White Christmas

Ok, so I have no excuses. The only reason I haven't posted is pure laziness. That, and kind of a lack of creative energy. I've been tired. It's been tough to catch up from the last batch of sleep deprivation, and my innate desire to hibernate hasn't been helping things. But, like a floundering government with an multi-billion-dollar industry bailout plan, I've been putting what energy I do have into eating and riding in hopes of seeing a return to my normal level of production.

Much time has been spent in the garage on the trainer as of late. It's hard to get in an hour that way, but it's great to get in 30 minutes on a cold, wet, dark morning when the alternative is no exercise at all. Yesterday was my first ride on the road on my Look in what seemed like ages, and it was much needed after the previous eating...

Who says we don't have white Christmases in LA!

After a short day at work on Wednesday (just 9-5, kind of like a half day), BoW and I started cleaning the house for company, then went out for a nice but homey dinner at Fioretto. It was good to see a couple of large tables, families who had decided, just like us, to make it part of their holiday celebration.

Hearty white bean and cabbage soup instantly warmed me from the cold and rain, and the rustic beet salad that has been on the menu this season seemed appropriately colored for the holiday.

Chef's Lasagne alla Bolognese is a regular winter offering which takes advantage of both his rich and succulent meat sauce as well as his creamy bechamel. This is not typical American Lasagna. It has much more in common with it's Euro relatives like Lazanki and Pastitsio.

For lunch the other day, I had a meatball sub from Jones. It uses three of the best things from their skillet-served Spaghetti and Meatballs (the meatballs, sauce, and cheese) while leaving the weak link (the pasta) behind. Suffice to say that if chef left his homemade pappardelle behind, the polpette would weep like Pagliaccio for Nedda. My own weeping was more for joy.

Even splurging on the Chianti, this meal was stupidly reasonable. I would definitely have paid more.

Thursday's big dinner featured a family tradition: roast beast. We had a big group, so I went all out (wanting to have leftovers, of course) and roasted a 12 lb. standing rib roast. It's a simple thyme rub, and I make a Madeira and mushroom au jus just like Mom. My only disappointment was timing. I started the roast too early and didn't take into consideration that my friends who were never very timely to begin with are even less punctual now that they have infant children. Thankfully, there was cheese and this awesome slate cheese tray that my mother sent me.

The chaos of the preceding week led to a near disaster on the vegetable end, but a well-stocked fridge allowed for a bailout, including a very small, plated salad of mostly cucumber and carrot, dressed in my mother's standard vinaigrette, which I actually let pickle slightly to soften the tough veggies. It was a hit. Who knew? Just like Radhika's dish got better with duck thighs when her breasts went bad in the open cooler overnight, serving that salad really brightened the meal in a way that my original steamed green and wax beans would not have.

By the end of service I was really tired, and without the help of Susan and the Smurf, I would have never gotten the place cleaned up. Needless to say, I slept very soundly that night.

Upcoming: local sushi love and Frisco.

Solstice

Today is the solstice, and according to my personal cosmology, the real height of the winter holiday season. As a post-Catholic, transcendental, science-based animist with a strongly humanist viewpoint (try to find the Wikipedia entry for that one), my personal spirituality is mostly oriented toward integrating personal, cultural, and natural phenomena in some kind of meaningful way through food, drink, outdoor activity, and simple acts of creation.

That said, I'm at work.

BoW is at home preparing for the more traditional celebration of Christmas, American style, much of which includes her freaking out white-woman style about getting it all done in time. Clearly, I'll be no help this year.

On the plus side, our first assistant, BB, has already packed his family off on a plane to FL to see extended family, so he's been bringing in both his dog, Hudson, and his waffle iron to make the weekend a bit more civilized.

So, whether your solstice is about the Nativity, the re-emergence of the sun goddess Amaterasu from the cave where she's been hiding, hiding yourself from the peak potency of Chernobog, or a remembrance of your people's heroic stand against Hellenistic invaders, get warm, get the people you love close, get down with some good food and drinks, and tell some good stories. My next will be about Christmas dinner.

More Tacos

I love California. Über alles, indeed.

Lucky enough to have a Sunday off (don't worry, I'll be paying for it by working 120+ hours between now and Xmas), BoW and I made the most of a gorgeous, clear, cool morning to get in a short ride and a visit to the Mar Vista Farmers' Market. 

While BoW did not agree with me, I was quite relieved to avoid any interaction with a certain perverse, jolly-old elf that seemed to be trolling Gandview looking for children. 

The best part of the market today, though, was the presence of Yoshi's catering. They offer two things: sushi tacos and sushi burritos. 

That's right: sushi tacos and sushi burritos. I mentioned I love California, right?

Now, I have expressed my love for the taco in this space not once, not twice, but three times. My love for Japanese food has been less of a topic, but represented nonetheless. So, dare I live the dream and try one of these delicious concoctions - the perfect marriage of all things delicious?

The three taco combo is a mainstay of SoCal eating, and BoW and I both chose to try the spicy tuna, spicy albacore, and spicy scallop, eschewing the California roll taco. I ate the Albacore in three bites before remembering to take a picture.

Man, they were good. Like, really good. OH MY GOD, THEY WERE SO GOOD!

