There is light in the tunnel and I do hope no language purist will write in indignantly saying that I have no idea how to write (I hate having to agree with my fawning critics). I know that, usually, the well-worn cliché says light at the end of the tunnel. But, hey, with the Tignè tunnel the light is all over. Pure delight driving through it and not having to braille-drive into a pitch of darkness. So, hurray, I say.
As far as I know, all tunnels previous to this one were built and had their lighting designed by the central authorities better known as “the government”. So maybe there is a story there which I don’t need to elaborate on lest I will be seen as a progressive turncoat dying to abandon ship to join the merry band of “arrivisti” and other rainbow folk who have had a Tarsus-like change in their life and joined the muscat-eer band. No, I don’t need to bash our government or the ministers. They know how to do that and self-immolate with the zest and flair no marketing guru could ever manage to better or even emulate.
The government right now seems to be like a driver on our roads taking us, the passengers, to our desired destination. So merry driver is right now merry no more; he seems to be more of a grumpy bus driver of old. But he is still steady and a good driver with a vision and a good head for proper and significant trouble. But he cannot seem to avoid the potholes he faces: he seems to radar straight to each of those holes. So, first, in his other role of custodian of the streets and defender of the right to pothole our island, he leaves the holes gaping at him (and us) and then he drives straight into them with gusto and silly charm. We, the sillier passengers, shake and rattle and feel the holes down in our spine and remain shaking well after the ride.
But, at least, we get to the destination, so let’s be thankful for all sweet and small mercies. I said I won’t bash the government or its erstwhile exponents. But can I say nothing about our public transport? I know a lot is being said but I will put in my two-cent piece of sense or absolute nonsense.
I believe wholeheartedly in the new service and know, hope and prophesy that, in some months’ time, we will all be breathing our great sigh of relief that we have Arriva. If we do breathe next to an Arriva bus we can actually sigh and breathe in normally unlike what used to happen when those quaint, bone-shaking, pollution-coughing buses graced our land. Unlike most people of the land, I dare say God graced us with a mighty Austin and rid us of charlatans called drivers of “xarabanks”.
It’s sadly true that Arriva got it nearly all wrong. They have a lot of homework to swot on to get the situation properly in hand and get commuters not just to their destination in air-conditioned splendour but also on time. It’s nice to see happy smiling drivers instead of grumpy characters but it would also be good to see commuters happy all the time or most of the time. Cos, hey, remember we are in sunny, hot and sweltering Malta, so all gentle-folk turn into mega-grumblers even if you give them everything right, orderly and as they ordered it.
Going back to the Tignè tunnel, I think the trick would have been to get a private company based in Malta and controlled by one of our enterprising men and women to guide and instruct Arriva. Then we would have had proper-sited bus stops and names, proper routes and proper-sized buses.
I have no clue who the individuals or entities who were consulted by Arriva are and, for all I know, they could be the nicest folk around but I have a slight suspicion it was a government entity. This entity would have had a few million meetings and long sheaves of minutes printed in quadruple and sent to all heads and assistant heads and myriad other heads to keep and classify as super urgent and top secret. Proposals and counter-proposals and committees and sub-committees and secretaries to assist and supervisors to supervise and super-supervisors to control the supervisors and a never-ending stream of bureaucracy and red tape would have given us the result we have had with Arriva.
Arriva will eventually get it right. Here’s my cent’s worth of advice: change your consultants, dump your strategists, stop consulting the government and get a small Maltese outfit that knows the country and its ways to get you on your feet and turn you into a real success story. Our country deserves your success.
In the meantime, I think dear Austin and his Cabinet colleagues should eat that famously humble pie and immediately order an advertising campaign to plaster the whole country saying “We know the public transport service is having some problems. This is caused by a drastic dramatic change that has not been handled perfectly by the authorities and/or by the company chosen. We apologise for all delays, all missed appointments, wasted productive time and endless but justified frustration. We are confident that this situation will not take long to be rectified partially and in time we promise it will be corrected completely. We ask you to continue being patient and to cooperate as much as you can to avoid any more bad blood and maybe avoid real blood from being shed. We are monitoring the service and we will make sure we and the company chosen will eventually get it right for your comfort and well-being.”
If this isn’t done while all the frustration and terrible situation is still prevalent, the people, local and foreign alike, can never feel engaged in this new venture and will not accept the problems they are facing. It is the least the authorities can do to show they are concerned and engaged enough. And visitors to this fair land of ours will not go back home saying we are still a Third World country.
And, finally, please dear minister don’t ask one of your people to write the copy for the ads.
This article appeared in The Times August 5 2011
Friday, 5 August 2011
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Please bring back the humans
Going to a petrol station to fill up my old but trustworthy car is not one of my favour¬ite pastimes. I have no idea what petrol costs now but it definitely costs a lot. Whether the minister hedged or not or whether Enemalta should have stored or not doesn’t really bother me except while my petrol tank is filling and I fantasise some sheik or Gaddafi-wannabe feeling great while his coffers are, drop by little drop of my petrol usage, being replenished. Oh to get that electric or gas car industry going. What’s humanity waiting for?
I am the old-fashioned type. I hate filling my tank myself and love getting others to do the job while I savour and sniff the smell that is hardly there any more. More deprivations of the modern world, I suppose.
Where’s the smell gone? Or is it my olfactory powers diminishing? I admit I have used the automatic pumps and even managed to occasionally, so although I am a complete idiot with any modern gadgetry I do accept it in cases of dire need.
I have regretted it when my euro notes keep getting rejected, making it seem as if I had just printed them in my own mint, which you definitely need to keep any car going anywhere these days. Maybe Arriva, after it stops apologising, will solve all our woes and worries.
Mentioning mint a few words previously brings to mind the other old dinosaur Dom Mintoff who would surely have raved and ranted against petrol pump automation if he were still, God forbid, leading and saving this land of ours from all strange and modern ways. If he ranted against computers taking the place of humans and so depriving us poor Maltese souls of precious employment, he would likewise have ranted against petrol pumping by machine. Anyway, besides rejecting notes, said machines seem to habitually take your notes but give you no fuel, as has occasionally happened to me and to members of my family, making you carry on your journey fuel-less, hoping you will make it back home or to the next pump. All ends well as the filling station owners are all nice and generous and honest and will reimburse all missed fill-ups.
So let’s work this out: I’m in Mellieħa with my tank pointing close to empty. I try putting in €10 worth to keep me going. Petrol does not come out. So I proceed with caution back home to Sliema (or wherever). I swelter in the car as I try to save my pocket, the environment but, especially, fuel. The day after I go back to Mellieħa to retrieve my tenner or whatever a €10 note is called today. On my way in my mind’s eye I see people sniggering – the desert sheiks are grateful to me for guzzling a few more pints of their precious liquid. And off they go with my money to buy some new diamond-covered Porsche or some silly footballer.
So a question for whatever emeritus person usually answers these tricky questions: Should I let the money go and help the poor petrol station owner make some more profit? Usually they claim they are deprived and all seem to be working at a great loss, judging by the way they keep on asking for higher percentage profits.
