My annual trip with Gastronomypix took us into the arms of the vast, desertly, wireless signal-less, uncrowded, sweltering and adventure-doused terrains of Utah. Where, after an ethereal meal in Salt Lake City, and many hours outside civilization, meandering around Kanab, we happened to win a lottery (courtesy of her boy luck, i.e. yours truly) to hike to the Wave. Which, for those like me who are unaware, is the trail-less hike to a natural sandstone formation that is the size of a football field, but with the depth of a vivid imagination.

The fashion infusion commenced in our packing phase, where instead of hiking gear, compasses and walking sticks, we packed designer clothing, coordinated accessories and zoom lenses, aiming to seize the opportunity for a photo shoot. For what better way to remember an enigmatic, enchanting place than with a series of ethereal blowouts? Thus began the quest of the cowboy in red plaid and a matching hat, albeit without a cow.

Notwithstanding the enchantress in hypnotic yellow with black bling and wispy hair and pouting expressions maintained through a scorching, sunny terrains.

The Wave was a surreal texture of horizontal hues of desert red, sunset orange, fiery white and suntan bronze. With death gnawed twigs and branches at its feet, the lush blue water was a mirage that captivated out lenses and imagination. Aside from the curvaceous linearity of the Wave’s natural construction, the water body became a focal point of our work.

The way to the destination was by no means easy. Before the cowboy and enchantress phase was what we can view as a backstage edition.

After lengthy and long sunrise circling drives that looped around identical mountains, we came to a dirt road that constituted of dried up streams like a dry octopus’s evil tentatcles, ready to strangle at the wince of a muscle. This physical hike came next, through jagged cliffs, cactus stitched grounds and swarms of quicksand, with faces in the rocks peering at us as we strolled passed them, with an eerie feeling of being watched under the sun’s vile gaze. We were guided by an ironic series of photographic watch points, which spelled ambiguity when combined with our intuition and a rapidly languishing bucket of drinking water. The practice shots, backstage if you like, were impactful and exemplary of our subsequent photo shoot, albeit sans the surface glam.

\We were in our skimpy attire, which was comfortable to get hot in, and easy to get in and out of. Naturally it also sufficed for the lady’s yoga style stretches and the man’s pushups.

We actually got lost en route back, as the sun promised to kiss us goodbye into the arms of a pitch black night, where our legs and bladders began to give way as our eyes darted from rock to rock seeking a way out of this abyss. As fatigue from an endearing day and fear from coyotes seeped into us like tea from a teabag, the eventual familiarity of making it back to our car wrung it all out of us, replacing it with the dire need for sleep, and a new inspiration.

The new inspiration came in the form of the Coral Pink Sand Dunes. Pink, a debatable color for men and women alike, and we found ourselves in a desert comprised solely of this warm, toasty and inviting hue. Dressed in adventure seeking clothing, our mission was to capture the essence of the sand meets sky phenomenon.

Kicking the sands, leaving footprints, leaving objects behind to personify death, evoking emotions of help and glee, diving headfirst into the sand, bathing faces in it,  or reaching out to the angels of blue … we employed every strategy to deviate the attention from my lifeguard tank and bright red shorts, or her yellow Armstrong tank and petite hotpants. Which eventually began to blend well into the rustic desert ambiance of a lazy day.

So, adventure seekers, never shy from glam. For where there is stubborn and jagged rock, there is succulent flesh and flowing fabric. Match the deathly valleys of hiking with the depth of imagination, the squint of a bullying sun with the glare of a zoom lens.

Always salvage a moment.
Evoke the vogue from any destination.
Make it everlasting, enchanting, and eternal.

I am a sucker for luxury, and everything that looks untouchably fashionable. Ambiance plays a pivotal role in my episodic saga with food.

As I Live in a Frying Pan gave her cutesy red cooper to the valet, I couldn’t help but notice ten Rolls Royce Phantoms reserved exclusively for airport transfers. If helicopters weren’t available that is. This was just the start of many startling revelations about the glorified display of wealth. For there was no sneaking into the world’s only seven star resort sans a reservation for a meal or a room. So no Cinderella sidekick or Ratatouille’s accomplice could ever enter the dominion of a lavish lobby with gilded interior designs and dancing fountains. We were there for high tea, a thought at which the British tucked inside me yelped in glee.

Having skipped breakfast, our ravenous appetites beckoned us to race right to the 27^th floor Skyview Bar, the little glass capsule that jutted out of the sail, overlooking the Perisan  Gulf and an unmatched view of Dubai from the air. As we rose, the perspective was as magnifying as it was distancing. The island of Palm Jumeirah shrunk as the Atlantis bean to rise from the sea, its gigantic wings spanning the width of perception, and then languishing into the sunny, shimmering sea like a defeated eagle, two dimensional from my predator’s eye view.

We perched below the green and blue woven ceiling, leaning against matching backrest seats, thankfully slightly farther away from the arched glass floor to ceiling windows that gave a cliff drop view of the ocean and city, instantly evoking my acrophobic fears and notions of nauseous suicide. Gulp.

The non-alcoholic date champagne arrived in a rather ordinary looking flute, poured ceremoniously in a horizontal fashion by a tall waiter with a longer arm and precise body movement. It was paired with cream and fresh berries, alarmingly fresh, and perhaps perceived as fresher in the crisp, linen like atmosphere. The tea menu was vividly descriptive but alarmingly plainly etched on a white menu that made it rather challenging to navigate the 50+ variety of options. I chose the one infused with jasmine pearls and licorice root, and vowed to try the ethereal white teas thereafter. Each came in individual white teapots and petite teacups, reminiscent of British India, and reflected the splash of sunlight glaring through the glass walls. The subsequent conversations flowed as seamlessly as the whiff of aromatic steaming tea.

