Yutjangsah

Lefty for Life

2011-10-16T18:17:00.000-07:00

Don't you hate that annoying ass tourist who you show like the Eiffel Tower to and he's like oh we got something like this in America but it's better, it's called the St. Louis Arch. You go to the leaning tower of Pisa and she's like man, these Pisans should fix this, it's all crooked like their teeth.

We all do this really and it's just a way of saying, my hometown is the best. LA is hard to beat. That's all I'm saying really. NY is great but it's just never gonna be on par or even in contention or top of the heap despite the song. I mean, Frank Sinatra, once he hit the top, lived in LA did he not? Sure did.

NY has got some good looks though. Let's not lie. Central Park is nice. It is indeed a glorious park as Herb and Fritzi know.

Tunnels enhance the nature-ness.

Sasquatch lives.

There are lots of pretzel carts outside the Met. All of which claim NY provenance. NY pretzel cart. Pretzel Co. of NY etc. etc. I mean, can you imagine if you came all the way to NY and you ate a New Jersey pretzel by mistake? That would be terrible. It's not gonna happen though, rest assured, the NY carts will see to that.

We had to go to Katz's because how could you not? You must. It's like going to Vienna and not eating Vienna sausages. Be culturally sensitive. Geez.

Business is good. And there's different striations of society here like there are different striations of fat in the pastrami. Immigrants and businessmen and students and tourists. We all love When Harry Met Sally. And Meg Ryan - you can spell it Rye-in. Coincidence? I think not.

The Pechter in the Rye.

The giant trenchers of pickles gladden the Korean pickle addicted heart which beats for the pickle.

Those in the know - the regs- order plates of thick piles of pastrami and they get the bread on the side. It's really a surgeon general's nightmare. Then the pastrami slicers hand you a slice of meat while you wait like a foretaste of death. It's Machiavellian. But spelled pastrami.

If you can't navigate the line it's probably because you're a Valley girl. But kevineats has been kind enough to try and explain that there are many lines, just pick one - preferably the shortest one - and then order your food, then move your ass over to the drinks line and order some drinks then sit down, eat your food and chew carefully because no one knows how to do the heimlich maneuver, then pay at the door. If you hesitate over which line to pick, you will be called over by the pastrami slicers who are adept at dealing with Valley girls.

You can buy a salami and there are desserts too. But I didn't see anyone else eating any dessert so I didn't get one either. It's strictly monkey see monkey do when you're a tourist. Don't do what the other monkeys aren't doing bc you'll probably be stoned to death. I'm no Rick Steves but just trust me.

Does anyone see a problem with the pickle situation here? Because let me tell you, this plate is missing some pickles. We didn't get the kelly green ones just the olive green ones. My heart like stopped when I saw this tray coming at me devoid of certain of the pickles that I had seen and noted but I decided to let it go. Because I'm normal and I'm not crazy. I'm not going to go over and demand more pickles. I'm going to eat the pickles I have and I'm going to like it. Then I'm going to think about why we didn't get the other pickles more times than a rabid dog thinks about biting into your brains.

I think, after deep thought, what happened is that when we ordered pickled tomatoes which are like a dollar or two, we probably got asked whether we wanted the regular pickles and there was a mis-communication and somehow... oh, you stopped reading the pickle rant like 5 min ago? okay, I'm moving on too.

Anyhoo, chicken noodle soup. Not great. But I loved it anyways.

The pastrami sandwich was good but (this is where you may want to stop reading if you're easily annoyed or from NY or you love Katz's) I'm thinking it probably wasn't the best pastrami sandwich ever plated. I'm sure Langer's bread is rye-ier, and it's just a thick slab of serious rami for your mommy served up hot mean and greasy. This is not like that.

My yobosaeyo agreed. He claimed some pastrami he had in Culver City was better which is like grounds for fatwa probably so let's not circulate that too widely.

Would I go back? Absolutely. It's a really great place and it's very good stuff. And I'm still watching When Harry Met Sally whenever it's on TV and I'm going to love NY all over again whenever I see it. And I'm going to watch Serendipity and love NY all over again whenever I see it.

We took a walk after lunch. Walking off the fatses from Katz's. We looked at secret gardens. Then we walked back to the hotel and ate a Dylan's Candy Bar chocolate bar from the mini-bar.

Overall, I loved the Met a lot. And I barely scratched the surface. We got a membership because after getting two admission tickets, it's almost the cost of a membership. You can actually donate whatever you want, say $5, and get in even though the recommended donation is $25. The membership really paid off the next day when we stopped in to use the restroom. They don't let you use them unless you pay for admission. I know. Animal cruelty.

Portraits of boys with their dogs are amongst my favorites.

Here's lookin at you NY kid and NY dog.

Photobooth & Steve Jobs

2011-10-09T12:31:00.001-07:00

I don't know if blogging is somehow attributable to Steve Jobs. He certainly didn't single-handedly invent the means of procrastination-connection called the internet. I believe, the man who did, was named Al Gore. Nonetheless, I'm sure he was involved in that whole deal and he was involved in developing Mac's photobooth. I love photobooth because it allows me to take 42 photos in rapid succession of myself without the need for a single human helper and now I have an excellent and dignified self-portrait gallery to hold in reserve as my funeral collage so everyone can remember what a beautiful, well dressed and impressively reserved personage I really was. They can also see my oven and feel like hey, I think I had a similar oven once (when I was in college). Thanks Steve Jobs. You've made my future funeral way more cooler than it otherwise would have been aka black and white photo of my high school graduation close up mug. I owe you one. Then again, your computers are way overpriced so maybe you owe me one. Whatever. It's cool.

JG Not To Be Confused With Jay-Z

2011-10-01T22:13:00.000-07:00

Where's Korean Waldo? Well, if you can read, dumbkoff, it says Wall Street. Duh.

So, yeah, we were in New Yorke. Other than dancing on that bus with Kim and Kourtney and seeing one of those mythical rats as big as cats, I really wanted to eat a posh lunch in NY. It was either 11 Madison Ave or Jean Georges. We reached that fancy fork in the proverbial lunch line, we took the road more traveled and that has made all le difference! We read Weezermonkey's review and it was the tipping point for me.

Viva JG, the other Jigga-man.

We made a ressie via Open Table. It wasn't hard. When we got there, there were two archetypal NY ladies in their 70's in posh skirt suits, hair salon hair and Wellington boots being fussed over by the hostess who collected their umbrellas. I liked to imagine their driver was going to take them to their penthouse overlooking Central Park and they'd walk into their homes greeted by a fluffy Siamese cat and a devoted housekeeper. We checked in our tourist umbrellas and were seated promptly.

For lunch, men don't have to wear jackets but jeans and sneakers are verboten. Looking around though, it was a very lax business casual situation going on. It was a rainy day so lots of folks were sitting around in their coats looking sort of frumpy McFrumpster. We had a late reservation for like 1 or 2 so maybe the snappy McSnappys were in earlier.

But I kinda doubt that because some of the older gents were wearing sneakers. So, this could mean that you can get away with sneakers for lunch if you're over, say, 55 years of age or it could mean that when it rains, the sneaker rule is temporarily stricken from the books.

I do think it is a hardship for tourists to have to pack a pair of dress shoes just to dine in, particularly for a lunch, as New York is obviously a walking city but that's what we had to do.

There's a lot of waitstaff. So much so I could not take a picture of the large window

without they all up in the frame. I should photoshop their asses. The service, though, was attentive and just about perfect.

Our table was round like my head.

This four top to my 1:00 were foreigner tourists. I think they were German or Slavic, full of questions and with a limited grasp of English. Instead of lengthy preludes to dishes like "charred corn ravioli with basil fondue", they got the pidgin English: "pasta with corn". I shit you not. It was supremely hilarious because we got the fully embroidered triple crown monty and they got the straight dope. "Pasta with corn". "Fish with sauce". And in loud voice like they could be deaf. It was exactly the right thing to do but it makes you realize how much the flowery recitation sets up one's own expectations and reinforces the narrative of "fancy feast".

This was the amuse bouche. I'm gonna give you the straight dope too. Miso soup, watermelon with blue cheese, cucumber with hat.

I had lots of space. I liked.