What I should have done was made sure there was a human to assist me and got him or the occasional her to do it for me. Is this job in fact openly open to the fairer sex? Oh no I said fairer. I don’t think that is quite fair is it? I mean isn’t it awfully mean that some writers and comedians still refer to the female sex as the fairer one? Will I now be arraigned by the anti-sexist brigade and placed in some square to be pelted by all members of the politically correcting brigade?
Anyway I prefer humans, of whichever sex, to assist me and to be ready with a smile and an apology if my euro-tenner is a dud. I am a bit like Mr Mintoff maybe and do like real humans to be there, ready and willing and sometimes, or in reality often, surly and grumpy.
Talking of human-assisted assistance, I don’t enjoy phoning establishments and finding recordings that get you to press so many numbers you end up with finger fatigue. The mind boggles at the amount of extra calls that are made on a boringly regular basis to get our message over. Like the sheiks and the petrol stations, the telephony companies are given a boost through all the calls that are lost, all the number-feeding and then the realisation that you are getting connected to the wrong machine or you are told by this super-efficient and supercilious voice to please hold the line. Yes, I will hold the line but with each second of me holding their line it is I who is paying for the pulses. My heart and pulse race away thinking of more coffers being filled and more pockets emptied – notably and worryingly mine.
Maybe Mr Mintoff was wrong in most of what he did but oh to have had him save us from this infernally automated future. Today, we all complain how expensive water and electricity bills are. Back in Mr Mintoff’s time we hardly had any water in our taps. So he saved on the earth’s resources and saved us from paying a packet. Bring the man back: we need saving again.
This article appeared in The Times July 19 2011
I am the old-fashioned type. I hate filling my tank myself and love getting others to do the job while I savour and sniff the smell that is hardly there any more. More deprivations of the modern world, I suppose.
Where’s the smell gone? Or is it my olfactory powers diminishing? I admit I have used the automatic pumps and even managed to occasionally, so although I am a complete idiot with any modern gadgetry I do accept it in cases of dire need.
I have regretted it when my euro notes keep getting rejected, making it seem as if I had just printed them in my own mint, which you definitely need to keep any car going anywhere these days. Maybe Arriva, after it stops apologising, will solve all our woes and worries.
Mentioning mint a few words previously brings to mind the other old dinosaur Dom Mintoff who would surely have raved and ranted against petrol pump automation if he were still, God forbid, leading and saving this land of ours from all strange and modern ways. If he ranted against computers taking the place of humans and so depriving us poor Maltese souls of precious employment, he would likewise have ranted against petrol pumping by machine. Anyway, besides rejecting notes, said machines seem to habitually take your notes but give you no fuel, as has occasionally happened to me and to members of my family, making you carry on your journey fuel-less, hoping you will make it back home or to the next pump. All ends well as the filling station owners are all nice and generous and honest and will reimburse all missed fill-ups.
So let’s work this out: I’m in Mellieħa with my tank pointing close to empty. I try putting in €10 worth to keep me going. Petrol does not come out. So I proceed with caution back home to Sliema (or wherever). I swelter in the car as I try to save my pocket, the environment but, especially, fuel. The day after I go back to Mellieħa to retrieve my tenner or whatever a €10 note is called today. On my way in my mind’s eye I see people sniggering – the desert sheiks are grateful to me for guzzling a few more pints of their precious liquid. And off they go with my money to buy some new diamond-covered Porsche or some silly footballer.
So a question for whatever emeritus person usually answers these tricky questions: Should I let the money go and help the poor petrol station owner make some more profit? Usually they claim they are deprived and all seem to be working at a great loss, judging by the way they keep on asking for higher percentage profits.
What I should have done was made sure there was a human to assist me and got him or the occasional her to do it for me. Is this job in fact openly open to the fairer sex? Oh no I said fairer. I don’t think that is quite fair is it? I mean isn’t it awfully mean that some writers and comedians still refer to the female sex as the fairer one? Will I now be arraigned by the anti-sexist brigade and placed in some square to be pelted by all members of the politically correcting brigade?
Anyway I prefer humans, of whichever sex, to assist me and to be ready with a smile and an apology if my euro-tenner is a dud. I am a bit like Mr Mintoff maybe and do like real humans to be there, ready and willing and sometimes, or in reality often, surly and grumpy.
Talking of human-assisted assistance, I don’t enjoy phoning establishments and finding recordings that get you to press so many numbers you end up with finger fatigue. The mind boggles at the amount of extra calls that are made on a boringly regular basis to get our message over. Like the sheiks and the petrol stations, the telephony companies are given a boost through all the calls that are lost, all the number-feeding and then the realisation that you are getting connected to the wrong machine or you are told by this super-efficient and supercilious voice to please hold the line. Yes, I will hold the line but with each second of me holding their line it is I who is paying for the pulses. My heart and pulse race away thinking of more coffers being filled and more pockets emptied – notably and worryingly mine.
Maybe Mr Mintoff was wrong in most of what he did but oh to have had him save us from this infernally automated future. Today, we all complain how expensive water and electricity bills are. Back in Mr Mintoff’s time we hardly had any water in our taps. So he saved on the earth’s resources and saved us from paying a packet. Bring the man back: we need saving again.
This article appeared in The Times July 19 2011
Thursday, 2 June 2011
He came, he saw, he was conquered
He came, he saw, he was conquered
When I get to meet Italico Rota to find out all about his life, I feel immensely happy. He makes me feel special, he makes me feel as if I am the most important person around.
Signor Rota makes you live a dream, your dream. And this is exactly what hospitality is about: making you believe you are in your little part of heaven, away from your cares, away from your daily drudge.
Mr Rota is a GM extraordinaire and one of Malta’s most loving and useful ambassadors. He is not a member of any diplomatic corps but he helped Malta get known and get loved for over 30 years. After living here for so long he feels even more Maltese than most of us locals.
He has Maltese citizenship and also retains his Italian citizenship, not that he needs it that much nowadays he says, since he ha everything he needs here. “Malta is a corner of paradise. Everything about it is good and I love it grandly." He is more Maltese than most of us because, unlike us, he does not find fault with everything Maltese and with all that Malta has to offer. He talks to everyone, locals and foreigners, about the charm, the beauty of Malta and of the loving Maltese people. I wish I could clone this man and have him teach us all how to love what we have on this little rock. And grandly he does it too.
He might have lived most of his life away from Italian shores and piazzas but his way of communicating and loving life is definitely a remnant of his Italian origins, a part of the old Italy where the gentlemen were always exuding limitless charm. He is so proud of being Maltese that he manages to imbue a good feeling in all those around him.
When I meet him at the Corinthia Palace Hotel & Spa in San Anton, where he is GM, I instantly notice that it’s not just the guests who feel this electrifying Rota energy. In or out of his presence, all his staff are a bundle of energy, all full of praise for him. All this might sound as if his only job is to exude his natural charm. But this couldn’t be further from the truth. The hotel seems to run like clockwork. Staff are friendly and make sure you are given prompt attention and service. He also moulds and grooms people to become leaders.