The ambiance was glistening in the closer-than-ever sunlight and with a  perspective that was unmatched and attainable only from the cloudlike elevation, the city was a bleached desert of petite sugar cubes. The coastline ended in the shape of a horror movie dagger, curved with the ethereal 360 bar at its sharp tip, evoking tales of a fun previous night. The shadow of the sail onto the vast landscape relayed a sense of excitement and adventure, albeit captured more like artistic portraiture than live action. Perhaps it was the overall stillness of the boats and sands and people-free beaches and oceans. Quite a relief, for luxury is most valued in solitude and stillness, but for a flick of a second I missed the spirit of the Hamptons.

The appetizer for teatime, so to say, was a beef wellington for the ladies atop clotted cream and beetroot sauce, while the vegetarian in me dove into a roasted eggplant sliver with mint green chutney and red cherry tomatoes. I guess it was one of those things where you felt it tasted better because of where you were seated, but I wouldn’t sparkle beyond praise for these. The bottomless portion of petite sandwiches however evoked reactions would make Alice-in-Wonderland lovers swoon.

Forming a bird’s eye view of a Tim Burton smiley face, there were cuboids and tiny buns, some open faced, all in colors reminiscent of the aquarium walls at the entrance. The carrot hued sandwich was lined with sour potato spread and cucumbers, not only patriotic in colors but delectable in texture. Cottage cheese also layered perfectly with the tartness of berry spread, making this an instant replay request.

The beet and tamarind infused sesame coated bun hit the perfect sour note, offset by the bitterness of the rather sterile tasting open faced bun next to it, topped with asparagus, artichoke, mushroom and tomato. The sunset hued peppers sandwich was swimming in a vinegary dressing, atop a cranberry infused bun that proclaimed delicious juxtaposition. The bottomless offering ensured that the fountain of petite sandwiches and teas kept coming at irregular intervals, and we gobbled away, ignoring the foreboding sense of delusional overeating.

Already at the verge of unbuttoning, we were then greeted by a steel outline replica of the building, holding three tiers of kaleidoscopic desserts. One layer had an assortment of scones, from wheaty osat and grain infused ones to raisin specked and raisinless ones. They came with a plethora of spreads: strawberry and rose petal jam, passion fruit date gelee with a dose of honey, and clotted creams. Two mousse cakes accompanied the platter – strawberry mousse atop gingerbread cake and goat cheese mousse with a candied raisin as its crown.

The adjacent sugar encrusted biscuits were soft on the inside and glistening with granules on the outside, making it akin to disco dipping exercise. Alarmingly, the chocolate mousse ball with wafers and a caramel topping sounded like it would be an instant favorite, but was rather bland. It reminded me that when in Dubai, do as the Arabs do – eat dates and  baklava till you pop!

Ditto for the chocolate truffles, which while divine, were a less weird derivation of what I’d tasted time and time again in New York. Nonetheless I did munch through the coconut ones in particular, delectably licking my chops.

Perhaps the one demise of the experience was the sour end of the meal, where the tables around us began to rather quickly turn around for the next hosting, and a plethora of hints were dropped our way to knot up our threads of conversation. The anxiety of the waiters and the perplexed handling of the wrap up was definitely uncalled for, but was not enough to overshadow our inherent optimism and appreciation for the luscious hotel.

We digested en route out of the hotel, feeling the aftereffects of a decadent meal in an overly opulent setting. Admittedly, the Palm Jumeirah made us dizzy at soaring heights, reflecting on the mirrors of the swoonworthy elevators in the blazing sunlight, enough to evoke ghost like hallucinations on untarnished surfaces.

The elevators were gold plated, something that was obvious now that we were absolutely un-famished. The area surrounding it was enchanting, multi leveled and layered with colors and textures to rival the Beauty and the Beast castle, sans the kitsch. A chandelier constructed of tentacles stared down at a glamorous sunlit tile formation, like an upside down underworld looking at a sky on the floor. It was like the underwater fish scales from the Little Mermaid’s magnificent kingdom, and I could almost imagine myself bubbling in swimmer’s fantasy.

My favorite eye candy store, Rodeo Drive, complete with its blood red doors and venomous, reptilian door handles and roaring lion door piece were a strange insertion amidst everything that flowed so fluidly, but fit in terms of colorful opulence.

Red robed chandeliers gave off dim light that matched with the heavyweight curtains that promised to hold a deep secret behind their silent velvety rustles. Gold pillars reached for the skies in the atrium, with trigonometric midnight blue and white shapes playing peeakaboo with the sunlight to give an ethereal effect.

The highlight was the large, central showpiece of a symmetrical dancing fountain at the mezzanine level, quite distinct from the Vegas inspired flair of the Burj Khalifa. There were contemporary fibre-optic-like tubes of water curvaceously jumping between multicolored lit up pebblestones arranged like a gigantic fish fin. The fact that we were beneath a colossal sail made this akin to a sunken treasure.

The lobby itself was hued in rich reds (a curvy sofa, like a multitude of love seats infused together) and royal blues, which gave I Live in a Frying Pan’s red heels a dimension of their own. While we sat besides floral gardens made of real orchids in pastel colors, sheikhs came by to serve us gold covered dates which we politely refused courtesy of inflated abdomens.

Perhaps it was the inhalation of ethereal ambiance or the sheer combination of bottomless teas with carb infused flavorful sandwiches… but we literally rolled out of the Burj. Back into the sugar cubes of the real world, its lazy gazing heat and the plethora of people that invaded the silence. We waved regally to the burst of sudden commotion that greeted us as the gates parted: capri clad Canon bearing tooth grinning tourists who clicked ceremoniously as they got a gate-less peak at the architectural wonder, elevating it to strange Wonka-like heights.

Reminds me that with every sail, voyage, mermaid, sunken treasure and buccaneering adventure, comes an anchor point.