While we were waiting, I noticed one of the chefs playing with some octopus at the prep table. Next thing I know, I was presented with what he described as "real Japanese fast food." Takoyaki is its name, and it beats the crap out of chicken nuggets. Needless to say, my enthusiasm for the tentacles was rewarded with extra fat tacos. Ten bucks for all, by the way.

On a side note, we went to dinner last night with my friend RB and his new bride. We stopped by their place for a cocktail beforehand. You may remember that RB was with me when I discovered the difference a real marasca cherry makes in a Manhattan. What you probably don't know is that he and I spent a week working in Padova, Italy together about 12 years ago, a trip that informed both of our palates, and set us both on the path to gormandise. It was there, too,  that we both first discovered Luxardo.

Well, on their honeymoon road trip to Napa, they stopped at gourmet market and bought a jar of real Luxardo marasca cherries. Suffice to say that the ones they use at Father's Office are not the same. Treat yourself this holiday. Order some online and drown them in some bourbon or rye. You'll never eat a bright red maraschino again.

Long Weekend

While not as long as it should have been (I write this Sunday morning at work while waiting for the gear to reboot), the Thanksgiving holiday weekend did give me lots to be thankful for. Each day began with a ride and culminated in a nice meal or other social event. In between, there was sloth. You can understand why I'd want one more day.

Thursday was the first ride back on the Look in a couple of weeks. Commuting has been it for me for riding lately, so it was very nice to get out to the beach in some spandex, switch between quick circles and a big gear, fight the wind, and crush some Freds. After snarfing some leftovers and taking a very long, very hot shower, BoW and I headed to friends-who-are-more-like-family's house for traditional turkey feast. And it was good.

Friday's ride was nearly twenty miles of MTB out at Pt. Mugu State Park. After a long, gentle six mile climb up Sycamore Canyon Fire Road, BoW and I tore down the Sin Nombre/Two Foxes trails, most of the way back up it, looped around on the road and went back down again. What a great way to spend a couple of hours in the low-angled, midday sun of  November. Plus, I even successfully rode through the hardest trail feature (a steep, hard left whoop) at the top of Sin Nombre for the first time.

That evening, we went to arguably the best music club (at least in terms of the space itself) in town to bask in the warm thrill of confusion at the hands of The Melvins and two of their side projects Porn, and Big Business. Added to that was the extra bonus of reconnecting with an old friend and bandmate JUS and his wife, neither of whom had we seen in over 5 years. Porn was better than hoped, offering an onslaught of noise backed by what could only be described as a metal drumline. Big Business had only the one drummer, but made up for it with thick, meaty, Slayeresque bass riffs complemented by obligato nonsense guitar. More to my taste than BoW's. The Melvins current two-drummer lineup (same as Porn) is a joy to see in an intimate setting such as The Troubadour. You really haven't lived until you see symmetric metal drumming where not only the kits are opposed, but by virtue of one being a lefty, the drummers are as well.

For food porn, I offer these pics from our lunch outing to Culver City's own Pho Show. Before you discount them because of the cutesy name, let me just say that this is no Absolutely Phobulous. It's a family-run business which is just beginning to find its way, zeroing in on a menu, offering late-night hours, adding delivery, and dialing in a consistent flavor to its central offering, the broth. 

While we can all agree that from a political and humanitarian standpoint, Colonialism was a major faux pas, the creole culinary traditions it begat are generally as beautiful as the foreign lands that caused so many Europeans to go native in the time of empire. A great example of this is the delicious bánh xèo crepe. Crispy, eggy, stuffed with veggies and pork, and dipped in fish sauce, those frogs never had it so good as they did in Saigon.

The main event, though, is the pho. The broth is rich and tasty, and just requiring of condiment to make it your own. Meat ingredients are prefect, and on this occasion, I went with just meat balls. 

 

BoW elected brisket, tendon, and tripe. In pho, the tripe has a remarkably clean and palatable flavor. The fuzzy texture is a bit like extra-spongy tongue. I highly recommend this as an entry to tripe, especially if the iron-rich, tomato gaminess of menudo has turned you off in the past. That, or deep frying it in the French style...

For last supper on the long weekend, I cleaned out the fridge by making some soup. The chicken I was thawing to make more stock and potentially some bbq was still solid, so I went with the last of the homemade stock BoW whipped up for soup a couple of weekends ago. I had mirepoix on hand, added a turnip, some fresh parsley, some leftover chicken from tacos on Tuesday, the leftover green beans (retaining some of the mustard sauce the BoW made from the Ladies' recipe) and topped it with a crisped piece of prosciutto leftover from homemade pizza on Monday. Served it with a warm baguette. We do eat well.

The Big Apple and Taking Pictures in the Dark

This year's wedding season is over. We attended number six in New York last weekend, and those of you who are paying attention know that there was Journey Karaoke involved.

We're lucky to have been to the city once before this year (for? a wedding...) and did the whole Manhattan thing, staying in a stylish downtown hotel, eating and drinking our way through the lower east side. This time, we were hosted in much more comfortable confines in an actual neighborhood (Sunnyside, Queens) where real people live (and shop at Korean grocery stores). Many thanks again to Roth for her generous hospitality.

The bus from Newark deposited us at Grand Central Thursday evening, and after a drink near her workplace and another at home, we ventured out to a neighborhood joint called Quaint. The place certainly lived up to its name, serving Contemporary American in a casual, intimate setting with just enough hipster cred to make us 30-somethings feel like we should be spending some cash but not like we were under-styled. Bonus: Spanish festival that yielded the first score of the evening, a nice bottle of Malbec from Mendoza. I know that's not Spain, but it's at least hispanohablante.