In the Corinthia Group he is the eldest GM, while his protégé and ex-deputy Jonathan Pace became the youngest GM in the history of the Corinthia. Jonathan Pace worked closely and most happily with Signor Rota. He eventually became his deputy and thanks to Mr Rota’s faith and trust in him, he was handpicked to run the Marina Hotel at the Corinthia Beach Resort as GM when he was only 27. A true feat for Mr Pace and another milestone in the Rota list of successes.
And Jonathan Pace, Mr Rota’s ‘pupillo,’ has now moved even higher: he has become GM at the Company’s Panorama Hotel in Prague. Another first for a man just over thirty. Mr Rota’s main words of advice to Mr Pace and everyone he has had to guide or mould is “to have a shower daily before coming to work.” I stupidly think that he is talking about personal hygiene: but the shower he speaks of is of humility, which gives you a strong bond with all the people around you and makes you a great leader.
As Mr Rota says “the highest person in any organisation is the one who never knows enough and is always learning”. How does he do it I ask him? How does he find the strength to remain so positive all the time? “It’s easy” he says, in his sonorous sing-song English that still lilts beautifully with an Italian echo. How come it is easy? I stress. “Because I love it, I do not strain to do it. I love people. I love being with them and making sure they are happy and that they feel special.”
While we are going round the hotel, he greets everyone effusively and the women are treated like a bevy of Duchesses of Cambridge straight from their royal weddings. He bows to them, kisses their hands, compliments them and booms his words of advice about where to go or what to do. And the males are greeted as eloquently and with heartfelt smiles and handshakes.
At some point I pin Signor Rota to his story. I ask him what he started life in hotels as. As a lift boy, he quips. And proceeds to take out from his pocket a very well-preserved silver dollar dated 1881. “This has been in my pocket practically since I started working. I was working in Milan when I was 14 and an Italo-Americano asked me a few questions about me and my life. He then gave me this dollar which I have preserved for good luck ever since. “It has been my own ‘porta fortuna’ for 59 years. It has never left me and it has been a great deliverer of good luck and good stories.”
Oh how annoyed and angry I feel. Why can’t silly dollars speak? I want to ask it all that it has seen to get the full story of this man. Throughout our conversation he peppers it with comments about how good his staff are, how he needs them and how he just contributes his little bit. Speak dollar, speak and tell us more of bellboy days and other secrets.
While in Milan working continuously, he studied all the languages he knew he would eventually need. He studied English, German and Spanish, while French and Italian he already knew, and now he also speaks Maltese. And he worked, as he says, round the clock, to save enough to go to university in the USA. Meanwhile, this man kept rising in his roles: from bellboy to positions in F&B, HR, accounts and even sales and marketing. His lifelong dream however was to go to university and he managed.
So from his little town of Parma, Mr Rota went to Milan at the tender age of 14 and subsequently all the way to New York. In New York he finalised his thesis, which was purchased by a leading hotel group, the Sonesta Corporation, which subsequently employed him on the strength of that same thesis. The chairman of Sonesta gave him the special task of introducing and implementing in Europe the hotel management system the corporation had developed in the USA.
Italico was very successful in this and travelled between New York and various places. Eventually he wanted to find a base, so he settled with the same group in Munich, then Milan, then Beirut. However, the settling hardly happened, as he had to travel back and forth to New York, so he came to Malta for a holiday to get away from it all. And the man who came for a few weeks of rest fell in love with the island and the rest, as they say, is history.
Thankfully for us Maltese the man’s history is tied unequivocally to Malta and Gozo. Or rather Gozo and then Malta, as his first years here were spent in Gozo. And the chairman of Sonesta was shattered, but still happy that his own ‘pupillo’ left his company to further his career. He remained in Gozo to develop, for an Italian entrepreneur, a site in Sannat, which was turned into one of our most interesting hotel stories: the Ta’ Cenc, which under Mr Rota’s management, became one of the most sought after places in the Mediterranean. It featured in Conde Nast Traveler as the 21st of the top 100 hotels in the world.
While in Malta, Mr Rota met another man who mesmerised him. This man was Mr Alfred Pisani, chairman of the Corinthia Group. And then six years ago Mr Rota joined Corinthia as GM of the Corinthia Palace Hotel & Spa in San Anton, where 49 years ago the Corinthia-Pisani story all started.
Mr Rota tells me: “Mr Pisani is a man of great vision, a born leader and an example to us all. I say this because I truly believe he is one of a kind and Malta is lucky to have had him and his vision. My chairman is a down to earth person in reality, as are most of the intelligent men on this planet.” Before I leave, a beaming Italico Rota tells me that Malta has given him everything: he met his charming, loving German wife while he was in Malta; he had his children here; he discovered real friends here and he found his real happiness here. His final words to me are “Malta is a gem, an old precious gem that never loses its worth.”
I leave the hotel on a high just as I am sure most guests staying at the Corinthia must feel.
And what does Italo Rota’s own pupillo think ?
I spoke to Jonathan Pace about Mr Rota to see what he thinks of the man and if he thinks of him as a legend. Mr Pace was once Mr Rota’s deputy and today has risen, at an incredibly young age, to become GM at the Panorama Hotel in Prague, one of the many hotels that are owned or run by the Corinthia Group.
To Jonathan, Mr Rota gave him the best lessons not just in hotel management but in life. According to Jonathan “Mr Rota is such a people’s person who treats people well. Whether you are a guest at his hotel or a member of staff—in whatever grade—he makes you feel good. He is always positive and this is felt throughout the hotel. Mr Rota is not a GM who stays at his desk crunching numbers; the numbers and reports are important but can be done when there are no people and by others. To Mr Rota the best thing to do at the hotel is to look after your guests and make sure they are treated like very important people.”
According to his pupillo, Mr Rota’s presence is electrifying and he is there to make sure all is fine with the food, the service and the whole hotel operation. According to Jonathan Mr Rota does a great job and also knows how to enjoy life. He loves his food and travelling but most importantly for his job he loves his staff. The way Mr Rota treats his staff is part of the living legend of a man who came from nearby Italy for a vacation to rest and overstayed by over 30 years.
The rest is part of Malta’s hotel history.
This article first appeared in the June 2011 issue of the MHRA magazine
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Feeding the soul
I love Mdina must be a well worn cliché. But every time I go there the place manages to fascinate me. I meander around the old lanes and streets and never tire of exploring new sights, new surprises, new features. In the morning it is, bar the many guided tours, a real gem with the light casting interesting, ever-changing shadows. In the evening the place turns into another priceless gem. And walking around in the dark I always manage to get lost in silent reverie. I see noblemen and their dames of old in resplendent clothing worthy of any old-time theatre set. I see young men furtively kissing their beloved in terrible dread of being caught and quartered. And the little lady, coquettishly red in the face, nods her hesitant approval. Yes, Mdina is a place for dreams, dreamers and everlasting surprises.
