If you're a gamer of a certain age (cough, in your 30s), you long for the days of sitting on a basement couch playing split-screen games with your buddies. Mario Party and Halo were splitting 32-inch TVs into four squares! Nowadays you don't see much of that. Modern graphics and consoles have done away with couch co-op. The last Halo title didn't even have local split screen for two players. Coincidentally, the year Halo Infinite debuted was when the co-op revival truly began.

In 2021, It Takes Two—a co-op adventure that I can only describe as Toy Story for the newly divorced—won Game of the Year and put Hazelight Studios on the map. For die-hard gamers, creative director Josef Fares was already a household name after his infamous "fuck the Oscars" speech at the 2017 Game Awards, which would, in four years, honour him for making the best game of 2021.

Well, what did Fares pull off after another four years? Split Fiction. It's a send-up of classic sci-fi and fantasy storytelling that expands upon the innovative cooperative gameplay of It Takes Two and adds plenty of invigorating twists of its own. You and a friend will speed through cyberspace, ride dragons, and work together to stop a scheming CEO from stealing your ideas. The new title, out today, follows up its acclaimed predecessor with another exhilarating two-player adventure full of genre-hopping gameplay.

Now, Split Fiction is not without its share of flaws, but none of its co-op peers are really even trying to operate on its level. Hazelight is once again setting the standard for co-op gaming—and by the end of its 15-hour run, Split Fiction raises the bar entirely.

Playing the Hits

You can play Split Fiction online or locally, but no matter what, you have to play the game with someone else. That's the pitch. Because this is nonnegotiable, every copy of the game comes with a Friend's Pass. Meaning: You don't need to convince your high school buddy in Maine to shell out 50 bucks so you can play together. Since you paid Split Fiction's SGD69 price tag, you just have to convince them to take some time out of their day. It's an easier ask. For me, it was my girlfriend—a steady Marvel Snap player who is a fairly causal gamer otherwise. We sat on the couch and played the whole thing in split screen on my PS5 Pro, from start to finish.

It was always easy for both of us to figure out where to go, what to do, and how to engage with whatever new gimmick Split Fiction threw our way. If I had to levy a critique against it, I'd nitpick and say every level ends about 15 to 30 minutes after we tired of the shtick. Aside from that, well, the fact that my partner and I made the time in a busy TV season when Severance, Paradise, and Yellowjackets are dominating our weeknights speaks to how much fun we had.

From the get-go, Hazelight plays the hits

Split Fiction is relentless in introducing fresh ideas and tossing out the old. Every level is a new playground. At its core, Split Fiction is a 3D action platformer in the vein of Ratchet & Clank. You have a double-jump move and a grappling hook. The addition of another player gives nearly every stage a puzzle element—and you will either work separately or in tandem to solve them.

But on top of this, Split Fiction pulls from the best parts of different genres for each level, not just in how it decorates the sci-fi and fantasy worlds you're exploring (conjured directly from the imagination of the characters you are playing, which I'll explain later) but in what you're doing from moment to moment. Split Fiction gleefully borrows from Diablo, Tron, and plenty of other games and movies I won't spoil. Just know that it's a visual feast and a blast all the way to the end.

The apex of Split Fiction's creativity (until its bonkers finale, at least) comes in the form of Side Stories that break up the coherent level you're exploring with some truly random shit. An early favourite had me controlling a pig that farts rainbows. Another was a radical tribute to one of my favourite retired EA franchises. Side Stories aren't just fun diversions; they often reveal something about the psyche and past traumas of one of the two main characters. Which means that it's about time I fully talk about the plot of Split Fiction. I've been dreading this part.

An Unconvincing Yarn

Here's the gist: Mio is a young, unpublished writer. She is brunette and she loves science fiction. Zoe is a young, unpublished writer. She is blonde and she loves fantasy. The two meet for the first time at the offices of Rader, a megacorp that has promised to publish their work. It turns out that Rader (an Elon Musk–type CEO) is tricking them all, but they only figure this out once they are strapped into a literal machine built to steal their ideas and put them into Rader's... well, whatever Rader makes. That isn't entirely clear.

What's crystal clear is that Split Fiction is a story about AI, large language models, and digital plagiarism in art. The machine creates simulations from Zoe's and Mio's story ideas as they chase an errant glitch that they immediately decide is the MacGuffin that will get them out of here. This plot is a mere excuse to get to Split Fiction's main gimmick, as you travel fantasy and sci-fi worlds that were built to allow the game's designers to flex their creative muscles. And flex they do. The writers? Not so much.

After spending over a dozen hours with Zoe and Mio, I understood their paper-thin traumas and still didn't care. Rader is never convincing as a villain, and as a result the AI metaphor doesn't stick the landing.

As a big SSF nerd, I found Split Fiction's sci-fi elements more lacking than its foray into the fantasy genre. It's pretty easy to feel Harry Potter and Game of Thrones within the fantasy bits; while those aren't my favourite influences, it's at least drawing on something specific. More often than not, the futuristic neons and robotic perils of Mio's mind wind up as a sterile, generic amalgamation devoid of what makes the genre interesting.

Verdict

If you stick with it until the end, Split Fiction rewards you with one of the most jaw-dropping hours of a video game I've ever played. It's an incredible climax that innovates in the medium and sets the stage for what might be next for this team.

The best part of Split Fiction is that it's gorgeous and easy for all skill levels to learn, and it offers both players entertaining, varied activities the entire way through. If you're looking for the next game to play with your spouse, sibling, or child, this is the one for you.

Originally published on Esquire US

For the whole time I was reading it, I tried to second-guess Twist, the new novel by the Irish writer Colum McCann. Ah! I said, a chapter or so in, as the narrator, a lost soul, washed up in Cape Town awaiting a summons to an ocean voyage: it’s a re-working of Moby-Dick! (I do have a confirmation bias problem with Moby-Dick sightings I’ll admit.) McCann’s Ishmael was a writer—Anthony Fennell—working on an assignment for an online magazine about the boats that traverse the world to fix ruptures in the fibre-optic cables through which most of our exchanged information is conveyed. Fennell, too, has been told of a mysterious captain, or rather, a chief of mission—John Conway—to whose boat he has been assigned by a press office somewhere in Brussels.

Conway, though, is no Ahab—although his surname does pre-empt some future slipperiness—and makes himself surprisingly available to Fennell before they’ve even stepped offshore. He invites Fennell to his home to meet his partner, Zanele—a glamorous actress and, like Conway himself, an accomplished free-diver—and the two children they’re raising. Later, Conway introduces Fennell to his free-diving friends. (Ahab, by contrast: not a big friends guy.) Something is awry though: Zanele is taking the kids to Brighton while she stars in a play; Conway is heading out to sea. Perhaps Twist isn’t a seafaring adventure, but an ill-fated love story?

There are further twists to come. In Africa there has been a deluge of Biblical proportions and import: rains so heavy they’ve created a gargantuan underwater landslide and a cable has been severed. The internet is slowing—heaven forfend!—and Conway’s crew is assigned to locate the cable and repair it. Fennell is quick to claim his cabin although, in scenes semi-reminiscent of that middle bit in Triangle of Sadness, takes some days to find his sea legs.

McCann, who won the National Book Award for his 2009 novel, Let the Great World Spin, partly inspired by the French tightrope-walker Philippe Petit, spent time aboard a French cable boat, the Léon Thévenin, which, like the fictional Georges Lecointe, flies under the flag of Mauritius. He has clearly studied closely the mechanics of such a ship, from its crew to its layout to the exact way the replacement cables are coiled or the frayed ends of the cable recovered. But also he has thought about it deeply too—what it means that we surrender the stuff of our lives, from the profound to the frivolous, to these inconspicuous lines snaking along the ocean floor.

