By Alex Sawit

05 October 2009

Here’s a gag that the Brits tell from the Second World War. On a desert battlefield in North Africa, a duel ensues between a German soldier and a British Army Gurkha. The tall German is brandishing a rifle with fixed bayonet while the diminutive Nepalese mercenary is wielding a large boomerang-shaped knife. Confident of his superiority, the German lunges first, charging headstrong and grazing the Gurkha’s collar with a bayonet stab. The Gurkha sidesteps and counters with a swing of his blade.

“Hah! You missed!” the German soldier yells smugly.

“You shake your head,” replies the Gurkha.

Puzzled, the German gives it a shake and his severed head promptly falls to the ground.

It’s a grim joke but it makes a point. They’re tough fighters those Gurkhas, which is why they’ve been prized recruits of the British Army since the 19th century and have been exalted by generations of British officers as “the best soldiers in the world.”

But that’s not to say the Germans don’t make for good soldiers. It’s simply that in most of the Allied war stories I’ve read, the Germans always seem to get portrayed as bullheaded troopers who insist on doing things the Teutonic way – the “superior” way.

To be honest, that also happens to be how they are portrayed by the global media, with Hollywood being the guiltiest in perpetuating the image of Germans as overbearing, square-minded authoritarians (no disrespect to the Terminator, now also known as the “Governator,” who is actually a creative thinker and is technically Austrian by birth). It is of course an unfortunate generalization considering that I have encountered and befriended more than enough Germans who are nothing like this stereotype.

So I found it amusing, even startlingly refreshing, when the wine shop recently played host to a guest who exhibited basically all the stereotype characteristics described – a tall German with a wide frame, straightforward demeanor and a library of opinions that he was not the least bit shy about insisting upon. Whoa yeah, he was very opinionated.

“Let me tell you,” he said to me with a poker face from across the bar. “Don’t be angry but the way your place looks is DUMB.”

Yup, he said that. And he was just warming up.

“Don’t be angry but who designed your place? Your sister designed it? Is she a licensed interior designer?”

“Don’t be angry but your place feels like a house, not a store.”

“Don’t be angry but I wouldn’t pay good money to build my counter behind the bar like that.”

“Don’t be angry but your location is not good.”

For someone who didn’t want me to get angry he sure was laying it thick. And I actually wasn’t angry. The fellow is a really friendly and decent gentleman who has been living in the Philippines with his wife for the last two decades. Together they make arguably the best charcuterie products in the country, which was the reason I had asked them to meet me at Cyrano in the first place. But the gentleman seemed determined to discourage me from using him as a supplier.

“Let me get this right,” I asked. “Are you telling me that you don’t want me to buy your products?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you won’t make money selling my products here. I’m sorry.”

“My friend,” I said, exasperated by the complications of what was supposed to be a simple request for supplies. “I’m NOT turning my place into a deli. This is a wine shop. My core business is wine, not deli products. What I’m trying to do is carry a few of your items so that customers who order them will also be encouraged to buy more wine.”

“Well, I will supply you if you really want but I tell you, you won’t make money. People won’t like your location. Don’t be angry but you asked me my opinion.”

“Actually, you volunteered,” I pointed. “I didn’t ask.” Gee, I must have said something right because his wife, who had kept quiet the whole time her hubby was freely dispensing advice, suddenly burst out laughing after my remark.

When our meeting finally ended, I wasn’t surprised that we hadn’t reached any agreement, not even in principle. But I made him a promise that we would talk again.

“I believe in your products,” I said as I escorted him and his wife to the exit. “Don’t worry. I’m sure we can come to some arrangement that works for both of us.”

Believe me. He’s one of the good guys. His opinions may flatly contradict what Cyrano friends have been telling me for years but I respect what he had to say because his heart is in the right place. He was just trying to look out for Cyrano in his own insistent, Teutonic way.

But I needed a drink right after that meeting.