I headed to Inguanez Alley where Bacchus restaurant lies. The little alley is one of those places which epitomise Mdina for me: small but full of character and history and always capable of oiling my dreams. Bacchus was always one of those dependable old favourite restaurants of mine. I hadn’t been for some years and felt rather as if I had abandoned a great friend or intimate partner for no reason. So I tiptoed inside and waited for a table. I am usually loud and a bit of a lout when I eat in company but Mdina does manage to make me change and keep my volume down. Maybe it is the thought of all those noblemen who walked imperviously or maybe it’s the thought that this is the silent city. It helped that on this particular visit I had with me, my soon-to-be-a-quarter-of-a-century-old son, who loves his food but loves savouring it in relative silence.
I explained to him that I had always loved Bacchus because it is always full of surprises, and unlike some other restaurants it is full of positive surprises. The place, just like Mdina, used to be a dream and the food was always a new revelation of sensations for the palate. I spoke volumes about this to my dismayed son who was worried that my garrulous self would not only disturb his joy but also build up expectations which could not be matched by the food on offer.
Unfortunately when we went it was still nippy so sitting out in the garden was not an option. The beauty of the garden on top of the bastions is amazing. I’ve seen it a few times but it still manages to overwhelm me every time. If you go on a hot day do sit outside; unlike the rest of Malta when we all burn and gasp with sullen tiredness caused by the heat and opt to sit in air-conditioned surroundings, dining out in Mdina will be cool and breezy, especially in the evening.
The place itself is full of historical anecdote and architectural charm. Bacchus, which today offers plush and comfortable seating, was once a gunpowder store back in the time of the Knights. Its bellicose past is hardly discernible, with food and drink served and enjoyed in the most serene surroundings. Bacchus, that god of wine who loved to eat and drink so much, would surely approve.
The history of the restaurant reflects the history of Mdina. Parts of it date back to Arab times, parts to the age of the Knights and all of it has been tastefully and tactfully renovated to give comfort but never indulge in ostentation or strident minimalism. The modern style just would not work in a place like Bacchus, steeped as it is in history and, for a dreamer like me, in fables and age-old stories. How can you visualise a lacy dress and a rouged courtesan in minimalist surroundings?
I made a quick visit to the bathroom before we started our meal. I have never forgotten what a friend once told me: the state of the bathroom is a good indicator of standards. Bacchus passes with flying colours. All in order and spotless. One small problem would be tackling the steep stairs after too much to drink. Bacchus might opt to just drink, eat and forget the ‘rest’.
Now let’s tackle the food or, as my son would say, the place is great, the staff is welcoming but what about the grub?
We were both hungry and we both over-indulged. The food is beautifully presented, in crockery that, to use more vocabulary of the young, rocks. Although we over-ordered, the food is brought to you with just enough of a break to allow you to enjoy and digest it. The waiters are not at all stuffy while doing their job magnificently in clockwork fashion, constantly attentive to every call. The place is relaxed without being provincial – just what dining should be about.
My son ordered a beef carpaccio with local goat’s cheese, argula and olive oil. One look at his face after his first bite made me ask for a taste, which he reluctantly gave me. Yes, I agreed and I would have done an Oliver and asked him for more if he had encouraged me even slightly – but no luck! Oh well, I had my own delight to savour. I had gone for the asparagus in filo pastry. Unfortunately I had to return the favour and part with some. The pastry was superb, the asparagus succulent. My worries about having over-emphasised how good the food and the place was, were over. My son was already truly inspired. But more was to come – and more compliments were due to the chef.
We ordered a bottle of Marsovin Antonin and a Meridiana Melqart. The Melqart was a perfect companion to the carpaccio, the pasta and the veal while the Antonin added fulsome flavours and piquancy to the asparagus and the grouper. Once more Bacchus would nod his divine approval both at the wines imbibed and the choice at his own restaurant.
For my next course I opted for paccheri with goat’s cheese. The only complaint here was that I should have taken a less heavy dish to appreciate the rest even better, but I am not at my strongest when tempted by pasta. And at least it wasn’t an exaggeratedly big helping. My son only gives praise when it is unashamedly due so even a few words from him are impressive. And he was garrulous about his rich seafood lasagne which he described as divine. By this time I was beginning to wonder if the chef was Olympian and got lost on his way back home and thankfully stopped in Mdina.
My main course was a grouper (cerna) with a very original artichoke raviolo with a lobster and dill sauce. I wondered if this dish was going to be overdone, with too many different tastes attacking my buds. But the cerna was another success, as attested by my attendant and attentive son. He had ordered veal escalopes with caramelised fig and apple chutney, which again received a very impressed and impressive nod.
What next? A feast of sweets! We asked for and were allowed to savour a sliver of each delicacy on offer. Sweets are definitely not in short supply and they were freshly made. Why oh why do other restaurants forget our sweet tooth? Why can’t they copy Bacchus and give us a fitting end to a lordly meal? When very often I am presented with sweets that resemble cardboard both in look and taste, with smidgens of shaving foam, my heart and my soul bleed. I loved them all but my firm favourites were the old baker’s brioche and grandmother’s ricotta tart, while my son voted for the warm crêpe and the panna cotta.
Indulge in a great dream, get yourself to Bacchus and let his heavenly food captivate you as it did us and, obviously, by looking at the happy and satisfied faces around us, all the other diners. So I can honestly, hand on heart, shout out: Bacchus is as good as it has always been. If the soul needs feeding then what is on offer there is surely its food.
This article first appeared in the June 2011 issue of MHRA magazine
I headed to Inguanez Alley where Bacchus restaurant lies. The little alley is one of those places which epitomise Mdina for me: small but full of character and history and always capable of oiling my dreams. Bacchus was always one of those dependable old favourite restaurants of mine. I hadn’t been for some years and felt rather as if I had abandoned a great friend or intimate partner for no reason. So I tiptoed inside and waited for a table. I am usually loud and a bit of a lout when I eat in company but Mdina does manage to make me change and keep my volume down. Maybe it is the thought of all those noblemen who walked imperviously or maybe it’s the thought that this is the silent city. It helped that on this particular visit I had with me, my soon-to-be-a-quarter-of-a-century-old son, who loves his food but loves savouring it in relative silence.
I explained to him that I had always loved Bacchus because it is always full of surprises, and unlike some other restaurants it is full of positive surprises. The place, just like Mdina, used to be a dream and the food was always a new revelation of sensations for the palate. I spoke volumes about this to my dismayed son who was worried that my garrulous self would not only disturb his joy but also build up expectations which could not be matched by the food on offer.
Unfortunately when we went it was still nippy so sitting out in the garden was not an option. The beauty of the garden on top of the bastions is amazing. I’ve seen it a few times but it still manages to overwhelm me every time. If you go on a hot day do sit outside; unlike the rest of Malta when we all burn and gasp with sullen tiredness caused by the heat and opt to sit in air-conditioned surroundings, dining out in Mdina will be cool and breezy, especially in the evening.
The place itself is full of historical anecdote and architectural charm. Bacchus, which today offers plush and comfortable seating, was once a gunpowder store back in the time of the Knights. Its bellicose past is hardly discernible, with food and drink served and enjoyed in the most serene surroundings. Bacchus, that god of wine who loved to eat and drink so much, would surely approve.