And it is fascinating, really, isn’t it? That we understand so little of how the world works, what the fundamental infrastructure of our lives really is, or how vulnerable to damage we allow ourselves to be. And McCann’s prose has a power and lyrical propulsion that can be quite dazzling: the huge landslip, for example, is “an underwater punch to the back of the brain, rupturing the eardrums of whatever was there to hear it, an eight-hundred-kilometre slide that could have destroyed anything in its path, passing through the underwater gorges, beyond the jagged cliffs, over the drowned ridges, the bluffs, the crags, the caves.” Like the engorged Congo River, his descriptions sweep, unsparingly, across the page.

But just when you think you’ve got it sussed—ah, a semi-philosophical enquiry into the nature of connection and human frailty!—it twists again. We’re back with Conway, and an unexpected denouement that uncoils with page-turning urgency. Having been absent a while, the chief of mission returns, or a fractured version of him anyway—a portrait of a man who, like Petit before him, possesses a singularity of vision and an ability to endure extremes. And the book becomes… something else. A character study? An ecological thriller? Certainly it wasn’t the book I thought it was. But sometimes it’s best to take a breath and follow the line.

Originally published on Esquire UK

Mountains have always mystified me. These ancient structures have watched civilisations come and go, oceans dry up, and even observed life itself take its first steps. I like to think of them as magisters of earth of sorts—these colossal, celestial beings who’ve silently bore witness to our planet’s history for centuries, but, for whatever reason just never felt the need to say anything.

So, when I heard of a watch brand with an ethos rooted in mountainous exploration, my interest was piqued.

You might have heard the name NORQAIN floating around in the world of horology—that brand with a logo featuring sharp, jagged edges forming a mountain. Or perhaps you haven’t, and you’d be excused. Established just seven years ago, the youthfulness of this Swiss watch company belies the ancient mountains they so admire. Yet, as I would soon come to realise, age in this case truly is just a number. The family-owned company caters to a niche market of outdoor and alpine enthusiasts, which explains the rugged logo composed of two interlocking “N”s.

I had the privilege of spending a week with a NORQAIN watch—the Independence Skeleton Chrono, to be precise. It’s NORQAIN’s first flyback chronograph, inspired by the world’s tallest mountains.

Upon first encountering the 42mm-wide watch, I expected a certain heft, given its size. However, as I lifted it, my expectations were unmet—largely due to its Grade 5 titanium lightweight case, which keeps the watch under 90 grams.

This featherlight quality can also be attributed to its skeletonised dial, where portions of the dial have been carefully stripped away to reveal the intricate inner workings of the watch. What remains is a purple open-worked bridge, with the top half carved to mimic NORQAIN’s signature mountain motif.

NORQAIN's 8K

This sits atop the brand’s all-new 8K Manufacture Calibre, whose namesake was derived from the world’s 14 highest peaks, often referred to as “Eight-Thousanders.” The skeletonised calibre lives up to this name, featuring a flyback chronograph function, making it the brand’s most ambitious mechanical creation to date.

To understand why this is so, let’s revisit how flyback chronographs work. A standard chronograph requires three steps to restart timing: stop, reset, and start again. A flyback, however, can perform all three actions simultaneously with a single press of a button.

Pressing the button felt crisp and satisfying, without any of that jerky start-stop resistance found in typical chronographs. This is made possible off the back of an intricate column wheel—usually found in high-end chronographs due to the precise finishing and expert assembly required to integrate it into a calibre—which helps reduce resistance in the pushers.

While we’re on the topic, it’s worth noting that the bi-directional automatic winding system not only boasts a power reserve of 62 hours but is also COSC-certified. Additional complications include a small seconds counter at 6 o’clock and a 30-minute counter at 12.

Cool specs, but how does it look?

Compositional contrast is the name of the game. The black DLC (diamond-like carbon) titanium case undergoes a trio of finishes: polishing, brushing, and sandblasting to give the watch some added dimension through its multi-tiered layer of variating surfaces. The movement itself is finished with polished and sandblasted surfaces as well, adding to the mesmerising complexity and depth of the calibre.

This obsession with juxtaposition extends even to the gun-metal plated hands, which feature a shielded and an arrow. Both of which, along with the indices, are coated in Super-Luminova for superior legibility, even in the dark.

Speaking of which, legibility can often be an issue in many skeletonised dials, but this was never an issue with the Independence Skeleton Chrono. The white filled-in hands and markers, along with the distinct shapes of the hands made timekeeping a breeze.

The purple accents that invade the dial complemented the overarching gunmetal tone of the watch well—subtle enough not to overwhelm yet striking enough to support that air of mystery created by the black and varied surfaces. In fact, with its brooding purple-and-black colourway, dare I say the watch looks like something Chadwick Boseman might’ve rocked in a Black Panther film?

How does it feel?

The all-purple rubber strap felt great on my wrists, it’s one of those watches that doesn’t take much time to break in and get used to. By the third day, there were moments when I forgot I was even wearing a watch—though this could also be attributed to its lightweight design. This level of comfort surprised me, especially as someone with smaller wrists. While the dial might give the illusion of bulk and jankiness, the watch never felt cumbersome.

The only gripe I’d have would be the lack of flexibility in strap options. I thought the purple strap might’ve played too much into the colour, so I would have appreciated the option of a black rubber strap as well. A steel variation of the watch is available, either with a strap or a bracelet, but these lack the purple accents that I adore.

Limited to just 300 pieces, the black titanium DLC Independence Skeleton Chrono with its purple accents manages to blend sportiness, practicality and artistry in a way few watches do. NORQAIN may be young, but based on what I’ve seen from the pristine craftsmanship involved in their watches, it wouldn’t surprise me if, one day, they become as tall and storied as the celestial beings that inspire their ethos.

It was around the second or third episode of the new season of The White Lotus — you know how time gloops mid-holiday — that I began to feel a little, hm, what’s the word? Brainless. Not exactly brain-dead, because show creator Mike White’s ear for dig-laden dialogue is still intact and his eye for relationship dynamics remains clear, but I was just completely… without brain.

The series, which as you probably know is set in a high-end hotel and revolves around a mix of privileged and less privileged, awful and slightly less awful characters, now moves along so smoothly, exists with such little friction that you too feel like a guest of this resort, eavesdropping and judging poolside, mojito in hand, motivation at a sub-zero level and a brain that has, three sips ago, completely shut off.

Fine, even desirable, for a holiday, but what do you want out of a television show?

White has taken us, presumably by business class, to Thailand for this season. It’s a smart, if obvious, setting: good light, scandalous beach parties, plenty of intrigue for woo-woo Westerners.

Assembled here we have television star television star Jaclyn (Michelle Monaghan), on a girls trip with her school friends, Texan housewife Kate (Leslie Bibb) and single mum lawyer Laurie (Carrie Coon). This season’s family are the Ratliffs: financier dad Timothy (Jason Isaacs) and snobbish wife Victoria (Parker Posey), and their three children. Charlotte Le Bon plays a beautiful French woman with a brutish partner, while Aimee Lou Wood plays a spiritual Brit with a brooding partner (played by Fallout’s whackadoodle Walton Goggins). Blackpink’s Lisa plays a member of staff Mook; her love interest is one of the hotel’s security guards Gaitok (Tayme Thapthimthong).

It is a fine and familiar collection of characters.

The Ratliffs, with their parental pressures and variously rebellious children, may remind you of the first season’s Mossbacher clan (which featured the terrifying eldest daughter played by Sydney Sweeney). It’s daughter Hunter who is infuriating her conservative (small and big c) parents with her interest in Buddhist monasteries, while daddy Timothy is spinning out in a work crisis. Le Bon and Wood’s gal pals hit similar beats to last year’s hotel escorts: fun and frequently the smartest people there.

