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!