We ordered and shared, and we were all in agreement on the meal. The Tilapia was clearly there because one must have fish. Why it had to be frozen fish in a perfunctory presentation (not to mention more than a little dry) is beyond me. The "grilled hanger steak" was good, despite the fact that it was clearly a sirloin, perfectly grilled (with a nice crosshatch, even), and served with mashed potatoes kinda like you'd expect in a neighborhood where there are bars and funeral homes on every block. 

The winner of the night, though, was the special: braised beef ribs. How many times am I going to write about this dish? Well, it seems every restaurant in the country is serving it. It's kinda the touchstone for American cooking these days. That said, these guys pulled it off nicely, unpretentiously, and on every bit the level of some of the more celebrated eateries that feature it on their regular menus. It was too dark for picture, so you'll have to take my word for it, but we were so pleased (and not a little bit drunk) that we ordered dessert and brown liquor from the compact but inviting bar. I'll be honest, I don't even remember what we got, but I do remember that it was good...

Friday our hostess had to work, so we made arrangements to go into Manhattan and meet up with Stretch, who would be arriving from Philly by train around lunchtime. We had some delicious sandwiches at an old favorite in the Village, French Roast. 

In my previous life as a recording engineer, I would go to NYC at least twice a year to work with one or another of our artists in the city. RB (wedding #5 earlier this month) and I made many wonderful culinary discoveries on these trips, and much of my understanding of urban living and eating is informed by those experiences. On one such trip to record a "classical crossover" record with Dennis Keene and the Voices of Ascension, we were treated to a wonderful meal by the maestro after the last session at the bistro at the end of the block from our venue, the Church of the Ascension on 6th St and 5th Ave. That bistro was French Roast. The evening ended at a, sadly, now-defunct shall we say "cabaret" called the Oaks, where the evening was hosted by a very talented and convincing Ethel Merman.

In order to kill time between meals, the three of us moved on up to the east side to experience some culturification. The Whitney Museum had been a blank spot on our cultural maps, and the timing was such that we were treated to two wonderful exhibits: a fantastic retrospective of William Eggleston including not only his photography but also his more rare video installations and a revelatory presentation of the "Paris Years" of Alexander Calder. 

Make no mistake that the pieces from the permanent collection were both seminal and cohesive, well-displayed in a wonderful spae, and very much to my taste (maybe with the exception of the large number of Hoppers), and that the Eggleston exhibit was haunting and eerie despite it's incredible palate of bright, enameled colors. The Calder exhibit showed how he arrived at the style we know and revere him for while providing a unique look into his humanity, warmth, and humor that we rarely get to see of great creators. From the celebrity busts that greet you upon arrival, to the loving drawings made for magazines, through the painstaking recreation of his circus filmed in the 50s while performing for his grandkids, and finishing with the wire sculpture of the pigs in flagrante delicto, we saw an artist presented with the depth and dimension appropriate for the man that coined the term "mobile."

On another of those recording trips, RB and I stayed at the Gramercy Park Hotel. My mentor, John Eargle, told us stories at the time of the former glory of the place: three martini lunches in the 60s when that was acceptable behavior, just like the nap that followed. In the 90s, that glory had faded, and it is great to see it restored in its current incarnation, even if it does price me out.

The best thing about that location was the discovery of a restaurant (a "bouchon") a few blocks down that was open until the wee hours when we finished our sessions, offered great late-night food, and had a stunning bar. In the mornings, they had real rich, French-roast coffee (not that burnt crap you get at Starbucks). With the City Crab neon as our beacon, we could stumble back from the Village in the cold spring night and fall into the warm embrace of tea lights and wooden chairs where brown liquor and melted cheese could salve our weary souls.

On this cold, cold Manhattan November evening (below freezing for sure), the three of us disembarked from the subway at 23rd and Park looking to climb back into that warm embrace. Le Express has been a destination on just about every trip to NY since RB and I discovered it ten years ago. Those of you following the links will note that it is owned by the same folks as French Roast. We didn't find that out until about two trips ago!

We had a wonderful meal, starting off right with cocktails and charcuterie. Our waiter was a bit distrustful of us, dressed as we were for the weather and, therefore, camping more than a meal on Park Ave, no matter how far south. 

Main courses consisted of the heavy French fare one would expect of cold travelers. Stretch had duck a l'orange, moist and juicy thanks to the well-rendered layer of fat protected by the sweet, crispy skin. I had the special, a perfectly braised lamb shank that fell off the bones and into a dark, rich sauce countered by deliciously bitter greens. 

BoW had the trotter crépinette which made us wonder if it's just the pig that is so magical its feet are delicious or if we've just lost something as a culture that we can't eat the feet of all animals. When paired with a delicious Medoc, it became clear that braised meat and Bordeaux is now my preferred method of suicide. 

We had dessert, but by that time, I was drunk with food. And wine. And gin. So I ordered Scotch, and it was good.

The Old Standby

This weekend's gastronomic highlight was Friday dinner out. To be fair, we had great food at a wedding on Saturday, and BoW made some really delicious mushroom-barley soup (based on a homemade chicken broth), but it would have been tacky to review the wedding food, good as it was, and I was too tired after work last night to give the wife her due. Besides, she cooked it, she can blog about it!