Meanwhile the Jaclyn/Kate/Laurie trio swiftly resort back to their school age tensions (one of them gets the boys, the other didn’t), a dynamic which plays out in an occasionally funny if very recognisable way. In the six episodes I have watched (there are eight in total), I rarely felt surprised (except for one eye-popping, excellent storyline, which to give White his credit, I can’t recall seeing on-screen before: spoiler warnings prevent me from going further).

In each season, White has turned his off-beat eye to a different theme: the first, set in Hawaii, looked at financial disparity among the hotel’s guests and staff (though was frequently most intriguing when it explored the inequality among the guests themselves); the second, this time in Italy, was a sweaty close-up on sexual dynamics. It was raunchier, more dangerous, a little vulgar, and all better for it.

Throughout those seasons, it has never been clear to me why The White Lotus is categorised as a satire; White’s talent is bringing us a few interesting people, giving them a convincing dynamic, and then fucking that up over a week. I’m certainly thankful that there’s not too much analysis of ignorant Americans’ view of Eastern religion or culture – the unfamiliarity is mostly played for a few jokes – but it is hard to see exactly what the point of this season is. White has something funny to say about family and friendship and male fragility, but nothing feels particularly urgent, especially in comparison with the stand-out second season.

Some elements do really work.

The pace is fun, particularly in the first few episodes: there’s a woozy, unstructured vibe which was present in earlier season and comes into its own here. The performances are good across the board, especially the more desperate ones: I liked Isaacs and Goggins as men-on-the-verge, and it is hard to complain when Parker Posey is on your television screen. Many of the observations — about phones or plastic surgery or protein powder — feel very true-to-life (something you may find that comforting or confrontational, or both).

White has a background in reality television, which you will know if you have read anything about him or The White Lotus. He has participated as a contestant on desert-island series Survivor as well as globetrotting competition The Amazing Race: he regularly discusses the impact of these shows on this series. You see it in the relationships among the guests and the staff, and how they change over a week: they strengthen, and sour, and reach breaking point. That interplay has served White well so far, though you may begin to wonder, like a contestant on a tired reality show, whether the format is getting a little predictable. Nice beaches, though.

Originally published on Esquire UK

In the heart of Panzano, a tiny Tuscan village of just over 1,000 souls, stands an unassuming butcher shop that has become a pilgrimage site for food lovers worldwide. Here, Dario Cecchini—an eighth-generation butcher whose family has practised the craft in the same spot for 250 years—works tirelessly from dawn to dusk, seven days a week. Through his hands, the humblest cuts of meat are transformed into dishes that honour both tradition and innovation, earning him recognition from the likes of Anthony Bourdain and The New York Times, which dubbed him “The World’s Greatest Butcher”.

But what does a title like that entail? I spend a day at his Singaporean outpost at the Mondrian Singapore Duxton, Bottega di Carna, to understand the man behind the cheeky moustache, and experience just what 250 years of heritage tastes like.

ESQUIRE SINGAPORE: Who is Dario Cecchini? 

DARIO CECCHINI: I come from a very tiny village in Panzano—there are not even 1,000 people in our village. I’m the butcher of our little town, and I continue to be just that. There’s no director of our butcher shop, no manager—it’s just me running everything. 

By 7 or 8 o’clock in the morning, I’d already spent an hour on the phone organising all the work and setting up the day. I work every day, seven days a week, usually for 13 or 14 hours a day.

There’s no holiday, no days off unless I’m travelling for work. But it’s not just about keeping things going to make more money. My family has been butchers for eight generations—that’s 250 years of doing the same work in the same place. Next year will mark my 50th year as a butcher in my shop in Panzano. 

ESQ: What does it mean to be a famous butcher? 

DAR: Our town is starting to become well-known, even famous, partly thanks to our butcher shop. For me, being called famous is important only because it brings more people to my little town. That’s what matters to me. 

It’s nice when I’m travelling outside my town, and someone recognises me—on a plane, for example and they ask for a picture. I always joke and say, “Come to Ponzano first, then we’ll take a picture.”

So, being famous, for me, is about representing my community. We’re so small [that] we need to show up in some way. 

ESQ: Do you have any stories of your community? 

DAR: I rarely sit down for lunch or dinner, but there’s a single moment in my day when I take a break. Every day, I pass by my barber around the corner—just 50 metres from my shop. He’s 84 years old, and every day he insists that I come in.

He doesn’t want me to pay him. He says, “You represent our town. Your moustache has to look good, and your hair has to look good because you represent all of us.” When I’m out of town, I have to send him a picture so he knows everything’s okay. (It’s not okay right now—the humidity is a challenge!) 

My barber says, “I’ve become famous at 84 years old thanks to you.” He’s even ended up in tour guidebooks. “Go to the butcher and the barber,” it says. So, that’s what makes me happy if someone wants to call me famous. 

ESQ: Is there a cut of meat that’s underrated? Or something people should appreciate more? 

DAR: Growing up, we ate all the cuts that were harder to sell in the shop—trotters, muzzle, blood. My grandmother would turn these into beautiful dishes. But it wasn’t just about saving money; it was about respecting the animal and not wasting anything. 

I didn’t eat my first T-bone steak until my 18th birthday. That was a special gift, symbolising my transition from boyhood to manhood. 

One of my favourite dishes at our restaurant in Panzano is boiled beef knees. Chef Kenny here in Singapore does a fantastic job with them too. You boil the knees, which have both meat and tendon, and use the broth to make a warm salad with julienned carrots, onions, and celery. 

ESQ: Do you have a must-eat dish for all visitors coming to Bottega di Carna? 

DAR: For sure—tartare. My tartare. Another standout menu item is Chef Kenny’s Oxtail Agnolotti. These are butcher’s cuts, and they’re truly special. It’s hard to choose, but those are two of my favourites. 

ESQ: What about a dish that holds the most sentimental value for you? 

DAR: Being a butcher is perhaps one of the most difficult jobs in the food world. We’re talking about taking the life of an animal. It’s our responsibility to ensure the animals have a good life and a compassionate death. 

For me, our tartare represents that respect. It’s made from one of the toughest cuts of the animal—not the tenderest. We take this hard-working muscle, full of flavour, and tenderise it into a beautiful dish. 

It symbolises the work of a butcher—carefully choosing and preparing a cut so that it’s absolutely delicious. It’s a way to honour the animal and show that every part can be equally special. 

ESQ: I know you’ve served many big names like Anthony Bourdain and Stevie Wonder. Do you have a favourite customer or any memorable stories? 

DAR: Actually, Anthony Bourdain would probably be that person. The last time he came to our shop for lunch was just a week before he passed away. I gave him one of my aprons as a gift and tied it around his head. 

We were friends. I remember waving goodbye to him—it was springtime—as he walked away down the road. I said, “Antonio, we’ll see you in August for your next holiday.” That was the last time we saw him. He was a very special person.

Dario Cecchini is, above all, a sentimental man

But you’ve probably already surmised this based on the brief conversation we shared. Typically, interviews like these undergo considerable condensation and polishing for the sake of clarity and flow. Yet, I felt little edits were necessary here. Cecchini and I don’t speak the same language—his tongue Italian, mine Chinese, with no common bridge in English. His words were carried to me entirely through the graceful translation of his wife. Yet, as we sat diagonally across from one another at a small square table in his restaurant, Bottega di Carna, I realised we didn’t need words for me to grasp his passion and character. His warm smile, gesticulating hands, an excerpt from The Divine Comedy printed on the menu, and even his business card—tucked with salt as a traditional gift symbolising good luck—all spoke to me.

This theme of translation—of words, of passion, of emotions—would echo throughout my experience at his restaurant. As dusk settled and the space gradually filled with members of the media, it was time to explore the dishes Cecchini had so passionately described.