The history of the restaurant reflects the history of Mdina. Parts of it date back to Arab times, parts to the age of the Knights and all of it has been tastefully and tactfully renovated to give comfort but never indulge in ostentation or strident minimalism. The modern style just would not work in a place like Bacchus, steeped as it is in history and, for a dreamer like me, in fables and age-old stories. How can you visualise a lacy dress and a rouged courtesan in minimalist surroundings?
I made a quick visit to the bathroom before we started our meal. I have never forgotten what a friend once told me: the state of the bathroom is a good indicator of standards. Bacchus passes with flying colours. All in order and spotless. One small problem would be tackling the steep stairs after too much to drink. Bacchus might opt to just drink, eat and forget the ‘rest’.
Now let’s tackle the food or, as my son would say, the place is great, the staff is welcoming but what about the grub?
We were both hungry and we both over-indulged. The food is beautifully presented, in crockery that, to use more vocabulary of the young, rocks. Although we over-ordered, the food is brought to you with just enough of a break to allow you to enjoy and digest it. The waiters are not at all stuffy while doing their job magnificently in clockwork fashion, constantly attentive to every call. The place is relaxed without being provincial – just what dining should be about.
My son ordered a beef carpaccio with local goat’s cheese, argula and olive oil. One look at his face after his first bite made me ask for a taste, which he reluctantly gave me. Yes, I agreed and I would have done an Oliver and asked him for more if he had encouraged me even slightly – but no luck! Oh well, I had my own delight to savour. I had gone for the asparagus in filo pastry. Unfortunately I had to return the favour and part with some. The pastry was superb, the asparagus succulent. My worries about having over-emphasised how good the food and the place was, were over. My son was already truly inspired. But more was to come – and more compliments were due to the chef.
We ordered a bottle of Marsovin Antonin and a Meridiana Melqart. The Melqart was a perfect companion to the carpaccio, the pasta and the veal while the Antonin added fulsome flavours and piquancy to the asparagus and the grouper. Once more Bacchus would nod his divine approval both at the wines imbibed and the choice at his own restaurant.
For my next course I opted for paccheri with goat’s cheese. The only complaint here was that I should have taken a less heavy dish to appreciate the rest even better, but I am not at my strongest when tempted by pasta. And at least it wasn’t an exaggeratedly big helping. My son only gives praise when it is unashamedly due so even a few words from him are impressive. And he was garrulous about his rich seafood lasagne which he described as divine. By this time I was beginning to wonder if the chef was Olympian and got lost on his way back home and thankfully stopped in Mdina.
My main course was a grouper (cerna) with a very original artichoke raviolo with a lobster and dill sauce. I wondered if this dish was going to be overdone, with too many different tastes attacking my buds. But the cerna was another success, as attested by my attendant and attentive son. He had ordered veal escalopes with caramelised fig and apple chutney, which again received a very impressed and impressive nod.
What next? A feast of sweets! We asked for and were allowed to savour a sliver of each delicacy on offer. Sweets are definitely not in short supply and they were freshly made. Why oh why do other restaurants forget our sweet tooth? Why can’t they copy Bacchus and give us a fitting end to a lordly meal? When very often I am presented with sweets that resemble cardboard both in look and taste, with smidgens of shaving foam, my heart and my soul bleed. I loved them all but my firm favourites were the old baker’s brioche and grandmother’s ricotta tart, while my son voted for the warm crêpe and the panna cotta.
Indulge in a great dream, get yourself to Bacchus and let his heavenly food captivate you as it did us and, obviously, by looking at the happy and satisfied faces around us, all the other diners. So I can honestly, hand on heart, shout out: Bacchus is as good as it has always been. If the soul needs feeding then what is on offer there is surely its food.
This article first appeared in the June 2011 issue of MHRA magazine
Sunday, 29 May 2011
Land of reflectors
Friday was the day of reflection before we cast our vote in a referendum that should not have been and that had a weighted question that should not have been even more. I promised myself ages ago I wouldn’t talk divorce let alone write about it. But promises and reality are hardly compatible so we should get them divorced. Or is that unlawful or sinful?
It was the day of reflection when we, all contemplative and reasonable, weigh most intelligently whether to give an aye vote or a nay. Friday morning I had warned all around me not to mention the “D” word in case they influenced me with their words and looks and deeds.
I had nearly suggested to my wife, whom I love dearly, that we should save ourselves the trip to the polling booth on the dreaded day. You will surely, I said, vote the opposite of what I will, so once our votes annul each other we might as well stay at home. How do we know how we will be voting I hear someone ask? Married for over 30 years gives you special intuitive powers; and being married for so long makes you disagree with your beloved spouse even if deep down you want to agree. In spite we trust.
Back to my contemplative Friday. After discarding the idea of remaining in bed to really reflect on the issue and to keep away from the temptation of reading some more bilge about the not-to-be-mentioned divorce issue, I slowly crawled out of bed and grabbed all the Iva and Le propaganda that had piled up on my bedside table. Not a huge pile except for some battered woman, innocent children and some other strange endorsers─like God and his Son─ we were spared the many obnoxious faces on postcards which we get during elections.
Anyway while throwing away all this detritus I tried hard to keep my eyes off pictures of pompous politicians and pious pastors who could sway me with their wholesome or nefarious ways. That done I switched on my laptop hoping to keep all corrupting stuff from reaching my brain. Alas that was impossible: messages unseen the day before were glaringly trying to sway me. I took a cursory look at my Facebook page and bam! more images, more messages, more words of wisdom asking me to save our families or give new families a legalised future. I inwardly cursed laptops. I even had a cryptic message from a Catholic group asking me to vote yes to divorce. Why were these interfering agents trying so hard to keep me from reflecting alone on how I should vote?
Satan smiled at me and said that the yes vote was his doing while a horrific Jesus begged me for my vote (sorry Jesus for calling your picture horrific but it is just that. If I were You I’d come down again, rip up the picture and place a proper one of the real me, I mean You). I nearly blew my top and felt like permanently closing my Facebook account. Couldn’t the electoral commission reach an arrangement with Facebook and make them stop all this corrupting ware from reaching us? We had a Green person trying hard to attend as an observer and the electoral commissioner tried hard to stop him. Couldn’t the commissioner also do something and block this Facebook and blogging interference on my reflection?
I left home and headed for my car. I tried hard not to look at the bumf strewn all over the streets. The yes and no camps might have been at loggerheads about everything but in getting our country to look shabbier they heartily agreed and managed. I then drove round a bit to contemplate more on my vote on Saturday. Then horror of reflective horrors, more propaganda, all displayed in resplendent boredom, greeted me. Billboards bored into my brain ordering me to vote “yes” or “no” in the referendum. I tried hard not to look but didn’t wish to meet my doom before my time by crashing into one of the billboards. Although come to think of it maybe that’s what we should have done: crushed all billboards out of existence. I tried hard not to look at the boards. I think I could have looked at them till kingdom come and I would not have been swayed one way or the other.
The two camps, the aye-seekers and the nay-seekers, didn’t come up with the most exciting of stuff. Some billboards nearly literally drove me up the wall because I had to look at them a few dozen times to understand what they were trying to convey. Most times I didn’t understand what the hell or heaven they were saying. Thankfully all came conveniently with the “yes” or “no” neatly ticked at the bottom so I could work out who was desperately trying to appeal for my vote. As we are admonished at all times: look at the small print. I never knew that this advice actually referred to referendum billboards.
