A Blow to the Head

Homework

2005-09-08T21:35:00.000-07:00

I can't sleep. I tried for a while, but work today just left too much lactic acid in me. I dutifully lied there for like an hour, and then I started thinking about lying there, and anyone who's experienced even a single night of sleeplessness knows where this train goes. So I'm trudging to the bathroom, and opening the cabinet, and just as I'm reaching for a fistful of large-animal tranquilizers to boil down into a tasty reduction, I remember that someone gave me this assignment like weeks ago, and thought that working on it might, I don't know, make me sleepy or relaxed or something. The assignment was to list five foods that remind me of childhood, or of being a kid--and if you can find a difference between those, you've taken too many improv classes.

So here goes. And I'm going to do this with a minimum of weepy explanation:

1. Marrow bones.

2. Welsh Rarebit on English muffins instead of bread.

3. Chocolate cupcakes with lime frosting instead of birthday cake.

4. Seckel pears from the tree in the yard.

5. A carrot that I pulled straight from the ground and wiped off and ate without washing.

Hmm. My left eye just twitched, but I'm still not tired. Let's do some more:

6. Little ice cream cups with "sundae" topping that you lick off the paper pull-back lid to get it all, then you eat the ice cream with a flat wood spoon. I got these from the dairy at Cornell and later, after my parents got divorced, I was allowed to get Hostess fruit pies there, too. But not before. Yeah, you don't need me to figure that one out.

7. Salmon patties. I don't know what ethnicity these are. Think burgers, then make the burgers out of canned salmon. Way, way better than they have any right to be. My grandma would make a plate of them and before the plate hit the table, they'd all be gone, courtesy of my really big for a little kid teeth.

8. Apple pan dowdy. Ask your oldest male relative.

9. Crab legs. All I could eat. Now I know they were frozen.

10. This isn't really my usual funny shtick, is it? It's like my normal edgy-but-an-okay-guy-underneath thing has combined with my tiredness and work angst oh and plus this goddamned ridiculous idea of food from when you were a kid, thanks a lot, into something even I have to admit is a little melancholy, no matter how much I try to buoy it up with snide asides.

11. Then again, maybe it's just bittersweet to me, since I'm the one remembering my childhood, and not you/yours. You're just reading about a kid eating carrots. I know--cry me a fucking river.

12. The skin on chocolate pudding.

13. French fries at a diner with a friend of mine who put ketchup on them and when his mom said "maybe Dan doesn't like ketchup on his fries," responded without a pause "who doesn't like ketchup on their fries?" The truth was, I kind of didn't.

14. I want to write about my first great oyster, but refuse.

15. The cupcakes were my choice, by the way.

16. Maine lobsters, in Maine. I think I was 2.

That'll do. I actually am a little drowsy now, and that didn't even take that long. Plus, I won't feel like I'm walking through gauze all day tomorrow. At least if I fall asleep now.

Or, okay, now.

Dammit.

Mellowing In My Old Age

2005-09-06T19:45:00.000-07:00

So, it turns out I do regret an earlier post. Not for the reason I thought I might, but still--I am regretting. Here's the gist of the post: I told food and wine writers to strip down their writing. Okay, that's not exactly what I said. Exactly what I said was...wait...Go back and read, slacker. Man. You give an inch...

But in any case, I was kind of overworked about overuse of certain words in food writing, and I vented, and my concern is that I overstated my case. My concern, such as it is, arose the other night, when I opened three bottles of red wine for a dinner party. I won't dither about the where-from and when of them, but they all had similar, yet slightly variant descriptions. Yes, dear reader(s), I based my buys on the ad copy. Well, you can't blame me--I bought at Bristol Farms, where, when I asked the oen guy for some help, he walked directly to the Super-Tuscans and said "How does $70 sound?" Needless to say, he didn't want to help me anymore when I told him how it sounded. And so I was stuck with what I knew and the labels. And all the labels read something like:

"Ripe, jammy red fruit with hints of smoke, leather and a touch of oak."

Not all the labels in Bristol Farms read like that--just the 3 bottles' that I bought. We were serving lamb racks, and that seemed the ticket to me. And they were all from the same year and similar environs, just to head off that line of later questions.

Well, you guessed it--the 3 bottles could not have been more different. One was like my Uncle Lou, who, after every Passover dinner, would open the top button on his pants and say something like "Oyyy, if I ate another bite, I woulda explotet." This was a wine that you smelled the second you opened it--no need to swirl and inhale--it just leached right out of the bottle and into your nose. A wine forthright, soft and ingratiating, but one that will slap you on the back of your head when you're walking to the kitchen. The fruits I got were dark, not red, and the smoke was totally absent, in favor of earth. And people agreed with me, so don't try the "everyone's palate is different" shit with me.

Number two of the red, jammy fruit with Marlboro-Man-like qualities. Oh, and before I go on, yes, I tried each of these at similar points in the meal, too, so please let's not talk about what food and chemistry can do in a mouth. Number two was like eating a steak itself. Bloody, metallic, austere, silky smooth and haunting. If wine were guys, this wine and Uncle Lou would not get along at all. This wine would not bowl. This wine would not sit down at polite gatherings, preferring to stand and make everyone nervous. And every chick at the party would want to fuck this wine. I went to high school with this wine, and its name was Keith Wa. I'm serious: this guy I went to high school with was like the rawest, tattooedest, head-shav-ed-est badass I've ever seen--like this guy is definitely dead now--but he just drew women to him. That was this wine. The fruit? THERE WAS NO FRUIT IN THIS WINE. This entire wine was, I swear to god, mashed from live animals. If there had to be a fruit in there, let's make it, oh, I don't know, quail. "Ripe, jammy red fruit?" Sure, sure. Well, it made me buy the bottle anyway.

Moving on to number three. Number three. Man, speaking of high school, if I kicked number three's ass once while waiting for the bus to take us skiing, I kicked it a hundred times. Number three was Wayne LaPointe. Number three was this loud-mouthed little snot of a wine that just bleats at you until you put it in a headlock and pummel it. Okay, it was junior high. This wine has jammy red fruit all right. It has so much of it that you want to kick its goddamn ass. It's like it comes up to you on the first sip and yells at you like Gilbert Gottfried "I'VEGOTJAMMYREDFRUITI'VEGOTJAMMYREDFRUITI'VEGOTJAMMYREDFRUITI'VE--" and then down it goes when you sock it in the gut. Annoying wine in the extreme. Wayne, if you're reading this, I live in L.A., and will totally fight you behind my office anytime, just not on Sunday because I have a private yoga session at 11:30 and that cuts the day in half for me.

My point is that you wine label guys have to get re-acquainted with your words. I know I screeded about overused words. I know, and I'm sorry. It must have made you really skittish and now I'm the one paying for it (not $70 a bottle, but still). So use your words. Learn to communicate what you're experiencing--really--to your reader with just a little 1-1/2 X 3 inch label to do it. You know you wanted to be an artist when you were younger; well, here's your chance. Tell me what your wine is like. Tell me what it's really like. And feel free to use any of the forbidden words. Just use them well. I'm watching.

Echigo: You Gots ta Chill.

2005-08-06T09:52:00.000-07:00

So my new office is on the Westside. Westside-er, I guess, but still--I have to figure out where to eat lunches now, and last week kind of became Japanese week: Monday was Sasabune, Tuesday was Terried Sake House, and Wednesday was Echigo. I've heard Westsiders raving about Echigo for the past g-d-knows-how-long, so I figured better late than never, and checked it out.

Ok, so here's at least one reason for Echigo's semi-wild popularity--the $10 sushi lunch special (now $11). Here's what's in it, if you can't guess for yourself: tuna, salmon, blah blah blah and a roll of some sort. Cheap, yes; boring, ditto. It's like if I were stranded on a desert island for long enough--wait, desert islands would have way more interesting raw options than that--ok, if I were stranded in KANSAS for long enough, I might be stoked about this selection, but I haven't been, so I didn't bother with it, although all my fellow salarymen sure seemed happy to, since the sushi bar was empty and all I kept hearing was "hachi special," "ni special" "special special" and so forth.

Not content with the Iowan special, I opt for omakase, which the waitress tells me will be between 25 and 30 ducks. Fine. Good way to suss out the place, and still pretty cheap. So there's me at the bar. The chef is positioned diagonally as far away from me as possible, and makes no effort to notice me--his assistant makes and delivers every one of my courses. Been to Sasabune? Then you pretty much know what fish is coming at Echigo, except that at Sasabune, they tell you what each fish is. I know--I should know. I should be able to tell the difference between a bonito and a skipjack by asking each one a question over the phone, but when you soak the things in ponzu sauce (what is it with these Westsiders and their ponzu?), the reception gets a bit crackly. So the assistant hands me a plate with a single piece of fish on it, says nothing, neither he nor the chef answers me most times when I ask about it, and before I know it, I'm being treated to my single piece of contact with the chef himself--he hands me a blue crab roll and tells me what it is. Dude, I've seen more blue crab rolls in my life than George Burns saw cigars, okay? Answer me when I ask what you topped the halibut with, but spare me this useless tidbit--just give the friggin' standard omakase dessert roll to your beleaguered assistant and keep your aloof-record intact.

Oh, and here's something else: if you're an Angeleno sushi-eater, you've probably gotten used to Sasabune's warm-rice/cold-fish dealie. You may love it, you may not, but you're used to it. It doesn't rankle you like it might have the first time that all your rice fell into your soy sauce and splattered all over your $700 big-E Levis. (What? You didn't know that you're supposed to dip the fishside and not the rice in your soy? Yeah, neither did I, and I still do it the wrong way.) So you're okay with warm rice under your sushi. Well, get ready to not be all over again, because Echigo's rice is hot. I mean, it is HOT. Like steaming hot. Like steam is coming from underneath my slice of bonito-skipjack hot. If I waited long enough, I suppose every course would involve something seared. This is too much. I strenuously object.