The meal began with a flourish: Dario’s Signature Steak Tartare, the dish to which he attaches the most sentimental value to due to how it encapsulates his zero-waste philosophy. The leanest and toughest cuts of beef are given new life here, though you’d never guess from tasting it. Each component stands out yet works in harmony—Chianti salt unlocks the beef’s natural flavour, lemon adds a vibrant brightness, and Tuscan olive oil coats the back of my tongue.

A standout element is the Beef tendon—a cut uncommon in Italian cuisine reimagined through an arduous process of freezing and frying to create delicate cracker puffs which add textural contrast. The flavours in the dish aren’t intense, far from it—they’re subtle, almost meditative. I had to close my eyes to extract the flavours of the tartare, but in doing so, helped me discern how each ingredient elevated the others. Raw, honest, and unpretentious, it’s no wonder this is Cecchini’s signature dish.

The Basket Tortelli follows up satisfyingly like a warm embrace. The al dente pasta, slightly gummy to the bite, cradles a hearty butternut squash and pumpkin filling, while a pool of Parmigiano Reggiano fondue blankets each piece. Sweetness from the squash meets the creamy, nutty depth of the cheese, achieving a remarkable balance of flavours—all without a hint of meat. Not bad for a butcher.

Next came the Oxtail Agnolotti. In this dish, six-hour-braised oxtail is infused with herbs and vegetables, blended into a velvety filling, and encased in pasta. These parcels float in a capon consommé—a broth made from castrated rooster, known for its richer and slightly sweeter flavour, as Chef de Cuisine Kenny Huang notes whimsically. The robust broth, in contrast with tender Agnolotti creates a deeply comforting bite that’s equally as indulgent.

No visit to Bottega di Carna would be complete without mentioning the Fiorentina T-Bone Bistecca. Before it escapes me, let it be known that the restaurant only uses premium cuts of beef flown in from Viñals Soler, a venerable Spanish butchery with over a century of heritage. My portion was done rarer than I’d prefer, but when the quality of the meat is that high, doneness becomes almost an afterthought. Succulent, well-marbled, and buttery, with a distinct dry-aged funk that emerged with each chew—this was simply put, an excellent steak.

Cecchini, with his warm-hearted smile, mischievous eyes, and unlimited knowledge, is a sort of magister of the flesh. In the same way, my interview with him was translated through his wife, Bottega Di Carna served as a vessel in which his culinary philosophy was seamlessly communicated—respectful, comforting, and sustainable. What you eat from Cecchini are monuments of a tradition, but in the same way, they do not retrace the entire road— choosing a more conscious and poetic attitude towards his love for butchery.

Cigarettes After Sex is the kind of band that makes music so intimate it makes you want to selfishly tuck it away in the quietest corner of your heart. It’s something you wouldn’t lend out carelessly—not to friends, not to your cousin, not even to your sister. At least, that’s how it felt when I first stumbled upon Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby back when I was an overly serious teenager who thought listening to a band called “Cigarettes After Sex” made me seem more interesting; compensating for the fact that I had never so much as held a girl’s hand. 

Years have passed since, and the band has become something of a phenomenon—amassing billions of streams and selling out shows worldwide across various continents. They belong to the world now. So, when the opportunity to watch them perform live at the Singapore Indoor Stadium presented itself, I jumped at it. Mainly involving a series of anxious texts to my editor-in-chief to secure the tickets (thanks for letting me have this one, big dawg). 

Cigarettes After Sex is a band drenched in black—from their wardrobe to their album art, and even the mood of their music. It felt natural, then, to attend the concert clad in black and grey, as if merging with the aesthetic would somehow enhance the experience. I had known this “unspoken” dress code to be a TikTok trend beforehand, but actually seeing it in person and witnessing the sea of black fabric before my eyes felt oddly unifying. Dare I say, almost cult-like…? But more on that later. 

@pooopiedooo ♬ original sound - Rancies Bangcuyo Almirante

The concert began in near darkness

The lights dimmed, leaving the stadium illuminated only by the constellated glow of mobile phones and the spotlights on stage, which beckoned the band to appear. Radio silence. The moment was as quiet as the stadium would be all evening. A slow inhale before the first note. Then, the soft hum of an electric guitar, provoking the crowd to exhale in a rapturous cry. That was, until, the coaxing voice of Greg Gonzalez took over. 

“Do it with the lips that you kept when I finally kissed you.” 

The stadium was pacified, and it fell back into silence. The band opened with X’s. which started a little shaky. Gonzalez spent the first half of the song finding his footing with the tempo of the instruments and the echo of the microphone. But when everything smoothed out, and the music finally settled, the sounds that invaded my ears swirled like velvet satin. Those smoky, ambient sounds of melancholia, intensified by Gonzalez’s androgynous voice, put me right in a daze. 

It’s difficult to recall specific moments, the way you sometimes struggle to separate one dream from another. The songs blurred together, not in a way that diminished them, but in the way time softens the edges of a memory. The stage production only sank me deeper into this state. Shifting greyscale visuals of majestic clouds and heavy thunderstorms decorated the main screen. A grainy shot of Jacob Tomsky banging on the drums. A sublime angle of Randall Miller’s silhouette playing the bass, captured in a shot you’d expect to see in an Ingmar Bergman film. You pair all that with the shadowy reverb of an electric guitar filling the space, and for a while, it felt like we were all floating in some kind of collective dream. 

Yet, as I drifted through the haze of smoke and mist, there were moments when the air cleared, and specific scenes stood out. A flash from the pit below revealed a couple taking a picture of themselves as Sweet played in the background. The palpable excitement of friends contrasted with the pensive presence of those who attended the show alone. A couple holding back on physical shows of affection until the very end, as the show began slipping away. 

Gonzalez once described his music as “erotic lullabies”, which gives the optics of his soothing voice pacifying the crowd a whole new perspective. Just as I used to roll around in my room as an adolescent, playing their music to feel my emotions on a deeper level—it struck me how (almost) everyone in attendance probably did the same at some point, using their music as a form of reassurance and anxiety relief. 

Every person—thousands of us, strangers, at various stages of life, were in that stadium. And we were all, in some capacity, thinking about love. The heated throes of budding love exemplified by the words, “I always will make it feel like you were the last one.” The ache of unrequited love in “He’s got so much in his heart / But he doesn’t know what to do.” The soft, guttural memory of a lost love reflected in “And when you go away, I still see you / With sunlight on your face in my rearview.” Cigarettes After Sex’s ability to distil the multitudes of love, longing, and lust into contemplative lyrics, smouldering guitar strums, and light snares is widely known. But to experience it in such a tangible manner was something special. 

The band performed many favourites, including Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby, Apocalypse, and Cry. All of it felt even better live, as the simmering ambience of the lighting and smoke made it feel as though we were inside Gonzalez’s head, just as he envisioned these songs. By the time Dreaming of You rolled around, I was entranced. Falling in Love pulled me under. 

Then came the moment when the spotlights descended upon the crowd. I don’t recall which song was playing, but I remember the light—blinding and all-consuming. For a brief moment, everything disappeared, and it was just me and that light. Pure and overwhelming. A kind voice serenading my ears. 

The emotional high, the unspoken black dress code upheld by a sea of thousands, a charismatic frontman bathed in a spotlight, the collective chanting of lyrics—it all felt like some kind of cultic ritual in a moment outside of time. Before the concert, I’d joked about being prepared for a transcendental, spiritual experience, and while I didn’t quite get there, those damned spotlights came pretty close. 

I've heard of this dude who rents himself out to do nothing. Most of us have, though we probably don't recall his name or what he looks like even after watching the documentary. The concept is so simple yet brilliant, inciting a reaction no different from looking at contemporary art we don't understand—I could've done that.

Yet, we didn't. And this man did. Morimoto has been hired over 4,000 times since the inception of his service in 2018. He gained 100,000 followers within the first year of advertising himself via a tweet. You're not alone in finding his success bizarre; the man himself was equally befuddled. Thus, his retrospective purposes to find an answer. So upon seeing his non-fiction title on stands, I wanted to get a glimpse into his mind. What I didn't expect, however, was the insights doing nothing could reveal.

