon "hai," which also happens to mean "yes" in Cantonese.

My poisoner is still on the loose. So it looks like I'll be staying with the American Embassy from here all the way to Narita. Fortunately, we're in the middle of the Big Idaho Burger installment of the Big America 2 campaign rollout. Previous episodes were Big Texas, Big Miami, and Big Manhattan.

Unfortunately, I don't feel very Big right now. Not even close to 100%. And I have a very big day of getting lost in train stations tomorrow. All I want is a Happy Meal and a toy.

Pinotchio poisoned

In the 46th hour of the poison, I was confused about where I was. Fully clad in Under Armour gear and under every blanket and item that could constitute as a blanket - think coats, plastic bags, towels - I was still, in my bed, shivering. Life's defeats flashed before my eyes. It's hard to not be reminded of defeat when you're curled up in the Ralph Lauren Homeless Collection. The slightest physical movement evoked new pains. It was better not to move. Only, I had to shit and puke. Again.

In the 48th hour of the poison, I heard a train and remembered where I was. My room, above Kyobashi Station in Osaka, was littered with empty plastic bottles with labels of names that ranged from "Healthya" to "Vitamin C 3000 mg." I was hoping they would embody the big bold English slogan of the Pachinko parlors down the road: "The Uplifted Feeling that does Not Cool Down!" Alas, just because there is a smiling squirrel on the label doesn't mean it's an antidote. I had to shit and puke again.

Who had poisoned me?

There was the old yakuza lady who wanted to drink DRC and La Tache and listen to my voice all night long. Her submissive husband behind the bar who served me drinks that she insisted be free. Her card game opponent, a cliche of a former hostess, who amidst my disruption to their gamble, began to shuffle non-stop, smoke, and deal hands to herself. And then there was the confessor - the octopus chef who, after I had eaten the moving tentacle on my plate, informed me with a smile that he had deliberately not removed the poisonous entrails.

If this were a video game, I'd probably just restart at a previous save point and choose a different route altogether, like, for instance, law school...

Reflections on charity during authentic economy class experience

Here I am in seat 65D flying over - I don't have Wikipedia right now - that body of water that separates Hong Kong and Japan. This means that I have 4 full hours to whine on this blog while digesting all those shrimp dumplings and bbq pork pastries I had at the airport. But I'm a bit distracted because I'm staring at an entertainment system that is as good as the one on United Business, and in some cases better. For example, each seat is equipped with an electrical outlet. Like, a real one. It's not even a ploy to get you to buy one of those Targus Duty-Free adaptors. There is also a selection of new English and Chinese movies on a screen just for you. The next time I fly, I will research my in-flight entertainment ahead of time. See, the majority of my DVD collection consists of movies that were purchased for flights that ended up showing them for free. The rest of the collection consists of, pretty much, Casablanca in the various geographical zone formats and an occassional uplifting installment of the Godfather trilogy.

I'm going from one Asian country to another. This means in-flight paperwork. I'm asked in Japanese whether I will be staying overnight in Japan. I respond in English "yes," and get handed a customs declarations card that's entirely in Chinese. Such is the casualty of being an American-born yellow person in Asia. I don't however, compared to being in Europe, get stopped in the street as often to be asked to take a picture for people.

The last thing I'm given is an envelope for Unicef. I think this is a fantastic idea. I get to unload all of the HK coins that I don't want to carry to Japan along with whatever else I feel like giving at the moment. Almost everyone around me is participating. Contrast this with the Save the Children assholes in front of my building in HK. Yes, there is a theory that law of large numbers works. And Russell Street, Causeway Bay is certainly on the short-list for busiest street in the first-world. But on this pedestrian-jammed sidewalk full of brands - Rolex, Longines, McDonald's - and this blog did start as a discussion of brand, I think Save the Children harms their own brand, at least in my view, by engaging in the following discourse:

"Sir, do you have a minute?"
"Sorry, I'm running late for a meeting. Best of luck today."
"It will be very quick."
"I actually give to you already."
"Are you sure? What's the name of the charity you give to?"
"You guys. Save the Children. For years."
Accusatorily, "That's not possible. We've only been in Hong Kong for barely a year,"
"In Canada."
[Look of skepticism.]
"You should work for immigration."