I kept trying hard to keep away from these corrupting, illegal messages which were trying to convince me one way or the other but the day went on with hardly a moment when someone or something didn’t jar my reflective contemplation.
Friday then was thankfully over and we moved to the big Day, voting day. The suggestion that my wife and I stay at home never materialised. So off I went together with my wife to cast our votes. As I was jotting my choice I reflected a bit more: how many couples were voting together and whose next step was going to be to ask for their divorce papers?
It was the day of reflection when we, all contemplative and reasonable, weigh most intelligently whether to give an aye vote or a nay. Friday morning I had warned all around me not to mention the “D” word in case they influenced me with their words and looks and deeds.
I had nearly suggested to my wife, whom I love dearly, that we should save ourselves the trip to the polling booth on the dreaded day. You will surely, I said, vote the opposite of what I will, so once our votes annul each other we might as well stay at home. How do we know how we will be voting I hear someone ask? Married for over 30 years gives you special intuitive powers; and being married for so long makes you disagree with your beloved spouse even if deep down you want to agree. In spite we trust.
Back to my contemplative Friday. After discarding the idea of remaining in bed to really reflect on the issue and to keep away from the temptation of reading some more bilge about the not-to-be-mentioned divorce issue, I slowly crawled out of bed and grabbed all the Iva and Le propaganda that had piled up on my bedside table. Not a huge pile except for some battered woman, innocent children and some other strange endorsers─like God and his Son─ we were spared the many obnoxious faces on postcards which we get during elections.
Anyway while throwing away all this detritus I tried hard to keep my eyes off pictures of pompous politicians and pious pastors who could sway me with their wholesome or nefarious ways. That done I switched on my laptop hoping to keep all corrupting stuff from reaching my brain. Alas that was impossible: messages unseen the day before were glaringly trying to sway me. I took a cursory look at my Facebook page and bam! more images, more messages, more words of wisdom asking me to save our families or give new families a legalised future. I inwardly cursed laptops. I even had a cryptic message from a Catholic group asking me to vote yes to divorce. Why were these interfering agents trying so hard to keep me from reflecting alone on how I should vote?
Satan smiled at me and said that the yes vote was his doing while a horrific Jesus begged me for my vote (sorry Jesus for calling your picture horrific but it is just that. If I were You I’d come down again, rip up the picture and place a proper one of the real me, I mean You). I nearly blew my top and felt like permanently closing my Facebook account. Couldn’t the electoral commission reach an arrangement with Facebook and make them stop all this corrupting ware from reaching us? We had a Green person trying hard to attend as an observer and the electoral commissioner tried hard to stop him. Couldn’t the commissioner also do something and block this Facebook and blogging interference on my reflection?
I left home and headed for my car. I tried hard not to look at the bumf strewn all over the streets. The yes and no camps might have been at loggerheads about everything but in getting our country to look shabbier they heartily agreed and managed. I then drove round a bit to contemplate more on my vote on Saturday. Then horror of reflective horrors, more propaganda, all displayed in resplendent boredom, greeted me. Billboards bored into my brain ordering me to vote “yes” or “no” in the referendum. I tried hard not to look but didn’t wish to meet my doom before my time by crashing into one of the billboards. Although come to think of it maybe that’s what we should have done: crushed all billboards out of existence. I tried hard not to look at the boards. I think I could have looked at them till kingdom come and I would not have been swayed one way or the other.
The two camps, the aye-seekers and the nay-seekers, didn’t come up with the most exciting of stuff. Some billboards nearly literally drove me up the wall because I had to look at them a few dozen times to understand what they were trying to convey. Most times I didn’t understand what the hell or heaven they were saying. Thankfully all came conveniently with the “yes” or “no” neatly ticked at the bottom so I could work out who was desperately trying to appeal for my vote. As we are admonished at all times: look at the small print. I never knew that this advice actually referred to referendum billboards.
I kept trying hard to keep away from these corrupting, illegal messages which were trying to convince me one way or the other but the day went on with hardly a moment when someone or something didn’t jar my reflective contemplation.
Friday then was thankfully over and we moved to the big Day, voting day. The suggestion that my wife and I stay at home never materialised. So off I went together with my wife to cast our votes. As I was jotting my choice I reflected a bit more: how many couples were voting together and whose next step was going to be to ask for their divorce papers?
Saturday, 21 May 2011
When love is on the rocks
I really love Malta. Anyone who says it doesn’t rock must be stone deaf or worse. Some time ago while the world was passing through one of its most momentous periods tinged with blood, tragedy and radiation fears, we, or, rather, our representatives in Parliament, discussed for eight or nine long sessions how or when we were to vote for divorce. And the vote approaches where we will have to agree or not to divorce. If our esteemed members don’t deserve their salary and super-special pension for anything I’m sure no one will grudge them their earnings for being super good at nitpicking.
I don’t know if, after all this time, anyone remembers or followed it very well – the marathon debate, I mean. We had Jeffrey Pullicino Orlando promising us he would vote with the opposition even before the debate opened. So if he knew even before he heard the debate how he was going to vote why bother debating? Couldn’t he, at least, have told us he thought he was going to vote with the opposition but that if, by any chance, one of the long speeches in Parliament changed, or maybe dulled, his mind, he would change it and just maybe vote with the government side? At least it would have given us a bit more interest in the outcome.
It was like watching a game of football with extra time and a few dozen penalties but with foreknowledge of the result. Rather an inane exercise, I’d say. The referee could have stayed home and cooked a wholesome meal for his friends. If Dr Pullicino Orlando hadn’t told us how he would be voting, he would have proved to all of us he really was a free spirit unshackled by pre-conceived, pre-ordained ideas.
In fact, I now await his solemn pledge that in the referendum he will vote, not according to what he wishes or thinks is right, but that he will come to a conclusion after all the bigwigs of the land have regaled us with more insights and studies and views. This will prove to us, lesser mortals, that his vote will be cast as a real, free-spirited person in what should be a choice based on very solid and sound conclusions.
I also need a lot of weighing in the divorce debate. I just can’t decide how to vote, so I am still waiting for said bigwigs to convince me. I am at heart very much in favour of divorce, so, at first sight, I wish I could vote yes to divorce as proposed by the referendum. But I’m not too sure I want to vote yes and have a strange smile-fest from the likes of Dr Pullicino Orlando, Joseph Muscat and Evarist Bartolo, all doing an Irish jig to celebrate the passing of their Irish-style divorce in Malta.
As the famed DJ and anti-divorce campaigner told The Times, after the divorce laws are in (if they are) he will be waking up every day thinking of and wishing he could divorce. I do fear that the uncontrollable desire to get divorced will surely happen to us married men and women of this rock. We will all end up craving to get divorced just because it’s in the statute law. And at my age, waiting for four forlorn years to get myself a divorce will really be tough. Four years added to my age right now and I’ll end up being given the divorce papers, or whatever you get when you get divorced, together with my kartanzjan and pension. Not really the best time to get myself back on the marriage market.