About work

Aligning with his mantra to "do nothing", Morimoto has actually not written the book himself. Engaging a writer and editor to keep an objective angle, all he did was respond to their questions and watch them develop it. Surprising, given his past life in academia and freelance writing.

Besides stemming from demoralising "jokes" his former employer made towards him, his take on jobs itself makes you reconsider the peculiar dynamics we have at work. Japan is infamous for its toxic corporate culture, but there are some aspects that apply to all modern offices. We are largely defined by our occupation, but our performances are often not judged solely based on competency. Rather, how personable we are as well. To the people who matter, at least.

About relationships

It's more common than anticipated that people rent him purely to tell him something extremely confidential. Sensitive subjects you would share with their loved ones instead. Somehow, the degree of separation—Morimoto mostly sees his clients once—and his lack of advice fulfills seemingly basic human needs to A) voice it out, B) feel heard and not judged. As friend or family, we are inclined to help solve the problem at hand. Yet, many of his clients usually arrive at a solution without his contribution going beyond nodding.

In fact, it's more intriguing when it's not about getting a secret off your chest. Such as clients who just want to rave about their favourite band. It's fascinating breaking down why you can't necessarily do this with a friend. There are expected parameters for conversation; because veering too far from a mutual interest could potentially bore your companion.

This specialisation extends to activities as well. In his words, "When someone asks me to go with them to a restaurant, a computer game tournament or pop concert, I think that rather than having nobody at all they could ask, it's more a matter of not having a friend for that specific purpose. Unless a friend shares a particular interest, inviting them to come along might feel like asking a favour and thus puts you in their debt."

Occupying the liminal space between 'friend' and 'stranger', he liberates the client from these committal customs. Almost like a situationship minus the sex—you get the convenience of company without needing to spend the required time and expenditure to first build a friendship; and no obligations to continue contact. It begs the question: Are we as transactional in our personal relationships?

About money

One of the biggest revelations was the fact that Morimoto does this for free. It is his strategic decision not to invoke a fee to avoid a dynamic dictated by money, where service satisfaction could become based on how "customers" can "get their money's worth". It's interesting to see how involving finances alters the levels of expectation.

Though living off his savings and only charging for travel expenses, he has received remuneration over the years. Sometimes, even for no reason at all. When asked how it compares with being a shrine offertory box, Morimoto is certain about the difference. People who throw coins usually expect a blessing; in his case, the sheer act of giving is what allows people to feel good about themselves. By merely existing as an available recipient, he has done his job.

About society

What Morimoto calls being "zero spec", or having absolutely nothing to offer, is of itself his unique selling point. It prompted him to think: "A baby has a completely zero spec -it can't do anything by itself- but with the love and care of its parents and others, it lives. As I looked at our child, I kept thinking how wonderful that was. And I began to wish everyone could live like a baby does, behaving just as they wanted".

It is true that demands to contribute professionally and personally are ingrained later in life, and the freedom we were born with fades away. In some way, Morimoto has escaped this fate. It makes me wonder how many of us can.

The art of doing nothing

One popular request and logical driver for his business model are activities you can't quite do alone. Or more likely, can't quite be seen doing alone. This leaves us with the questions: Why do we feel conscious of how people we don't know perceive us doing something alone? Or, what makes certain activities weird to be done alone in the first place?

Highly self-aware (probably because it was not directly authored) and funny in deadpan ways, the overall tone of the book is consistent with his branding. The short and easy read is ultimately not so much a book about doing nothing, but why humans need someone to do nothing with.

Rental Person Who Does Nothing

Time to go back, way back. The year is 2000 and Ridley Scott’s Gladiator is storming cinemas. With Russell Crowe as its hero and Joaquin Phoenix as a bad dude, the historical epic—a vengeance story featuring some brilliant sets—swept the box office, awards shows, and school classrooms for end-of-term viewing forevermore (I believe I have seen the first 35 minutes of Gladiator about seven times). Was it inevitable that we would get a sequel? To a film which earned over USD400 million and won Oscars for Best Picture and Best Actor? Perhaps the only surprise is that it has taken 24 years for Gladiator II to enter the arena: this sequel was not built in a day.

Maybe Ridley was waiting for the right lead. He seems to have found one in Normal People’s Paul Mescal, a very fine actor who carries social media trends and fashion movements on his well-turned shoulders, to take up Crowe’s mantle. Mescal plays Lucius, who has been living in northern Africa with his wife when the big bad Roman army come knocking. After the city of Numidia is conquered, a widowed Lucius is ferried to Rome where he is put in a ring with some (remarkably terrible CGI) baboons. Impressed by Lucius’ willingness to bite monkeys, human trafficker-cum-politico Macrinus (Denzel Washington) coaches Lucius into the Colosseum where he is forced to fight sharks, rhinos and personal demons. Around him, Rome burns: twin emperors Geta (Joseph Quinn) and Caracalla (Fred Hechinger) are running roughshod over the senate, leading Lucilla (Connie Nielsen) to plan an insurrection with her husband General Acacius (Pedro Pascal).

No surprises with how any of this unfolds (even fewer surprises if you have seen the first movie), and the straightforwardness of the plot makes it clear that audiences should simply behold the spectacle. In the most talked-about staging at the Colosseum, the arena is flooded in a recreation of the Battle of Salamis—a sea battle between the Greeks and the Persian navy for those not paying attention during classical civilisation—and Lucius must fight against against some (remarkably terrible CGI) sharks. In another, Lucius fights a Roman atop a rhino. None of this is any match to Lucius, who does not seem afraid of these challenges at any point, even for a single second. Macrinus attributes that success to Lucius’ “rage”, though the star gladiator is also cunning and smart, which adds to his appeal.

With his aquiline features, Mescal certainly looks the part—which becomes a welcome visual gag involving a statue that shares his likeness—and has the jacked arms and legs and shoulders to boot (a result we can attribute to Mescal’s training regime and four prescribed ready-made meals a day). Mescal’s Lucius has the vibe of a man who has never willingly made a joke in his entire life, which is fine, but a sense of humour—this is a ridiculous movie—would not have gone amiss. If he struggles to sustain a leading man performance – well, it’s a two hour plus movie, and the script is uninspiring.

Hechinger and Quinn have the juiciest roles here as the demented brothers whose grip on an empire is crumbling at an alarming rate (what the plot lacks in originality, the pacing makes up for in lunacy). Geta is the more strategic brother, while Caracalla is suffering from a sexually transmitted disease which has now begun to affect his brain as well. Washington just about takes the entire film as Macrinus, who ascends to the most powerful men in Rome in a matter of days. It’s a giddy, ridiculous rise, and Washington’s performance matches that. (The same cannot be said for all the supporting cast, who occasionally read lines as though their scripts were typed out in Latin.)

And Scott sure knows how to deliver what an audience wants. His direction is frenetic, and the film works well as a Roman soap opera. There are moments of real tension in this corrupt Rome, like when Acasius is welcomed by the emperors on his victory lap through the city streets. As the general moves from the hollering crowds to the hush of the emperors’ enclave, from public mania to private menace, there are emotional stakes that are largely absent from the arena. Scott pairs that with a fun, gossipy undertone throughout; servants hide in bushes, whispers spread through crowds. Even the sillier aspects—an anachronistic newspaper, a pet monkey in a frilly outfit—are enjoyable swings, which seem to say: not everything has to be taken too seriously.

It’s a shame that, among all that campy drama, the emotional impact is minimal: the story is simply so obvious, Lucius’ virtues so pure, and his journey to success so unchallenged that the ending arrives with a shrug, rather than an imperial thumbs up.

Originally published on Esquire UK

Beware: this article features Joker: Folie à Deux spoilers.

