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.