By Alex Sawit

06 September 2009

I was rummaging through my computer files recently when I found something that I’d sadly forgotten about, something that’s been in the laptop for a few years.  I’d originally intended to edit it so that I could share it with Cyrano friends except that I’d set it aside when I was busy and lost track of it for one reason or another.

It’s a copy of the Sullivan Ballou Letter.

I have a profound appreciation for personal correspondences of historical value.  Unlike historical documents such as treaties, decrees and other grandiose political effects, personal letters offer us a special window not only into unfolding moments in time but also into the hearts of the individuals who wrote them, allowing us to relive their thoughts and emotions as though we were there when it happened.  More than the feeling of history, it’s the human experience that really touches me.

Not surprisingly, love letters are the most compelling.  Often the most famous ones are those written by great figures whose sheer statures imbue their writing with a feeling of consequence.  Napoleon’s letters to Josephine, for example, are filled with the bullying passion of an alpha male always wanting to have his way even if love be the battlefield.  Ludwig van Beethoven’s emotionally wrenching letter to his “Immortal Beloved” was so mysterious that it inspired the fascinating premise of a movie of the same title (with actor Gary Oldman portraying the brooding composer).  And the intoxicating words that Lord Byron and his scandalous lover, Caroline Lamb, imbibed between themselves in their letters serve to transport the reader into a world of reckless mood swings and unbridled notoriety.  And so on and so on.

Sometimes, though, the most moving love letters are those written by everyday heroes whom history would deem as mere footnotes.

I first learned of the Sullivan Ballou Letter nearly twenty years ago from a magazine review about the PBS documentary by Ken Burns, The Civil War.  Acclaimed as the definitive film series about the American Civil War, this masterwork of television presented U.S. audiences with a deeply insightful yet heartrending remembrance of that bloody and decisive period in their nation’s history.  I do recall the magazine praising the filmmakers for the sensitivity with which they used long forgotten mementos to bring to life stories of ordinary people who endured the war.  And I particularly recall that, of all those resurrected keepsakes, the magazine singled out Ballou’s haunting letter as the most enduring one ever written by any soldier on either side of that great American conflict.

To learn more about the Ken Burns documentary The Civil War, click here.

I’ve thought about discreetly putting it on view at the shop, framed and placed perhaps in some corner nook or quiet space on the wall where it wouldn’t be intrusive.  But I just don’t know if it would be as appropriate to display as hanging a poster of Robert Doisneau’s Le Baiser de L’Hôtel de Ville on an easel or displaying copies of Cyrano de Bergerac on our bookshelf.  I just don’t know if it’s too much sentimentality even for a place like Cyrano.

So I’ll settle for posting the letter here. I guess I’m more of a sentimental fool than I thought.

The Letter of Sullivan Ballou

   In the summer of 1861, one week before the first major battle of the American Civil War, an officer in the Union Army, Maj. Sullivan Ballou of the Rhode Island Volunteers, wrote home to his wife Sarah as she awaited his safe return.

   The letter he wrote is presented here in condensed form.

July 14, 1861
Camp Clark, Washington

 

My very dear Sarah:

   The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days – perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more . . .

   If it is necessary that I should fall on the battle field for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans on the triumph of the Government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and sufferings of the Revolution. And I am willing – perfectly willing – to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt . . .

   But, my dear wife, when I know that with my own joys I lay down nearly all of yours, and replace them in this life with cares and sorrows. . . is it weak or dishonorable, while the banner of my purpose floats calmly and proudly in the breeze, that my unbounded love for you, my darling wife and children, should struggle in fierce, though useless, contest with my love of country?

   I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm summer night, when two thousand men are sleeping around me, many of them enjoying the last, perhaps, before that of death – and I, suspicious that Death is creeping behind me with his fatal dart, am communing with God, my country, and thee.

   I have sought most closely and diligently, and often in my breast, for a wrong motive in thus hazarding the happiness of those I loved and I could not find one . . .

   Sarah my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly on with all these chains to the battle field.