Savior and misleader simultaneously.
Angelic and devilish all at once.
A news bearer and a rumor creator in the same guise.

On which side do we stand? While I have seen the light through my Sandy calamity experience via vocally choosing social media as my news feed, does it hold the same with proper, urgent, furious news events like the Boston Marathon Bombing or the seemingly recurrent Delhi rape cases?

Here are my lessons from social media as a news feed, and why its two-faced prophecy simultaneously enchants and boggles me.

Enlightenment via going viral

You have to admit, the news travels fast. Within seconds people know what is going on, and even sans details, a crisis and its reactions are immediate to buzz through twitter and Facebook feeds, adding a layer of personality and a texture of opinion to the breaking news that rips plasma screens. And for that, we should be thankful, for whenever social media is rightfully abuzz , its a matter to consider. Ultimately, the good thing is that people are in the know-how, immediately roped in, and enlightened instead of oblivious.

Bonding over mass voicepower

There are umpteen warming stories on how randoms that would not have otherwise met come together to form either a safety group, offer encouragement, or as is the case with Delhi, use social media to create groups of protest, which only magnify with virality. When used aptly, the power of multiple voices can truly be well unleashed. As some put it, there’s no better medium than Facebook to call people.

Evidence matters

The fact that surveillance proves to be so valuable is obvious in times when police ask the iPhone clicking and camera gaping spectators for input. Even Vine, launched in fashion events to capture the runway, proved to become a news channel for the Boston Bombing, alongside twitter and Facebook and Reddit, all of which provided visuals that brought the news very immediately, very personally alive. And helped in investigations.

The race to be first

Media outlets love the notion of being first to hit the planet with a breaking sliver of news on a large canvas of story. Which is why you often see speed at the expense of verification. With the Delhi rape case, many facts were unleashed falsely at the onset, and then corrected on noting errors, but losing the faith of those tuning in. More recent news features get more gruesome and disturbing over time, evoking the notion that perhaps waiting will give you a better return on your time for news intake. Even more recently, Some comments are indeed downright false, like the five fabricated stories after the Boston Marathon bombing. Or how social media correctly identified the wrong suspects – ever wonder how lives change after such an accusation? And while news eaters and nail biters eagerly await to hear developments, the notion that these could be false are not appetizing. So much so that even the FBI publicly condemns these. And the sad thing is, it trickles down to the point of being farcical.

Dirty laundry in public

While everyone is entitled to an opinion, its always more gratifying to see someone take their opinion and take action beyond just phrasing it on twitter or Facebook or making it viral on Reddit. So when prolific personalities condemn rape in India or express sorrow, surely they can add some actionability to their thoughts, even if by words, to empower others. Alternatively I see lots of public bashing and expressions of giving up, or very obvious comments of ignorant hatred. Fiery emotions are obviously immediately evoked, but neither reaction particularly helps a situation. Empathy is definitely needed but only goes so far if there is no subsequent step taken towards improvement.

The political aftermath

And obviously everything involves politics. While its hopeful that rape laws in India are being reformed courtesy of the outburst, with a public announcement of 90% suggestions accepted, we must truthfully owe some of this partially to the social media spread of information and sentiment that has echoed globally. The slow speed of this, and the consequential continuance of crime however, is tragic. However, it is also true that political unrest ensues due to the events after the Boston bombing, where religious communities continue to be at edge, with media covering their edged plight on social networks too. Of course, how does it even matter when politics should be about public safety, and not a public debate on the outcome on communities in the population? Not to mention, the inevitable spillover effect on immigration laws. Social continues to play an ironic role in instigating it all.

A languishing fad

Like everything else in social media, hype is short lived. Inevitably, and hopefully with a triumphant ending, the stories will languish with ones of what people eat and what they do and what they believe is the quotable quote of the millisecond.  Just like how the Delhi rape case of December remains unresolved, despite online conversation languishing into death, and despite suspects still not sentenced. So social media outrage perhaps has no correlation with actual action in the flesh (read as conviction). Not saying that traditional news keeps up with the hype, but at least there is a balance of information versus a waterfall of social news followed by a drought.

The speed vs accuracy paradox

For all the volume that social media relays as news, does it live up to the accuracy of traditional media (read as verified sourced news)?

Naturally, news that is speedy and accurate is immediately actionable, and unarguably, people finding loved ones, updated country regulations, tweets and coalitions formed online are all instantly helpful and fall into this segment. However if news is speedy but lacking accuracy, these simply evoke anxiety, simply gratify adrenaline and add to the voluminous, magnifying buzz. Conversely when news is accurate but does not reach us in time, it may be laced with details, but simply becomes informative, almost supplementing the adrenaline packed news. And news that is neither speedy nor accurate simply trickles down to a neighbor’s rumor.

Which news feed would you channel into?

For why celebrate only a day, when inching towards the day itself, everything seems enchanting. And the days after are spent recovering from liquid infusion or at the gym peeling of layers of cake.

Given my infatuation with consumer behavior, fashion, and the cyclicality of trends, I pondered, as I often do, of my own existence. Quirks and traits that I possess, which must have been planted many birthmonths ago. And, quotably in synch with the frameworks portion of my chronicles, I have assembled mirror replicas of myself in nappy years alongside present day, with literary snippets epitomizing a behavioral synchrony. Hence, birthmonth: a time to create history.

From sunny optimism to a penchant for velvet accents on suits, a consistent white shoes and plaid fetish to my tired blank stares (early smolder practice?), from a fixated focus to a principle drenched point of view, notwithstanding the bow to health, I have a lifestyle of commonalities covered. Fun exercise; I am an Aries after all.

Followed by none other than a matrix to demonstrate our phases of remembering.