So, maybe, I’ll opt for a no to divorce on that day. This will mean, of course, that my cherished idea of being a young-at-heart liberal would then go down the proverbial drain.
At the start of the campaign we nearly had an eerie silence from the Church authorities. Now, close to the actual vote, we seem to have a deluge of words and actions but still not, it seems, officially sanctioned. Bishop of Gozo Mario Grech has declared a holy war on all Catholic adults who even dared think they would vote in favour of divorce. The bishop raved and ranted against all “brigands” and “wolves”. There seems to be a whiff of antagonism in the house of our bishops. Would they − horror of diabolical horrors − be allowed to divorce or whatever happens to bishops who can’t work together?
The Archbishop and the band of seven wise priests seemed to indicate that the best way forward would be restrained debate and definitely no crusades. I know history teaches many lessons and the Church in Malta does not want to go the whole hog and fight divorce the way they fought Dom Mintoff and his obnoxious ideas back in the 1960s by using all sorts of Catholic, but hardly Christian, stuff and decrees. The way the Church has been acting makes you feel it has lost its bite.
Even the anti-divorce campaigners don’t seem to have made much of a campaign. I remember the frontman of the campaign promising us that prominent politicians and other leading personalities were going to join the fight against the damning demon of divorce. The yes to divorce campaigners sound even more histrionic than the more sedate, supposedly anti-liberal no-to-divorce camp. In fact, the dullness was only coloured by a silly Nazi slur swung by one divorce campaigner.
Except for a few ex-Presidents and a DJ, I haven’t been too impressed by what the anti-divorce movement has produced. What’s happened? Is it all going to be let loose on us closer to the day of reckoning? Will we, the startled and wanting-to-be-illuminated citizens, before making our decision be assaulted with all sorts of mind-numbing data and arguments that we will not be able to refute or refuse?
Could it be that, then, this onslaught of ideas will change the course of our coarse history and Dr Pullicino Orlando, after weighing all the arguments, will publicly recant and tell us that, after a long and proper deliberation, he will, after all, not vote in favour of divorce?
This article first appeared in The Times May 21 2011
I don’t know if, after all this time, anyone remembers or followed it very well – the marathon debate, I mean. We had Jeffrey Pullicino Orlando promising us he would vote with the opposition even before the debate opened. So if he knew even before he heard the debate how he was going to vote why bother debating? Couldn’t he, at least, have told us he thought he was going to vote with the opposition but that if, by any chance, one of the long speeches in Parliament changed, or maybe dulled, his mind, he would change it and just maybe vote with the government side? At least it would have given us a bit more interest in the outcome.
It was like watching a game of football with extra time and a few dozen penalties but with foreknowledge of the result. Rather an inane exercise, I’d say. The referee could have stayed home and cooked a wholesome meal for his friends. If Dr Pullicino Orlando hadn’t told us how he would be voting, he would have proved to all of us he really was a free spirit unshackled by pre-conceived, pre-ordained ideas.
In fact, I now await his solemn pledge that in the referendum he will vote, not according to what he wishes or thinks is right, but that he will come to a conclusion after all the bigwigs of the land have regaled us with more insights and studies and views. This will prove to us, lesser mortals, that his vote will be cast as a real, free-spirited person in what should be a choice based on very solid and sound conclusions.
I also need a lot of weighing in the divorce debate. I just can’t decide how to vote, so I am still waiting for said bigwigs to convince me. I am at heart very much in favour of divorce, so, at first sight, I wish I could vote yes to divorce as proposed by the referendum. But I’m not too sure I want to vote yes and have a strange smile-fest from the likes of Dr Pullicino Orlando, Joseph Muscat and Evarist Bartolo, all doing an Irish jig to celebrate the passing of their Irish-style divorce in Malta.
As the famed DJ and anti-divorce campaigner told The Times, after the divorce laws are in (if they are) he will be waking up every day thinking of and wishing he could divorce. I do fear that the uncontrollable desire to get divorced will surely happen to us married men and women of this rock. We will all end up craving to get divorced just because it’s in the statute law. And at my age, waiting for four forlorn years to get myself a divorce will really be tough. Four years added to my age right now and I’ll end up being given the divorce papers, or whatever you get when you get divorced, together with my kartanzjan and pension. Not really the best time to get myself back on the marriage market.
So, maybe, I’ll opt for a no to divorce on that day. This will mean, of course, that my cherished idea of being a young-at-heart liberal would then go down the proverbial drain.
At the start of the campaign we nearly had an eerie silence from the Church authorities. Now, close to the actual vote, we seem to have a deluge of words and actions but still not, it seems, officially sanctioned. Bishop of Gozo Mario Grech has declared a holy war on all Catholic adults who even dared think they would vote in favour of divorce. The bishop raved and ranted against all “brigands” and “wolves”. There seems to be a whiff of antagonism in the house of our bishops. Would they − horror of diabolical horrors − be allowed to divorce or whatever happens to bishops who can’t work together?
The Archbishop and the band of seven wise priests seemed to indicate that the best way forward would be restrained debate and definitely no crusades. I know history teaches many lessons and the Church in Malta does not want to go the whole hog and fight divorce the way they fought Dom Mintoff and his obnoxious ideas back in the 1960s by using all sorts of Catholic, but hardly Christian, stuff and decrees. The way the Church has been acting makes you feel it has lost its bite.
Even the anti-divorce campaigners don’t seem to have made much of a campaign. I remember the frontman of the campaign promising us that prominent politicians and other leading personalities were going to join the fight against the damning demon of divorce. The yes to divorce campaigners sound even more histrionic than the more sedate, supposedly anti-liberal no-to-divorce camp. In fact, the dullness was only coloured by a silly Nazi slur swung by one divorce campaigner.
Except for a few ex-Presidents and a DJ, I haven’t been too impressed by what the anti-divorce movement has produced. What’s happened? Is it all going to be let loose on us closer to the day of reckoning? Will we, the startled and wanting-to-be-illuminated citizens, before making our decision be assaulted with all sorts of mind-numbing data and arguments that we will not be able to refute or refuse?
Could it be that, then, this onslaught of ideas will change the course of our coarse history and Dr Pullicino Orlando, after weighing all the arguments, will publicly recant and tell us that, after a long and proper deliberation, he will, after all, not vote in favour of divorce?
This article first appeared in The Times May 21 2011
Monday, 18 April 2011
Manners and the healing profession
Malta has been renowned for its treatment of the sick right through history. It is interesting and poignant that tiny Malta, a simple dot in the Mediterranean, is still highly associated with the Knights of St John who were hospitallers before they became a warring Order. The Order of St John was renowned for its battles against maladies and suffering and the Sacra Infermeria in Valletta was internationally acclaimed. Today, the Knights have once more donned the mantle of hospitallers and are now a worldwide order, assisting and propagating medical and caring causes.
But is Malta also on the forefront of treating the ill with the care and humanity they deserve?