All this adds up to what I guess is Echigo's theme, at least at lunch: they need to chill. Chill out from being too busy cranking out 11-dollar 10-dollar specials and answer a single freakin' question about the 30-dollar lunch this guy's having. Hell, imagine he's 3 guys, each having a lunch special, and linger for 2 seconds when he demonstrates an interest in what you're serving. Chill out your goddamn rice, too, while you're at it. Warm-and-cold may or may not have something to recommend it. It's a choice. Hot rice just confuses everything. I'm sure there's some ultra-deep explanation for why it works, but it doesn't work, so save it.

How was the fish itself? Pretty good, in fact. Good halibut with something green on top that I really would love to be able to identify for you but can't for obvious reasons; ama ebi in something tangy and quite good and not ponzu for a change, but which I also can't tell you what it was (inexplicably, the shrimp's head never made an appearance--frying the 2-inch thing must just take too long during the lunch rush); nice clean, super-fresh scallop over boiling hot rice--probably the worst example of the temperature contrast...and some other stuff. Oh, and the blue crab roll, which I barely notice anymore when I get them, but I imagine Echigo-san (what, you think he told me his name?) is seriously proud of, since he presented it with such a flourish that I thought they'd changed chefs while my head was down. Nijiya Market serves a spicy octopus handroll for $2.50 that I vastly prefer to any omakase-peddler's blue crab roll--time to get a new end-of-the-line marker, sensei.

Everyone should feel free to write me about this one. Let me know if I totally missed the mark, or that hot rice is the best thing since warm rice, or that I need to lighten up because don't I know that lunch isn't dinner (one of the best sushi meals I've ever had was an impromptu lunch at Asanebo), or that Echigo used to be the new Nozawa but now it's the old...um...Nozawa.

Hey, at least it was cheap. Ish.

(Echigo, in some Westside mini-mall with weird parking, mezzanine level.)

A Blow to New York

2005-07-16T10:29:00.000-07:00

O.K. As anyone who knows me knows, I've been on vacation for the past month. When you start a vacation, you're always like "I'm going to blog Every Day, and practice my Japanese, and read that Delillo book that's been propping open my office door for the past 3 years, and..." And, and, and. And what ends up happening is (e) none of the above. O.K., so I'm pressing through the novel (and frankly it's kind of dated already, even though it's only from like the mid-late 90's, and I'm disappointed in this writer so indulging his clevernesses but then again who am I to throw those particular stones?) but none of the other things have happened. I went to New York for five days and I absolutely cannot get it up to write about the trip or the food and maybe it was/is the stifling heat and maybe it's that for whatever good food I ate there none of it even comes close to my welcome-home tacos at guess where and you better believe I didn't even start unpacking before I had 7 of them on the table with a giant Corona stuffed with lime and sure it was before noon but like my friend says, the sun was over the yardarm somewhere and I suppose in an indirect way I'm writing about the trip right now, well, let's just get it over with:

No fewer than 4 trips to Gray's Papaya for Recession Specials.

My first meal there was at Sake Bar Decibel, one of my all-time favorite spots, and my version of comfort food--where maybe someone else you know would screw directly to McDonald's, I go for a masu box of Mu and two servings of cold baby octopus in wasabi broth just like my mom used to make. Oh, wait--that was your mom. Anyway. (Sake Bar Decibel, 9th St. b/t 2nd & 3rd Aves., below street-level)

A Bob's Plate at Eva's health food grocery/restaurant. This was a place where I used to go when I was eating 10,000+ calories a day (story for another day) and get this Bob's plate thing that's brown rice drenched with lentil soup and topped with tart lemon chicken. You pour tahini over it, and it's supergood and quite probably the healthiest thing I've ever loved eating. (Eva's, 8th St. b/t 5th & 6th Aves.)

Pickled tongue sando at Blue Ribbon Bakery. A damned good sandwich. I waited tables there for about 3 weeks, back in like 1998. I was, probably, the worst waiter the place ever saw. Three guys I worked with still work there, and none of them even came close to remembering me, which worked in my favor viz-a-viz not having my food altered for the bad before it was brought out to me. I was such a bad waiter that my co-workers disliked me on that basis because I made their jobs harder. (Blue Ribbon Bakery, corner of I think Downing & Bedford Sts.)

Sushi and swanky Japanese apps at Matsuri, this cavernous downtempo-emporium/multiple-barred/Is That Lindsey Lohan-type darkness of a super-expensive new restaurant beneath what used to be Covenant House and apparently is now like a super-swanky hotel. O.K., so I drank a whole lot of sake here and have no recollection of the food, although I remember being not totally wowed. I went with one of my great friends who when we go to sushi he like orders the entire freakin menu and I think that's terrific, so maybe I shouldn't have had so much to drink so I'd have more to say than this, but my feet really hurt from walking like 5 miles in boots the day before and, well, sake helped a lot, so I just couldn't help myself. I do remember that there was a tile mosaic in the bathroom that depicted lesbianism, so I guess I recommend this place. (Matsuri, 16th St., just east of 9th Ave.)

Dinner at Blue Ribbon Restaurant. I am not a shill for those brothers who own this 3-spot bunch of restaurants. Waited for an hour for a table, but by "waited," I mean that my friend and I went next door to the Red Bench for drinks, then resumed waiting in the restaurant with a bottle of Sancerre, which was really good in the heat. It seriously never dropped below 80 the whole time I was in New York, even at night, and I won't say the thing everyone feels compelled to say about the humidity, but it's true. Dinner: oysters, squab. One of the oysters (Fanny Bay? Blue Point? Malpeque? Wonka Bar? Damn you, Sancerre!) was one of those uber-oysters that remind you that sometime you have to have a dinner of nothing by 30 raw oysters. The other two were fine. Oh, if anyone can tell me the name of the now-gone Italian sandwich shop that used to be on the same block as Blue Ribbon, I'd appreciate it--I used to go there at least once a week and now I can't remember what it was called. (Blue Ribbon Restaurant, 97 Sullivan St.)

Last meal was at Landmarc, the blurby New Yorker review of which I posted a link to a couple of months ago. Man, this place was good, and the thing about the below-retail-priced wines is true, and is so unbelievable when you're used to getting soaked by restaurant markups that even though I knew about and expected it, it was still totally shocking. Like being promised a real unicorn for your birthday and getting one, only this one you can drink for really cheap and it's delicious and gets you and your friends drunk. The boudin noir app was decent, although I prefer blood sausages of the firmer variety (shut up, Beavis) and this one was kind of the runnier kind, like they serve at Red Lion Tavern in Silverlake but it was still pretty good. And the sweetbreads were fine, too, but the green beans were a little too garlicky, and I like my sweetbreads a little crispier like pressed under a heavy skillet to finish them like they used to do at Biba in Boston, but all the same, I got to eat a lot of offal at this meal and drink wine at wholesale prices and I saw friends I haven't seen in quite a while. I liked Landmarc a lot and recommend it. (Landmarc, W. Broadway at Leonard St.)

Now that I notice, it's pretty hot back here in L.A., too. So hot that I can't think of a pithy closer for this post. It's good to be home, or as my Grandfather would say, "If jenja doubja, domenahlebja." Those with Yiddish can feel free to correct my spelling.

The Misanthrope, or "I'll have what he's not having."

2005-06-28T10:22:00.000-07:00

It's not about dick-measuring--and the only reason I bring that up at all is that it's pretty much the first question people ask someone who is willing to eat things most people won't. Something along the lines of "Do you do it so you can say you did?" No. It's really not about bragging rights. It's about trust. I don't trust most people to tell me what in this world is good.

Think about this: at least according to the official story, there are a few million Americans who, as of last November, voted for our current president. While my chances of sitting next to one in California are admittedly slimmer than elsewhere, it could happen. Now am I going to listen to that person when it comes to matters of taste? To put it in less inflammatory terms, America's favorite vegetable is, and has been for decades, iceberg lettuce. Now, regardless of political affilation, you see what I mean. (If only the dems had run iceberg lettuce on the ticket...oh, I guess they sort of did.) Basically, if a food item is something I don't see on many menus, I have to assume it's something that doesn't sell much in the mainstream, which means it's not iceberg lettuce, which means it stands a better-than-average chance of being good. Similarly, if something is only found on ethnic menus--each ethnic minority by definition making up less of this country than white folks--I will give it similar odds, which is to say it's more likely than not worth my eating it.

So when someone at the next table turns his nose up at the evening's sweetbread-and-kidney special, you can pretty much guess that I'm going to order it. Double the odds if the waiter tries to warn me away for any reason other than that it's not fresh or is ill-prepared, and triple them if he comes out and says "Americans tend not to like it--too spicy/fatty/whatever." Baby, sign me up, and bring me an order to go, so I can see what it's like with all that spicy fat congealed on the bottom.

And, okay, I do take a little satisfaction in watching a dining companion's face wrinkle up when I order something out of the ordinary, but that's still not why I do it. The proof of that is that I order the same way when I eat alone, too, and if it were really just about saying I'd eaten something weird, I could pretty easily just lie about that, couldn't I? I mean enough people lie about their dicks, and that's way easier to verify. Isn't it too bad we can't seem to verify votes? If we could, and it turned out more people voted the right way, well...maybe I'd start letting you order for me.