So, lunch is $38 for two dishes and $16 for each additional dish. That's for each person. There's also a surcharge on some dishes. Like the sea scallops, caramelized cauliflower, emulsion. This was good.

This sea trout sashimi, crispy trout skin, roe, dill and lemon horseradish tasted just like it looked and sounded. It felt like an aquatic situation writ large. Lemony, acidic waves, salty bursting bubbles, the flash of salmon skin, this had it all. Get two orders.

The bruleed foie gras was almost as fantastic and I don't like FG.

The corn with pasta was good. And so pretty.

Foie gras, walk with me.

Jammy. Candy topped.

Tenderloin. Really nice.

This was another heart breaker. Parmesan crusted confit leg of chicken, artichoke, basil & lemon butter aka "chicken with sauce". The tender golden buttery nature of the jumbo artichoke logs in the lemony butter and the tangy crispy chewiness of the parmesan "skin" and the rich juicy dark meat. Yeah, this was le business.

Our coat check chip.

The little bouquet on our table.

Our salt spoon.

cheap ass sugar sacks

Sorbet and peach tart.

Desserts galores.

Free chocolates. I wouldn't mind if they secretly replaced these with See's. Know what I'm sayin?

Lavender macarons. If you're into detergent and lotion flavors, this is right up your alley. You stray mangy cat you...

Jar o' marshmallows. Free.

Fluffy.

The chocolate cake was the shizz. Everything else was good too.

Maybe JG should get a little mushroom for this terrarium. Very nice ones are available at Etsy.

This is the other room. It seems more business lunch-ish.

We stumbled out. About 2 hour later.

It was a splendid lunch. A lunch unlike lunch as it is generally known. A lunch to remember and think back on with a warm happy glow. "PASTA WITH CORN!"

On pugs and their magnificence

2011-03-11T04:12:00.000-08:00

Because it's Friday and because she's cute: here is my friend's puggie Sasha.

She's kind of crazy, but then again, maybe not as crazy as the cat lady posting her picture on her broke down 1980s blog. Touche Sasha, touche. To that I respond: your thighs look like chicken thighs and might taste well braised in a lemon garlic sauce. With some chianti and fava beans Clarice.

Gold Standard 2011

2011-03-07T06:10:00.000-08:00

I went to the Gold Standard yesterday. It was the best food festival ever: well-organized, goooooood n plenty food and wine and almost no lines to get it. I'd return next year but with a tray - more on that later. The GS is held in a large tent on the roof of the Peterson Auto Museum - where Biggie was shot. I'm goin goin back back to Cali Cali...

We got inside the tent o'wonders at about 12:45. It was pretty empty at that point. VIP tix which were pre-saled at $60 or so is the way to go. I had a media pass but I had already purchased tickets for my pals. You check in downstairs then wait in line upstairs to get in. Once in, you grab a wine glass and off you go! There were three rows of restaurants with the middle row being wine.

There were 42 restaurants/chefs participating ranging from Slaw Dogs to Providence. The food ranged from small bites to small plates. Mo Chica's mussel with giant corn kernels was fresh and lovely.

The mussel is a good food fest choice because it comes with its own plate. It was born to be plated so to speak.

Pom mocktail was very delicious. Despite my entreaties, my friends refused to allocate precious belly room to a non-alcoholic beverage. I'm sure Charlie Sheen would approve.

We went over to LudoBites to get some of this whipped brie frisee situation. Apparently Chef Ludo had had back surgery within days but managed to 'whip' this up. Nice.

There were a gangload of wines. This Crossings sauv blanc was really bright and multi-tonal. Yes, I just made that up. It was good stuff though.

Then we hit Eva's station for a 48 hour bolognese. Like a wildlife photographer I caught a raw moment between chef and sous chef. This look says, why do you ALWAYS get to wear the hat?

The bolognese was truly delicious. I could taste every minute of it.

It was a large portion and I ate most of it. Learn from my mistakes grasshopper, when there are over 30 different bites you want to sample, eating a big plate of pasta and beef is not wise.

Neither is taking the Moon Mountain Vodka lady's picture without asking beforehand. If looks could kill, huh? The vodka was superyum.

Justin wines were being poured. I had the chardonnay, the cab and something else. They were all fabulous.

There was a documentary crew following @thejgold around. They caught him talking to @frenchchefwife. Their hairdos have a strange resemblance in this photo I'd never noticed before. This is how I imagine the conversation went:

JG: Hi Krissy

KL: Hi Jonathan

JG: How are you?

KL: I'm good. Yourself?

JG: I'm great. What you got there?

KL Oh this? Just a little something Ludo whipped up - get it? whipped up from his hospital bed.

JG: Oh ho ho. That's amuse-ing. Get it? Amuse- ing?

KL: Oh ho ho.

I was over by the Providence station which was the best one bite of the entire day and the funnest most whimsical service too. It was strangely like how a restaurant in the wild would operate with the servers just laying a leaf covered treat in the palm of your hand.

Chef C-Rusti (if he was a rapper) was deep in conversation. He was like, "yeah dawg, I cut that scallop up and marinated the bitch." Okay, I'm almost positive he didn't say anything like that.

I know, this might appeal to the prurient interest hmmm? Well, seafood always has that sort of potential.

My pal Lisa's was like a more chaste version. Both delicious.

I have no idea why my friend Soojin looks so excited. I'm sure they're saying, "chicken on the bone". That kind of smiling response is totally unwarranted - unless you're drunk.

The Food by Genet plate was my favorite plate of the day. I loved the spicy chicken and the spongy bread and the salad was fabulous too. This completed me aka I had food touching my esophagus.

Oh I almost forgot the collard greens. Can you say yum yum?

I saw the Starry Kitchen impresario. He had a gold mustache in honor of the Gold Standard. Pretty cool huh?

I love the chicken curry with its coconutty richness and of course, the tofu ball is great fun.

The Jinya man had a Zen like cool about him. Maybe it's because the broth was cooked and all he had to do was ladel it onto the ramen noodles. His face says "I got this!"

The porkyness of this broth was crazy. I drained it nonetheless to reunite my pig animal spirit with my human spirit. Now, I have a desire to root around in the mud. Pardon me.

I spied La Casita Mexicana's plates from other diners and knew I had to have a chili for myself.

That pineapple cactus drink by the way was insane. It was so cactussy and delicious. A flavor I've never had before but must try again.

The red bean stuffed chili was crazy hot. I loved it.

Despite valient efforts I was so full. It was time for dessert. I had two of these. Little Dom's spiced caramel sundae with pecan chunks. This was so bombass I don't even know what to say.

Bludso's was there. I had to have bbq. I had to.

I got the pork and beef half and half which was suggested to me when I said, gosh, I just, gosh should I get the pork or the beef? Deelicious. So wonderfully comforting.

My people's bbq was also not to be neglected.

Contrast this leaf presentation with Chef C-Rusti's. This does not appeal to the prurient interest does it? Well, unless you're a meat lover. The kimchee fried rice was lacking any spice maybe to appeal to the "hai-yan sa-lam" aka whitey.

Really seriously full so we went to Cole's for an Old Fashioned.

It's a lot of fun watching someone make a drink with care and precision.

The vests are a nice touch no?

We saw Jitlada's Jazz being interviewed for the documentary. I didn't get a chance to snag a Crying Tiger pork but I'm sure it was fab.

Slaw Dogs "the death dog" was wrapped in bacon then wrapped in a baked cheese tunic of sorts and topped with jabanero, fennel and sliced radishes. It was a great last bite especially in between sips of the Old Fashioned.

At the very end, we ran into a couple with the greatest trays ever. A hole for the wine glass allows you to eat while mobile. Ingenious! These GS veterans said they had learned from last year that a tray would really come in handy.

She then lost it and began forking empty air.

Her festival partner showed us the bottom of his tray because we wanted to buy one too. You should get one if you're going next year. And you should definitely go next year.

If I had paced myself, I'm sure I could have eaten a lot more. This year's performance was a rookie's mistake. I heard one woman say to her buddy, let's eat some more of this row. Her buddy's response? Let's eat it all. Hear hear Mister.