Friday, though, we went to our favorite local dinner spot, Fioretto Trattoria. Surprisingly, I've never touched on it before, but it's an unassuming little spot in a strip mall at the western tip of Culver City serving very high quality Cali-Tuscan at reasonable prices in an unpretentious atmosphere. Frankly, I owe it more than that. I would be raving at you in person, but I'll save that enthusiasm for upcoming reports. I will say this: we now go on Fridays almost exclusively because that is when our favorite waitress is working.

If you check out the website, you'll see that they serve a seasonal menu augmented by specials that change every week or so. The good thing about that is that we've always got something different to choose from. The bad thing is that we often don't get there enough times in a season to have everything we'd like to. Worse problems to have, I guess.

At this point, I need to apologize for failing you, dear reader. You see, after BoW reminded me to snap some shots of our first course, I flippantly stated that I had done so on our previous visit (when our choices were nearly the same), thinking that not only had I already taken those pictures, but I had written about the dishes. Sadly, as my good friend TF pointed out to me, I had been slacking on my writing and had let it slide...

Chef David does great things with soup, and the garlic soup with greens was no disappointment. Something tells me it's because he makes his own fond de veau. Frankly, that stock is the thing that elevates Fioretto over most of the "Italian" places you'll find on the west side. It only seems to come out of a can here if it does in Italy, too. BoW had the Rosso salad which made excellent use of the red and golden beets that are very rich and seasonable in the fall here in SoCal.

The gnocchi with walnut pesto was something we had both looked at on our previous visit, and having had a long, hard run that afternoon, BoW decided it was for her.

Chef's gnocchi are light and almost fluffy compared to the weighty dumplings found in most checked-tablecloth establishments. The walnut pesto was meaty and rich, as expected. The only disappointment was with the plating. The artichoke base was slightly under-seasoned and brought a little too much watery liquid with it, undermining the earthy and savory impact the dish should have landed with.

The star of the dinner was definitely the beef ribs. As we have discussed, this is a popular dish on the LA culinary landscape. I won't get into an examination of why right now, but modern foodies have taken Bourdain's lead into the realm of poor-people food and stopped before getting too far above 116th street. 

Chef's preparation is simple. The meat is slowly braised in some good wine and finished with a simple sauce that doesn't try to "elevate" this already lofty experience. Along side are a rectangle of simply grilled homemade polenta and a handful of lightly fried spinach. Only Chef Ford's pea tendrils have anything on these lowly greens, and his beef cheeks represent a nice point of comparison to these ribs. At the end of the day, this is much cheaper meat, treated with similar respect, and resulting in similarly delightful cuisine. The cheeks have a texture that the ribs can only aspire to, but the richness and decidedly bovine flavor of the ribs is like nothing else. It's the same reason I like flatirons better than filets. If I want texture, I'll eat Japanese.

To be fair, the texture of these ribs was prefect. I didn't have to use my knife at all for this meal, and pulling the ribs apart into strands, I was able to maximize the surface area that contacted my taste buds. I'm in it for the food.

 

Second Chances

This seems to be the season of second chances. I'm working with a group of people I have worked with before. At the end of the last show, we kind of split up with most of the crew going in one direction and a couple of us going in a different one. That's the way things work in my business, and I'm really happy that circumstances arose that allowed me another chance to work with them. 

Usually, second chances are not so happy. After all, why a second chance? Obviously, a second attempt would not be so much of a chance if the first one had gone well. Or maybe it did go well, like in the case of Lance Armstrong, who announced his return to the peloton earlier this fall. I don't much like Lance, but there is no denying the incredible success he has had as an athlete, and as a cancer survivor, he certainly understands the value of the second chance. 

Sometimes things go a little too well, as in the case of Alexander Vinokourov. After securing the sponsorship of some successful Kazakh countrymen to save his team from the clutches of the worst doping scandal to hit cycling this century (it's young yet), Vino went on to win the Vuelta D'España, proving himself to be a worthy grand tour competitor. Unfortunately, his comeback from a crash in the following summer's Tour de France was a bit too good to be true. Now Vino has decided that he deserves a second chance. While I can't imagine that any team would have him, my hope is that the UCI keeps him from even obtaining a license to begin with. After all, he was caught red-handed.

The most controversial second chance in cycling right now seems to be that of Ivan Basso. The dreamy Italian Tour contender just made his return to racing in Japan last month. Implicated in the same investigation that brought Vino's team down, Basso served a suspension after admitting to "attempted" doping. He was never caught in a test (kinda like Lance), but admitted to intending to use banned techniques to improve his performance. But in the end, his admission, information he provided to investigators, and his completion of punishment make him worthy of a second chance.

What does this have to do with food? Well, there is a certain restaurant in Culver City that the BoW and I have been going to ever since it opened as the cornerstone of the culinary renaissance in our precious downtown. In the beginning, we were quite taken. Our own celebrity chef (plus, Dad's a real a-lister!), some quality American-modern food, and a great bar. 

Our honeymoon continued for a while, but things started going downhill when the caveman showed up. On our next visit (our wedding anniversary, actually), we should have known things were going to go sour when we watched the repeat of Chef getting beat by Bobby Flay while we sat at the bar. I mean, Ben was in the restaurant that night. Show some self-respect, man! After that, we were mistreated by the front-of-house, and my rabbit was dry. It was a while before we went back.