Say Yes to Drugs

2005-06-19T08:55:00.000-07:00

I wandered around the flat, alien neighborhood for half an hour before I found one of my group. Picking him out was easy--he had the same wide eyes I knew I had. We nodded at each other, slightly more secure in the knowledge that at least we were in the right place, and continued to wait. We made some small talk. He told me about how his job was a front for money laundering. I said I knew a lot of people in his business, and that I was between jobs. He offered to introduce me around, but I declined. Eventually, we tired of waiting and decided to risk going inside alone.

And then we were five. Four plus one, really, since only one of us knew what to say and how to get what we came for. Our "hosts" would speak only to him and looked at the rest of us like they couldn't understand a word we said. This was humiliating, but you can't bring your pride to a place like this--you remember why you're there and take what you're given.

And we were given a lot. And it was amazing. When you leave the city and know who to deal with, prices drop and quality soars. Idiot agents in Beverly Hills were paying fully 10 times what we were right now, and for stuff not an inch as good. We talked a little as we indulged, and discussed which parts of what we were doing were legal, if any. We decided that we didn't know, and didn't care--the stuff was that good. After less than a minute, parts of my face were numb. When I drank the sweaty glass of water that had been grudgingly found for me, it tasted like iron shavings. I switched to coke after that on my connection's advice and hoped for the best. The guy next to me--the money-launderer--couldn't stop talking about the stuff, although he claimed this wasn't his first time. First time at this place, but not first time with this kind of thing. I believed him. He sounded like he knew what he was talking about, and this was the best I'd ever had by far. Soon neither of us could shut up. The third guy in our group--the only one to bring a girl along--stood up and disappeared for half an hour. When he came back, he couldn't stop talking either.

Imagine waking up into the middle of an addiction and you're imagining last night for me.

The place: Oriental Pearl Restaurant.

The address: 227 West Valley Blvd., San Gabriel.

The appetizers: Dried beef with chili, Pig 3 ways--ear, tongue and trotter, Fepian (beef tendon and brisket), Ong choy cooked with salted tofu, Chicken feet, Diced long beans, Chicken in chili. Cucumbers to quell the numbing fire of the szechuan peppercorns that imbue every dish, along with the chilis chopped and sprinkled throughout. If you have never experienced a szechuan peppercorn, you must before the sun sets today. I don't care how.

The entrees: Ditto on the peppercorn/chili duo--this time, the subjects were: Beef and tofu hotpot with glass noodles, Water-boiled beef, Chicken with chilis (bland name, completely revelatory dish), Kung Pao chicken (no, you have never had this), and Eggplant with chilis.

The bill: $69.50 plus tip.

Your mission: Obvious.

Open Letter to That Asshole at Twin Dragon

2005-06-06T17:46:00.000-07:00

"How was everything, sir?"
"The food was good. The service was not good."
"Haha, you are so funny, my friend. So everything was okay?"
"No, everything was not okay. I said the service was not good. Where have you been?"
"I'm sorry, sir, I was waiting for your conversation to end before I bring the check."
"Well we've been waiting forever. Where were you? We've been getting ignored over here."
"I am sorry--I didn't want to interrupt."
"Is this food free? I'm paying for this food. I deserve respect. Is this food free? I'm paying for this food and this service and we're over here being ignored. I've been coming here since I was 18 years old. I'm friends with the owner, and I'm ignored like this?"
"Sir, I say I'm sorry. What do you want me to do to make you happy?"
"You stand there and keep asking me what I want you to do? What do I want you to do? I want you to pay for this food. This food should be free."
"I cannot do that, sir."
"I shouldn't have to pay for this food. I shouldn't have to pay for this service."
"You don't have to pay for the service, my friend."
"I've been coming here for 10 years..."

If you're getting sick of this exchange, imagine sitting in the booth next to it. I had wandered into Twin Dragon on Pico with a craving for Chinese spare-ribs, and for that, clearly, I was being punished. I had to sit and listen to this guy--slightly pudgy, mid-late-30's, baseball hat, there with his lady friend--abuse the waiter for no less than 20 minutes, then march into the foyer and repeat his bullshit to the woman behind the counter, another young woman, and whoever else was unfortunate enough to pass by.

"I've been coming here 10 years, I'm friends with Frank, Frank would never treat me this way, I spend a lot of money here, I deserve respect. Your customers deserve respect. They come here and pay money and deserve to get respect, not disrespect. Do you understand me? No, do you understand me? I spend money here and I deserve respect like every customer deserves respect. Is my money good? Is my money good? My money's not good to you?"

Man, fuck you. You don't deserve shit. Before you started your tirade, you may have deserved slightly better service than you got, but from where I sat, the waiter was doing exactly right by you, and was, like he told you, waiting for you to stop your conversation with your dining companion and the couple across the aisle, who were walking back and forth between their booth and yours. Seemed like a conversation that warranted the waiter giving you some space, especially when you started up like some bust-out asshole about how you would buy the other guy his soup, even though he clearly didn't want you to and you were making him uncomfortable. But it seems like you hadn't met your quota of making people uncomfortable even after you were done with him, so the waiter was an obvious target.

I cannot possibly give voice to how much I hate people like this guy. Toothpick in the side of his mouth, not shutting up even after he's gotten more apologies than there are staff in the place, definitely not letting go of the story about how he told off the whole restaurant and got the respect he deserved for days to come, making everybody who has to listen almost as uncomfortable as he made everyone in the restaurant while it was going on, talking about it on his cell phone at full volume so everyone around has to listen to him in line at wherever, and repeating the whole thing the next time he's at a restaurant just for good measure.

There should be a special section in restaurants for guys like this, where the food is cold, and the service is bad, and he gets even less respect than he deserves--but that would be impossible. Man, if you're reading this (right), stay home, shut the fuck up, and leave the nice people at Twin Dragon and every other restaurant in this city the hell alone. Better yet, take your shit to Cynthia's and try it with her.

Coming Soon: You Can't Pick Your Friend's Nose

2005-06-05T13:07:00.000-07:00

Admit this: when you find out that someone you really like does not share your opinion on what you consider an important culinary matter, your opinion of that person changes. No, it doesn't? Here's an experiment to see if I'm wrong: (1) Think of one of your best, most memorable sushi experiences--one that made the top of your head lift off and your eyes roll back. (2) Picture a good friend of yours--someone you've spent really great time with. (3) Picture that person wrinkling his/her nose and sticking our his/her tongue at the same piece of sushi that got you to the edge of Nirvana. For added emphasis, s/he then says "I just don't like sushi--I mean, it's raw fish!"

So, what do you think? Was I wrong? If the sushi example doesn't work for you, choose whatever the food is that gets you closer to god. Then again, if sushi doesn't work for you, I don't know if we can be friends, so maybe you should just move along.

More on this in a few.

Eat 'em & Smile, Read 'em and Weep: Memorial Day Picnic In My Kitchen

2005-05-30T16:05:00.000-07:00

Very few things leave me at a loss for words. Here's one that did--my lunch today:

Egg sandwich:
2 slices La Brea Bakery rosemary-olive oil bread
2 medium-cooked (6 min.) eggs, sliced width-wise
about a dozen small capers
drizzle of extra-virgin olive oil
drizzle of blood-orange balsamic vinegar
jam all ingredients together and Bob's your uncle

Roasted Marrow Bones:
3 pounds marrow bones from Whole Paycheck Market
a little baggie of coarse sea salt
roast bones in oven-proof frying pan at 450 for 20 minutes
cut a few small lengths of bread
scoop out thumb-sized hunks of marrow and slop onto bread
sprinkle salt on top and try not to eat all 3 pounds worth

Beer:
1 Asahi Super-Dry tallboy (otokonoko takai?)
one church-key
open bottle and pour down throat
hope that beer does something that makes you less likely to die from eating too much bone marrow

That's it. I have nothing smart to say about it. Happy Memorial Day, everyone.

Review: Food Poisoning

2005-05-24T11:45:00.000-07:00

You know those books and movies you're embarrassed not to have read or seen? So embarrassed that you lie about it? Think Anna Karenina or The Good Soldier. Well, among a certain circle, food experiences rise to that level. Haven't been to Nobu? Lie. Peter Luger's? Lie. Nozawa? Lie.

Until now, I had to resort to this kind of ignoble but not totally damning behavior when it came to food poisoning. No more! The night before last, I finally got my act together and paid a visit, and you, lucky readers, are the beneficiaries.

You'll notice, if you're careful, a discrepancy in the above two paragraphs. First I say I've never had food poisoning, and then I call Monday's visit "my most recent." Let me put you at ease. I would not feel qualified to write up a restaurant having only stuck my head in, or, say, sat at the bar for just a drink. Comparing any of my past, admittedly mild, food-borne maladies to this one is like that. So let's just say this was my first visit: the decisive one. Without further ado, then, and with complete, transparent honesty, here is my review of my most recent bout of food poisoning.

From the moment you get the nod that you will be attending a bout of F.P., it's a wild ride that leaves you gasping at every turn. Imagine my giddiness when I got the call! Me! I'm not even a real food writer! My head was spinning, and not just from the surprise.

My first complaint is that the service, while quite snappy at first, kind of tailed off after the first course of dizziness and cramps (neither of which disappointed, mind you). It's strange how quick service up-front followed by a long lag can sometimes be worse than slowness all through, and this was one of those times. I really wanted things to move along after the initial offerings, but I was made to sit there for more than an hour, wondering what to do with myself, with only a glass of water to keep me company.