Fast Food

2010-10-17T18:56:00.000-07:00

It was Long Beach Marathon day. I haven't been able to run. So, I switched to the half marathon and decided in order to make it, I'd have to fuel up like Lance Armstrong attacking the Pyrenees.

I had a Clif Bar. Specifically, a peanut butter Clif Bar, which is the best flavor. It has such a dense peanut buttery taste and like all Clif Bars, it's damp and chewy enhancing the illusion that you're actually eating food. The second best flavor is Blueberry Crisp. It tastes like a blueberry muffin mixed with wood chips. Freakin' delicious.

I love the story of the Clif Bar printed on the back of these bars. "In 1990, I lived in a garage with my dog, my skis, climbing gear... The inspiration to create an energy bar occurred during a day long, 175 mile long ride... We'd been knawing on some "other" energy bars. Suddenly, despite my hunger, I couldn't take another bite." Two years later, he gave birth to the Clif Bar. We like this. I gather he no longer lives in that garage.

GU has a similar story except I believe it was the creator's daughter who was an athlete and the father decided to make a portable energy source that could easily be eaten and digested. I also "GU'd up" with a blackberry jet GU that has 2x the caffeine of regular GU. It's bitter but effective. My fave flavor GU is the strawberry banana. It's one of the non-caffeinated flavors and the most palateable of the energy gel flavors of any brand not being too sweet and having a pleasant fruity flavor. I also prefer the texture of GU which is smooth and not too thick. At 100 calories a pop, I'd rather eat a bunch of gummie bears, but in my experience, bears are hard to chew while running and they fall out of the packet when you try to shovel them down as you run. They also take up a lot of room. GU is just easier.

Two of my friends have taken it upon themselves to abuse GU. They'll GU up at their desks or when on the road for work. In civilian clothes, they will whip out the GU from their briefcase or purse, tear off the tip and squeeze the energy gel into their mouths. One such alien during a challenging 16-20 hour work day without sustenance, even offered GU to her boss by holding the packet up like a chimp proffering a new potentially deadly fruit, and the boss, believe it or not, took the packet wordlessly, tore off the tip and proceeded to GU up. Wrong. On all levels, wrong.

The wait for the start. There's a gentleman who has been running the Long Beach marathon for several years. He's 82 years old and runs with a titanium walking stick. The GU addict sees him every year. From the back only before he leaves her in the dust. He's got natural GU running through his veins.

The Queen Mary.

Hula dancers entertain the runners. Merci hula girls.

I saw this large truck and I momentarily considered holding it up with my pointed index finger under my tee shirt. Then I regained my senses and ate 1/2 a Blackberry Jet GU instead. GU saved me from the penitentiary. True Story.

I was behind a lot of people. But they were all going to get passed. Not the titanium cane guy though. He was up front with the Kenyans.

A marathon is inherently patriotic. That's why people blast Journey and Bon Jovi along the race course. No foreign music allowed, except maybe a little AC/DC. But only that song extolling American thighs.

Right before Mile 10, I felt it creeping over me: Rigor Mortis. Luckily, this spectator was holding a box of donut holes. I reached in and ate one despite the horrifying germs and dirt residing in that box. Hands that had gone number two in the porto-potties without benefit of soap and water were in this box. But this was no time for hygienic concerns. Free donuts. Rigor Mortis. Nuff said.

The most beautiful thing ever is the finish line. Especially when it has a beer ad plastered over it.

My medal was pretty easy on the eyes too.

The post race goodie bag came with a Mojo, another Clif bar product. It's the most toothsome trail mix bar ever conceived. It reminds me of a popcorn ball crossed with a Pay Day without the chocolate. It's sugar, salt, crunch and nuts.

Chocolate protein bars have a chalky waxy chocolate malt flavor. But they're strangely addictive. A girl I know likes to eat protein bars while running on the treadmill. At the gym. First of all, no. Second of all, no.

Whoever the architect behind Mad Max's Thunderdome was built this stairway over the finish line to get to the parking lot. Nice.

After eating 5,000 calories worth of energy bars and gels, strangely enough, I wasn't hungry after the run. My fellow runners and I adjourned to Rock Bottom Brewery. I had a Bloody Mary and a bowl of soup.

It's always nice to finish a run, eat some hot food and plan the next marathon.

Parks Life

2010-10-12T23:34:00.000-07:00

It was my brother's birthday. We went to Park's in commemoration thereof.

Liberace and his technicolor dreamshirt came along too. I'm just kidding. That's my yo yo ma ma. Look how her chopsticks have been unshucked from their corn husks and ready to go. She's quick on the draw after all these years.

We got some "gotsal". I asked my mom what that meant in English. She said "I dunno." This is why wikipedia and the like were invented. Because we don't none of us know nothing. My mother did recognize some of the "celebrity" photos lining the walls of Park's. She knows things. Just not her meats.

Chopsticks move fast. Meat not burn. Kung-fucius say.

I made a saam(ie). Koreans invented the no carb wrap. We also invented... rice. Okay maybe we didn't invent rice. But we sure act like we did.

This was some buttery melt in your mouth not on your chopstick "gotsal". With the salty wu tang klan of fermented bean paste, a little traditional korean jalepeno and a bit of lettuce to hold it all together, I gotta say, that's what a shamburger's all about.

This is the wagyu ribeye. I think. Unless wagyu ribeye means something else in Korean. They kind of look like scabs don't they?

Step 1: Place rice wrapper on plate, top with pickled turnip slice, top with meat...

Dallop of Korean Daisy aka dengjang, garnish with pepper slices. Attempt to eat entire thing in one bite. Choke like Mama Cass. But live to blog about it.

Oh you thought that was it? Me too. Nope. Marinated pork belly.

The waitress came and snipped those slices up with her kitchen shears. I worry about carpel tunnel for these Korean waitresses. They wield the scissors with authority.

Oh you think that's it? Well, it is actually but what more could we have had? We put on our capes and flew home. True story.

Don't Feed the Manimals

2010-10-10T20:50:00.000-07:00

Where would we like to go to be wined and dined? queried our host and hostess. Animal please, I says.

So, to Animal we went. On a weekday at 9 p.m. There was still a wait. We went to Golden State to sip a beer float. Beer floats are the best way to kill time.

Clearly, this subject needs a beer float stat. Make it a double.

And some wine too. Okay.

Razor thin slices of melon with basil? Devastating. Like tasting fruit for the first time.

What a salad. Peanutty, packed with flavor like an elephant is packed with wrinkles.

Chicken liver crostini? Make mine super duper large.

Could you be... the most beautiful egg in the world? The slivers of pigs ears underneath were dynamite. You know how they say watching Marilyn Monroe walk was like watching jello on springs? This was like tasting jello on springs. Did you know there's a service where people describe Playboy centerfolds for blind subscribers? Maybe I can describe food for blind people. Except blind people can taste the food. Okay, so my idea needs a little work.

These were nice.

This was pretty good.

These ribs were like original sin. Irresistible.

We all praised the meal and felt that glow of contentment that a truly excellent meal brings to the table.

Even the beer float worrier seemed to relax a bit.

These two did their best closed mouth smiles. Clearly, rib meat and melon was stuck in their teeth.

We concluded with the bacon bar.

And some kinda flan or panna cotta. It was nice.

I should go to Animal more often. It's predictably magnificent if such a thing is possible.

XIV Candles

2010-10-06T21:32:00.000-07:00

XIV has a beautiful bar. It's decidedly feminine with the light glowing from each bottle of liquor like perfume bottles in amber, sapphire and jewel tones. It's the kind of bar you should retire to after a long day to replenish your stores for the next day. It's the perfect bar to kick off a birthday dinner.

The cocktails are swish. And they taste as crisp and clean as they look.

Martini(not for weenies).

White grapefruit cosmo(naut). Fancy chicken nugs. Vadouvan and all that.

Bramble (on). Delectscious. As it should be as all these drinks are $14 each, I guess in honor of xiv. I mean, if the drinks were 9.99 then the restaurant should be called ix.ixix or is that ix.cmvix? I never took Latin so I dunno.

This is the most delicious freebie carb going. The honey curry yogurt is paradigm shifting to unearth a 90's -ism. If you attack it vigorously, they'll bring you more. No questions asked. Like a bad bear at the zoo, they keep feeding you. It's great here at Camp XIV. Lottsa free bread. No mosquitos.