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What’s black and white and red all over? Joker: Folie à Deux, the desaturated sequel to Joker, which is currently undergoing a public beating. A measly weekend haul of $37.8 million in the US! A CinemaScore rating – based on audience surveys – of D! Both are probably very unfunny to Warner Bros executives.

It seems unlikely, even given a healthier international haul of $80 million, that Joker: Folie à Deux will live up in any way to its prequel which earned a billion dollars (a billion dollars!) and netted Joaquin Phoenix an Oscar for Best Clown (sorry, actor). But you know who might have the last chuckle? Todd Phillips.

You could not accuse the director, so adored for 2019’s Joker and currently being pilloried for ruining that film’s legacy, for phoning it in. In the latest episode of Esquire’s Freeze Frame, Phillips is insightful about his film, which charts Arthur Fleck’s (Phoenix) stint in Arkham Asylum as he prepares for trial and learns to live alongside his Joker alter-ego.

Phillips goes deep on the casting—Steve Coogan’s ghoulish journalist, Brendan Gleeson as a manipulative asylum guard, Lady Gaga’s dour take on Harley Quinn (who goes by the name of Lee)—to one of the movie’s prevailing themes, which he calls the “corruption of entertainment”.

He is talking specifically about the scene in which Coogan’s character interviews Arthur about his misbehaviour in the previous film (he murdered five people). The low-rent journo clearly trying to get a rise out of our beleaguered anti-hero, who cannot help mugging to the camera.

As Phillips says, “In the States, often we put trials on television. We’ll put a murderer like Arthur on TV and sell adverts during the interview. We’ll have presidential elections with graphics that make it look like a wrestling match. If everything is entertainment, what is actually entertainment?”

Good question! Clearly not Joker: Folie à Deux, according to Joker fans. They were not keen for a courtroom drama. Or Lady Gaga in her least Lady Gaga-like role. Or the downbeat ending where Fleck is—spoiler alert—stabbed by a fellow asylum patient known as “Psycho” (well, he is not nicknamed “Cuddly”).

Does the film have the verve of its prequel? Bar a few arresting sequences—like when the asylum guards’ grey umbrellas appear multicoloured from Arthur’s perspective—it certainly doesn’t have Joker’s element of surprise (unless you were expecting a villain origin story under the influence of Scorsese). The musical aspect is intriguing, but Phillips and his cast have been adamant that this film is not one, and I am inclined to agree: musicals should feature some peppier tunes and fewer renditions of “Oh When The Saints Go Marching In”.

The best part of this film, in this writer’s superhero-averse eyes, is what it attempts to say about fame. Arthur, who had become a hero to losers (on and off-screen), in the first movie, finds himself at a crossroads in the second. He’s more famous than he could have dreamt—his trial is being televised, his burgeoning romance with Lee makes the front pages—but more tormented than ever before.

His lawyer, played by Catherine Keener, is trying to persuade the courtroom (and Arthur himself) that he has a split personality and needs better treatment (does that exist in Gotham?). Meanwhile, his lame fans wait outside the courtroom, worshipping a version of Arthur that exists—sometimes? In the past? Certainly, when Arthur takes the stand, to the applause of his adoring fans, Joker is absent. The man stammers to an expectant room, completely sans braggadocio.

“Folie à Deux” (maybe the best thing about this film is the title?) refers to a joint psychosis. Sure, that could refer to Arthur and Lee. But more compelling is the delusion shared by Arthur and his fans.

This week, I watched The Franchise, a brisk TV comedy from Armando Iannucci and Sam Mendes, about the making of a doomed superhero movie. The series is an entertaining look at how Marvel fodder is churned out: decisions by far-off committees, pandering to intense fans, overworked CGI departments.

You end up with ugly, boring mush, even if you have helicoptered in an arthouse European director. Watching that show, I found myself warming to Joker: Folie à Deux: it is clearly beyond redemption for many thanks to its weird perspectives, but at least did not commit the sin of not having one at all. Maybe a few jokes next time?

Originally published on Esquire UK

Nearly a year after its release, I’ve seen virtually no marketing for the PlayStation Portal. Yet, it's selling like hotcakes. I had to find out what I was missing out on. Is this a product of the Sony propaganda machine, or something worth buying? After a month with PlayStation’s newest handheld, I’ve seen how it impresses, and where it disappoints.

But first, let’s talk about the PSP, the PlayStation Portable. In 2005, Sony released its first handheld console, and since then it's become a classic. It was the first portable device that promised console-quality 3D games on the go. It was celebrated for its library (and how easy it was to hack), even when it failed to live up to this promise. Nearly two decades later, and 12 years after its successor the PlayStation Vita, Sony has re-entered the handheld race. Just not the way you might think.

Pros

• Controller feels great
• LCD screen that supports 60 fps
• Better battery life than actual handhelds

Cons

• Requires a fast, stable internet connection
• No Bluetooth audio
• Spotty touch controls leaves some games unplayable
• Doesn't support streaming apps

Sony released the PlayStation Portal into an era where the dream of taking your PC and console games on the go is fully realised. Devices like the Steam Deck and ROG Ally do that very thing, and they do it quite well. It would make sense for Sony to release a competitor, one where you can play PlayStation exclusives like Final Fantasy VII Rebirth and God of War: Ragnarök anywhere you are. But Sony didn’t do that... They made this instead.

At SGD295.90, the PlayStation Portal is a great value for the tech, but it’s use-case is remarkably limited. I wanted to love it, and as a piece of hardware I do, but I fear my streaming issues aren’t an isolated incident. If you want to pony up for a Portal, I recommend you do it only if you have a vast PS5 library and scorching fast home internet.

Hardware: An Almost Perfect First Stab

The Portal is a dedicated remote play device that takes the form factor of a PS5 DualSense controller. Imagine cutting a DualSense in half and splicing a screen between each half. That’s exactly what this is. Using PlayStation’s remote play feature, you can stream any game you are playing on your PS5 directly to the Portal, as long as you are on the same Wi-Fi connection. That caveat is a big deal.

As a piece of hardware, the PlayStation Portal impressed me. The 8-inch touchscreen is roomy (not too big) and supports gameplay in 1080p at up to 60 frames per second. It’s a great controller in the first place, and now there’s a pretty damn good screen in the middle.

Most of the impressive (and gimmicky) features of the DualSense carry over to the Portal—including its advanced haptic feedback, adaptive triggers, built-in microphone, and overall ergonomics. The two things it’s lacking are a speaker and a touchpad. The lack of a microphone is mostly no biggie—even though I tested the only game that actually uses the controller, GOTY 2024 contender Astro Bot.

The real fumble with this device is that the touchpad is replaced by an unreliable touchscreen interface. Tap the screen and two transparent squares will pop up to represent the left and right sides of the touchpad. In theory, these work.

In practice, they don’t. The Wired reviewer noted this made Alan Wake 2 unplayable. I didn’t even try to stream a game that was graphically intense over my internet. But in my time delving into Sony’s library of PS1 and PS2 titles, I found that the touchpad is often used as the start button in these emulated classics. On the Portal, this doesn’t work. When playing Ape Escape (which I was inspired to finally play thanks to Astro Bot), I was unable to switch gadgets because the start menu was inaccessible. In later levels, this makes things unplayable.

I had other hardware nitpicks (the Portal doesn’t support Bluetooth headphones), but on the whole, that’s not where my main concerns about the Portal’s usefulness lie. In fairness the next part isn’t even Sony’s fault. The PlayStation Portal is a letdown… because of my internet.

Streaming: Expectations Meet Reality

Bandwidth is the lynchpin of the PlayStation Portal. How much you have of it determines your experience with the console. Me? I have good enough internet for working and gaming online with no trouble, but I don’t have a connection that I would call fast, nor would I consider it all that stable. This was the Achilles’ heel of my time with the Portal.