Auto-rebill in charities also annoys the hell out of me. I understand that steady cash-flow helps with planning. I get it. But I'd like to give what I want to give in the moment, and do not want to commit and have to go out of my way to call someone and get leading guilt questions before I can cancel. What is a leading guilt question? Example: Borders at the checkout during Christmas time: "Would you like to donate a book so that a child in poverty can have a chance to read?" The answer, after a what-the-fuck-brain-freeze, is, "yes, I have lots of books at home I would like to donate. No, I'm not going to buy a book from you to do it under these circumstances. Can I have my $10.99 Christmas edition of Decanter, now?"

The flight attendants come by with cans of Asahi on a tray. And what is this? A meal served on a 4-hour-flight? Service in Economy Class even starts from the back of the aircraft. This is great. I'm going to have beer, and then I'm going to figure out whether this plane has wi-fi, and if it does, I'm going to see if I can cancel my Save the Children account via American Express. I really hope this plane safely lands in Narita.

Pinotchio goes shopping

 "Where's home?"
"My suitcase."
Eyeroll.
 "It's true."

Say it enough times and you start to believe it yourself. Today, I walked into IKEA thinking that I could find a suitcase. I didn't. I did get lost inside. They make the layout so confusing you don't get to leave until you've bought a kitchen. The only other way to get shown the door is by taking pictures for your blog in the children section.

Why do I need a suitcase? I have to check some items into storage (my grandma's apartment) before I leave for Japan. My current suitcase had weighed in at 53.5 lbs in Chicago. Although I have lost a shoe, and taken a write-down on a rugby shirt that the laundry people destroyed (navy blue apparently bleaches into curry-brown) I am going to play it safe as I don't anticipate any baggage weight leniency with my ticket for 65D. Add to that my plans to import some sake, and the goal is to cut weight down to 35 lbs.

For my storage suitcase, I don't need anything fancy. I head to the top floor of Sogo and there is a wide Made in China selection. But the salespeople tilt me considerably. Every two steps and a new salesperson tells me "Tie-ha-la, Tie-ha-la," which literally means, "look, look." Yes, people - I've got my eyes closed and am getting high off sniffing that red 40 Victorinox plastic - thanks for inviting me to look.

My tilt leads me to the Samsonite outlet. I see something suitable in the window. It doesn't have a price tag. I proceed with my usual method of deciding on a cutoff price before checking. This saves a lot of decision-making time and energy. $800-$900 HKD ($100-$120 US) is a clear do, but since I'm on tilt, I will pay up to $1278 HKD. I forget this is a Hong Kong shopping mall and am reminded when I get quoted $3750.

Time to hit the streets. How to find some shady merchandise? It's near where all the hookers are. Where are the hookers? I suspect synergies with the hourly rental hotels. And how does one find those? Smell. Sommelier diploma optional.

I find a stand that looks promising: ladies underwear, gold watches in photograph format, and a sign that has a bunch of Chinese characters on it along with the letters NDS and PSP. This is the Wal-Mart of chop shops, and there are some "Samsonite" suitcases in the back. It's not that I want a Samsonite knock-off, but the sweet old lady says it's only $288 (HKD). A gush of emotion overtakes me and as I'm reminded of my own grandma, I ask the one question that would make her proud: "How about $160?" She shows me how cool the lock is, and suddenly we have a deal at $250. I am such a pussy.

Released into society

Social situations continue to not be my forte. Fitting in is hard sometimes. There are people on this planet, who in order to fit in, need to buy two adjacent airplane seats. And there are others who feel the need to pay for two admission tickets to a wine tasting just to get two servings. I am of the latter. But given the high frequency of gewurzs and near-doux spumante last night, I'm certainly working my way toward burning off those residual United miles at a 2x rate.

For kids who wish to try this at home, fair warning: at the end of the night, there will be no chicken nuggets to satisfy the gnawings of a hungry heart. Apparently, whoever is in charge of Hong Kong McDonald's believes that at 4am, people wish to consume muffins. The only upside to returning home at that hour is that I can get to my front door without encountering any Save the Children assholes.