But then. Oh, then. F.P. really came through after that. We've all had friends lucky enough to have been there in the past, and as savvy consumers, we're all aware of the potentially disappointing effect of too much advance notice. Well, fear not. It's all different when you're the recipient. Violent, projectile vomiting, so powerful that it makes you yell at full volume? You've heard about it, but that does nothing to dampen its effect on you when it's your own voice waking the neighbors. Fever that makes you put on two sets of sweats and get under every blanket in the house while it's 80 degrees outside? Not cheapened a bit by having heard about it first. In fact, you almost feel like "It's about time! I've heard so much about this, and now it's my turn!" It's like visting the Mona Lisa--kind of an experience and a meta-experience, both at once. Really awesome.

I could complain again about the lag following that course. I mean, why the constant hurry-up-and-wait? And with such impressive courses, why make me sit around and twiddle my thumbs in between? Well, this time I can't even complain about that. The service did indeed slow to a crawl after the second course, but the crawling was mine, because I couldn't walk. Nor, I realized, could I twiddle anything at all, because I couldn't feel my hands or feet (a truly brilliant touch that I had never heard of before!). If it hadn't been for the involuntary thrashing about, I would have been worried that I'd been paralyzed, but thankfully the management saw ahead and provided me with a tween-course set of convulsions to put my mind at rest. They really do think of everything, even if at the time you're not convinced. It's like dinner at El Bulli--you need time to think it all over after to realize the true and complete genius at work.

Next course! More of the same? Yes! Disappointing in its repetitiveness? Strangely, not at all. In fact, quite the opposite--you welcome the sameness, as it signals progress through this difficult-to-navigate experience. And for me, the end of this course--which was executed with even more gusto than the last--really did mark the beginning of this feast's denouement. But I don't want to short-shrift the description. If the second course (remember, we started with apps) was a prime rib, then this was a bone-in kobe rib-eye: both bigger and more impressive, with tons more nuance and substance. A tour-de-force in every way. Louder, more painful, longer by at least 10 minutes, and introduced by a delirious and lovely set of hallucinations that were completely free! More kudos to the management--this was one of the most memorable half-hours of my entire life. What a surprise that it would happen on my bathroom floor with me dressed like some crazy, homeless, software engineer!

Like I said, that was pretty much that. But how could you follow up such a performance with anything but an anticlimax? Of course, F.P. knows how. Shambling back to bed after being turned into a human cannon for the second time, I knew I was on the mend, and that feeling was one of the sweetest of my entire life. It's this blend of Hieronymus Bosch awfulness and final tranquility that truly defines food poisoning, but to sum it up with some saw like "it feels good when you stop banging your head against the wall" really cheapens the whole experience. This is just something you'll have to enjoy for yourself, if you're lucky enough.

All in all, this was a chance in a lifetime. It seems odd to say that a food experience changed how I look at myself, my life, the world, but this one really did. It's like everything I took for granted--being able to pick up a shoe without my hand hurting, having the motor functions to tie that shoe, knowing what the temperature in the room really is--has been re-given to me, and I have food poisoning to thank. I'd also like to thank the good people at either All-American Burger on Sunset or Yabu on La Cienega. One of those two establishments is responsible for my opportunity to visit F.P., and for that, I owe them much as well.

Quick Note

2005-05-21T18:05:00.000-07:00

Read Nick Paumgarten's "Tables for Two" column in this week's New Yorker. Now that's how to blurb a restaurant.

The Cliche Project: Words and Phrases Food Writers Should Stop Using (an ongoing project)

2005-05-17T10:26:00.000-07:00

You know how every movie that comes out is either "Wickedly Funny!" or "A Taut Psychological Thriller!"? I suppose movie critics can be excused a little--their job has been around for quite a while, and there are a lot of movies, and they have to review them all, and most don't even deserve their own adverb-adjective combination. But food writers? Food writing as recognized genre is a recent phenomenon. What's more, food writers can, at least to some degree, choose their subjects--when you're a film critic, you're largely limited to what's out and what's coming out, with an occasional foray back into the classics. Food writers can write about cooking at home, restaurants old and new, entire cities, countries, cuisines, ethnicities, baking, ingredients, laws governing importation of szechuan peppercorns...and so on. A meal prepared at home using Thanksgiving leftovers can give rise to a 40-page treatise on immigration and land-use for chrissakes. The short version: there's a lot of material, and not a lot of stricture. Argue if you want, but that's what I think.

So why, why, WHY must I continue to read the same 7 descriptions of dishes, no matter whether I'm reading a blog entry, a review of a new restaurant or a cookbook-memoir? Writers: if you are at all passionate about what you do--and not just about the meals themselves, but about your written product--here is the somewhat-annotated list of words and phrases to avoid. I hope you find it rich and flavorful.

1. "Rich and flavorful," or any combination of these two words. The only exception is the use of "rich" alone as a negative (e.g., "The soup was almost too rich--like a chicken custard.") Saying a food is "flavorful" is like saying that a painting is "full of different colors"--it tells me nothing, except that the thing was not bland. Even if that's what you mean it to do, find a better word. I'm not telling you any; go find them. The dictionary is your friend.

2. "Mouth feel." Do I need to explain this one? It's the worst phrase ever invented, not to mention one of the most over-used in food writing. It evokes the most disgusting imagery to me and at the same time makes me giggle. It sounds like what a dentist gives you when he probes around. Mmm...dentist porn. Mouth feel, indeed. If you must use it, for g-d's sake at least add the proper hyphen.

3. "Unctuous." Just in case you thought I wasn't going to include anything on this list that I actually use--here's my own sacrifice. Man, I like this word. I like it a lot. It's onomatopoetic, it's a little obscure, it's fun to say...and it's USED IN EVERY PIECE I READ ABOUT A FRENCH RESTAURANT. Sushi, too. I'm not saying that "unctuous" can't make a comeback after some much-needed downtime, but for now, give it up. I know: it's going to be hard to avoid both "unctuous" and "rich," but I have faith in you.

4. "Spiked." With this one, I'm not calling for a global cut-back. No, this one is personal. Perhaps personal to two writers, but still cabined fairly tightly. For some reason, this word gets used most often in connection with Asian foods--something Thai is "spiked with chili and lime," for example. Like number 3, I do like this one. But if you think it might be your personal crutch, please try to get off it. Save some good words for the rest of us.

5. "Flavor profile." What the !$%#! is a "flavor profile"?! Is it not just the thing's taste? "This steak's flavor profile is cowwy, with more than hint of char." Pardon? We "profile" foods now? "All right--all you foods who fit the flavor profile, over here against this wall and spread 'em!" This phrase is like legalese for food writers: unnecessarily high-flung and distancing for the reader. Lose it.

6. "Wafting."

7. "To die for." Reader babette sent this one, and I agree. With the 1980's behind most of us, we can afford to let this gem go, can't we? I'm willing to let it in on a limited basis, and only when used in really clever ways, but then that goes for everything on this list. Unless you're reviewing the first sushi restaurant in Sidney, Nebraska, in which case use liberally. In a similar vein, lucille writes in to request that "yummy" be limited to use by those aged 3 years and under. Seems fair to me. It's phrases like these two that, if you think about it, give rise to places like The Cheesecake Factory, that trade on the idea of decadence ("Yummy chocolate cheesecake to die for!") and deliver the mediocrest of mediocre food. Shame people for using these words and you'll be doing your part to close The Cheesecake Factory. Think about it.

8. "The bar scene" a/k/a "The scene at the bar." In L.A., this is going to be a hard one to avoid. I'm not saying you can't refer to what goes on at the bar when you're reviewing a place, nor that you can't say that the vibe in a place is more bar than restaurant. What you cannot do is use this shortcut that makes you sounds like someone hopelessly out of touch, whether you mean it in a positive or negative sense. You may very well be that far-removed from the folks at the bar, but you shouldn't let your readers know it.

9. "Melts in your mouth" or "melt-in-your-mouth." That's right--more phrases implying yummy decadence to die for that I'm taking away from you! Be strong. Unless something actually does melt in your mouth, I don't want to hear that it does.

10. "Bursting with..." Similar to #9: unless we're talking about roe or a very few other foods that actually burst when one bites them (ok, or when they're cooked or prepared), please leave this description for the kids. They're too young to know any better; we aren't.

Feel free to write in and suggest additions. If they ring true to me, in they'll go. Like the title says, this is an ongoing project.

If this writing thing ever goes anywhere, I have a feeling I'm going to regret this list.

Who Knows Their ABC's? L.A.'s Letter-Rating System Discussed

2005-05-11T13:26:00.000-07:00

Well, it started out with the paragraph below.

"In pursuit of this post, I am soliciting from you, readers, any verifiable sighting of a 'D' or an 'F.' I do not believe these to exist, but will pay handsomely if you show me otherwise. And the cabinet in the cops' lounge on 'The Shield' absolutely does not count."

Then, came this:

"[UPDATE] Oh, man. The comments on this intro are better by far than whatever i was going to write on this topic. Go to the comments and read the exchange between 'c' and 'anonymous' (If they're ever going to succeed in the world of wrestling, they'll both need better stage-names). Others should feel free to write in, too, although i can't guarantee your safety.