The wonderful som at XIV recommended this bottle of magic potion no. 9 to us. I forget how he sold it but I'm sure it was a good song he sung. His twitter avatar is Capt. Haddock. Nuff said. Blistering barnacles.

These fries are almost as good as reading a Tin Tin for the very first time. Almost.

This hamachi sashimi was crazy. It had fish sauce jello and some type of uh powder. Yeyo. I dunno about this character. He's a weird one boss. I thought I liked it but now I'm not too sure.

My charming dining companions had been ridiculing men's fixation on red meat only to have two of them order the ribeye. The irony.

Lambsicles. Lucious.

My spaetzle made me rethink some of my assumptions about the Germanic peoples and their contribution to cookery. It was like a Das Boot in starch form. That good.

It was Jamie's xiv-th birthday. This was her great reenactment of her birthday wish candle blowing moment. May your bday wishes all be granted in spades.

I had a cup of birthday coffee with the grown-ups now that I've decided I'm not caffeine sensitive. Like the Elephant Man wanted nothing more than to sleep supine on a pillow, I've longed for nothing more than a cup of coffee at the end of a meal. And now I can have one suckers. Hehe. So when I die of caffein poisoning like the Elephant Man died after trying to put his 3000 pound noggin on a pillow, you'll know it was worth it.

The bitter with the sweets

2010-10-04T22:22:00.000-07:00

A friend o mine recently came back from a trip to China and Singapore. You can imagine, hmmm? The epic meals eh? She had such a meal in Singapore, she was inspired to start a blog. Sort of. It's not up and running yet but I'll give it a shout out when it is.

Why do we blog? Well, we don't, but we may do so. I do it because I'm Gordon Gekko. Greed is Gouda. I recently got my foodbuzz notification that I earned $2. That's all I need to hear. Baby needs new shoe...laces. Money never sleeps. Neither do pennies. All 200 of mine gots insomnia. Thanks mom. And @dianatakesabite, @mylastbite and @gastronomyblog. You guys are getting brand new cherry red Ferraris. Or a piano from Shaeffer & Sons. Or an expired groupon to a bad restaurant. I know. My generosity knows no bounds.

This summer sidled past me like a Korean ajummah levitates in front of you in line at Kim's Jungee the day before Xmas when you find yourself drawn like a foolish Korean salmon returning to the familiar waters of Kim's Jungee though certain death at the hands of a grizzly bear ajummah awaits you there. I spent this summer like a tomato soup that someone had lowered a giant immersion blender into. I could go on in this vein but you dig.

Despite doin' the time warp again, I made it a point to try Magnolia. I had to. Maggie the Cat is alive. And she likes cupcakes. So, I placed my index sausagetips together and I stopped time. If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I'd like to do is to save every day til eternity passes away, just to spend them with you sang a dying man to his son whom he would not see grow up. I, apparently, faced with almost no leisure time in a finite life, would choose to go to Magnolia. And buy four cupcakes and a magic bar. Because you can't save time in a bottle but you can eat a little bit of sunshine baked into a pleated paper cup. We call it the governor's reprieve. You call it a cupcake.

Let the finger pointing begin.

Now, it's my turn.

These look remarkably like dried turds.

Look at these beauties.

My dental records in case I go missing.

These were the best gd'd cupcakes I'd ever had in my life. I know. Everyone says these aren't even good compared to the NY ones so I can't imagine what those are like. The frosting is an absurd compendium of a paragon of girl with curious hair like virtues. Fluffy tall proud and unapologetically sweet but not too much and as Goldilocks predictably says, just right.

The magic bar, however, can't hold a candle to Joans on Turd.

Then I got home after my bar method class from which I repaired after eating my cupcake and found that our guests had purchased sticky buns from Sweet Lady Jane. My sugarcup runneth over. I didn't know sticky buns and cinnamon rolls were not one and the same but turns out they are distinct creatures. Sticky buns aren't gooey. They are chewey and carmelized and nutty and crunchy and toffee assed. Baby you can drive my car. That's how good these are.

The last sweet I had that stands out from this summer was from Maison du Pain. An apricot tart for the ages. Thin, elegant yet voluptuous like swallering egg yolks of summer in a sheet of golden light. Do you see the diamonds sparkling from this tart? Bling bling.

Here Comes the Fried

2010-08-10T22:00:00.000-07:00

The woman cries before the wedding. The man after. So goes an old Polish saying. By a man whose wife probably beat the snausages outta him after she caught wind of his witticisms.

Well, last month, our friends flew in from Virginia to get married here in Los Anglelees as Angelica Houstan said in The Grifters. Straight off the tarmack, the betrothed had a hankering for spam because it's a romantic meat for Koreans. It's our version of lobster or Florentine steak for two. When you're married and have kids, you eat spam. It's just a very evocative can of worms that spam. We went to Rutts. I tasted my very first spam masubi and my very first plate of Hawaiian food. Sort of.

The masubi looked like a Rothko and it tasted like a giant kimbap sans veggies. For breakfast, I had the char sui and the french toast. The dry beef jerkyish char sui really hit the spot with a bit of my homegirl sriracha. The french toast kind of scared me. Not like a ghost story but in that moist eggy way that french toast has of creeping you out sometimes.

My friend got the loco moco. It lives up to its name, no? I like how Rutts serves its food on like corning ware. The only other appropriate choice would be aluminum trays like they use in prison. Hehe.

A spell later, three of us repaired sans the spam crossed lovers to the Hungry Cat. We started off with bloody marys. They had a furry texture of a V-8 or a velour Elvis painting. Mary quite contrary. The celery look like joshua trees or desert cacti, don't they? No thorns ma.

I love Luke's lemonade and oysters and fries. It's the best three things you can have on a sunny afternoon. Or even a gloomy one. Or at night. Or you know. Whenever.

Don't these olives look like they're bobbing in a swimming pool? No?

I got a new camera. Fries, I tried to make you look good. Cover fry. That's right.

I'm not sure what kind of oysters these were. I do think, however, that someone should make a clock that instead of numbers have oysters. Large ones, small ones, etc. The hands of the clock could be oyster forks. I'd buy one. Maybe two. Wrap one up and put it under your tree. You're excited huh? Well, they don't exist. Not yet. Keep checking your tree though. It could happen.

Crabfest 2010

2010-07-05T16:52:00.000-07:00

I love crabs. In crab form only. Sadly, eating a Maryland crab with a Maryland crab in human form is not so nice. This is what I discovered five years ago at the 2005 Hungry Cat crabfest which was billed as an all you can eat Maryland blue crab event. Apparently, in Maryland, at least in Maryland circa 2000 B.C. to 2000 or so, you would go down to the shore and buckets upon buckets of steaming hot Old Bay crusted blue crab would thunder down on your newspaper laden table and you would eat until look like a crab, all big abdomen and little helpless limbs waving surrender in the air.

As the myth is told, the crab is so plentiful that you actually discard crabs solely on the basis that they're gotten cold while you've dispatched the huge pile of hot crabs on top. The crabs are so never ending that you simply do not deign to eat the little crabs or the male crabs which aren't as sweet and don't have any eggs. I didn't know any of this, but I soon learned it by heart after hearing for the 100th time how the Hungry Cat's crabfest was "a joke". The Hungry Cat's crab fest was so maligned to all fellow Marylanders. They were told of the moment of revelation when the Hungry Cat servers would bring a bucket by and dump two solitary crabs onto the table. The sounds of the two crabs hitting the table by themselves would be made in the telling: "dunk"... "dunk"... then the bucket would be taken away. Oh the horror, the horror. All the Marylanders listening would laugh at our California desecration of their sacred crab overeating ritual. The Maryland blue crab and the crab cake defines them people (because let's face it, they ain't got nothing else to be proud of - other than like ancient history aka colonial times and who the hell cares about that but Ken Burns and some AP History teacher somewhere who gets his hair cut to look more like Ken Burns?)

It was unfair and it made me mad. I thought the Hungry Cat crabfest was marvelous and special, but as a valley girl, you know, I didn't want to stick my oar into such hostile waters. I mean, I grew up eating Dungeness crabs. From Redondo Beach. I never even knew what old bay was. Oh, the horror, the horror.