We ended up going there for brunch a few months ago, and it was pretty good. The bar has never disappointed, and getting back to simple hash and eggs benedict reminded us of the kind of flavor profiles we came to expect and enjoy there. So, when there was no room at the bar at our preferred restaurant Saturday night, we felt emboldened by that experience enough to give the filling station another chance.

Drinks and kumamotos are not hard, but the were delivered promptly and provided the instant satisfaction we desired while we decided on dinner. Much of the menu (different from what you will see online) was the same as previous visits, and BoW ordered the signature beef cheeks.

While the cheeks were executed perfectly, and the accompanying pea tendrils beat spinach any day, let's be honest about the grain: it was "israeli" couscous. Even that name is kind of a lie, so maybe that's why the "cracked wheat risotto," but let's all just be honest about the food and let it speak for itself. It matched very, very well with the Tinto.

Sadly, the pork belly I had intended to order was gone (at 8 M on Saturday?!?), but I got it together and adapted. I had my eye on a Rioja, and I decided to go for simple comfort: the Pub Burger.

It was one of the best burgers I've ever had. Really. Simply seasoned, fresh beef ground in house, perfectly cooked, minimally adorned, and spot on. The onion ringers were light and crisp. The whole plate really lived up to what you want from a high-end burger. I felt like I was getting what I paid for, even at $16, without having to endure anything too clever.

The side of brussels sprouts was cheating. Everything is better with bacon! Maybe if they'd have applied that maxim to my rabbit last summer, this wouldn't have been a second chance.

 

One Grain at a Time

Over the weekend, which is to say Sunday now that I'm working 65+ hours a week again, I received a little grief from a good friend and avid reader, TF (yes, F --  I'm not dragging the Doctor's good name into this) for not posting in so long. After bellyaching about work, I realized she was right, and I resolved to post more frequently, if not as ramblingly or even on topic as I have. The important thing here is to fill the vacuum of the internet with the sound of my own voice, right? 

Most of my riding lately has been commuting. I just haven't had the time or energy to do long training rides on the road bike. Besides, I'm not prepping for anything, so riding right now is about fun, general fitness, and transportation.

That said, I was really looking forward to spending a couple of hours perched on my Selle Italia, robed in spandex and resplendent upon my carbon steed on Sunday. Then I turned into the wind -- a steady 20 mph with gusts to 37. Buffeted as they would hit me from the 3/4, I would have to manhandle my slowly cranking machine to keep it upright, as though I were climbing some col or alp even as I headed downhill toward the beach.

Then there was the sand. I felt like I was getting full-body microdermabrasion the entire time I was on the bikepath. It may be hard to see the sand drifting and swirling across frame in these pictures, but as my iPod began to serve up the mysterious funk of a track from Bitches Brew, I began to have the feeling of being involved in some sort of epic battle in a distant galaxy fought between a few large, developed carbon life forms and millions of tiny silicon ones in a loose metaphor for the coming dominance of the Chinese and their masses much like Herbert's allegory for Islam and oil in Dune. Since he and Crichton are both dead, I've already registered the treatment with the WGA, so don't get any ideas, Stretch.

I knew I could only take this for so long. Worse, I knew that the crosswind would be slightly more on my nose on the way back up the path once I turned around. I made peace with the fact that this would only be an hour's ride, and the music moved on to Big Swifty as I looped around to head home. As the sand pelted me, I cranked out a consistent tempo, hunkered down in the drops, and tried not to look at the fact that my computer was telling me that a 160bpm heart rate was only yielding 13 mph. Fr those of you not into hrm training, let me make a comparison: I felt like Cristophe Moreau after he got gapped in the winds while wearing the French champion's tricolore on Stage 11 of the 2007 Tour de France. The difference is that his hot French crosswinds smelled of lavender while mine of stinging and blindness.

Finally, I hit the Ballona Creek portion of the path and the home stretch. Sadly, the wind was never fully at my back, but it was at least mostly behind me now and without such easy ammunition. Before showering, I caught myself in the mirror and felt a little like one of my heroes, a man much harder than I who would have gotten in his entire ride without complaint: Stuey O'Grady, upon winning the 2007 Paris-Roubaix. Of course, he didn't have to ride to work the next day. 

The Dignity of Nourishment by Small, Furry Animals: Lucques, I Am Your Father

On Friday afternoon, I got a text from one of my oldest friends, MF. Although we live in the same town, we don't see as much of each other as we should, and BoW and I have been needing to connect with him ad his new wife L for some time now. This was the perfect weekend, as his mom was in town, and he suggested a late dinner at a restaurant that was just around the corner from their place in WeHo. When we spoke on Saturday to discuss the details, I found out that our destination was to be none other than local celebrity chef Suzanne Goin's Lucques.

The place is small and active, but not crowded despite being full on a Saturday night. There is a small bar in the front, and wood and brick fill the open space that spills out into the ivy-walled back patio where we were immediately seated. It was not quiet, but we did manage conversation. We got the ball rolling with selections from the typical list of traditional cocktails one finds in American restaurants these days while we munched on a plate of roasted almonds with sea salt and a handful of the olives from which the place takes its name. We had started with vodka martinis before we left the house, and I had already made my first course decision, so I went with the gimlet.