And here's the angle I was going to work, if people need more prodding to write in: how much does a letter grade affect where you eat? Does the same letter mean something different if you see it at Oki Dog than it does festooning the front door of Dolce, especially if it's a low grade? Do you really feel like the letters accurately represent your risk of food-borne illness (bear in mind that, at one point, All-American Burger on Sunset had an 'A' while Luna Park sported a bright-red 'C,' which, if the system is to be believed, would mean that you run a greater risk of being felled by a grilled artichoke at LP than a teriyaki 'steak' burrito at AAB)? "

I'm not sure if I got lazy or if I realized this would be more interesting as a straight discussion than as another collection of my own snarky comments. Whichever, even in a short time I've gotten to where it was I wanted to go in the first place, and 90% through a few readers' comments. My points, basically, were going to be: (1) Very few people know how the grading system works, which is odd for a measure that's supposed to protect the public's health through instantly recognizable signage. On the other hand, ER visits for food-borne illness have declined by something like 13% since the advent of this system, so there may very well be something to it (I've also seen data correlating stork population with birth rate, though, so I'm a skeptic). (2) Whether or not anyone knows what the letters mean, many will weigh the grades differently, depending on the restaurant sporting them. For example, on reader wrote in and told me he specifically chose a Palmdale Salvadoran joint based solely on its "D" rating (others have written in debating whether such a grade can exist, or if anywhere that scores below a "C" has to exhibit its admittedly-a-bit-frightening numerical score). Would that anonymous commentator have made the same choice had he driven past Bastide and seen the same letter (all prices being equal)? "Honey, let's check out this $200-a-head-before-drinks cutting-edge French place: it's FILTHY!" Yeah, it doesn't sounds likely to me, either. On the other hand, I'm betting if you had a res at Bastide and when you showed up you saw a low grade, you might not turn away because of it. It's a tough table to get, and the scarlet letter would be explained away if you asked (surly inspector, nonsense infractions, here's some free aperitifs while you decide if you want to stay). Would you really vote down what you'd been led to believe was one of the best high-end meals in town based on a paper sign with a block letter on it?

So in the end, do the letters tell us anything useful? Do we ignore them at our peril? The same folks who pop into the run-down greasy-spoon on the highway (me, for one--and my favorite is still the Liberty Diner which was on my drive from Upstate to Manhattan) because it very often has the best food will most likely use the letters in reverse, at least in certain cases--I wonder if food poisoning is up among that group, since they have easier access to something they used to have to rely on instinct for.

Frankly, the letters are ridiculous. In New York, places with too many violations get a warning and then get shut down until they clean up. It's nice and binary there. Here, you're made to think you're in possession of better intelligence, but really you're just being given a measurement of how fast the staff can run to throw away the tuna that's next to the space heater, or of the inspector's mood. Or maybe of the overall cleanliness and healthiness of the prepping-and-serving environment, but no one know what infractions are embedded in, say, a "B" that lasts a single week. A rat? Peanuts in a bowl on the bar (Luna Park claimed this was the source of their "C")? Anthrax spores that turned out to be $200-an-ounce salt distilled from the armpits of a Moroccan 12-year-old? I mean, it's impossible to know.

But they obviously make people feel safer, and isn't that really the point? Authentic Cafe--the place that many consider to be the epicenter of the whole thing (a prep cook there was secretly filmed while tossing a salad and licking his fingers and the film was played on the local news) is open for business and has even opened a lounge next to their dining room. Briefly avoided, Authentic is now thriving again. Now that people can walk up to the door and inspect the comforting-blue "A" posted front and center, telling everyone it's okay, the seared tuna salad has not been licked by anyone until it's served to your table. Just watch your finger-licking friends. Hey--maybe that's what we need: letter grades we all carry around that tell everyone what kind of eaters we are. Now that's a system I could get behind.

Ok, now read the comments, and add yours.

Sushi Without Adjectives

2005-05-04T10:03:00.000-07:00

We all know by now that sea urchin is "unctuous" and squid is "clean-tasting with a hint of sweet," don't we? Well, for those who don't, it's time to catch up on the classics. For the rest--or for all of you who laugh like hyenas when you read about an oyster tasting "like my summer fling on the Cape" or wine having "hints of tar and burnt animal fur"--here you go.

The Best of Little Little Tokyo: Sushi Sasabune. 11300 Nebraska Ave, West LA.

Usually when I hear people describe Sasabune, they lead with something like "it's a total dump" or "it has zero atmosphere." Granted it's unlovely, but does it really have zero atmosphere? I don't think so, and I don't think so for the same reason I disagree with the 11-for-decor that Zagat gives the Apple Pan: both places are pretty much platonic ideals of what they are. The Apple Pan is a perfect rendition of LA Burger Stand. How else should it be decorated? With muted tones and indirect lighting? Ditto Sasabune's "decor"--it really captures a certain kind of LA-specific phenomenon: the stripped down (and usually strip-mall), all-omakase, phenomenal sushi joint. Think about the best sushi you've had in LA. It's not at Blowfish, or Koi, or Matsuhisa or any other place with shiny minimalist decor and electronic music. It's always at a place that looks to some degree like Sasabune--some tables and chairs, a bar that accomodates only a lucky few every night, maybe some faded poster-art on the walls. Sasabune actually beats most of the others in the category of swank, with its outdoor "patio"--a plastic table and a few plastic chairs in what must have been some family's paved front yard in a past life. I've sat there drinking sake while waiting to sit, and I never mind. The scene at Sasabune is familiar, but it's not a Scene. You're there for the fish.

And the fish at Sasabune is excellent. I have received varying stories about the relationship of Sasabune-san to Nozawa-san, master sushi chef at his eponymous place in the Valley (to be discussed shortly), but one thing that's clear is that Sasabune gets a good spot at the fish markets. Everything is fresh, no end cuts, top quality. What they do with that excellent fish, though, is worth discussing. Sasabune, like most places of its ilk, shun the california roll, spicy tuna, and other mixtures that can now be found in supermarkets in Kansas. BUT, well, they do this thing with ponzu, and the thing is that they put it all over everything. Like, really almost everything. Skipjack? Ponzu. Halibut? Ponzu. Salmon? Ponzu. Albacore? You get the picture. And it's not just a little ponzu, either--whatever they put it on, you know it (these are also the fishes they tell you not to use soy on). Someone needs to explain this to me. You're a sushi chef. You get a monster of a spot at the fish market. You get truly excellent fish. And you drown it in tart sauce. As some folks I email with would say: WTF?

I will return to Sasabune. I will return there a lot, in fact. I really like the place. The fish is great, the staff is super-friendly, but someone should snatch that bottle of ponzu from behind the counter and hide it. I mean, they don't pour ponzu on their signature blue-crab roll that finishes every omakase dinner, and look how great that is.

World-famous in the Valley: Sushi Nozawa. 11288 Ventura Blvd., Sushi Row, Studio City.

Everyone I know knows Nozawa. My friends from LA who have expatriated sometimes drive there for lunch straight from LAX on return, or stop there on their way down from San Francisco and make me come meet them. Great sushi is, of course, more important than unpacking, or that shower you crave after a flight, or really than almost anything. And Nozawa does serve great sushi.

I won't bore you with the fish itself. It's impeccable. If Sasabune has a great spot at the market, Nozawa has one better. Not that most of us can tell that kind of difference of course, but it is there. This is some of the best fish you will ever get a chance to eat, if you get a chance to eat it. You see, Nozawa has a following, and that means no reservations and a snaky line outside in the parking lot. Do not come here hungry and in a hurry--you will not last until you're seated, and will likely dash off to another spot on "Sushi Row," where Nozawa is located (and you may not even do badly if you do this--the proliferation of good and even great sushi places in this area is singular and amazing). One good thing: you're allowed to start drinking while you wait in line. One time I drank three bottles of sake before I got to the door. That was fun.

So you're inside, and you sit wherever they tell you, and this is another omakase-only joint, so you don't bother, you know ordering or anything. You sit in the fluorescent lighting, either at cheap tables on the cheap linoleum or at the short bar, and wait for what you're offered. And what you're offered is damned good. Everything is good. But you know I'm going to focus on what's not perfect, and here it is: the fish at Nozawa is served too cold. I'm not completely sold on Sasabune's warm-rice-cool-fish thing (although I didn't mention this above because, unlike some, I don't really care about it), but the overall too-coolness of Nozawa's fish (and I've been there enough to be satisfied that I'm not imagining things) detracts from the flavor of what (I'll say it again) is really excellent stuff. I suppose better too cool than too warm (although I've been to places where the fish is frozen, and I might prefer being poisoned to that) but when you're shelling out a hundred ducks a person for omakase, we shouldn't be dealing in the realms of the too-anythings, right? Relax, Nozawa-san--nothing's going to spoil. You sell everything you have every night you're open. Un-chill.

It may be the temperature thing, or maybe just the kind of over-reverence with which people treat Nozawa, but the whole experience just leaves me cold and I really don't mean the pun--it lacks a certain something, like soul. Maybe the too-cool spartan thing appeals to the same folks who wield a lot of power during the day so feel like they deserve to be spanked, but man, that's not why I go out to eat, I don't know about you. Nozawa? I'll go there again, too, and won't complain about it at all--it's damned good sushi. But there's always room for improvement, although Nozawa-sensei would likely flay me for saying so. I just hope that when he does, he serves me room temp.

Nozawa-Adjacent, and my pick of the litter: Asanebo. 11941 Ventura Blvd., Sushi Row, Studio City.

When looking for Asanebo's address, I came across a review that called this place "a poor man's Matsuhisa." Now, it's one thing to write about a restaurant in terms that some may disagree with on an educated basis. I think I do it pretty much all the time. But this--this--man, I just got apoplectic when I read this. Matsuhisa serves the same tired few dishes to 90% of its crowd, and I'm sure trots out good stuff for Ben and Bobby and the guy at my firm who buys all the waitresses massages for Christmas, but since I'm in the 90%, Matsuhisa bores me to death and charges a lot to do it. Not so Asanebo.

First of all, it looks a little nicer than Sasabune and Nozawa. Kind of even looks like a Japanese restaurant, when you get down to it. There's some wood present, and the tables don't look like they were snatched from the Mel's Diner set when "Alice" went off the air. So immediately you're suspicious--can this be? If they spend more than $10 on the decor, do they really get the incomparable sushi I have grown to imagine I am entitled to? Yes. Yes, man, it does. Asanebo's is the best sushi in Los Angeles.