So, what makes us cling to past notions of literature, growth stages and a general passing of time? Just like shopping for our favorites, it’s a distinction of our needs and wants. In its most naked form, we live, breathe and create memories, without necessarily any needs or wants, many of which may be forgotten in time dunes. A memory gains substance when something beckons to be remembered for important destinies of decisions, often without a particular want. And if the latter exists without a need, it’s a whiff of nostalgia, which generally lends to a comforting ambiance. And inspiration is born when a memory is both desired as well as needed, for clinging to it will mean inevitable progress.

Despite some overt profoundness this birthmonth, I’m content at having converted certain memories to inspiration, riding on the leverage of sumptuous words.

After sharing the dapper menswear that is poised to be a commercial sellout courtesy of Wills India Fashion Week, as well as the ethnic whiff of outfits soaked in tradition and cultural heritage, the last in my trio of fashion reviews examines the fusion of Indian with anything transatlantic. Perhaps fusion is an overused filler that stands for art that is the electrifying birthchild of design and creativity. And obviously wearable if it has to pass my lens of approval!

Masaba, under the Satya Paul label, was the opening of the season. Having salivated over her tribal cow print blazers in retail outlets, this one was a feast for the creative eyeballs with designs that spelled quirky. Breaking away from a classical sari design of border and pallav and symeetry, she instead treated the fabric like any other art canvas and unleashed her imagination on it. Oversized lipsticks were splashed alongside their seductive swiveled smudges in animated black outlines on dresses and saris, exuding a modern and contemporary swagger. My favorite pieces were a gigantic pink one on a grey silken sari with pastel green graffiti-like swirls, and a contrasting extension sari design in grey and coral as well as black, neon green and coral. The models strutted with innovative drapes that redefined any pre-existing norms, stretching opportunistically to divulge the exaggerated lipstick print, which made for an alluring and pleasantly distracting facet. On closer look, the abstract prints were shimmering with sequins and embellishment, which was short of gaudy courtesy of a tone-on-tone strategy. On kaftans, the lipstick print married the yesteryear Middle Eastern grace with modern day funk. I was less of a fan of the English telephone boxes in newspaper hues splashed on bustiers with dead black skirts akin to a modern lehnga, but having the print on boxy luggage will definitely add to my frequent traveler collection.

While I don’t always enjoy jazz, I have a soft spot for the fashion of the era, and a pure addiction to the 70s disco style, which is what Nikasha brought to life in a more subdued format with her collection Raat ki Rani (Queen of Night), which had every silhouette imaginable. There were harem pants and jumpsuits in silky and velvety royal purple with metallic lining. One of these was paired with a sequin starred short sheer kurta (did I see snowflakes on a midnight night?), while the other was teamed with a tank top bustier and radiantly long sheer scarf. Playfully, the same work was translated to a round bottomed kaftan for a whimsical tribute, alongside the purple waistcoat combination for a longer kurta opportunity, again embellished with enough glitzy sequins to make the wearer a party ball. With my penchant for red, my favorite was the all red formalwear on steroids in the name of hugging fit and gold embellishments. The sheer ivory and pale saris in chiffon and organza exuded a calmer vibe, though I fell The seaweed water blue churidaar and its transparent Aladdin counterpart were ethereal in their flowing grace and simplicity, owing to the silken fabrics, which I imagine will be devoured by the market courtesy of their immediate wearability.

Pumping up the heat a notch with a fetish for boots and accessories was the funky exotic collection by Rajdeep Ranawat. Imagine everything Texan and medieval Europe, but with heavy Indian craft infused onto every layer. He had everything from royal crowns to court style garments, all lavishly decked up in textural fantasy. Best of all were the boots, especially in non-black and non-grey hues of maroon and turquoise, often lined with Swarovski and spiky metal. Kaftans, skirts and baggy shirts were all crafted with sheer georgettes and silks in a rainbow of hues like earthy browns, night sky purples and grassy greens, all with enough peekaboo to evoke mischief whilst retaining the splendor with curvaceous prints and embroidered accents. The dress and leggings concept was amplified with splendid artwork, and even a boring sheer shirt with trousers look for corporate was turned into a festive color block that the likes of Tim Burton would be proud of. Ditto for the leggings and flats look amped up with neon leggings, metal speckled cluthch bags, contrasting belts and tangled chains suspended from solid shoulder pads. Mainstays like the sari or lehnga were made timeless by combining velvets with sheer in bold colors combinations like maroon and black or turquoise and beige, all with full sleeves of embroidery and flare, and high necked bodices which were also encrusted with gold finery. And those who weren’t dazzled enough already could easily salivate over the trending luxe cuffs, the blingy crowns, the metal infused hatpins, or the gold leather gloves!

When it comes to creativity, this was by far the best set of shows I attended, for they pushed the envelope without tearing it into unwearable oblivion. Which concludes the trio of menswear, traditional and fusion from a land saturated with fashion prowess.

Now to shop, and gape at the leading ladies with an aspired expectance.

Which is why, when asked for my favorite collections at Wills India Fashion Week, I lean towards those that exude more of a traditional aura.

Although I attended only a handful of shows, they showed me the splurging variety of styles that the nation had to offer. These were far more diverse than what I had seen gracing the runways of New York, perhaps owing to the fact that India covered both traditional, ethnic styles as well as the so-called western ones, and everything in between in electrifying fusion. My pupils dilated first to the gorgeous draperies and golden linings of traditional, ethnic clothing adorned by gracefully wafer-thin models sashaying down the runway. Just like in the menswear review, wearability was a key criterion, as was my obvious fetish for all things elegant with a touch of quirky.