So, imagine my surprise when I went to the crabfest last last week with the Hungry Cat crabfest hater and his friend also from Maryland and we had us a time! Sure they didn't eat anywhere near the 15 to 20 crabs they felt they could each eat but this time, we knew to savor the sounds of the three or four crabs hitting the table. And boy, were they tasty suckers or what? It was all super amazingly tasty from start to finish and definitely one of my favorite-ist meals this year by far.

This candied peel I think about it too much and how many there are behind the bar and can I sneak behind there and steal them all and eat them one by one in my bed with a flashlight and a Nancy Drew mystery and my cat Oscar who was a girl cat but misnamed Oscar because I didn't know cat anatomy too good when I was a youngun.

The menu. The six per guest actually wasn't held to too strictly. I'm sure my friends ate at least 8 crabs each.

Man, I told you, pour on the Old Bay and steam them till they die. This is war. War against the crab. No mercy. Death to all. Even the women and children crab.

This beignet was crazy beautiful. Wasn't there a movie starring Kirsten Dunst titled crazy beautiful? I sense that movie sucked real bad. Well, this one didn't. It tasted like the best most crazy beautiful sweet and sour pork but now featuring crab. Can you get with that kind of magic? I didn't think so.

We don't know why Pabst Blue Ribbon is everywhere at once. Is it ironic? Is it working class? Is it douchebaggery in 24 ounce cans? When can I get me a malt liquor is all I'm sayin for now.

Oh hell yes. Bring on the crab jiggae. Where my tabasco at?

Jitlada, look over your shoulder. That's right. It's Hungry Cat moving into Thai territory. This was amazing. It was Crazy Beautiful the sequel. Where Kirsten Dunst's character gets even more crazy and yet beautiful despite the rehab and the no decent parts and the I only date alternative rockers from England or um Scotland.

The crab. Might I confess, I can't really eat more than like 4 or 5 because they're damn delicious and all don't get me wrong to quote The Pretenders but they are so salty I'm gonna retain water to the extent you could like ship me to Mars as the water source of the future. So, yeah, I'm thinking I'm not going to kick ass in the all you can eat crab contest that I was planning on enrolling in.

The aftermath is pretty impressive.

This lemon curd was crazy beautiful part three. It's like Kirsten Dunst reunites with Tobey McGuire and they do the Spiderman kiss but they're like in a nursing home and they only speak Latvian.

The crabs knew what was up and they tried to effect a prison break but resistance is futile crabs. This is the Hungry Cat and this is the crabfest. I'm definitely going next year.

The Church of the Jambalaya Mind

2010-06-13T16:56:00.000-07:00

The Blues Brothers is one of the best movies of all time. Carrie Fisher is genius in it. That being said, I'm not sure what the House of Blues is all about. I've seen Paul Weller and They Might be Giants at House of Blues, but I've never seen any gospel, blues or jazz acts there.

I have always wanted to go to the gospel brunch. Quite happily, a friend most genial and fun loving, whom we will call our mutual friend, decided he wanted to celebrate his birthday there. So, I went. The food was how I imagine Hometown Buffet might be. I got overwhelmed and ended up with strawberries mixed with chicken mixed with macaroni mixed with a waffle. This is why I hate buffets. I always end up eating breakfast lunch and dinner in one bite. I recommend the show, though. Good times. If it's your birthday, you go on stage and tell the audience why you're grateful. It's quite an enjoyable experience, especially if you've had a few restorative Bloody Marys. I was strangely moved by the show. There are five gospel ladies in flamboyant hats and costumes who sing, dance and preach. The audience is exhorted to wave their hands in the air and everyone is real into it. Like I said, there's a lot of liquor flowing so this church is real boisterous. There are no atheists in foxholes and apparently, no teetotalers at a gospel brunch.

I even got a little misty eyed in a vaguely religious bluesy-boozy sort of way when the gospel ladies were preaching about gratitude and how they were grateful to the Lord. It was rather like a Disneyland experience of a gospel revivalist show mixed with a Flannery O'Conner short story mixed with a Norms diner mixed with the Love Boat. In other words, all American fun.

I should have had the meatloaf because it's so weird sounding. But I didn't. Boo hoo.

My crazy plate. The waffles are doing a forbidden dance with the chicken.

The birthday boys and girls.

The birthday cake at Saddle Ranch afterwards. The House of Blues kicks you out tout suite so we couldn't even cut the cake for five minutes which I do think is kind of wrong. But the Lord provideth his drunken sheep with shelter aka Saddle Ranch, so it's all good.

Where on Earth is Korean Carmen Sandiego?

2010-06-05T15:49:00.000-07:00

Where have I been? I've been pursuing my hand modeling career. I took some head shots for my hands. They came out real good.

I haven't heard from Palmolive yet, but I'm sure it's just a matter of time. (Beautiful) fingers crossed! Break a nail!

Anyhoos, there's been a flurry of activity in the snowglobe of my life. Let's catch up, shall we?

First, there was my friend Soojin's birthday. That was way back in the day. We had Gyenari and it was deeelicious! I was shocked. In a good way. I particularly enjoyed it because I was in charge of the grilling. The chopsticks were in my hands and yes, I used them to great effect. Some other hand models wouldn't take such risks with their money makers but I'm crazy like that. That's what sets me apart. That and my homely hands. Haha.

I love this back wall here. Nice, huh?

We ordered the samarai or the geisha off her diet or was it the big kahuna? Whatever it was called, it came with some different cuts of meat and they were all quite pleasing to this palate.

The seafood that came grilled to the table was dry like James Bond's martini.

The banchan was seriously good.

And of course I loved these glasses - as well as its contents. I think MOMA sold them back in the day. Now, you can just go to Gyenari and gently place one in your purse. Just kidding.

The desserts were cheesecake factory-ish. Yes, I ate them. Your interrogation techniques are most impressive.

As a hard kore korean, I swanned into this Gyenari situation with a smidge of attitude. As I unpacked my personal chopsticks from my traditional husk woven purse and smoothed the front of my han bok and straightened the jade hair piece holding my lacquered bun in place while sneering at all the white devils around me, I was certain, it couldn't be good. Well, Gyenari, I was wrong. I stepped out of there in my traditional rubber shoes and itchy boxer style drawers thinking, man, that was good stuff. Except I thought it in old Korean dialect. You sons of dogs aka gae sakees!

From the Stadium to the Sea, Me and My Annabelle Lee

2010-03-23T21:03:00.000-07:00

Not to sound like an old foge, but back in the day, I used to run about an 8 to 9 minute mile. Running, at one time, gave me a sense of peace, and on the rare occasion, an unworldly euphoria, like nothing else. I'd run in the rain. I'd run at night. I'd run like I was being chased. I even thought that one day, one special glorious never to be forgotten day, I'd run Boston.

Well, them days are long gone, but I still love going for the odd sloooow run, and I especially love running aka jog/walking the odd marathon. What I don't love is training 6 to 9 months every day for a marathon, especially with my ITB, achilles tendonitis, and runner's knee issues. What I've come up with is a way of marathon training that relies heavily on visualization and good old fashioned American can-do. Now, there's a fine line between American can-do and earning a Darwin award, but it's a fine line I feel very comfortable straddling. So, having signed up with a giddy heart and a lazy ass for the LA Marathon's inaugural course of "Stadium to the Sea", I stuck with my time-tested training plan and did nothing until about, oh, a week before the marathon when my pal Ana suggested that maybe perhaps we should bestir ourselves and train for the big event.

As with any great innovation that propels mankind forward from the dark dank cavelike regions into the light of modernity and progress, you gotta expect some haters. So I was unsurprised, if a little dismayed, when my friend upon learning that Ana and I were planning on "running" the marathon voiced adamant and unnecessarily principled opposition. With an Abraham Lincoln look on his face, this personage actually said to me: "I will do everything in my power to stop you from participating in this marathon. You and Ana are making a mockery of the marathon."

Dude, where's my car? I just had to give him my dumb and dumber look for that piece of effrontery. This country was built on foolhardy desperation moves like running a marathon without any training. He clearly never watched 300 which I think was set in Ancient Greece, but which we all know is probably about America. C'mon, man, get with the program. Did Spicoli study for Mr. Hand's exams? I daresay not. And look where he is now. Academy Award nominated director and actor. Hello!