In my month with the Portal, I’ve tested good-looking PS5 games including Ghost of Tsushima, Spider-Man: Miles Morales, Demon's Souls, and Astro Bot. I also spent time with PS4 games The Last Guardian and God of War. In almost every case, the opening minutes of streaming were a disaster. Often, I would switch a game I was playing from the console to the Portal and would be greeted with pixelated, laggy gameplay. Typically, this would get worse before the game paused altogether, then booting me out and forcing me to reconnect. Only after reconnecting did some games perform.

When the streaming works smoothly, it is inconsistent from game to game. Higher-intensity titles didn’t stream as easily as less graphically demanding games. I had more luck getting the PS4 games to run smoothly after the initial hiccups. Ironically, the games that streamed the best were remastered versions of PSP and Vita games like Final Fantasy VII spin-off Crisis Core and the PS4 version of Gravity Rush. High-speed titles like Insomniac’s Spider-Man games or shooter rogue-lite Returnal never quite feel right on the Portal. Online shooters would certainly be a no-go on my Wi-Fi. Sorry, Helldivers.

Another streaming flaw I encountered almost instantly was the inability to stream “streamed” content to the Portal. In language that doesn’t use the form of “stream” three times in a phrase, that means no Netflix, no YouTube, etc. It also means that if you have access to the PlayStation Plus library of games that are only available via cloud streaming, they won’t run on the Portal. A bit of a disappointing oversight.

Overall, some games I accepted taking a graphical hit (and occasional hitches) on, and many others I would rather play on my TV.

Final Verdict: A Good Value for a Niche Audience

The use case for the PlayStation Portal is niche, for sure. If you have one TV in your home that’s often used by others, it is an appealing offer. Especially for the same price as a pair of Sony’s gaming earbuds. Chances are if you are paying for fiber internet already, the price isn't a big deal.

Still, playing the Portal feels limited and tethered. Not being able to leave the good Wi-Fi zone of your house makes it not in competition at all with what Nintendo and Valve have put out there. I also found that seemingly small quibbles like the lack of touchpad or Bluetooth support were more detrimental than they sound. All the small things. True care, truth brings.

That said, these are the types of setbacks you’d expect from a first-generation device. Even if the Portal was flawless, though, it still wouldn’t solve the nation’s inadequate bandwidth infrastructure. Without any improvements on that front, another PlayStation Portal would be a sequel that wouldn’t make much sense. For now, the current model’s effectiveness depends on your access to Broadband.

Originally published on Esquire US

It just feels so wrong. you take a single, gorgeous amaro—which probably has a semi-secret recipe perfected and handed down through generations—and shake the absolute hell out of it with ice in a cocktail tin. Isn’t that a sin against the liqueur gods? These bittersweet liqueurs, primarily from Italy, should be sipped room temperature or slightly chilled following an epic dinner and used in fancy aperitivo cocktails, right?

The original shakerato, the caffè shakerato, has been a fixture in Italy for decades. A bit of coffee, sugar, and ice, shaken and strained, results in something like an NA precursor to the espresso martini. At the historic bar Camparino in Milan, this same technique is applied to the classic amaro Campari. The method has slowly taken off in the United States among cocktail nerds, and it coincides with the broader rise in popularity of amaros. It’s easy to see the appeal: They typically have a lower ABV than whiskey or tequila, and Gen-Z loves a less boozy or NA cocktail. Plus, they’re authentic. If White Claw is practically digital, nothing feels more analogue than an amaro. And amaro labels look cool, dude.

Can you really call an amaro shakerato a cocktail when a cocktail has, by most definitions, at least three ingredients? Well, when you think about the make-up of amaros— mixtures of various sweet, bitter, and herbaceous ingredients—that’s pretty much what cocktails are. They are, in many ways, the original bottled cocktails.

What happens when you shake an amaro is the same thing that occurs when you shake any drink with sugar content: You dilute and chill the drink while everything aerates, emulsifies and integrates. The most important aspect to making a successful shakerato is the aeration. You need to shake it harder than you’ve ever shaken anything before and with less ice (or no ice). That is what will give you your fluffy head.

The technique works differently with every amaro—generally speaking, the higher the sugar content, the foamier the crema. We’ve tested a bunch and picked a few of our favorite amaros to shake (at right). You can experiment with drinks that blend two amaros together, like, say, the Ferrari—a combination of Fernet- Branca and Campari, more commonly served as a shot but, we think, much better in shakerato form.

Perhaps you’ve never liked amaros. Some people find them syrupy, almost medicinal. Chances are, though, that you’ll be won over by the shakerato. The technique softens and lengthens the amaro’s flavours to create an altogether different taste profile—one that provides a refreshing surprise. Love Negronis and espresso martinis but want something different? Again, the shakerato is the answer. It may never be as popular as those drinks, it might never become a TikTok trend, but being an under-the-radar classic has more cachet anyway.

Make Your Shakerato Technique Impeccable

There is no one way to make a shakerato, but there are some guidelines you can use to get the aeration and emulsification right. I find that the simplest thing to do is to shake the amaro with just a few cubes. This makes it easier for the air to mix into the drink. Use a Boston shaker or a martini shaker. And shake it hard. Like as hard as you can, for about 10 seconds. Do it enough and you’ll know when it’s got the right consistency. Then strain it into a glass.

A lot of pros do something called a reverse dry shake, which will give you a more robust crema. After you strain, return the contents to the shaker, shake some more, and then pour it into a coupe. It’s a simple enough cocktail for your party guests to shake on their own, too.

Originally published on Esquire US

I've been wearing smartwatches and fitness trackers around my wrist for years, but I’d never worn an Oura Ring before. I hadn’t considered myself much of a “ring guy,” but I admittedly wasn’t a watch guy before I started wearing an Apple Watch. Now I can’t go a day without it. After wearing my Oura Ring Generation 3 for more than two months, I can almost say the same thing about the tiny sleep monitor that currently lives on my finger at all times.

As a sleep tracker, the Oura Ring 3 is remarkable. As a fitness tracker, it’s not bad, could be better. As a piece of wearable tech, it’s comfortable to wear constantly and consistently, even in bed.

The Oura Ring vs. a smartwatch

Let’s get straight to it. Does the Oura Ring do enough to replace a smartwatch? No. I think it serves an entirely separate function. To answer the trickier question of “Is an Oura Ring right for you?” it depends on what you’re looking for in a wearable health tracker.

If you want extensive amounts of data about your sleep and daily health tracking, as well as an accurate step counter, yes, it is. Want all that in a package that doesn’t look techy whatsoever? An even better reason to choose one. If you want a completely smart device that will show you texts, calls, and reminders and, most important, tell you what time it is, buy a watch.

Setting up an Oura Ring

My Oura Ring journey began like any other—with a sizing kit. After you choose your make and model, Oura will send you a box of ring sizers ranging from sizes 6 to 13. They recommend you wear the smart ring on your index finger, but—due to a Little League–related accident in my youth—I’ve found it most comfortable to wear on the middle finger of my non-dominant (left) hand. Indecision frequently haunts me, so I was initially worried that my chosen size (11) would be too tight or too loose, but after weeks of everyday wear, I can safely say I don’t think about it too much anymore.

Once your device (it feels strange to call something this small a “device”) arrives, it’s time to download the app. The setup process is pretty easy and the onboarding is gradual. Certain data, like stress levels, resilience, long-term trends, and reports tabs, are inaccessible on day one. To start, I primarily relied on the ring for sleep and restfulness data. In this way, the Oura Ring puts its best foot forward.

First impressions: It’s stylish and discreet

Oura offers several style and finish options for your ring. You can opt for Heritage, the original design with a raised plateau segment, or the fully rounded Horizon. Each has a selection of metal finishes to choose from. In terms of tech, the rings are all identical. No plus or pro offerings, just one ring to rule them all. Each Gen 3 has three sensors on the inside of the ring that use biometrics to track daily functions, including heart rate and blood-oxygen levels.