Having just rounded up a Punjabi trip, everything from the effectively rich and gaudy Ludhiana to the opulent Golden Temple and tasty Amritsar to the opulent Chandigarh, I have a newly acquired liking towards phulkari work: lined up embroidery in adjacent blocks of trigonometric color. Phulkari was the basis of border and design for all of Manish Malhotra’s female outfits, almost all of which were anarkali in concept: excessively swirl-inducing skirts as a kurta over trousers or churidaars, or longer skirts that stood alone as pseudo-lehngas. He kept to deeper maroons with blacks or paler blues and oranges with golds, lending regal earthiness to his work. A dash of seductive feminism was relayed by his upper body cuts around the pelvic or cleavage areas to reveal just the right amount of flattery beneath heavily encrusted collars or body pieces. Marrying horizontal stripes with the phulkari and anarkali trend, he successfully fused a variety of styles while keeping the crux of ethnic fashion in place. It all relayed a sense of a party that was about to begin, but was lying momentarily silent under the swirls of fabric. And most of the designs were destined for classy, commercial uptake.

Vineet Bahl took inspiration from mid-century poetry and vintage prose, calling his collection Awadh. It was a tribute to the Moghul era of begums and queens who were clothed generously with layers and folds and pleats of sorts, dipped in pastels and whites, with the breezy outfits swirling and flirting with the very air itself. Almost all the models were guarded in headscarves of chikankari and sheer net, predominantly white, with elegantly embroidered and embellished borders in thinner lines of bolder reds, blues and blacks. The collection included a variety of lehngas and skirts, or the everyday staple of a Punjabi suit with salwars and jamas that folded ethereally around the legs, with the kurta speaking volumes with its refined prints and artwork. The zardozi work lent a refinement to the outfits, with its 3D-esque embroidery with metal wiring bouncing light to tease the watchers, with hand-block painting and a dash of bling with mirror work and sequin embroidery to finish things off with a glimmer. Apart from the elegant headscarves, the nose rings and accessorized jewelry added to the nostalgic feel, making the entire show akin to the whiff of a bygone era that yearned for an inevitable comeback.

Last in my ethnic favorites is the most parrot-like colorful of the lot, Ekru by Ekta & Ruchira, with a collection called Indian Kaleidoscope. Probably a bit timid in its thematic interpretation of the many colors of Indian festivities, I was initially about to give this one a miss, had it not been for the restrained delicacy of the craft. For most colorful outfits I see are overwhelmingly chaotic and over embellished to a jarring degree that mandates sunglasses. This collection however succeeded with monotones like a yellow Anarkali with many folds of yellow and a golden border with a clever pink shadow. Or a green-on-green Anarkali with a sheer net scarf with heavy silver embroidery. Or a gorgeous yellow net sari with gold and white motifs and sunset hued accents. The rippling Anarkali swirl seemed to be thematic in all the outfits, and even the multi-hued ones were complimentarily matched, like reds with whites and blacks or a festive gold with a rusty orange sari that was disguised like a lehnga. The collection also had the best usage of net and sheer fabrics, on everything from scarves to peekaboos in skirts to saris to blouses. Truly contemporary and overwhelmingly traditional with a succulent pout of color!

Deep rooted in cultural eye candy and viewed by yours truly who has a soft spot for all things shimmering in opulent tradition, these collections definitely spell out what I anticipate (and hope for!) my leading ladies to adorn over the upcoming year.

And for fusion style, we’ll chat another time.
Subsequently, actually.

Yet finally, I saw designs in a fashion week that are inevitably poised to be a commercial sell out. For despite my addictive attendance at many New York Fashion Weeks, alongside a sprinkling in London, Milan and India, I have often exhibited qualms over the wearability of what models adorn themselves with. But my recent attendance at Wills India Fashion Week in the opulent Delhi resurrected my languishing hope in fashion weeks, showing me that they too could provide immediate and wearable gratification. These three menswear collections will undoubtedly find an irreplaceable slot in my wardrobe.

My favorite duo Shantanu and Nikhil were inspired by the sand dunes of the surreal Thar Desert with their collection titled The Dunes. The male models were akin to a gang of broody travelers, for the designers strapped their men with round Gandhi-style eyewear to ward off the stares and to eye their prey, alongside over sized duffel bags for a timeless, modern and masculine look. The tailored cuts flattered the bodices that worked hard at the gym, with fabrics drenched in golds and oranges and blues, reminiscent of the sands and skies. Jackets, kurtas and blazers were fabricated with cotton, cashmere and linen, which ensured they flowed crisply. From tone-on-tone prints to recurring motifs and jeweled sprinklings on collars, this was perhaps the most elegant  and understated mens collection that I have seen in recent years, making it an inevitable commercial success. While I’d take the blood orange embellished Indo-Western with cropped skinny trousers over the black drapery kurta any day, it was the midnight and daylight blue blazers that caught my fancy as must-haves for a jazzed up version of a corporate workplace. Oh, and send more of the  cropped trousers and checked scarves my way, any day!

Tarun Tahiliani, best known to me for his gaudy Punjabi wedding wear (at least in my mind, courtesy of the many designer dipped weddings I’ve attended), gave a menswear collection that was all sexy cuts and stingy on the embellishment. Which, for a change, I didn’t mind. Clearly he had taken to layering fabrics upon fabrics, owing to his inspiration from the dramatic sanctity of the Kumbh Mela, a collection of saints and sadhus in various levels of clad, draped clothing and Tangled Rapunzel-like levels of hair styling. It showed through the mischievous streak that ran through his rather dead choice of colors, a wild tribute to his aptly titled Kumbhback Collection. Quirky twists on classic elements were a seeming forte, be it carrot fit harem style pants with long length blazers, or a classical white dhoti with a well cut heavage popping waistcoat, or shawl style maroon cardigans borrowed off feminine clutches and well suited to the male form. My favorite was the slim chocolate hued over sized jacket in Indo-Western style, a simple piece that radiated timeless sheen.