This friend also claimed Ana and I would desecrate the marathon by eating donuts before the race. Again, do your homework man. Like watch Chariots of Fire or some shit like that. I only eat donuts during the race. During! Never before! Hello!

The best thing about me and Ana's patent pending marathon technique is that it's not unique to us. As you all probably know @chefludo also decided last minute that he was not letting this 25th LA Marathon hobag get away without his putting his teef marks on the somombitch. ALet Freedom Ring. I fully expect to hear that Snoop Dogg is going to attempt the next marathon on no training but some bong hits but I guess we'll have to wait and see. Stay tuned folks.

So, anyhows, here's how the training program went. Last Saturday, Ana and I ran from her place in Brentwood to Santa Monica which is about 5 miles. In order to mock the marathon properly, we stopped at that point at Joe's Pizza on Broadway and got ourselves a slice. We didn't eat it Dean Karnazes style on the run but you know, couch potato style on barstools. I had a Snapple too. Diet of course. C'mon, I'm in training. My body's a temple. Ya dig?

After running back to Ana's place, we were both beat and pretty damn optimistic in a way that only two people who cannot do math for shit can be. After all, it had only taken us three hours to go 10 miles so hey, 26.2 was gonna be a piece of cake - kinda like the cake donut we got at the Starbucks during our 9 mile rest break. If you see me walkin down the street and I start to cry, mock on by...

Being marathon veterans, we set up a training schedule like all marathoners should. The final week leading to the marathon is usually a taper week meaning you rest your body and do no running whatsoever to gear up for the marathon. However, when you've been "tapering" all your life, a little running never hurt nobody. So, the plan was that we would squeeze in a 5 mile run on Wednesday and then a 3 mile jog on Friday and then on Sunday, we'd somehow limp and hobble our way through. I didn't exactly keep to schedule what with the really painful ITB soreness racking the outside of my leg like an invisible army of piranhas were chewing it up and down.

Instead, on Saturday I jogged 2.5 miles. Then I went and got a big bowl of pho at Pho87 as my carb loading which actually is supposed to happen two days before the marathon, but really, seriously, do the rules even apply to such as I? Then we went to the Expo at Dodger's Stadium which was super poorly organized unlike LA Marathon Expos of yesteryears, and then we ate a couple chocolate biscuits then we went to bed. At like 8pm.

Pho sho I got the pho.

Dean Karnazes was at the Expo. I got there too late and didn't see him but Ana caught a bit of his spiel. He's planning to run a marathon in every country. He had a sign up sheet in case you've got like a spare decade or two. Hehee. And what is with that Lance Armstrong Michelob ad? Like Lance Armstrong drinks beer! When he's training he's probably .5 body fat. I would conjecture he drinks vodka if he drinks at all. You ain't foolin' me Michelob. Besides, I'm a Miller Lite acolyte.

Hey, I just noticed Dean is sporting a backpack. Isn't that weird. Like is he going to launch into an "Up in the Air" how light is your backpack speech? Odd, right?

The next morning, we awoke at 5:oo a.m. and were on the road by 5:30 a.m. and the traffic to Dodger's Stadium was shittastic. How terrible and atrocious was it? So much so that that both Ana and I agreed that we, generally speaking very laconic and easy going citizens of this here Republic, had to take strong and decisive action. Being fundamentally "white", we both seized upon that middle class milktoast device "the strongly worded letter" as our vehicle of choice. We both said over and over again, I am going to write a strongly worded letter to the organizers to let them know this is unacceptable. Each time I said "strongly worded letter" a little thrill ran down my organ meats. My kidney shivered in anticipation of writing such a letter with just the right amount of righteous outrage. To date, neither of us has written this letter. But hey, "I'm just gettin' wormed up" as Al Pacino says in Scent of a Woman.

Once we got to the Stadium, I was reminded of why I love the LA Marathon so very much. It's every class, creed, religion and dress size in full effect. In contrast, the field at the Rome Marathon is made up of serious runners. Italians apparently do not subscribe to the I weigh 3,000 pounds, I ain't got a leg, I'm 90 years old, I'm 3 feet tall, I'm dressed like Elvis, I'm dressed like a FedEx truck, I've had double lung transplant (seriously, we saw a woman with a sign that she had double lung transplant), I only trained a week, but hell, I wanna be part of a marathon philosophy. Too bad for them. They are missing out on the pageantry of humanity.

Pre-race hijinks.

Nature calls. And the portopotty does not answer. The bushes do.

Wise men say, only fools rush into a marathon with no trainin.

This was the slowest FedEx delivery since Tom Hanks' delivery in Castaway

Taiko drummers, I kiss you all.

If holly could, hollywood.

Beberlee Heels beyatches. No, I don't live there. But I run through it like a river runs through that movie that Brad Pitt was in. About fly fishin

Anyhows, the marathon itself was cool. We walked about two miles as Ana had some cramping which we humorously refer to as sciatica given this Italian runner's complaints of same upon seeing Ana's Rome Marathon knee brace. We got an egg salad sandwich at Starbucks around Mile 11 or so near Western and Sunset. Then we split up around Mile 14, and I ran the rest of the race, more or less, with a Starbucks red velvet cupcake stop near Mile 23. My finishing time was a frightful 6:11 aka 14 minute mile pace (!) but the experience was beautiful, especially when I got my wonderful medal and waiting for me by the Finish Line was Abe Lincoln and my dog Spot.

My cupcake. It gave me the strength to go on and finish "strong" or strongish anyhows.

As I ate my cupcake I read my twitter feed and was very touched to see Run Forrest Run was directed at meee.hee.ee.

"Got the medal round my neck. Turn around, do it again." I believe these are the concluding lines to an LA running club, the RoadRunners' anthem. I heard them singing their war chant as I passed them by hehee (ok fine the 14 minute mile group but hey, I gotta mock someone or I'm just not being me). I don't know all the lines but it goes something like "Mile 7. I'm in heaven. Mile 8. I feel great. Mile 9. I feel fine. Mile 10. Let's do it again." I love that. Let's do it again.

Look at my medals. The only word for them is "gorgeousoh" as in the Rolling Stones Song.

I've never had such a poor showing at a marathon, but I realized I'm not ready to hang up my running shoes just yet - especially since my brother bought me a kickass pair of Mizunos for my birthday. That's why I'm going to sign up and I am going to TRAIN for the Bulldog Trail Run. I've done the Bulldog 25k, but this time, I'm going to do the Bulldog 50k, and I'm super excited. So, for all you runners, lapsed runners, wanna be runners, and my favorite people of all, couchy potatoze, I hope you too one day sign up and participate in a 5k, 10k, half marathon, marathon, 50k, 130k, whathaveyou. And remember, it's totally cool to eat a donut during the race. No one's watching. And if they are, they are soooooo jealous it's not even funny. Letz do it again!

My Trip to Mammoth by Guest Blogger Cooper

2010-03-05T10:21:00.000-08:00

I am Cooper. I'm the dog. I live with yutjangsah. She got me from the pound. For $70. Can you believe? Me too! She buy me because her friend say buy this one, he is cute. She has good eye the friend.

Yutjangsah is too lazy to blog. So I give you my story of my trip to Mammoth. It start with bath. All trips start with bath. C'est la vie. Yah, I know French. A leetle. But my accent is tres bon. I learn from poodle. Black one. Tres elegant.

In Mammoth, we stay at Westin. They "allow" dogs. I am "allowed". Can you believe somewhere I am not allowed because I am dog? Estupido.

I like room. The fire is good for me. Someone say I can have "heavenly dog bed" but humans say no. I have bed. But they no say no to the heavenly human bed. C'est la vie. I will climb on it when they are gone. Maybe I rub my butt too. Who knows what I do? Hahaha. Haha. Besides being beautiful with good fur coat and all my teeth, I am also a bon vivant.

I get treat bag from Westin with a peanut butter cookie, freeze dried liver and poop bags. C'est magnifique!