Scandale?! Not really. Asanebo is on the sushi-ratii's short list, and has been for years, but it doesn't get the same attention as the above two. Why? I can't tell you. Maybe it's that they treat you nicer, and those-who-want-spanking-with-dinner just can't abide by that. Somewhere along the line, being mal-treated at dinner has translated into the food actually being better. Asanebo does not fill that bill. In fact, when my wife went to Tokyo for the weekend, I went to Asanebo for consolation, and I got it.

Here's something else: the menu changes. So when you order omakase, you will not receive the pat "chef's special" items that you admittedly do at Sasabune and Nozawa. If you had a great set of dishes last time you came here, you will get a different set the next time, sometimes with no overlap at all (although toro will probably make an appearance). I know this should go without saying, but what comes with your omakase is what is the best available that day. My first visit there was for lunch, and I had three fishes--japanese mackerel, snapper, and fresh ikura (they marinate their own) that made me feel like I had never had those particular fishes before, ever, anywhere. THAT is what top-shelf sushi is supposed to be like. When I returned a few weeks later for dinner, only one of these three items appeared (a goblet of the singular ikura, served this time with a side of amazing slithery pickled seaweed), and I was treated instead to kotaru (whole, raw baby squid that I still dream about), mirugai (giant clam, served with orange essence and a wasabi jolt) and a bunch of other new things I didn't think to write down. With the exception of the seared toro (talk about gilding the lily) everything was perfect.

Asanebo isn't all omakase to begin with (Mon Dieu! I can order what I want?) although omakase is definitely the way to go. Check this out: you can also discuss what's coming next for you if you sit at the bar--ask for things you want, nix things you don't. I know: it's incredible. In addition, you can order an omakase that mixes raw and cooked, sushi and sashimi, pretty much whatever you want. It's like the chefs at Asanebo are there to please you, which may take some getting used to, but--and to use the words of the other two places: TRUST ME--it is worth whatever adjustment period you may have to weather. It is also worth the price, which is as high or higher than Sasabune's and Nozawa's. And worth the trip. Just go. Go and thank me later. This is the sushi you've been waiting for. In fact, it's the sushi you've been telling everyone you've been getting elsewhere, except that you haven't because it's here.

There are other places I really like, and way more that warrant discussion, but I want to get this piece out, and the "big three" are really what I wanted to talk about. And here goes a rare, softening disclaimer: please don't think I'm running down Sasabune or Nozawa. I mean, I am, but that doesn't mean that they're not still some of the best purveyors of raw fish I've encountered. They're just not quite Asanebo. Now don't everybody run there at once--I still call the corner seat at the bar.

Let the comments begin.

Coming Soon: Your Suggestions

2005-05-02T22:07:00.000-07:00

Seriously: I can't think of everything. Give me some ideas. LA-centric is better, but general-food is fine, too. Things you're gnashing over? Recipes you want destroyed? Send 'em on. I'll take care of it.

dwg

Yakitori Triad

2005-04-26T11:35:00.000-07:00

Three Japanese restaurants, a single concept: food on a stick. Let's skip the clevernesses and dive right in.

Number one, with a bullet: Kokekokko. 203 South Central Ave., downtown LA. Incidentally, "Kokokekko!" is the Japanese version of the sound a rooster makes.

First of all, click on the link. See that guy with the scissors? He is a super-badass. He's also the head chef; the Sensei. This is a man of few words--he's like a Japanese Dirty Harry who serves chicken skewers. I can only imagine what would happen if you got on his bad side. Remember: this is the man who prepares your MEDIUM-RARE CHICKEN PARTS. More on this in a sec.

From the moment you enter, you sense the real-ness, the authentude, the genuinity of Kokekokko. I've been to Kokekokko half a dozen times, yet every time I enter, I'm asked and told the same things: First time here? (No.) You know only chicken? (Yes.) No sushi? (Got it.) You sure? (Enough already.) Only then do I get to sit (or wait, depending on the night). Rough-hewn wooden tables surround a bar, which dominates the place, and behind which the Sensei and his minions toil away making your dinner. Like at many Japanese spots, sitting at the bar is the clear way to go, unless you have a large party. (In addition to the bar and tables, there are a few private rooms, the insides of which I've never seen.) Even sitting in this place is not for the meek--the barstools are basically stumps with the thinnest of cushions lying on top, and dinner always lasts a while, so stretch out and be ready.

You sit. You bow your head to your designated minion, or to the Sensei, if he looks your way. You order a sake from their small but pretty worthy list of sakes--make mine Harushika or Otokoyama, nice and cold, with that saucer to catch the extra they always pour. Then you glance at the menu, and you order. This is a yakitoriya, so you order yakitori--skewers. Here, you have basically two choices as far as process: you can order a "set menu," which gives you a good overview of the chicken, or you order by the piece (minimum 5, at about $2.50 a pop). I used to do set, now I do piecemeal, since I know what I like. What do I like? I like gizzards, neck, cartilage (knee, I think), heart and liver. And I like the breast meat, provided they'll do it medium-rare, which makes it like chicken sashimi.

Everything at Kokekokko is done perfectly. The organ skewers are perfectly moist and funky and impeccably fresh (when they run out of something, they're out of that something--no day-old stores of anything for backup), and are served with the perfect condiments--mountain salt (a revelation in itself) for the gizzard and neck, hot mustard for the hearts and livers. The breast-meat gets freshly grated ginger and wasabi. The cartilage stands alone and absolutely rocks my world. Even the legs and thighs and wings and white-meat-and-veggie skewers are good. Oh, and the skin is great--and I don't just mean the skin on the items listed above: you can have an all-skin skewer, and what could be better than that?

Things come out when they're ready, so be prepared--you might have to wait a while even once you're seated, and then there may be spates of orders coming together. It ain't L'Orangerie, but that's a good thing. If you're starving, order some tsukemono, or another sake, or both. Just don't forget where you parked. Among the yakitoria sampled in this article, Kokekokkowa ichiban desu.

Number two: Yakitori-ya. 11301 West Olympic #101, West LA.

First of all, Yakitori-ya is on Sawtelle, not Olympic. If its proprietors want an Olympic address, that's fine, but it does confuse things a bit. Anyway.

Yakitori-ya is fine. I mean, it's totally fine. It's just not great. Its decor is standard; its counter is in the back and seats fewer than 10 in a straight line (as opposed to Kokekokko's 25 or so, in a U-shape). The cooks are still behind the counter, but its all kind of shunted out of the way. The floor is dominated by tables, and not of the rough-timber picnic-table variety--just tables.

The food is by no means bad, but after Kokekokko, it's unmemorable. Oh, except for the PREMATURE CHICKEN EGGS discussed in the piece directly below this one. Yeah, Yakitori-ya has the unfortunate distinction of being the place that served me these international-animal-rights-violations. I swear that this has not affected my feelings about the place overall, but it does bear mentioning. Ok, so they even warned me off of them and I insisted, but still. The problem is that with middle-of-the-road offerings otherwise, the p-m.c.e.'s were what stood out, and not to anyone's benefit. Add to this that Yakitori-ya is a bit too expensive, and that the whole vibe is just less cool, and you've got a utility meal plus. If you must have skewers and are on the westside, it'll fill the bill.

As will number three: Nanbankan. 11330 Santa Monca Blvd., West LA, really close to the 405 underpass if you know where that is.

I could link you to several glowing reviews of Nanbankan, all of which I read on the same day and which sent me there that same night. Ever have that thing happen where you read the review and all of a sudden it's like the entire rest of your day becomes about getting to that restaurant? That's what happened. I actually drove home to Hollywood from work and BACK TO THE WEST SIDE just to eat there. That's when you know things are serious.

But serious they did not remain. I sat next to Moe, a Persian diamond merchant, who dines at Nanbankan three or so times a week. Moe was great to talk to, which was a good thing, since it took my mind off the food, which was mediocre in the extreme. Hearts and livers? Nearly indistinguishable in their dried-out greyness and chicken-livers-from-an-omelette-at-Roscoe's lack of flavor. Neck? Greasy and non-descript--completely lacking the crunch of Kokekokko's. Tail? Sadly, same--and I had never had chicken tail, so I was really looking forward to this. The only stand-out was the breast-bone cartilage, which was genuinely excellent in its unique, meaty crunchiness. I really love cartilage, and this was no exception--although at $4.50 a pop, it was among the most expensive skewers on the menu (they were out of regular cartilage that night). But I was never offered any salt, any mustard, any anything, to go with the different meats. Not that good meat always needs an accompaniment, but mediocre meat sure does. No wonder the white folks outnumber all others at Nanbankan by like 4 to 1--it's just chicken on a stick, and not much else. (Bear in mind that I did not order the "much else" on the menu, which included sushi, maki and other Japanese generalities from which I should've gleaned this place's true nature from Jump Street.)

My dinner at Nanbankan did teach me that Moe thinks Persian men are not hardwired for monogamy, that he thinks this downtown renaissance will be the one that works, and that the universe is premised on opposites. Good, solid food for thought, to make up for the lack of good, solid food. I'll try Nanbankan again if someone else is paying, and driving. As I said above, others have raved about this place, and I don't hold a grudge, much.

Final score is above, reflected by the order of the reviews, top down. Live on the Westside and now despairing? Downtown is not that far on the 10. Tell you what: I'll even meet you there. Seriously: anytime.