L had the arugula salad, which I did not sample. I did have a taste of MF's squash soup, which had a full-bodied sweetness and nuttiness well accented by hazelnuts and complemented by slightly bitter greens and good salty bacon. BoW had the duck sausage.

It was savory and delicious, redolent of fall flavors like fennel and sage, with just the right sweet touch to balance the earthiness of the liver and cabbage. The sausage was tender and had a satisfying texture that made it seem like there was more to the plate than met the eye.

My kampachi was a simple, bright dish of wonderfully fresh fish. Understated flavors of cucumber and citrus bolstered it against the sharpness and aroma of the purslane, which was like the best marjoram you've never tasted before. It was the perfect light start and made me feel all smart about my cocktail choice.

I was also tasked with wine. The list was extensive and really ran the gamut in terms of quality, origin, variety, and price. Nothing too obvious, but nothing really lacking as I looked for personal faves that I thought would be appealing to a variety of palates and pair with the five different entrees that would be coming to our table. I selected a Dolcetto that was quite reasonable, and the waitress agreed that it would be a solid winner. She was right about its lightness, and it exhibited that sweet-tart berry flavor that one expects from the grape. It had character, but was definitely willing to step up stage during the soliloquy.

Main courses came from the fall menu that was both typically contemporary American and traditionally fall-themed. The black cod, lamb shank, and beef ribs were all precisely executed, satisfyingly rich and savory, and well-portioned if not exactly eye-opening. That said, Goin should be credited (at least in part) for founding this trend in cooking even if we are starting to see many of these same dishes on menus over and over.

My veal was no exception, and despite its near-perfect preparation and exquisite level of ingredient quality, it was not particularly life-changing or even memorable. I didn't post anything about the roast filet with maderia and mushrooms that I made for dinner last Sunday, but I guess I was hoping for something from Luques that was not just more polished than my own cooking but beyond its conception.

The one true disappointment of the evening was BoWs rabbit. This cuddliest of woodland creatures is a super hot menu item in LA right now, and we have been ordering it at every opportunity, including the tender and delicious iteration at Palate, the dry and entirely underwhelming attempt proffered by Ford's Filling Station, and the delicate and exquisite new Tuscan variation skillfully assembled by Chef David at Fioretto Trattoria. While the Palate dish must be considered somewhat of a rip-off of Lucques', the sausage was bolder and the rabbit more tender. Here, as with the veal, the sauce was meant to star and the protein was a delivery device.

Having said all of these Lucques-warm things, it's only fair to say that the overall experience was of top quality. Service, atmosphere, bar, and kitchen all combined with professional aplomb, and the place is friendly and comfortable while still providing a true fine dining experience. If I am tough on the menu and the food it is only because I expect so much. The Hungry Cat has been hugely successful, and I look forward to seeing Goin take Lucques another step beyond when she decides to update. (Hint, hint.)

The Indignities of Blogging by Ripping Someone Off: Sour Grapes

I believe that my attempts to woo Bike Snob through the sincerest form of flattery may be fruitless. Direct communication from manufacturers and BMX evangelists will certainly trump my measly copycat snark.

(BTW, if Ernesto does write, please ask him to explain the paint jobs on some of his bikes.)

Besides, I prolly offended him by making fun of the Tokyo Langster.

There is good news for my just cause, though. Apparently, all I need is a BMX bike!

The Indignity of Commuting by Bicycle: Embracing Your Inner Fred

For better or worse, Los Angeles is a center of culture. Movies, TV, music, literature, art,  architecture, even dance all flourish here. Fashion, however, does not. At least not in the same way. Sure, some local designers have become notorious throughout the world, and others have even attempted to bridge their aesthetic with my beloved sport of cycling. Still, it is no Paris, no Milan, and no one would ever think to do something crazy at a runway show here. What we know how to do here is look around us and steal other peoples' ideas, re-synthesizing them into some kind of marketable trend that we can then sell as our own.

It's kind of like blogging.

Bike commuters are no different. All the way to work this yesterday, I exchanged glances and occasional greetings with my fellow cyclists--each of us assessing the others using a variety of criteria, categorizing, comparing, judging, but no one leading the way, no common destination.

In general, cyclists tend to be quite fashion-conscious. Especially roadies. Even I succumb to this tendency with my shaven legs, Italian bibs, and glasses worn outside my helmet straps. At this point, my hair has gotten so long it almost even qualifies as a euro-mullet.

Commuting is an altogether different beast, innately practical in nature, and on the mean streets of Los Angeles, so contrary to the pulse of the city that there is no time for fashion. I wear my old, holey bike shorts under regular shorts with baggy technical tees and a bevisored helmet. Look, the holes are bigger offering better ventilation while I wait at lights. At least I don't have top mounted shifters. I will not, however, be featured in the Sartorialist any time soon, but thankfully, not the New York Times either.

LA bike fashion is no different than clothing. New York, Tokyo, Vegas, they have it all over us. In LA the only thing that looks like a cab but sucks that bad is a Jimmy Fallon vehicle.

Anyway, here's my road bike.

It's a few seasons out of date by now, but clearly a sleek, chic, French road racer with classic lines and modern simplicity. Kind of like the little black dress of bicycles. I can ride it a lot of places and in a lot of ways, but it doesn't have pockets, offer much protection from the elements, or look good dirty. The truth is, putting a backpack on full of computer and change of clothes makes riding her feel like moving a mattress on top of a hatchback.