Manish Malhotra, best known to transform women from awkward to vivacious, went traditional and heavy with his menswear, which works best for my over-the-top personality. He paired all his kurtas with Aladdin pants, bidding farewell to the age of skinny and churidaars.  My favorite was a deep brocade indigo kurta and the collection of enviably red, maroon and gold scarves with hypnotic and kaleidoscopic recurring patterns. The overdose of black was both broody and deadly, making all silhouettes dapper. Probably the least inspiring was the fairly ordinary Nehru jacket and white dhoti sported by the teenage eye candy showstopper, where even my favorite color red was subdued at the cuffs and collar.

Looks like yours truly knows what he’ll be sporting this season, thanks to the transcendence of runway fashion into wearable clothing. Especially menswear!

Since catching up with an addictive personality is critical, the location of conversation comes secondary. For what matters is the tug of war between LA’s laid back + fit + high fashion + dismal food life, and San Fran’s luxe bites + free spirit + sordid glam scene. Nonetheless I was led to the epicenter of Cow Hollow’s thriving social jungle, thus stepping foot into the redness of Betelnut.

Malaysian descent and Asian prowess aside, Chef Alexander Ong’s history of Ritz-Carlton and other culinary gems made his take on Asian chic cuisine quite alluring. While slightly kitsch on the outside with staple Chinese lanterns casting a Red-Light-District style light on the glass tiled entrance, the bar and exclusive back room were slightly better with streamlined table accents and minimalistic design. An expansive mirror behind the rows of tables gave the positive illusion of space, and served as for the melting pot of photography, gaping, flirting and makeup.

Everything was baked in a red glow, which would have matched better with sparkling white tablecloths or a Middle Eastern atmosphere with speckled glass mirrors. The juxtaposition with wooden tables and dark cutlery was not a bad one, and perhaps quite seductive to a certain degree, barring the tropical umbrella that accompanied our cocktails.

The pineapple cocktail was inviting, refreshing and definitely spun a kick, complete with minty greens encapsulated in black bamboo style holders. The grapefruit one was on steroids, with enough booze to knock out one’s senses and dignity, which I valiantly consumed to prevent the damsel from distress. We shortly moved to eyeing the playful menu, complete with suggestive callouts like “be daring this time” or the aptly titled “seductive starters”. (In retrospect, the last time I heard starters instead of appetizers jolted memories of a teenage life across the Atlantic).

Betelnut’s specialty was first on our palettes: the crispy cauliflower, glazed with tribal salt and pepper. And how crispy it was! While I could have done with less oil that puddled towards the bottom of a stone bowl, the crunchy texture and earthy tones of this dish made it palatable. Not to mention the bursts of spicy flavor as we discovered that there was more than crackling cauliflower to this dish, like hot pepper! The vegetable flavor was still prevalent, but eventually overshadowed by the fried residue as we got to the bottom of this bottomless pit.

The Szechuan green beans and asparagus were particularly delightful, as the preparation had not devoured the natural flavors entirely, but accented them with a spicy and sweet sauce with visible pepper flakes and finely chopped sautéed veggies. It was perfectly salty, soy and what I thought was tamarind infused sauce The best accompaniment to the freshness of veggies is something that elevates the taste, not replaces it. In this case, I could happily enjoy my healthy greens and bitter asparagus.

The dumplings were very heavily stuffed and truly earned their name as happy Buddha dumplings, as their very shape brought a smile to the face. Sun chokes and soy vinegar sauce made them a bit too sour though, and the swim through the frying pan didn’t save their derrieres from a prominent, slick coating either. Even the interior was rather indecipherable. Cuteness aside, I helped myself to more of the greens instead, enticed by the crunch factor.

The lady sipped up her Penang rice noodles, where the shrimp kept me away but the sprouts, chives and chili soy enticed to take a slurp. While not wildly creative, the flavors were spicy without being deadly, rich without being oily, and herb-infused without being bitter.

And the saga continued, as conversations flowed on and pictures were clicked and cocktails were inhaled like air. On the single paged dessert menu, each item was cleverly priced at $8.88 akin to the Asian style triple 8 luck premonition.

I have never quite been fond of East Asian desserts (the sticky rice and overdose of mango simply don’t gel with my lust for chocolate), and the overall slippery slimy texture has always reminded me of forgotten memories. Yet, this one was an intriguing menu, with a chef style twist and Asian flair on even the most common of desserts. We settled with the chocolate lava cake with almond sesame cookies and peach white miso ice cream. Three fragments to a dessert that married well on paper, and while visually sound, were more like 3 balloons at the wrong party. Pretty to pose with, but definitely en route to a misstep.

The chocolate lava cake was anything but – with a crater-like depression in the center and doused with confectioner’s sugar, it had an alarmingly sweet exterior, and while the interior was promising with the right notes of cacao taste, the center had zero lava. A volcano that didn’t erupt, and perhaps never existed. The sesame almond cookies were chewy, with slightly crispier-than-desired butts. And yet, the crunchy sesame paired well with the raw almond flavor that came through quite distinctly. The best pick was the ice cream, a refreshing marriage of peach and miso, tasting almost like a cinnamon but with undertones of a tart fruit. The good thing with such flavor combinations is that they are never to dense or heavy. They almost feel like a teatime supplement rather than a dessert, and are thankfully a far cry from cloyingly sweet ice cream that whisks kids into supermarkets.

And so ended an evening bathed in gossip, soaked in alcohol and saturated with fried goodies, warmed by an ambiance of all things red and accompanied by enviable, succulent company.

On a side note, who wouldn’t want to head to a neighborhood with the word “cow” in it? For those who didn’t know, I am obsessed with cows.

The overall mischief in the air made up for the inconsistencies in the cuisine. Everything from flirtatious mirrors to tongue-in-cheek menu insertions were an inviting contradiction from the kitsch–meets-opulent venue.

Or perhaps, as they say, good company can tip the scale between like and love.