   The memories of the blissful moments I have spent with you come creeping over me, and I feel most gratified to God and to you that I have enjoyed them for so long. And hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and seen our sons grown up to honorable manhood, around us. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me – perhaps it is the wafted prayer of my little Edgar, that I shall return to my loved ones unharmed. If I do not my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, and when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often times been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness . . .

   But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights . . . always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again . . .

 

   Sullivan

*          *          *          *          *

   A week later, Sullivan Ballou was called upon to lead his regiment against Confederate forces at Manassas, Virginia. He was killed at the First Battle of Bull Run.

POSTSCRIPT: Sullivan Ballou never mailed this letter. His wife Sarah received it along with his other personal belongings after his death. Although the original document has since disappeared, the letter survived through a few hand-written copies. It is probable that Ballou’s widow permitted those dearest to her to copy the letter for the sincerest of reasons, keeping the original safe in her possession for as long as she lived.

By Alex Sawit

24 August 2009

Most Cyrano friends know by now that, thanks to my still unresolved dusk-till-dawn routine at the wine shop, I more or less keep an odd bedtime schedule that drastically reduces my exposure to daylight (if you have to ask, no, I’m not that kind of an immortal). Most of you know this well enough that you probably won’t even bother calling me on my cellphone until late in the afternoon. Heck, most of you may even suspect that the reason I can recite with uncanny dramatic effect the lines of The Architect (you remember him in The Matrix: Reloaded… you know, the Colonel Sanders look-alike?) is because that’s what my voice is like when I’ve been liberated all too soon from the sweetness of sleep – a deep, slowly reverberating voice that feels very tired, very ancient and not particularly amused by the unwelcome effort of speaking.

Albert del Rosario, however, is not most Cyrano friends.

“Alex,” asked Sir Albert with an amused, slightly chuckling voice that gently but firmly roused me over the cellphone the other day. “Did I just wake you up again?”

“No problem Sir Albert,” I answered lucidly and with genuine pleasantness. “Yes,” I continued, “how may I help you?”

Hey, no problemo. If it’s Sir Albert on the line, it’s cool. It’s all just part of the “Bro Code” that we both live by.

I’ve been hearing a lot about the Bro Code lately thanks to folks who’ve been bringing it up at the wine shop via email and i-Pod audio playback (and also thanks to my happy-go-lucky cousin who dropped into the shop exclaiming “Bros before hoes!” as a pledge of loyalty). Since most Cyrano friends already have a general understanding of the code, I won’t bother to explain. I do feel compelled, however, to point that although the basic code applies universally to all bros, there are Bro Codes and then there are Bro Codes.

As most of you are already aware, I belong to a small but tight knit group of black belts who have stayed a steadfast family through the collective blood, sweat and tears of our martial arts training. I wish I could fully describe the process by which this sort of brotherhood comes about, but truly you had to have been there with us to understand – been one of us, one bloody grueling day after another repeating kick after kick, strike after strike, grapple after grapple, pushing each other and never giving up till we got it right. If you’d been there, then you’d know why those who endure hardship and emerge as brothers-in-arms always develop a unique feeling of obligation to each other that transcends everyday friendship. Call it a warrior’s Bro Code if you like, but that’s what ours is.

That’s why I’d like to take this opportunity to say that I’m especially proud to call Sir Albert a Cyrano friend – the only Cyrano friend who is also my fellow Hwa Rang Do black belt.

Strange as it may sound due to the generation gap between us (he’s close to my father’s age, illustrated by the fact that I went to university with one of his sons), Sir Albert and I have been bros ever since we started training as classmates in Hwa Rang Do nearly a quarter century ago. Nowadays most folks in town know him only as a highly esteemed businessman and as a former Philippine ambassador to the United States. But for me that doesn’t say nearly enough. If you’d ever trained with him as a bro as I did, you’d know that his is the kind of stuff – that prized combination of courage of heart, strength of mind and integrity of spirit – of which real gentlemen are made of. I only wish he’d been given the opportunity to take up the martial arts much earlier in life so that we might have seen what he could have attained given the advantage of youth.