Foods Even I Will Avoid

2005-04-25T10:59:00.000-07:00

I think of myself as a fairly adventurous eater. One of my favorite types of experience is eating something new and having it surprise me with taste, or texture, or whatever else makes it different from what I had eaten in the past and from what I expected. Others have been known to recoil from foods I seek out. But there are things which I will not happily eat, and these are them:

1. Eel livers. Not "eel liver," because when one orders these, they come many to an order. Many too many. I have to admit that I've only tried them once--at Decibel in Manhattan, one of my favorite spots--so I may return to eat my words (and I'm always happy to cross something off this list)...but I'm doubting it right now. Mealy only begins to tell the story, compounded by a musty flavor that is hard to choke down because of the texture. A small bowl beat me--I couldn't finish. I ate at Nanbankan two nights ago and saw eel livers on the list of specials. I did not order them. If anyone has had a different experience with this particular eel part, I would be happy to hear about it, and it might persuade me to give them another go. If I get no such stories, I'll take it as a sign.

2. Premature chicken eggs. Premature chicken eggs. Premature eggs. I really don't have to go any further, do I? I mean, i'm going to, but the name alone does the job of telling why I will cross the street to avoid this item. I've done 'em twice, and both at yakitori joints. Both times, my server looked at me funny, and it wasn't the regular "but you're a white guy" funny--it was more like they were disgusted with me. When I got the things, I saw why. It's like you're eating a poultry abortion. The things won't even stay on a skewer, so they have to be served in a bowl. A bowl of aborted chicken foetuses. I'm not trying to be gratuitous; I just need to convey the badness of this dish. Grey-green orbs with purple veins running around them, that sort of half-crunch, half wetly explode in your mouth. And those are the good ones--the others that didn't hold together while being cooked, and you get treated to a visual of unborn chicken viscera and even a little face if you're lucky: well, those are the bad ones. There is nothing redeeming about this dish, except as a fraternity hazing ritual.

3. Testicles.

4. Anything combining Jello and raisins. Ditto Jello and any dairy product that's not whipped cream--think cottage or cream cheese and you'll get the idea.

5. Spleen. The meat that masquerades as a mushroom. I encountered spleen in sullongtang at Han Bat (4163 W. Fifth St., Los Angeles). The soup itself was quite good--mild bone-broth with some various meats--tripe, liver, brisket, tongue--and some noodles. But the spleen was nasty. And, like I said, I thought it was a mushroom at first, until I...well...realized it wasn't. It was like this half-offal, half-vegetal awfulness that managed to be at once dry and slimy. I strenuously object. Spleen, consider yourself vented from my diet hereforward.

6. Intestines. So these aren't really the worst thing in the world--they're kind of rubbery on the outside (and not in a good way, like octopus or squid) and pasty on the inside. Now, pasty on the inside is not something I seek out in an organ that transports what these do. But again, they're not terrible when done well--cooked quite a lot over charcoal, like at Soot Bull Jeep, would be my preference. No, what I object to most about intestines is that they're served to me WHEN I DON'T EXPECT IT. To wit: Soot Bull Jeep treated me to gigantic two-foot lengths of ropy intestine in a bowl of water, when I had ordered tripe. That is usually how it happens--certain people define "tripe" differently, and some define it as intestine. I think of tripe as stomach lining, and specifically as "honeycomb" (which I have since learned is "mino" in Korean) or "book" tripe. I can't really complain about this communication gap, since I'm as wrong as anyone in the equation--even my favorite taco stand (see post below) serves intestines when I ask for tripe, too. You just don't want to be snuck up on with intestines, is all I'm saying.

There's the list. It leaves off things like Wonder Bread and well-done steak and crap that is not bad in its platonic form but is just badly prepared or of poor quality, since those are no-brainers and anyway feel different in kind from the things I've talked about here. As for the list, though, you've been warned--if you bring any of these things over for a dinner party, I may not eat them. Or I may give them another try. Except the testicles. You can have those.

The Best Unreviewed Taco Stand in L.A.

2005-04-23T09:39:00.000-07:00

FADE IN.

EXT. VINE ST. EVENING.

DWG stands on the sidewalk in front of CACTUS MEXICAN FOOD, an unassuming corner taco hut. Several other PATRONS stand with him, all waiting patiently for their orders. A metal cart filled with various accompaniments--salsas, radishes, carrots and jalapenos--sits quietly. From behind the hut's window, GABRIEL appears.

GABRIEL

Four Mixed Tacos, three chorizo tacos, para llevar!

DWG

Thank you, sir. And may God smile on you always.

FADE OUT.

Some version of this scene occurs in Hollywood, at least once a week, and sometimes as often as three times a week for weeks on end. Everyone in Los Angeles has "his" or "her" taco stand. The one that you wake up in the middle of the night and wonder if you can get to before they close. The one your car could make the trip to without you. For me, it's the Cactus. And since I have never read a review of it, I still consider it "mine." Mineminemine. Ok, so it appears in the opening scene of "Heat," but that's not because of the great carnitas.

Carnitas, in fact, seem like a fine place to start. One somewhat older and admittedly inspirational yet now-too-cantankerous-and-a-bit-complacent food writer seems to hold a platonic ideal of carnitas as "pudding-like." My ideal carnitas, on the other hand, are ropy with burned bits, yet still somehow not dry. These are the carnitas of the Cactus. They're like a blend of thick, Irish back rashers, roast pork, and sauce-less barbecue. They may be the perfect taco meat. Where others automatically think of carne asada, I think of carnitas at the Cactus.

For a dollar, one can get any one of the Cactus's several types of meat--carnitas, carne asada, pastor, chicken, chicharron, chorizo (sausage), lengua (tongue), a few others (no longer buche (pork stomach) or tripa (tripe), since mad-cow became a concern) on a soft taco. But why stop there, when for 50 cents more, you can add a second meat, for tacos mixtos? It's been explained to me, by Gabriel himself, that one receives less of the second meat than one would, were one to order a whole second taco, but that's not the point. The point is that total of some meat pairings is greater by far than the sum of their parts in two separate tacos. For me, the ideal pairing is carnitas and chicharron. Chicharron isn't for everyone. It's pork skin, plus a small layer of fat beneath, sometimes with some bits of meat attached. It's truly one of my favorite expressions of pig, and it provides the perfect set of complements to carnitas--carnitas is lean, chicharron...um...is not; carnitas is somewhat spartan, chicharron is gooey and complicated and decacent. Don't make me wear out the adjectives--just try it. And try it at the Cactus, since chicharron would not seem so well-matched by the puddling-like carnitas of others' dreams. On top of the mix: either salsa verde (which can vary wildly in heat from one night to the next) or the excellent thick, brown chipotle salsa.

The other three tacos in my order: chorizo, by itself. Bright red, oily, crispy at the edges and at places in between. Garlicky and tart. Able to be eaten in a single bite, if you're so inclined, although people you love might look at you funny.

The asada is all right. I get it sometimes. I hear the chicken is fine. The pastor is way too chewy--actually gristly. I like this quality in a chicken-knee yakitori, but not in a pork-based taco. Skip tacos al pastor at the Cactus. I've never had the baja fish tacos. I'd say maybe next time, but I'd be kidding myself--one of the things that is "yours" about "your" taco stand is "your" order, which usually changes only in the amount of each favorite ordered on a given night.

Lastly, the cart. After 7 p.m. or so, the cart comes out, allowing you to wooden-spoon yourself as much of any of the Cactus's four salsas as you like. There is the green and the brown, and also a red (less spicy than you might expect...most nights) and a habanero orange. I recommend taking little plastic cups of each home your first few times, to figure out your own personal heat index, and also to try different salsas with different meats. Everybody's different, after all. The cart also has a bin of radishes, which are the perfect way to offset the smoky, oily heat of the meat and salsa--there are also sliced cucumbers, which do fine after I've snarfed all the radishes. Also, a pile of onions and cilantro, some limes and lemons, and the carrot-jalapeno encurtido, which is an awesome way to burn your mouth, lips and face, if you go in for that sort of thing (I do). The carrots are yummy and, like the salsas, can be mild one night and searing the next; the jalapenos are pretty consistent and indelicate.

Horchata? Good. I'll do it if I'm not feeling like beer. Service? Always friendly, usually pretty quick, although sometimes crushingly slow (maybe if you ordered an asada burrito instead of mixed tacos, it wouldn't be, homes). Hours? I think they close at 2 in the morning, and I have no idea what time they open--probably before you're thinking tacos, but I can't read your mind. Parking? Lot and street.

I was tipped to this place by a friend. When did it become "mine" then? The first time I went there. You know when you've found one of your places as quickly as you know when you're in love. When I asked how much their t-shirts cost, they gave me one free. Mine.

Cactus Mexican Food. 950 N. Vine St., north of Melrose, east side of the street.

Side-by-side Taste Test: Ambien vs. Valium

2005-04-23T04:26:00.000-07:00

How many times has this happened to you? It's 4 in the morning, and you've got this craving--not just for sleep, but also for a tasty sleep-aid to get you there. Too often, I think, we just slot pills into our mouths without slowing down to experience the flavors of what we're eating just then. Well, no more. Here, readers, are the results of the 4 a.m. Ambien versus Valium taste test.

We'll start with Valium (5 mg). Mother's Little Helper. The little yellow pill. In fact, though, owing to the longevity of this miracle drug, I will not be consuming "Valium" per se for this test, but rather its generic equivalent, Diazepam. Same diff--trust me--except that it's not yellow, it's a sort of light brick-pink. One of the problems I have with Valium (I will refer to it by its commercial and more recognizable and mellifluous name) is that you're just never sure how well it will work. This, perhaps, is because it's not technically a sleep-aid at all, but rather an anti-anxiety med. When my doctor explained this to me, I told him as calmly as I could that my sleeplessness stemmed from anxiety about not being able to fall asleep, and he agreed with me that this might call for recategorization, at least in my case.