For that reason, I had the guys at Hollywood Pro Bikes build me something specific to commuting.

Some would call this a Frankenstein (you should see the schwanzstücke!), but despite the combination of track crank, pursuit bars, and rear rack (not pictured), the unified whole is actually quite practical and, IMHO, attractive. The most important thing is that it gets me there comfortably and at a reasonable speed so that two or three days a week I can be one less car.

(Yes, I know I am copying him. I'm going to keep doing it until he notices and links back. Besides, he totally ripped off Joel McHale yesterday.)

The Indignity of Commuting by Bicycle: Cops on Cellphones

Bike Snob is back from vacation, so there is no excuse for me not to post. I have to keep up if I'm going to be a second-rate knockoff. I'm seriously slipping into third-rate territory.

Returning to work means returning to commuting. As Facebook users can attest, I was completely unprepared for the weight of computer, clothes, and shoes in my pannier. It's a bit heavier than farmers' market produce.

On the way in, I saw no fewer than three drivers with cellphones pressed against their ears. At Fairfax and Venice, I shared a moment of head shaking with one of my motorized two-wheeled brethren as we glared at the guy in the Corolla. 

Still, that was nothing compared to the two, count them, two Culver City cops I saw pull out of the station on Duqesne, both of them slowly seeking the sweet release of death via brain cancer. While I can understand how lonely days patrolling the skate park and arresting the children of community leaders would inspire thoughts of suicide, I generally do not think of the police as agents of irony so much. 

(Non-Californians may be surprised to know that we have a hands-free law here. Thus the irony.)

The other thing that returning to work means is a return to free lunch. Today, I was treated to "kaiseki" from Hirozen, a favorite of this production crowd and all who work in West Hollywood. I'm not at liberty to publicly talk about the job I'm on, but let's just say that this was a welcome return to something I have known and loved for a couple of years now. Today's example, while shipped in plastic and styrofoam and eaten at my Avid, was as good as any I have had there.

That is not just a case of managed expectations.

In case you're wondering, the other great thing about this job is render time, which is how I've had the time to do this. I don't work for you, so eat me.

Anatomy of a Hiring

At 11:00 AM, the post super calls to check my availability. A quick glance down reveals that I am sitting on the couch in my underwear: I am available. Good, he says, someone from the crew will call you later to chat and probably set up some kind of interview for tomorrow.

At this point, it's understood that I will likely get the job, but not certainly.

The day passes. Chores are done. Pastimes are engaged in. The internet is read. Cover to cover.

Around 7:30, the post super calls again, this time from his cell as he's making the rounds before leaving. Has anyone from the crew called? I thought not. Come in around ten tomorrow to meet the folks you don't know and chat with the ones you do. We'll figure out when you should start and what you'll be doing as long as everything goes smoothly.

Now, I'm almost positive I have the job. I am the bird in the hand. Still, something in the back of my brain is saying to me that this is not over...

Five minutes elapse and the post super is on the phone again: I told everyone you'd be in tomorrow. The first assistant (the one guy on the crew I don't know personally) asked him if I could work the day. The post super answers for me in the affirmative then discusses my deal with me on the phone. Sure I deserve more, but I won't get it. For now, I'm happy to be employed and looking forward to free lunch.

By Thanksgiving, I'm sure I'll hate this job, too. Now off to work!

Managing expectations

OK, so I promised a couple of you a new posting today. Well, I kinda got sidetracked. Unexpected visits, phone calls, and chores got in the way. 

The theme of the post was going to be managing expectations anyway, so consider this a taste of things to come.

There. Your expectations have been managed.

Harvest Ride

Yesterday was the fourth annual Harvest Ride for Literacy. It's an awesome ride along the cost through Ventura and Santa Barbara counties and back through the foothills. I did the first one as my first century and last year's with Stretch. BoW did the 66 mile ride last year and opted for the 55 this year.

Of course, since we had a heat wave last week, yesterday we had our first rain of the season. In addition to creating plenty of grimy, chamois-soaking misery for the riders, it also made the roads slick and washed all of the debris possible into the bike lanes and shoulders where I spent eight quality hours cursing the name of Selle Italia. This yielded three flats for me, including a slow leak in front that came after my second full flat in back. I admit, I swore out loud.

Obviously, this is more the domain of BoW, and I will let her fill you in on the details of the ride itself. 

Suffice to say that despite the rain and adversity, I was very pleased to find my legs and lungs stronger than ever and quite proud to finish in 6:13 actual moving time. Yes, that is hours and minutes. Yes, it is the fastest I've ever covered 100 miles. It would have been faster, too if Stretch had ever come around to take a pull when I wiggled my left elbow. 

The important thing to remember about why I am a cyclist is that it gives me license to eat. According to my computer/HRM/GPS/bike brain, I used over 5500 calories' worth of energy on that ride. Thus, I had no qualms about my bacon/swiss/spinach omelette with grits at the S&W this morning. Still, for a long ride like this, you must eat before and during. During is usually confined to easily digestible concoctions that deliver sugar and electrolytes in a barely palatable form. I always know that I'm not eating enough on the bike when they taste good. I prefer the Clif brand and use their products in solid, liquid, and gel form.

Preparation is everything for endurance sports, and eating is no different. What I do on the bike is very important, but without a good breakfast and a great meal the night before, it's all playing catch-up. For that, I like to eat a decent sized, nicely balanced meal composed of things I know will sit well. Comfort food is a good choice, and that, for me, is pasta.