Other Side of the Rainbow

It's official. United has emailed me with an ultimatum: pay $1,240 or lose your Premier status.  I feel very vulnerable right now. This has never happened before. Not even at Spearmint Rhino's.

The deciding factor was the New Year's Eve flight. I had previously believed that the rules were simple: points and bonuses accumulated through credit card use and other means would never count toward status miles. Sitting in a plane would, always. As it turns out, if your ticket was paid for exclusively with miles, sitting in a plane doesn't count either. 

What results is an email in January with a link to a drop-down menu that tries to maximize exploitation against your utility curve. If you're short between 7000 and 8000 miles, the make-up is $1240. If you finished the year short 1 mile, it's $299.

I'm not going to pay. But I will grovel. I will nurture that tipping point in a relationship when you start listing facts and past experiences in an effort to overcome the emotional dynamic that has already shifted. Member since 1994! Supported your stock post-9/11!

"It's my fault," I say, "I know I wasn't on board very much this year."
 "A hablar espanol...dos."
"Let me just talk to you."
"Sorry, I didn't get that. Please re-enter your eleven-digit account number."
 "I swear I didn't know I was carrying more than three ounces of liquids."

Used to plan our future together while standing on that moving walkway at O'Hare - the one toward the international concourse that slides under the rainbow lights.

Now, I try to move on. I've been having these online chats with Cathay. The conversations are generic, and sometimes the language barrier gets in the way. But new relationships have to start somewhere. Even if it's 65D.

Pinotchio located and captured

 

I linger too long on a street corner, trying to decide where to buy a bottle of Burgundy for dinner, and am spotted by an uncle who conscripts me into family day. Of course I want to see my grandma. This is true. My little cousins/nephews? They're cute! The problem is that a traditional Chinese family meal is a lot of work. When a person at the table who is older than you has a beverage container that is half-empty, you're supposed to refill it. I do not speak of Riedel Vinum Bordeaux wine glasses here. I'm talking about a Chinese teacup, which goes half-empty after like, a sip. Compound it with the obligation to serve others first when a course arrives - in Cantonese meals this is like every 2.6 minutes - and you're simultaneously sommelier and waiter, as well as ungrateful guest who has not made sufficient progress on his rice bowl despite everyone's thumbs-downing your low-carb diet. The conversation goes something like this:

 
"I'm really fascinated about how much Hong Kong has changed since the last..."
"Eat more!"
"I mean, even right after the takeover..."
"Eat more!"
"The takeover..."
"Why are you not eating?"
"I'm full."
"He doesn't like Chinese food."

The other problem is that I'm morbidly hungover. The night before, guys from the trade took me out to dinner where we did a bottle of cru Burgundy each, followed by a non-stop run of cocktails and beers - a marathon at the pace of a 5k. At some point, we began rating and scoring orange jello shots and tweeting the results to Robert Parker.

A few hours later, I get the following advice:
"You need to lower your standards. Find a woman. Lower your standards."

It is my grandma who says this. My hangover gets worse. I pick up a chopstick and consider driving it through my skull.

Provenance

 The original idea was to get out to Tokyo a few days early - check out the Burgundy trade, find out if that wine bar "Monopole" from comic series "Kami no Shizuku" really exists. But with Sotheby's pulling off a major wine auction next weekend - the last one before Chinese New Year, it seems like I will be staying for a few extra days. The last time Sotheby's came to town, they directly represented Chateau Lafite-Rothschild in what many have called "the height of the bubble." In that auction, Chinese buyers paid over triple the market value for cases of 2009 Lafite because the bottles would be coming directly from the chateau. If this already sounds outrageous, consider the following fun piece of trivia: 2009 Lafite is released in 2012. This means that ALL cases of 2009 Lafite will be coming directly from the chateau.

If you ask the Chinese to define a good wine, the answer will be, "one that comes from Lafite." Asking a French person the same question, you will get, "one that comes from France." An American response usually begins with, "well, like, I'm not really into brands but there's this small producer in [insert city you hope your friends have never heard of here] and it was started by a young couple who still harvest the grapes using organic..."

But winemakers from any country will say that a good wine comes from the fruit of "fighting vines," ones that didn't get water as an entitlement but have had to fight every step of the way to survive. Then, they become wines of the highest quality.