I hope Sir Albert gets to meet the rest of his fellow Cyrano friends someday soon. Although he is actually one of our best customers, regularly ordering vino for private functions and as gifts for friends, due to his never ending busy schedule he’s only ever been to our wine shop once and on a slow night at that, when there was no one I could introduce him to. Hopefully someday he will.

For now…

“I’ll need another case of the Cabernet I ordered from you last time,” Sir Albert said with his trademark civility. “I’ll be giving it as a gift, too.”

“Very good, one case,” I replied. “I could bring it to you by, say, Thursday?”

“That’s fine Alex. Thanks.”

“No problem Sir Albert,” I said as I ended the call. I jotted it down mentally: twelve bottles of blended Chilean Cabernet Sauvignon Reserva, which I planned to personally deliver to the Ambassador’s residence on…

Wait, did I tell him Thursday? Hah-hah, I delivered it to him Wednesday morning. Hey, no problem going the extra mile. That’s part of our Bro Code.

By Alex Sawit

30 June 2009

I hate dealing with drunks.

Of all the things I will eventually miss about this wine shop of ours, disciplining misbehaving customers of the smashed kind is not going to be one of them. Whether they’re newcomers who’ve just walked in off the street or folks who’ve been coming over for years, I don’t relish being forced to bring people into line after they’ve stepped over it. But it comes with the territory of running an establishment like ours. Normally I only have to restrain offenders by firmly communicating my annoyance in a manner that is both verbally and visually unmistakable (kinda like Bruce Banner’s mild mannered speech, “Don’t make me angry… you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry,” but delivered with the blood-shot ferocity in the eye of Tony Montana’s classic, “Say hell-oh to my little friend!!!”). But, yeah, there have been a few times when I’ve tossed people out when I deemed it necessary.

Just recently, I had to drop the axe on a pair of Aussie neighbors after an unpleasant night. They’re decent blokes when they’re sober, but they just couldn’t get it through their skulls not to act like bulls in a china shop when they’re at Cyrano.

“There are consequences for your actions,” I told one of them when he came back several nights later asking for a shot of malt whisky only to be denied service. “You’re welcome to order coffee when you guys are here,” I told him blankly, “but from now on I won’t serve either of you alcohol.” At first the fellow seemed to accept his sentence with aplomb. Then about a week later he showed up in a less than sober state and, in a pseudo-bullying manner that embarrassed me in front of my regulars, insisted on being served some Glenfiddich. So I put on my game face, loaded daggers into my words and knifed away.

Nemo me impune lacessit. *

“Go home,” I told him sternly even as he tried to explain himself on his way out. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” True enough, he did come back to formally apologize for his behavior and he’s since stuck to drinking coffee when he’s here.

Agreed, not all alcohol-induced behavior is unwelcome (as if Cyrano friends didn’t already know that). But when it gets to the point that customers are causing trouble, then it doesn’t matter how much money they’re spending. You have to lay down the law or they’ll keep doing the same stupid thing night after night, making life miserable for your other customers. I know it’s not the Filipino way to treat customers as “equals,” but then again I’m of the opinion that part of the problem with Filipino society is that we’re too tolerant, too accommodating and too bloody nice to know when people are walking all over us. No wonder most foreigners think we’re pushovers.

To quote the following business maxim: “Never accept what is unacceptable. Because once you start accepting it, people will start giving you $#@% on a regular basis.”

* Since the fellow asked for Glenfiddich, it occurred to me that anybody who is an advocate of single malt scotch should also know this Latin phrase, which for centuries has been the defiant motto of the whisky loving people of Scotland. Loosely translated, it means, “No one steps on me and gets away with it.”

By Alex Sawit

07 March 2009

It’s good to see Iona going out for a spin in her own hot set of wheels.  For Cyrano friends who have been keeping track of Iona’s recent therapy sessions, seeing the little princess happy in her new red convertible puts smiles on our hearts.

The only downside for Iona’s boyfriend, Samu, is that the convertible seems to have room for only one passenger.  Poor Samu.  At least he can always drive beside Iona on his junkyard cruiser when they’re on a date.