But to be honest, the Latin Indian fusion did not appeal to me on paper, but on hearing Chef Maneet Chauhan’s charming detailed descriptors of flavors and spices on Food Network’s Chopped, I had to give her restaurant At Vermillion a try. It’s 5th Ave location acted as a catalyst to the visit. I also knew of the multi-faceted Rohini Dey who had progressed from management consulting’s corporate clutches to a becoming a food empress, an inspiring story for those like me who juggle contradictory lives of laptops, runways and cutlery all at once.

My saucy Londoner Juliikg joined me for much needed company and a critical, comical and coy stamped opinion. The place itself was elegantly set up with water flowing audibly in an office-lounge-like entrance, with a large staircase leading up to a second floor restaurant that had floor to ceiling glass that overlooked the noisy 5^th Ave, sans noise and pollution. The ambiance was rather dark, a usual turn on for dates but turn off for food photography. Lined with contemporary paintings and walls adorned in red, black and white, it was neither Latin nor Indian, but just cozy after a brisk walk from Soho. I was delighted that the restaurant had a vegetarian menu that was as long as a non-vegetarian one, something I had seen only rarely in my years of American dining experiences, and a step in a rightful direction!

The meal commenced with Indian chai, which while strictly average given the Indian heritage, came with teabags peekabooing out of the kettle with inspiring quotes from Gandhi, Charles Lamb and other prolific writers. Wise words which more than made up for the taste of boiling water interlaced with subtle aroma.

The masala papad (poppadum) set the tongue wagging to a tasty start. Shaped liked a conical crepe, it was stuffed with a fresh salad of arugula, beets, daikon radishes and carrots, all sliced like equivalent slivers, and topped with candied almonds. The blend was a fresh break from a day compacted with rich chocolate at Vosges. The bitter poppadum crunch and sweet almond bite was the perfect way to chow down the goodness of vegetables before a banquet of flavorfully heavy edibles.

This marked one of the few times I got street food in an overly gourmet setting, something that I Live in a Frying Pan would disqualify right away! Aptly titled Juhu ki Pani Puri, it brought back memories of my recent Bombay trip where we drove by the enchanting Juhu Beach, lined with celebrity homes juxtaposed against populations of bus riding gentry and petite shops. A place where street food deserves worship. Pani puri is my favorite Indian snack food, a pickly and sour combination of flour spherical shells – delicate, fried and hollow – filled with potatoes and spices which you have to manually insert by cracking the flour shell with your fingers and praying with the other hand that it doesn’t shatter altogether! The next step is to add cold, tamarind infused minty water to it and shove it into your mouth before it gets the better of your shirt and chest. At Vermillion took this concept and gave six shells in an earthy banana leaf mini-container, which I felt looked sore on a lengthy white plate with a milk pitcher of minty water. But, at least the flavors were right! With the audible crunch of the shell and marriage of spice (which however I could have done with more of) and cooling mint, it was a refreshing punch in the mouth, which swept my sleepy eyes out of their coma.

Unfortunately the rest of the food arrived rather cold, owing to our infatuation with food photography, combined with a peek into the kitchen which showed that our food had been ready rather immediately but not brought out. Not the best of customer service, but at least the dim voiced staff was not ferocious about it, and did offer to return and replace one of the sordid plates with remarkable ease!

Two dishes arrived on one large white plate, for apt photographing. The first was Gobi Portuguese, and while I am on the fence with cauliflower, the coconut pangs in the rust hued sauce left a delectable taste on the tip of my tongue. It was quite bitter, which is a favorite flavor profile if done right, and matched well with the semi-solid cauliflower trees. While probably more Indian than Portuguese, this was comfort home food at one of its finest. This hunk’s comrade, the tomatillo gazpacho on an eggplant fritter, was akin to a gorgeous arm candy that is there for show purposes only (think Oscars awards ceremony). Looking radiant, the eggplant fritter was the central circle of the lady-shaped vegetable, with a crisped, royal purple radius and a bright green tomatillo sauce in the center, complete with seeds. But just like the damsel arm candy stereotype, this one had nothing more than its good looks. The critter was overwhelmingly oily and left me panting for water or a squirt of lime, which I did not get from the tomatillo sauce. The sauce itself was cool, unsalty and gelatinous, probably better with a dip.

The one mishap we ordered was the misleadingly titled an avocado escabeche. While I’m fond of avocado, I’m not a guacamole guy, which naturally indicates that I only inhale avocado when it is part of a choir of other flavors. However this was a butterfly of slices from an entire avocado. It was under seasoned and doused with a sliver of mint mango chutney which tasted delightfully homemade with juxtaposed tangs of raw mango and cool mint. Something that I would order as a condiment alone! It was also sprinkled with a few disproportionately small cubes of what was called mango curry leaf salsa, which was more fruit salad than salsa. While impeccable eye candy, it probably brought to mind the notion that all body but no soul is often unattractive, no matter how much your eye may deceive you.

The ginger mint naan was as exemplary as normal – nothing over the top but not dismissible either. While I won’t say you can never have bad naan – for I have grimaced at rubbery visuals and gnawing textures before – it would have been helpful to add a punchier flavor of ginger and mint alike, which showed up as toasty bits on top. For I heart ginger!

No semi Indian meal is complete without my love for paneer, a form of cottage cheese which is also trending this year. The paneer tikka was gigantic,  owing to the humungous cuboids of perfectly charred paneer. The blackened edges were doused with lemony accents and visibly red spices glistening like rubies in the rough. The paneer had a crispy exterior and a spongy interior, where one bite waltzed me into mommy’s kitchen pleading for more. My only complaint was that there wasn’t more of it!

And so ended a fusion meal, sans dessert courtesy of a day spent inhaling it.