On to the tasting!

Like many things from the 70's, Valium tastes bold but clumsy. In fact, let's be honest, it tastes terrible. One morning, about 10 years ago, I found myself on the floor of a then-popular Manhattan nightclub. When I realized where I was, I simultaneously realized that my mouth was open and that I COULD TASTE THE CARPET. This was an experience I swore I would never repeat, but lingering over a Valium really comes close. The taste is like the inside of a footlocker full of books and old photos, kept in the attic for 50 years--assertive, musty, not to be savored. Unfortunate, really, since one sometimes has to ingest several of these little buggers in order to drop off, and their extreme porousity makes them stay attached to your tongue as if they were clinging for their very lives.

Overall score: 4, and only that high because of its special place in my heart.

Next: Ambien (10 mg). The sledgehammer for a new millenium. Quick, aerodynamic, and not yet available in generic form. Dare I say that Ambien is everything that Valium is not? After all, it's been 40 years, and someone has clearly been doing his homework, beginning with the seemingly-obvious--yet in the case of Valium, clearly-overlooked--fact that oral medications are not suppositories. That's right, folks--these meds are eaten, and should therefore be fit to eat. Well, thanks to the good folks at Sanofi-Synthelabo, Inc. (?!), they now are. Ambien's flavor profile is simple--chalky, a bit sweet, but with a subtle and difficult-to-place minerally suggestion about it. It's too bad these pills are so much smaller than Valium, and that you can really only eat just one without your motor skills abandoning you in embarrassing ways even after the onset of sleep, because frankly, I can imagine lingering over a six-pack of these as part of a lovely picnic. Ambien, unlike Valium, would go well with any food set-up, really, acting as either amuse bouche or tween-course palate cleanser. It's the pharmaceutical industry's contribution to the world of granita.

Overall score: 8. Could even be higher, but I'm tired.

Unfortunately, this wasn't even close. Ambien is clearly the tastier sleep aid. In future, I'll broaden my scope to include more diverse offerings, and maybe even perform the tests blind (or double-blind!). Pharmaceutical reps wishing to have their products profiled in upcoming tests should send samples to me, along with dosage and drug interaction information. And now, to all, a good night. And sweet dreams.

White Chateauneuf-du-Pape

2005-04-22T15:50:00.000-07:00

My wife brought home a bottle of this today. This seems as good a time as any to mention that there will be wine posts here, too. I'll review the bottle after I've--I mean we've--drunk it.

Later.

Mmmmm...wine...

Here's something interesting about white c-d-d'p: it's nose is exactly upside-down from its taste. The nose is heavy on steely citrus--assertive, crisp, very like a Cloudy Bay sauvignon blanc from the early 90's, but plus some melon undertones. In your mouth, it behaves exactly opposite: lots of soft flavors--canteloupe, dust, a little of that unfortunate flavor of fuel that marks the wines I don't love--but with s-blanc undertones: the flintiness, the stoniness, the lime and cut grass. It's like a wine that can't catch its balance--constantly teetering towards the chardonnays I can only take a single glass of, and the s.b.'s that I've drunk 3 bottles of on a July 4th or two.

Overall: a bit too flabby for me, but fine company for as long as it lasts. 87. Oh, for the persnickety: 2003 Domaine du Vieux Lazaret.

Why I Prefer Emeril to Anthony Bourdain

2005-04-22T11:59:00.000-07:00

We all have guilty pleasures. My wife reads People. Some of my friends watch "professional" wrestling. I just finished watching an episode of Anthony Bourdain's "A Cook's Tour." Mine is the worst of the three.

In Kitchen Confidential, Anthony Bourdain's first work about Anthony Bourdain, he creates for his readers the character of Anthony Bourdain: leather-jacketed ne'er do well, self-loathing drug addict, Lou Reed with a ladle, and finally, zen motorcyclist chef who could still go off the rails at the drop of a toque. Bourdain does this pretty well. When I saw him on his book tour for Cook's Tour, I had never seen him in person, or even on television, but I knew exactly what to expect in terms of mannerisms, phrases, even his answers to my questions--and I was not disappointed (or rather, I got what I expected).

The problem is this: Bourdain's Bourdain does not exist. Much like Bourdain's New York does not exist. For a good cross-reference on the latter, listen to George Carlin's standup sometime--the newer stuff, where he talks about New York in his bogusly New York accent, as a place where cab drivers mug tourists for fun, and where no one is shocked by anything. Both men need to visit New York sometime soon. Listening to them talk about "the streets" is like listening to a new Rolling Stones album. (Here's a secret that I'm making up but I bet is true: the episode in Kitchen Confidential where the newlywed woman still in her dress leaves her wedding table to fuck the cook behind the restaurant did not happen.) But I digress. The problem with Bourdain is that he has himself convinced that, under the media chef that is now Bourdain, is still the sneering rock-n-roller who would as soon spit at you as know you. Here's the truth: that person no longer exists, if he ever did. Bourdain's true colors are shown by his petty pot-shots at other media chefs, and especially by those he takes at Emeril Lagasse. This bears a new paragraph.

Emeril. We all know Emeril. And if you're reading this, you don't like Emeril. Despite the title of this piece, I don't either. What's to like? He's flashy, he makes what looks like good airline food, and his audience is made up of frustrated housewives. Watching an episode of "Emeril Live!," you expect to see some poor thing swoon and faint every time the bloated man yells "BAM!" and throws such a pudgy fistful of rosemary into a pan of chops that some poor intern spent the entire night butterflying just right. But look at Bourdain on Emeril:

Emeril is a "fuzzy little" "ewok-like" "schlockmeister with . . . catchphrases like 'Bam!' and 'Let's kick it up a notch!'" and "his own line of prepared seasonings" but "who manages to hold American television audiences enthralled."

"His show is unbearable. . . . He's so sloppy and unattractive, and he's never lost the Mass accent" (this comes from an interview Bourdain gave to Gregory Cartier of AskMen.com (?!) and was actually meant as a compliment).

True enough, non? We watch Emeril, and we think those same things, don't we? Well guess what? Emeril doesn't care. Emeril knows what we think. Emeril wants us to think that. Emeril is just fine with Emeril. I have no doubt that he goes home satisfied with what he's done each day, thinking each "BAM!" neither brilliant nor worthy of ritual suicide. Not Bourdain. No, way, man. Bourdain goes home every day thinking both of the things Emeril does not. Bourdain thinks he's both brilliant and tragic, and more so of both for being each. And so he has to lash out at Emeril and Wolfgang Puck and whoever else seems satisfied with his or her lot as celebrity chef. This smacks of the concept-of-scarcity mentality that defines the truly insecure: if anyone else does what he does, it's insult-worthy (see him on any other celebrity chef); if anyone else considers doing it, a scary story gets trotted out (see his "reason(s) not to do network t.v." in A Cook's Tour).

Does it make a bit of difference that the others have their names or initials monogrammed on their whites? It does to Bourdain. It doesn't to me. Do Bourdain's winks-and-a-scowls make me feel like he and I get it, while the other suckers don't? Yeah, sure, for a few pages or minutes--I'm easy like that. But to pretend that that isn't the same cheap hucksterism as "BAM!" is ridiculous. In fact, let's call it "GRR!" Next time you watch Bourdain on t.v., I want you to imagine that every time he says something BadAss, he looks right into the camera and yells "GRR!" and throws a handful of, I don't know, fleur de sel into a pot-a-feu. I promise there will be more of these moments than you expect, and definitely more than there are "BAM!"s on an average episode of "Emeril Live!"

When I saw Bourdain read on tour, he started out by trying to defuse the bomb. The first thing he said--without any prompting from the audience--was "I know, I know. I sold out. I work for the devil. I know." He said it with a half-smile. He had to. But this was more of the same--the same bogus self-deprecation that I had come to expect from him having read Kitchen Confidential. Bourdain doesn't believe the jabs he makes at himself. Or he does, but he doesn't. Or he does just enough to convince himself that they're wrong. Whatever. At a certain point, it's just too boring. Kitchen Confidential, about halfway through, started to feel exactly like Permanent Midnight by Jerry Stahl, plus food. Reading both, I kind of wanted the writers to just die already, so I could stop hearing them whinge. Both Stahl and Bourdain are still alive, as of this writing. And, okay, I didn't want either to really die, but I was pretty exasperated.

Remember, though, that I said Bourdain was my guilty pleasure. Which means that in spite of all this, I have read two of his books and enjoyed them both, and watch him on t.v. when I have the chance. But a lot of this is true, too. I would think, not thinking about it, that I would rather have a beer with Anthony Bourdain than with Emeril Lagasse. But is that right? It looks right, but what are the two men really like? They're probably closer to the same than Bourdain would care to think. And I know this: after the second or third beer, I'd much rather be around a happy man than a self-loathing caricature. I prefer honest "BAM!" to fabricated "GRR!" any day of the week.

Welcome

2005-04-22T11:45:00.000-07:00

Everything starts somewhere. This starts here. A Blow to the Head refers to what some consider the root cause of "Gourmand Syndrome," which is exactly what it sounds like: an obsession with good food. Apparently, one can go from utility-eater to foodie/chowhound/itinerant blogger in one swift bonk to the old bean. Well, when I was 7 or 8, I knocked mine pretty hard on the cement floor of a pool I happened to be skateboarding in at the time. There's not much more to say for now. This is about that. Not the head injury--the food. This is a blog about food. Not because the world needs another one, but because since that crack to the skull in the pool, I've thought about food a lot, and I need somewhere to write, and this is there.

Ok, so it won't all be about food. But the good stuff probably will be.