After that, I like this hotel more. I give them two paws up. I don't have thumbs. Leave me alone. Cabron. I know Spanish too. Un pequito. No, it was not chiahuahua that teach me. I teach him. He wear sweaters all the time. I don't have sweaters. But I have a good fur coat I was born. I have also a raincoat. Yellow. With hat. Tres elegant.

Did I have fun? Mais oui. The humans found a new trail. It is connecting from le village to the bottom of the ski run called Rollercoaster. The trail, it is called the Village Skiback Trail. I run. I skid my butt on the snow to cool it down. I poop. The humans collect in bags. Gross, yes? I only let them pet my butt. I not know where hands were before. Attenzione! I know Italian too. Rosetta Stone. It works. Arrivaderci! Ok, only sometimes it works. I am dog. Okay? Leave me alone.

So. Humans go away long time. They come back smelling good. Food. Ahh, they have eaten without me I say to myself while pretending to lick my butt. So, first time they eat for dinner, the humans go to Whitebark, the restaurant inside Westin. They eat these things. With their hands. Which picked up my poop. But I digress. Pardon. One can't help thinking of such things, no?

Bu-red. It was okay. The altitude is high. Mon dieu. You must cut slack. This is mountain town.

Butternut squash soup. This was good. It is good to eat hot soup when it is cold out and you have skied hard all day. Or, if you have run hard on a trail like a good and excellent dog. What can you do, huh? I am not "allowed".

The steak with the blue cheese was very good. Delicious. The humans were hungry after skiing hard all day in the thick white snow, so the steak was good to eat and it was very good to drink a big glass of red wine with the bloody beef steak. I know this because they talked about it. Especially the other one who kept saying, ahhhh, that was a good steak. The yutjangsah kept saying only, it was good but you know with the judgment in her voice like it could have maybe been better.

The yutjangsah had weird craving for sushi. It was not great but what can you expect from Mammoth shores? Exactamundo. Precisely, mon amie. She have four eyes in her brain too sometime. Can you believe she wanted small dog when she came to pound? What about me I said. I am here also and I am quite beautiful as anyone can see who have the eyes to look. Anyhow, sushi in Mammoth is not local. It is loco. Dios mio. But she like it she say. Even if it was probably frozen and had sort of strange texture. The other one say nothing to that because he watch movies and not listen to this sushi talk. He pet me so I don't care. I no take sides. I am Switzerland. Neutral. I am a dog. Please. Okay?

The next time I smelled food coming the humans, it was Mexican food. Yes, I know that cuisine well as I spent some time outside a Taco Bell. Yes, I have a past. Do not we all? Let us not speak of it no more. I have eaten my gordita in my heyday.

The humans went to Gomez's, the Mexican restaurant in the village. It was happening, and service was quite slow like a beagle that has seen better days. The Yuropeeyans in Mammoth and the employees in Mammoth generally speaking are very very good at customer service because they are so happy to be close to the snow and they are happy also to be quite high on the marijuana I suspect. I was once drug sniffing dog at airport, but I digress.

The yutjangsah say the tortilla soup was more like chicken soup with chunks of cheese and chicken in it. It also came out cold but it was re-heated to a lukewarmish temperature which she say was disappointing because it was snowing like crazy outside and the humans wanted hot hot soup for their cold hallow yet greedy and selfish insides. I would not have said no to a sip or two of that tortilla soup. But you know, they did not ask me.

The fries were okay. They both said that but they ate a lot. I could smell sweet potato in the air.

The fajitas were standard they said.

The margaritas, ah, yes, they liked this very much. I too think Margaritas are nice when it is cold and snowing outside and the rim of the margarita glass has salt encrusted like glass pretzel, it is good to see that. And see is all I do because I am dog. I am not allowed to have the margarita. It is sad but that is the way it is.

Overall, I had fantastico time running, jumping, sneeffing and playing in the snow. The food was secondary. The humans liked their food because they were hungry and that is all that matters at Mammoth. After skiing, everyone is hungry and cold and they want only to drink and eat and be warm. The food will be great because the hunger is great, so it is not worth worrying or talking about to any degree. If I can tell you anything, that is it. Don't worry, you are not in pound, so why worry? Exactamundo. There you have it. I was $70. Can you believe? I still can't believe.

Moonlight Sonata

2010-03-01T12:09:00.000-08:00

You know that saying that the discovery of a new dish does more to promote the happiness of man than the discovery of a new star? Seems pretty axiomatic to me. After all, we can't eat stars, now can we? So, whoever invented the apple pie, let's posthumously award this personage, an old grizzled woman with cool nimble fingers I bet, a Nobel Peace prize. Same for the wizard who churned vanilla ice cream for the first time. And the glutton who decided to "pair" the two together should get some recognition as well. Sweets, especially ice cream, have delighted my soul like a small bird chirping in a tree on a sad day. Strangely enough, my father's very last meal was a small paper cup of Carnation vanilla ice cream. I can't say it was a bad one.

In fact, I can't really say any dessert is categorically bad. I enjoy them all, even the questionable ones. I've had so many great desserts in my life that I'd be hard pressed to rank them, but a definite stand out amongst this honor roll would be the cheese cake I had at Providence last September which was so memorably tart, creamy, light, fruity and crumby in all the right ways. This most common of things, the cheesecake, was elevated to its highest form. I was floored. I may have closed my eyes to savor the sensation like those York Peppermint Patty commercials depict.

Hence, when my friend Lisa wished to celebrate her birthday this Saturday with a dessert tasting at Providence, I was there, napkin in lap, fork at the ready. We got there at 10:00 p.m. For the next nearly two hours, Lisa's party of ten forked and spooned five successive desserts paired with complementary wines. There were many fine and admirable things about this dessert tasting. For instance, valiant and clever attempts were made, with each course, to incorporate crackling, crunchy, chew and toothwork to break up the mushy gushy monotony inherently called for by this animal popularly known as "dessert". There were interesting techniques like a possibly sou vide'd banana with a stewed denseness and concentration of flavor such as a plum might experience in its mysterious passage to becoming a prune. There were fun tubular shapes and familiar pairings of banana with chocolate, except of course executed in very high minded style. There was a dried cherry I won't be forgetting too soon.

Overall, I appreciated the novelty and the creativity and the progression from light to dark, liquid to mud, allegro to sonata. The thought behind this symphony was prodigious, no doubt. And the wines were well-suited. But I must confess, in my mind, I heard "is that all there is?" sang by Peggy Lee after the last course of boiling bitter espresso poured over a strangely gummy and heat resistant hazelnut ice cream was served.

After all, dessert is a hard act to follow. In fact, it can't be followed really, being itself the finale. It's the closing ceremony of the meal olympic, so a meal of dessert really, in some philosophical sense, has no closure. It has to top itself but five desserts simply cannot be as impactful as one - or even two. Like Cirque du Soleil, after you've seen one guy miraculously shimmy down a pole in a blue shiny unitard, the next four guys doing the same thing appears, well, a lot less original and certainly not miraculous. Sometimes, less is just so much more. But this is not to say that the desserts at Providence aren't perhaps amongst the finest in Los Angeles, along with Hatfield's, but simply that an assassinating dessert should be singular and swift like a sword, like a one line haiku and not a two hour symphony. But this could be, like so many things, attributable to my Protestant proclivities.

5955 Melrose Avenue. We saw Daniel aka Olaf-Daniel, the most popular server at Providence as far as I'm concerned. The servers still wore their Star Trek uniforms. We also saw Chef Cimarusti walk by. He kind of resembles Norm Abram of Old Yankee Workshop and This Old House fame. It's not that they look alike so much as they have that open faced good hearted work loving look about them. Okay, and they kind of look alike too.

The courses are set so you can't just choose wily nily what you're getting. Also, if you're with a large group, it's preferred that you all get the same number of courses. However, the entire party does not have to get the wine pairing, and two of our party opted for coffee or tea instead.

Cocktails aka mojito liquified orb, gin and tonic cube gummy and grapefruit orb. The post college jello shots were okay but if you've had these animal balloons once, I'm not sure you'll have such a kick out of seeing them again. Strangely, this time around, it brought to mind liquid capsule medicines which is not a good thing.