Of course, the most important thing in any medical person is his medical knowledge and no amount of good manners can substitute medical proficiency. Our medical system, with all its drawbacks, delays and deficiencies, is the envy of many, especially for a country our size and with no natural resources except our people. The medical people we have managed to produce are another enviable source of pride to all of us on this tiny rock. It is a pity that some bring it all to disrepute and some patients have to suffer the ignominy of being treated as mere numbers.
At some point or other in our life, most of us, including the best medics, become patients. It is with this acceptance of reality that we should look at patients’ rights. All humans are potential patients, so all humans should be treated with dignity and as humanely as possible.
The world will be celebrating Patients’ Rights Day today. But all rights are a collection of fancy words unless they are accompanied by a modicum of human care. In general, the medical profession in Malta deserves a shower of praise. Medics and those involved in the caring profession, are, in their vast majority, very attentive to detail and they sacrifice a lot for the sick and suffering. It is a sad fact, however, that they do not always remember or care to use etiquette while exercising their profession. When handling relatives of very ill patients or when imparting the news of their patients’ illness or situation, medical people sometimes lack manners and gentleness. It is true that, on the whole, we are used to putting up with a lack of manners in all spheres but when it comes to health and, especially, when someone’s life is in the balance, we expect more care than in other less traumatic instances.
To an extent, all medical people have to don a hard shell to protect them from empathising too much with their patients. A doctor or nurse has to be slightly aloof from the suffering and also from the emotional problems the sick and those close to the patient go through, otherwise they will find it impossible to carry out their work.
This aloofness, however, must not lead the doctor to forget that the afflicted are humans and, as such, deserving of proper and humane treatment. Sometimes, an illness seems minor but for the patient in his particular circumstances it may appear to be verging on the tragic. Imagine a minor ailment like a constant pain in the larynx, which could mean a curtailment of too much talking. Simple enough to anyone and petty-sounding to any doctor, I presume. Quite right, unless the sufferer is someone who depends almost entirely on his vocal chords, like a teacher or a radio talk show presenter. I know two people who have suffered from this seemingly silly ailment. One was treated with care and compassion, the other one was brusquely told to thank her lucky stars it wasn’t much worse and life-threatening.
All doctors and nurses and medical people and all personnel who come in constant contact with patients need to be well trained in people management.
Back in 2008, the New England Journal of Medicine published an article by Michael Kahn who said: “Patients ideally deserve to have a compassionate doctor but might they be satisfied with one who is simply well-behaved? When I hear patients complain about doctors, their criticism often has nothing to do with not feeling understood or empathised with. Instead, they object that ‘he just stared at his computer screen’, ’she never smiles’, or ’I had no idea who I was talking to’. During my own recent hospitalisation, I found the Old World manners of my European-born surgeon – and my reaction to them – revealing in this regard. Whatever he might actually have been feeling, his behaviour – dress, manners, body language, eye contact – was impeccable. I wasn’t left thinking: ‘What compassion.’ Instead, I found myself thinking: ‘What a professional’ and even (unexpectedly) ‘What a gentlman’. The impression he made was remarkably calming and it helped to confirm my suspicion that patients may care less about whether their doctors are reflective and empathic than whether they are respectful and attentive.”
I think if we give this good doctor and all he points out a more important standing when teaching and training our doctors, professors and nurses we, as a nation, will feel more fulfilled and prouder of those who look after us so well in our hours of need or loss.
A forum about patients’ rights, organised by the Malta Health Network, will be held at the Conference Hall, St Vincent de Paul residence in Luqa today. For further details e-mail info@maltahealthnetwork.org or phone 9949 3999.
This article first appeared in The Times April 18 2011
But is Malta also on the forefront of treating the ill with the care and humanity they deserve?
Of course, the most important thing in any medical person is his medical knowledge and no amount of good manners can substitute medical proficiency. Our medical system, with all its drawbacks, delays and deficiencies, is the envy of many, especially for a country our size and with no natural resources except our people. The medical people we have managed to produce are another enviable source of pride to all of us on this tiny rock. It is a pity that some bring it all to disrepute and some patients have to suffer the ignominy of being treated as mere numbers.
At some point or other in our life, most of us, including the best medics, become patients. It is with this acceptance of reality that we should look at patients’ rights. All humans are potential patients, so all humans should be treated with dignity and as humanely as possible.
The world will be celebrating Patients’ Rights Day today. But all rights are a collection of fancy words unless they are accompanied by a modicum of human care. In general, the medical profession in Malta deserves a shower of praise. Medics and those involved in the caring profession, are, in their vast majority, very attentive to detail and they sacrifice a lot for the sick and suffering. It is a sad fact, however, that they do not always remember or care to use etiquette while exercising their profession. When handling relatives of very ill patients or when imparting the news of their patients’ illness or situation, medical people sometimes lack manners and gentleness. It is true that, on the whole, we are used to putting up with a lack of manners in all spheres but when it comes to health and, especially, when someone’s life is in the balance, we expect more care than in other less traumatic instances.
To an extent, all medical people have to don a hard shell to protect them from empathising too much with their patients. A doctor or nurse has to be slightly aloof from the suffering and also from the emotional problems the sick and those close to the patient go through, otherwise they will find it impossible to carry out their work.
This aloofness, however, must not lead the doctor to forget that the afflicted are humans and, as such, deserving of proper and humane treatment. Sometimes, an illness seems minor but for the patient in his particular circumstances it may appear to be verging on the tragic. Imagine a minor ailment like a constant pain in the larynx, which could mean a curtailment of too much talking. Simple enough to anyone and petty-sounding to any doctor, I presume. Quite right, unless the sufferer is someone who depends almost entirely on his vocal chords, like a teacher or a radio talk show presenter. I know two people who have suffered from this seemingly silly ailment. One was treated with care and compassion, the other one was brusquely told to thank her lucky stars it wasn’t much worse and life-threatening.
All doctors and nurses and medical people and all personnel who come in constant contact with patients need to be well trained in people management.
Back in 2008, the New England Journal of Medicine published an article by Michael Kahn who said: “Patients ideally deserve to have a compassionate doctor but might they be satisfied with one who is simply well-behaved? When I hear patients complain about doctors, their criticism often has nothing to do with not feeling understood or empathised with. Instead, they object that ‘he just stared at his computer screen’, ’she never smiles’, or ’I had no idea who I was talking to’. During my own recent hospitalisation, I found the Old World manners of my European-born surgeon – and my reaction to them – revealing in this regard. Whatever he might actually have been feeling, his behaviour – dress, manners, body language, eye contact – was impeccable. I wasn’t left thinking: ‘What compassion.’ Instead, I found myself thinking: ‘What a professional’ and even (unexpectedly) ‘What a gentlman’. The impression he made was remarkably calming and it helped to confirm my suspicion that patients may care less about whether their doctors are reflective and empathic than whether they are respectful and attentive.”
I think if we give this good doctor and all he points out a more important standing when teaching and training our doctors, professors and nurses we, as a nation, will feel more fulfilled and prouder of those who look after us so well in our hours of need or loss.
A forum about patients’ rights, organised by the Malta Health Network, will be held at the Conference Hall, St Vincent de Paul residence in Luqa today. For further details e-mail info@maltahealthnetwork.org or phone 9949 3999.
This article first appeared in The Times April 18 2011
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