"But of course some don't make it."
"And some do make it," I add, "but don't exactly turn out the way the prescription had intended."
"Oh, you mean phantom wine? Phantom wine can be delicious too, but it just can't make it into the main label. You see, society expects a certain consistency."
"So, what happens to this phantom wine?"
"We may try to blend it. Or if it's too stubborn, it gets shipped off somewhere - another country, another continent. Eventually it finds a home."

I'm not sure how long I'll be in Hong Kong, but you can find me at the Mandarin Oriental on January 22nd, at the Sotheby's auction of the Wine Collection of Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Will it jump?

In the course of a few months in 2010, the price of the not yet released 2008 Chateau Mouton-Rothschild more than doubled in value on rumors that a Chinese artist would be designing the label.

My trading strategy? Buy Pauillac Chateau Grand Puy-Lacoste and start a rumor that they're going to put a crocodile on the label.

Pinotchio tries to learn to read

Chicago, December 2010 - Only ten minutes left in the time bank - the quota I allocate myself to reduce time wasted on indecisiveness over reasonably indifferent pre-travel shopping decisions. (For international trips this is usually half an hour: saying no to a new suitcase, renewing my policy on eHealthInsurance.com, hacking into my mom's account to steal frequent flyer miles. (This used to be quicker when the password was "Michael.") For domestic trips, it's just however long the line at CVS is. Also half an hour.)

I decide to go to Borders downtown, the one on Michigan Avenue, to buy a Lonely Planet phrasebook for Japanese. Only, Borders was going through "restructuring," which meant that the store was already in an advanced stage of liquidation. As I walk toward the travel section where everything was 40% off, things were not looking good for finding a Japanese Lonely Planet phrasebook.

Yes, that would be Bangladesh and Afghanistan, and below it, Kansas City and Charlotte, straddled by two instances of St. Louis. 

Hong Kong, January 2011 -  thinking back to the missed opportunity to rally a road trip or two, I justify to myself that it's ok, and that the true journey is the one that lies within. I decide to visit a bookstore to uncover the wisdom of the ages. For decades, Hong Kong bookstores shrinkwrapped everything: magazines, best-selling fiction, plush toys. When I last visited in 2009, it seemed like the PageOne chain at least, was loosening up. I'd flipped through enough of Robert Shiller's book of subprime revelation to sell Starbucks at $9/share. Hello Kitty had grown out of her erotic asphyxiation phase. And so I wondered whether there would be a natural progression toward the US/UK bookstore model of bringing in the sofas and coffee kiosks. In 2011, could the people of Hong Kong be trusted to spend money where browsing was free?

At least, not the Christians.

Cos Vegas and Lasablanca

I never drink half-bottles in public. I did buy one to drink at home last night in order to reset into phantom-mode after that Sunday night humanization process known as dinner with my grandma. More accurately, I bought it because I thought it was a good deal. The half-bottle price for the 2000 Lascombes was on par with a level that I had recently gladly paid on the wholesale market. I took out my current corkscrew - yes, current - they all meet horrible fates like impairment from attempted screwdrivering or being kidnapped by TSA - and as I'm about to open the Lascombes, I realized that I had, well, fucked up.

I had confused the price of the 2000 Lascombes with the price of the 2000 Cos d'Estournel. Even though both are second growths from the Bordeaux Classification of 1855 and both are currently on the rise in the market, Lascombes is from the appellation of Margaux while Cos is from St. Estephe. Of course I open it anyway under the assumption that drinking it can only make me smarter.

I latch onto one idea: if I have a sommelier diploma from France and I can make such a mistake - even if it was just a brain fart (them giving me the diploma) - then emerging markets will never, never ever, sufficiently differentiate enough between the Second Growths to drive a substantial divergence in pricing. Perhaps Leoville Las Cases can stay ahead of the pack through its brand distinctiveness in the west, but that doesn't interest me very much. I make a living off where the new money pours in. And I think 2011 will be a year for the current Second Growth laggards.