I read that Dey had chosen to muddle Indian food with Latin cuisine due to four key reasons: the commonality of ingredients like coconuts and guava and tamarind and the likes, the historical cross influences from the Arabs and Persians and such, the admittedly family oriented happiness in both and to create “intellectually provocative and unique cuisines”. While it is a bit of stretch to say that my meal was a revolutionary synchrony, it certainly took several admirable steps into the fantastical, gastronomic world of food experimentation, which in itself is an accomplishment in a world that’s trying to become like everything else.

This is why I crave and epitomize juxtaposition.

Fashion trends are not folklore or make-believe, but living and breathing fragments of our wardrobes, our personalities, our feelings, our reflections, our mirrors, and simply of every step of our lives. For, how often do we wander unclothed? Think about it.

There is just so much trending in the name of fashion, that while so much is in, it’s almost like nothing goes out. We have already covered many of the fashion accessory trends in a post aptly titled What to wear with what you are wearing!

Coming to fashion basics, I have seen the skinny jeans adjacent to flares; I have seen polka dots alongside animal print; or lace against metal. While making it challenging, it also makes fashion a true medium of expression. While the red leathers and all whites and all blacks and Eastern inspirations are all trends that stride valiantly into the year with the ambiguous 13 suffix, there are many new trends that jam into the visual space of trending fashion.

Officially Emerald Green

Bringing memories from the dubious Wizard of Oz is this year’s official love-it-hate-it-can’t-ignore-it color: emerald green. From jeans to ties to dresses to sunglasses to blazers to belts to bags, it’s all going green to symbolize lushness, radiance, renewal and rejuvenation. Did I hear that it stands for recycling too? Celebrities and runways have been vegetating on this trend for the last season. While I think women can pull it off with panache, either through ethereal outfits or immaculate accessories, with guys I would almost rather introduce it via accessories only: hats, ties, maybe jackets, and definitely socks. Personally, I’ll express the color via real emerald jewelry.

A Sprinkle of Yellow

Perhaps because yellow is a diluted green, it passes the clutches of trend police. Yellow is definitely the white for the year, unisexual enough and kid-friendly too! From dresses to shirts, or as supplementary pops of color for daywear via shoelaces or belts, or deepened for the night with blazers and and shoes, it’s all about a bit of sunshine in today’s estranged times.

Bold Jail Stripes

Say yes to stripes! Jail stripes in particular evoke the wide, solid stripes that make a punchy comeback from the 60s and 70s. The larger the spacing between the stripes, the better. The graphical structure elongates all silhouettes, and even makes them slimming. Trousers, jackets, scarves, shirts, the combinations are endless. Bring them in, just like Marc Jacobs, Gaultier and DSquared have … one at a time, paired with solids, or simply altogether!

Studs, Spikes and Heavy Metal

The intrusion of rock solid metal began with a whisper and is now a roar. With enough armor and weaponry like studs and spikes poking off of jackets, shoes, belts, bras and iPad cases, there has been an upsurge in having even more metal on the flesh – be it via chunky neckwear, headpieces, sunglasses, and just so much more that pushes it over the edge of edgy. All the way from DSquared to Valentino to Armani, to our favorite retailers like Topman, Topshop and Zara, you cannot but help putting on sunglasses and holding an invisible shield when shopping for this addictive attack.

Animal Print Plus

The animal print trend has been going strong, showing no signs of languishing as the retailers are doubling up on everything from accessories to underwear. And not just retailers, the likes of Burberry Prorsum have saucy menswear coats in wild and vivacious prints, and the ethereal flowing designs of Zuhair Murad tie the trend seamlessly with Eastern inspirations. And now, it’s going overboard by adulterously pairing up with other trends: bling, or sequined, or spiked, or two toned, sashaying down flawlessly down runways, the office environment, red carpets or lazy beds. Welcome to your own zoo.

Floral Fury

Girls rejoice. 60s babies, squeal. Accessorize with hair dos, jewelry, scarves, or pull out those summery dresses and tops. And take inspiration to make the hair a puff akin to a bouquet. Dolce & Gabbana, Marie Claire and Zuhair Murad have dressed their damsels in enough poppies and sunflowers and daisies, while Prada, Vivienne Westwood and Ana Locking have ensured that their male models look dapper and masculine in punchy florals too. So, guys can rejoice too, for it takes a real man to pull off floral, and it looks delicious against a chiseled body and stubble. Oh and for the record, Hawaiian prints are making a non-cringe-worthy comeback.

Ruffles

Bouncy and flirty, ruffles have a sense of beauty and nostalgia associated with the Renaissance era, and come in from Eastern inspirations along the likes of Shantanu and Nikhil. Wedding inspirations are a natural sponge for this luscious trend, as evident from Oscar de la Renta or Jenny Lee. Expect to see layers of fabric on sleeves and hips which add to the mischief factor.

Peekaboo Sheer

Transparent and translucent fabrics have been trending for years, going from lace to mesh, which are still in the reckoning. The crepe fabric is beautiful, and there it’s a designer’s dream to work with chiffon, georgette, lace, net for everything from dresses, skirts, accessories, and everything in between. Dresses in particular are likely to have a belted center as a fashion requirement, or be indirectly backless or legless, with chances to exhibit perfect tonality. Eastern inspirations take on the grace of sheer saris, and drape bountiful shards of fabric for a Bohemian meets cocktail-party look. And men too, can layer sheer sweaters with pops of color with punchy shirts, or simply flaunt chiseled pectorals with comforting ease. Nothing like a sexy game of voyeuristic peekaboo with salivating passersby.

The list is non-exhaustive, for observationally there are so many trends that coexist. From marrying textures and eras and styles, to combining high end with street style, its truly a confetti of trends that is gracing the eyes. For now, what you can do is check your wardrobe for what you may have buried from yesteryears, and indulge in a passionate game of mix and match.  And eventually, go shopping.