I haven't used a recipe to cook pasta in I don't even remember how long. Why would I? Garlic, oil, herbs, three ingredients, good pasta, and a little parmesan is all the recipe you need. Here, the herbs are fresh sage (cooking and garnish) and flat parsley (garnish), and the ingredients are sausage, crimini mushrooms, and roasted red peppers. Too lazy to roast them myself, I happened to have an open jar after making pizza a week or so ago, and I was inspired by the news that there is going to be an exotic mushroom growing operation here in CA soon. 

If you go back up to the title shot, you'll see that wild arugula is indeed hot, and available at WFM as well as at the farmer's markets now. I only link to that blog because he failed to find anything other than that seed company to link to on the topic as well. Trust me, it makes a nice salad and goes well with an Italian table wine and some pasta. Get some.

Potowatami

I'm not feeling particularly clever today because it's hot. I did, however, take pictures of last night's meal and I am feeling a bit cranky (also from the heat), so I guess I will just rant.

This heat wave, which from daily visits to check the weather seems to get one day longer every day, is the kind of October swelter that, as kids, we called "Indian Summer." By the time I got to college in the 90s, "Indian" had been replaced by "Native American," and the former reverted to its pre-Columbian meaning, referencing the Asian subcontinent, except in the context of gaming. I certainly am no fan of the PC movement (BoW used to refer to "womyn" as "wom-whines"), but I was fortunate enough to attend a Big Ten University (we were much higher than 14 on this list in my day) where that kind of liberal claptrap was tolerated only in classrooms and maybe the freak dorm.

But back to gaming for a minute. The reexamination of our national history brought about an extraordinary amount of liberal guilt and lobbying that ultimately resulted in, for example, the remaining 100 speakers of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation opening a Casino (and Bingo Parlor -- it is in Wisconsin, land of cheese). Here again, when I was a kid, Potawatomi was a zoo and has thankfully retained that moniker in favor of the more PC "wild animal park," which would apparently require the purchase of a fleet of Segways. 

Now, on with the food. Last night was the house stir fry, affectionately known as "Meepo dofu" despite lacking any resemblance to the actual dish from which that name is taken except maybe tofu and soy. Normally, this is just a simple stir fry, using whatever fresh Asian veggies look good at the market, baked tofu, and a brown sauce based in soy, mirin, and sake. In the summer, long beans are plentiful. Ginger, garlic, and something sweet (honey or ketchup) are the other flavors. Jalapeños are nice for a little punch. Prep is key when you are stir frying. 

I also usually serve it with noodles. Here, I've used wide udon, which is actually flat instead of round and functions very much like a starchy fettucini. If the veggie is Chinese broccoli, I prefer to use rice noodles and call the dish "pad see mee." Here is the final dish, served in an awesome vessel that I believe we got from Starts with M.

Zombie Apocalypse

If you don't know what I mean by zombie apocalypse, perhaps I shouldn't tell you. After all, we need some time to get away. Suffice to say that it could happen, and if it does, you should have a plan in place to ride it out.

The zombie apocalypse is a total gamechanger. For instance, they just built a Wal-Mart down the street from my parents. Normally, this is something that I would be uncomfortable with, but in the context of a Zombie apocalypse, having source of shotguns and morphine in a big, windowless, easily defended box suddenly becomes appealing. Now where are we going to get a helicopter?

As for me and BoW, our plan consists of a daring escape through the Tejon Pass, across the San Joaquin Valley, and into the foothills of the Sierras. Given the already zombie-like state of drivers going through The Grapevine on a getaway Friday, we're guessing we'll be doing it on bikes. Armed and laden with water, we'll loot whatever else we need from the bountiful sprawl of Bakersfield before heading for the hills proper.

But what to eat? While we may be hiding out in the breadbasket of the West, we will have to be somewhat self-reliant. Time to get back to American Classics. Pioneer food is not known for its delectability, but there had to be some produce of these wild lands that kept people around, right?

Monday I went to WFM to get some staples and some fresh fish for the meal. They had whole farmed rainbows, an inexpensive, responsible, and delicious choice. 

I remembered while I was inspecting the counter that we had been given some homemade jalapeño jelly by a friend who grew up in Bakersfield. This is the real deal. A beautiful, translucent green suspension of sweet and spice that is exactly what you'd expect it to be: delicious on cornbread

which they just happened to have a big ol' pile of right by the front door of WFM. I went back to pick some up, and as I handled the various pieces of yellow, dense styrofoam stacked Jenga-like on the display, I moved through a complex series of emotions, beginning with dissatisfaction, moving on to disdain, then disgust, embarrassment (for everyone involved), and culminating in the joy of knowing that I had the power to rise above this abomination through baking! In fact, except for the cheddar, I already had everything at home to make some really bitchin' jalapeño cheddar cornbread. It's so easy, I got the recipe off the bag of cornmeal. 

Setting aside a plate full of that same cornmeal and some flour for dredging, I filleted and seasoned the fish.

Two to three minutes per side in a mix of some canola oil and butter on med-hi heat leaves us with GBD fish.

Served with a side of green and wax beans, which will be awaiting some attention in the fields after the zombies claim the pickers, this meal gave us a warm feeling in our bellies, knowing that we can at least eat well for a little while when the grid comes down without having to resort to brains.