The Crying of Lot 888

For a moment, the staredown breaks, as our eyes shift toward the visual distraction of a giant yellow Nike swoosh on a red sweatshirt hustling by - his footsteps silent against the carpet of the five-star Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Hong Kong. The auctioneer cries "$130,000" and my staredown foe, looking over his bifocals, takes his auction paddle and swats the air like it's a ping-pong ball. The staredown recommences. The auctioneer looks at me. Attractive women in the room turn to see if this unknown young man who sits alone can triumph against the entourage of rich and powerful mainland Chinese that has so far dominated the auction. My spreadsheet says no.

The victor and his son exchange high-fives with an intensity that is heard across the room, and arguably around the globe. Fine wine auctions have become a sporting event, where instead of boxing gloves, there are IBAN numbers, BIC codes, and checkbooks. But perhaps true competition - as a senior instructor in my martial arts days once told me - must be done without gloves. And so I wonder whether this breed of newly uber-wealthy mainland Chinese will pay for their wine with packets of cash. After all, what could be inside those Louis Vuitton man-purses?

But at the end of the day, their method of payment is of little consequence to me. I hadn't majored in econ to analyze M1 money supply. I'm a wine trader. What I care about is what they buy, so that I can apply that knowledge in conjunction with many other pieces of data, toward making informed decisions. Every time I get outbid, I learn a little more: which brands they prefer, which vintages, which bottle sizes. Could quirky decisions such as declining to take identical lots at the winning price only to pay more for them in outright bidding reveal a small window into their behavioral buying patterns?

I walked out of the auction empty-handed, but got the last bit of information I needed to pile on some bets when the UK markets reopen on Monday.  I'm reminded of the classic quote from "White Men Can't Jump" that ends with, "and sometimes when you lose, you really win." Just this one time, let it be true.

Awake

An indication that I was never meant for this life is my body's total inability to deal with jet lag.  And it's not because of the wine.  I could be eating my vegetables, jockeying the elliptical, wiping my ass with organic sandpaper from Whole Foods and it wouldn't matter. I'd still be up at 4 in the morning staring at that annoying blue color the sky first turns when the birds wake up.  The list of people who deal with jet lag better than me include Stephen Hawking, my grandma, and the fat guy from LOST.

Contrary to what might be implied on this blog (and what my family believes), I actually do a fair amount of work and need to be smart during business hours. After three visits to Starbucks - in an absurd ritual of taking an escalator to a glass elevator to the sixth floor of a shopping mall and back down the same way - I was still drinking pure black coffee at the rate of $3.47 USD for a grande, which I imagine places HK as the most expensive Starbucks in the world.* In London, by contrast, I paid $1.70 USD for a cup, when using a gift card. (Loyal readers will have already correctly guessed that I didn't receive said gift card as an actual gift but rather bought it myself to capitalize on the arbitrage.)

The new Starbucks logo. Do I really need a bigger siren to remind me it's an addiction...

* Technically, the principality of Disney Village, France pips it at $3.51 USD. But with the Euro breaking below 1.3 today, it's getting awfully close.

Peeping thru the blinds

The Times Square shopping mall features an exterior-facing glass elevator that can get from the ground floor to the top in something like 10 seconds. This means that factoring in for stops and off-peak hours, approximately 10,000 assholes can stare into my bedroom window every day.

This afternoon, I decide to cross the street and take the elevator. Not to participate in group voyeurism – I’m saving that for my trip to Japan – but to go and find out what it was that Chinese people were drinking.  At Watson’s Wine Cellars, as in many places in Hong Kong, a Chinese person (who speaks with a non-trivial accent) goes out of his way to greet me in English. This is not good for Operation Get Cantonese Good Enough to Tell Grandma I’m Not Signing Up for eHarmony.hk.

It takes me two seconds to decide that I’m not going to buy anything, as I scan through the prices of various Bordeaux. (The math is convenient: The Great Britain Pound is worth about 12x the Hong Kong Dollar, and there are 12 bottles of wine in a case. So by looking at the Hong Kong price per bottle, I can immediately benchmark it to the GBP case price that I trade in.)

Deciding against a sheepish “Just browsing,” I ask for red Meursault – a wine that I couldn’t find in a year of living in France – and get left alone. The clerk seems content to get back to smiling on the phone. And I am content to discover that on the rack of Mouton-Rothschild, an empty space accompanies the price label for the 1996. (I have a secret evil plan for trading the 1996 that I’ll reveal once I either bank it or it blows up in my face.)