About a month into my time with the ring, I went on a family vacation and multiple people asked me if my Horizon Oura Ring was a wedding ring or an engagement band. That’s how slick it is. It’s that normal looking. The fact that it’s so high-tech and looks like any other SGD450 ring made it easy to incorporate Oura into my daily routine.

Charging the Oura Ring

Since you are supposed to wear it all the time yet it’s also an electronic device, one of my first questions was “When will I charge my Oura Ring?” The answer: during showers. The ring itself is waterproof up to 330 feet; that means swimming is no problem, and the same goes for doing the dishes, washing your hands, etc. This is meant to monitor you at all times, remember? That makes it a great choice for swimmers who want to track their workouts.

Every morning, I wake up to see how I slept and to confirm the previous day’s activities, then I slip my ring off to shower and back on before I start my day. It ends up fading into the background of my busy life. Sometimes I’ll check the app to see my daily stress levels, but generally I only think about my Oura Ring in the morning and at night.

Tracking sleep and getting in tune with myself

While heart rate and blood-oxygen sensing are the newest features of the Oura Ring (only available on the Gen 3), sleep tracking is the most impressive feature, and it has only improved with each iteration. This is where the form, factor, and function fully align to accomplish something a smartwatch has yet to do: provide accurate, seamless data about my sleep health.

At first, I felt the insights were a bit obvious. But I soon realised that I trusted the data, since it reflected how I was actually feeling in the form of a score. Now I wake up each day, ready for my scores to tell me how I slept, not the other way around. Even knowing simple information, like when exactly I fell asleep and precisely how many sleep minutes I get per night, feels like a breakthrough in understanding my body. And that’s just scratching the surface.

The main thing I gravitate toward is the scores. Each morning, once the ring determines I’m fully awake, I will get scores from 0 (typically above 50 if I slept at all) to 100 that rate both my sleep and my readiness for the day. I cannot emphasise how much I love these stupid numbers. Seeing a high readiness score can reinforce a feeling that I’m going to have a good day, while a lower sleep score is an excellent validation of why I feel like shit. In fact, this is where the sleep tab of the app truly comes into play. Broken-down stats on REM and deep-sleep time, or my overall sleep efficiency, allow me to quickly compare each night’s sleep with my norm.

Eventually, the app will start providing a Resilience rating. Mine currently reads “solid,” but with proper self-care, I can raise that to “exceptional” over time. This aspect is actually quite vague and difficult to engage with, but another Oura Ring wearer I spoke to called it her favourite feature. To each their own.

Fitness, health tracking, and data overload

The health data is impressively accurate for a device like this, but it’s not perfect, especially the further your health is from the baseline of what’s expected. An example: I was born with a congenital heart condition, a bicuspid aortic valve, so I have a very strange-sounding heartbeat. My heart also has to pump twice as much as most people’s to produce the same blood flow. The point is, I already have a reason to be suspicious of how accurately the Oura Ring can monitor my heart health, confirmed by its rating of my “cardiovascular age” as thirteen years older than I am. Do I have the heart of a man in his early forties? Maybe, but I’m sure plenty of forty-year-olds have stronger hearts than I do.

The issue is, if I were unaware of my condition, this would be concerning. And everything that the Oura app can recommend is general, lowest-common-denominator health advice. Eating fruit and working out won’t actually do anything substantial for my cardiovascular readings. This is all to say, you are probably never going to get life-saving data from this thing. The most it can do is help you get better sleep and exercise more, which can admittedly feel life-changing.

In terms of general health tracking, like daytime stress and heart-rate data, the Oura Ring and app are very comprehensive. It’s easy to get lost in the sauce, and every week I swear either I’m gaining access to new features or the app is being updated. The amount of information here can be a little overwhelming.

When tracking my activities and exercise, the Oura Ring 3 has advantages and downsides compared with the smartwatches I’ve used. As a pedometer, it’s more accurate at tracking my steps and daily calorie burn than my smartwatch. It also provides way more data than I’ve ever gotten from my Apple Watch, but it’s worth mentioning that I don’t subscribe to Apple Fitness+. For this review, I received Oura’s subscription to test out all of the ring’s features, but there will be more on how that works later. Just know that for now, I was very impressed by the amount of fitness data provided. But when it comes to workout tracking and recognition, the ring lags.

This is one of my favourite features of the Apple Watch. When I start an elliptical workout or a bike ride or even a long walk, it will accurately identify it 95 percent of the time and ask me if I want to record the workout. As a result, I always have digital records of all my workouts on my phone, fully automated. Its tech wasn’t always this accurate, but Apple has invested a lot of time and money into it. I can’t say the same for Oura, unfortunately.

For starters, having to open the app to retroactively confirm and log my workouts is one more step than I’m used to taking. Beyond that, I found the functionality often lacking. Once, my Oura Ring correctly identified a forty-minute elliptical workout. More commonly, though, it will misidentify it as (maybe?) a walk, as it does most non-running workouts. Most days, I have to confirm four or five walks in my exercise log, meaning the ring doesn’t know the difference between a trek to the subway and a short hike.

The hidden cost of an Oura Ring

Up front, an Oura Ring will cost you from approximately SGD450 before tax, depending on which style and finish you choose. The newer Horizon models will generally run you slightly more than the OG Heritage design, and fancier finishes like Brushed Titanium, Gold, and Rose Gold will add to the price tag. While that’s not nothing, I live in a city where a cup of coffee rarely costs less than five bucks. Four or five hundred dollars for something you will use every day is reasonable compared with, well, the state of everything else.

What really irks me is the subscription model that’s tacked on to that. After an included free month of fully featured access, Oura begins charging SGD9 per month for access to in-depth sleep insights, heart-rate monitoring, body-temperature readings, blood-oxygen readings—pretty much everything you would use it for.

It isn’t so much the cost that frustrates me (it’s fairly affordable compared with direct alternatives like Apple Fitness+) but rather the dread of that payment hanging over my head every month until I want to stop using the device—all to use its basic functions. What baffles me is how fundamentally useless the Oura Ring 3 is without a subscription. It just feels like another company trying to bleed its users dry when we’ve just invested hundreds of dollars in a product. You’ll have barely unlocked access to all the features after one month of use, making the free month feel like even more of a “lite” version of the true experience than is advertised. A free year would’ve at least been a compromise.

So, a final verdict

I really, really like the Oura Ring Horizon Gen 3. I like how it looks and how much of a conversation starter it has proved to be. Most of all, I like how it’s confirmed something I’ve always known but never had the data to prove: I get a pretty healthy amount of sleep. My bedtime is way more consistent than I expected. Even a small insight like this has started to change how I think about my sleep and, by extension, my mood and energy levels.

Even as an Apple Watch user for several years, I’ve found a way to slot the Oura Ring into my life and teach me something new about myself. That’s something I can’t say about most products I try. If I ever take this thing off, it’s either because I’m taking a shower or my subscription has finally lapsed.

PROS

• The best sleep tracker I've ever used
• Impressive amount of data and health insights
• Comfortable
• Classy visual design
• Battery life lasts days
• All rings have identical hardware guts, so no stress about getting the wrong one
• App is constantly updating with new features

CONS

• Requires a monthly subscription to access most of the features you want
• Workout tracking can be hit and miss
• No low battery indicator on the ring itself

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At Esquire, we’ve been testing and reviewing the latest and greatest products for decades. We do hands-on testing with every gadget and piece of gear we review. From portable monitors to phone cameras, we’ve tested the best products—and some not-so-great ones for good measure.

To review this Oura Ring, I tried it out for many weeks before even sitting down to start writing. Plus, I spoke with other Esquire staff members about their past and current experiences with the product to get the fullest picture possible.

Originally published on Esquire US