“So, which Bordeaux sell well?” I finally ask the clerk, after mentally deliberating on the proper Cantonese grammatical sequence of the sentence.

“Lynch-Bages,” he says confidently, along with two others.

I wonder if there’s some kind of secret society and a global conspiracy to push Lynch-Bages. Prices have gone up, and everyone, from wholesalers to merchants to wine bars have been trying to get me to invest/trade/drink it. Everyone also seems to have cases upon cases of supply.

I turn back to the glass case, just past the Mouton and above the Latour. There’s a single bottle of Lafite in the entire store, and it’s 2001, one of the least desired vintages.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“Yes, we can’t quite ever hang on to them.”

That’s quite a thing to say about a wine that’s US $1500 a bottle and already quadrupled in cost, almost linearly from two years ago.

The Cup of Everlasting Returns

I had come to Hong Kong to see whether the Legend of the Carruades was true. In Irish folklore, there are wish-granting leprechauns with pots of gold at the end of the rainbow. Across the sea, in the bars of Bond Street, London, British merchants spoke of beings from a faraway land who could turn mediocre wines into 150% annual return investment vehicles. I wasn't sure I believed in leprechauns, but I had little doubt that Chinese people actually existed. The question was whether their brand-driven consumption demand really sustained the market prices, or whether something else was actually going on.

As time zones go by...

A dream was going against my favor this morning and I found myself awake at 5am. I went online, told Google that I wanted results in English for the zillionth time, and discovered that the McDonald's downstairs was not only open 24 hours, but that McDonald's in Hong Kong DELIVERS. I'm genuinely curious but decide that for the morning, seeing as it was early enough for McDonald's to be unpopulated,  I would take a self-indulgent dine-in meal. (In Causeway Bay where I live, it's near impossible to take a fast food meal without sharing a cramped booth with some random old people who pick their teeth while watching you eat.) Footnote: I'm not being overly dramatic. In the Hong Kong cheap eats world, everyone shares tables, nobody talks to each other, and people love to pick their teeth. (Sometimes behind the green surgical masks. The city never quite got over SARS.) 

In my best Cantonese, I explain that in the US, you get the Monopoly game pieces with hash browns, and not just after 11:00am.  I receive a packet of butter.

I sit down by the window. It's still dark outside, and beaten down middle-aged men and women  - a Chinese version of the kind described by Kerouac at the end of that book - push trolleys of fresh newspapers into the main streets and bags of garbage into those narrow inefficiencies in the real estate market known as alleys. Inside McDonald's, the theme song from Casablanca, "As Time Goes By" begins to play. But this is neither a gin joint nor a bar, just another McDonald's on the other side of the world. It does, however, make a fantastic fried chicken with eggs. 

No subject

I polish off this bottle and hit refresh on my Blackberry.  Her extra last name on Facebook is still there. I ask for a refund.

The day upticks in general

 

Had some complimentary unagi nigiri and Veuve Cliquot at the SFO lounge near Gate 96. Then a few plastic pre-flight cups of the 1998 Henriot champagne, which as usual, got me yelled at for having to pee at somewhere between 0 and 10,000 feet. When lunch came, the whites were a Chablis Premier Cru and some kind of Carneros chard that tasted like viognier. The reds were a Chateauneuf du Pape and a merlot of little consequence. All of these bottles were squeezed between the thighs of 60-year old flight attendants during the uncorking process. (I was in seat 2K, next to the wine bar.)

At this time, I will divulge that my First Class flights from ORD-SFO and SFO-HKG cost a grand total of 72,500 miles and $5.00 for taxes.  To put this into perspective, a successful application for a United Mileage Plus credit card gets you 30,000 bonus miles. Today I bought $101 of multi-vitamins I normally buy from GNC. I shopped at drugstore.com instead. They were cheaper, free shipping, and no sales tax. I also got 2,200 UA miles. (1000 for sign-up bonus + 10 miles per dollar promotion for purchases over $100 + 2 miles per dollar spent as a qualified purchase on my UA visa.)