Kalamansi gelee, white chocolate soy milk soup, litchi -shiso sorbet. This was by far the most dynamic dish. It was ethereal, fragrant and hauntingly elegant. A thoroughbred amongst, you know, other less cool thoroughbreds. It looks like a beautiful solar system and the citrusy, creamy and crunchy finish will wish you could linger in interplanetary travel. The ume blanc was just delicious and the best possible wine pairing one could hope for having a sweet and crisp disposition.

You can make this at home if you've got the skillz to pay the billz as Chef Adrian Vasquez has so kindly has shared the recipe here.

Sous vide jonalicious apple, barley ice cream, pine nut puree, dried cherries and salty crumbly bits. I thought of this as being a thin man's apple pie. The apples were lovely and pear like in mildness having been stewed in a high tech bath, the crust element was a shortbread like buttery thing and the dried cherry was magnificently chewy moist and tart indeed but this was like three different things plated together. I'd rather have an apple pie. From McDonalds, even. What a plebian I am. I also did not enjoy the turpentine wine pairing. I think it had hints of caramel in it but it also had hints of horse tranquilizer. I'm not a fan of dessert wines admittedly.

I really also enjoyed this penultimate course of stewed bananas, chocolate ganache and peanut butter ice cream. It was uncomplicatedly delicious despite its modern appearance. Like a peanut butter banana sandwich with some nutella on top, I can't find fault with these flavors no matter what. The chocolatey wine we had with it was fascinating but only for a sip or two.

For our last course, we had an affogato which was forgettable. The ice cream was completely overwhelmed by the bitter hot espresso and the texture of the ice cream was likened by a fellow diner as a "frozen whipped cream" and certainly if you've ever had Cool Whip with freezer burn, then this was very similar. It was sort of a disappointing ending to a long symphony with its highs and its lows.

I was pleased with the mignardise that came out consisting of a gingery jelly, a caramel and a coconut vanilla ball.

Lisa also got a 6th course of sorts of artisanal chocolates as no one came by with a candle or any birthday wishes despite Lisa's sister, Stella, requesting same from a staff member. Stella was greatly vexed, particularly when a neighboring table was fulsomely wished a happy birthday complete with candled dessert plate, and I must say, it is unfortunate that a special occasion restaurant like Providence would neglect to mark the occasion accordingly, but we agreed that the box of choccys was fair compensation. We're easily appeased with sweets. Who wouldn't be? So, sweets for the sweet was had and I think it's fair to say we all enjoyed ourselves for the experience and in celebrating our friend Lisa's birthday.

I Like the NiteLife Baby (Not Really)

2010-02-26T07:58:00.000-08:00

I always think I like the nightlife baby, but I actually just like the song with that name by The Cars. Actual nightlife is awful filled as it is with scantily clad women grinding and gettin' low like professionals in a karaoke bar in Little Tokyo while you sit unable to move yet slowly being blinded by tears of fatigue, terror and confusion... however, perhaps, I am preceding myself a bit.

Let me rewind to the beginning of the nightlife to last last Saturday morning, which began, auspiciously enough, the sun bright and glorious in the summery sky, my fully clothed and clean granny underweared buns ensconced comfortably in Sarah's sun chariot, the two of us soaring at the speed of 10 miles per hour on the 101 South toward the first ever LA Street Food Fest featuring parked food trucks galore lined up like a trailer park of food. We weren't going for the food so much as we were going for the spectacle much like the ancient Romans went to the Coliseum. We didn't necessarily want to see a lion eat a gladiator, but if that happened, we would cheer for the lion and carry on merrily the way a mob does - mindlessly, robustly, and, yes, happily.

When we got to the Fest, it was clear that the Roman-Californian mob wakes up early for their food fests. People teemed like ants, roaches and other err amphibians. You know what I mean. As Sarah observed, it was like a day time rave. Or maybe it was just a food fest, Sarah, you damn exaggerator you. The price of admission being a low $5, it seemed that the vast majority of the crowd was made of young hipsters with their sunglasses, their skinny jeans and their hippie sundresses. I was wearing a J Crew tee shirt and a pair of J. Crew tan capris aka momwear for the non-mom.

To call on Ice-T, "it was a good day". It was beautifully delightfully magnificently warm - but not roasting and we ran into some friends which made it like a block party.

I had a cocktail made of pomegranate. Lovely.

I didn't have the kimchi fries but I'm not sure that's something I regret.

We ran into gastronomyblog and her affianced astronomer, neither of whom have thus far invited me to their wedding. Rude? I should say so, since I introduced them! Okay, that's a lie. Doesn't Cathy make you want to eat a taco sideways?

She wore pink penguinned Vans.

I had a bite of dogzilla. I must confess I jumped the queue using my press pass aka Cathy. Tasty. I want one of these tee shirts asap.

We went to the LudoBites Fried Chicken truck which was the scene of a deluge akin to the Beatles first tour of America.

Chef Ludo was being filmed as usual.

We got our paws on some piping hot rosemary flecked deep fried chicken balls and I tried to down it in one bite, nearly died, slowed it down and yes, it was the best chicken ball that ever lived.

We had some mexican food.

This was authentico stuff. Some of it was bitter. As authentic things so often are.

A bucket of radishes. What could be prettier?

The sweets truck was kind enough to give us some free cupcakes. They were surprisingly delicious and moist. The frosting was sugary in the best way possible.

As you can tell, I did not brave the lines for food. I just socialized until about 4:50 p.m. at which point the people just evaporated like a giant proton phaser had been applied on them. That's when I stood in "line" aka just outside the truck window and had my nibbles and bits. So, when we left around 5ish, I was pleased with the day's events rather like a lion that had eaten a gladiator might be pleased with a day's work at the Coliseum. I licked my chops and combed my luxurious mane clear of food "crumbs".

This is where hell commenced. First stop was Lazy Ox Canteen where we met up with social media people who each have like 100,000 twitter followers. I guess they are the twitterati. We had some drinks and a few bites none of which I can really recall as being very tasty, sadly.

Then we decided to walk to Oiwake for some karaoke and dinner. May I confess it was a little past my bed time at that moment? But bed, there was none. Karaoke freaks, oh, there was plenty.

Let the games begin...

Ms. Purple Haze here was something to behold. She was insanely agile and energetic. She moved like a summa cum laude graduate of pole dancing university. In all seriousness, she was the life of the party and my initial fear of the unknown aka her interpretive dance ended up with a sincere admiration for her talents, her grace and stunning artistry. But after like two hours of this, I was more than ready to count sheep, preferably the Serta Perfect Sleeper sheep which are cute and sassy but won't pole dance to the karaoke machine version of Barry Manilow's heart stirring Copacabana. Post traumatic stress disorder is real people and you don't only get it in 'Nam.

A long day's journey into night just kept on going after this. We then went to some dance club that was packed tighter than a pimp's billfold. I don't recall much except there were 80's tunes and one of our party joggled my shoulders up and down trying to get me to dance. I was still wearing momwear. My feet really hurt. My granny undies were ready for bed. The only good thing about this experience was we left. And there was no Barry Manilow.

It was then suggested and seconded that we adjourn to the Standard roof top. Having no wheels of my own, I was but a mere pawn of these party animals that I had unknowingly got mixed up with. Like a foot soldier marching to the beat of a war drum he did not bring to motion, it was left right left, left right left for me. It was 1:00 am!!! aka the next day had come to this here earth and I was still wearing the same clothes. This was most improper. Most irregular. Most unsatisfactory. I'm a lot of fun, hey hey?

The crowd at the Standard was pretty darn eyesight threatening. I pull no punches. These are not the spandex clad humans I wish to encounter at any drinking hole, great roof top view or no. Entire seasons of "what not to wear" could be filmed here and yeah, I got credentials to speak because I shop at J. Crew, okay? I was ready to kill just about everyone or even just curl up in a futuristic pod couch and just die like an old toothless lion made to party like a cub. In momwear. What the hells?

Eventually, I made it home. And the next morning - well, actually, the same morning, I woke up to sunshine in a spandex free zone. Glory be. I thought I would wake up in a hotel room missing a kidney. Which would have been okay with me, so long as I could be in bed sleeping, a kidney didn't seem such a high price to pay.

Presume the Best and Maybe You'll Get a Huge Chicken Kebob

2010-02-17T08:00:00.000-08:00

My dog is presumptuous. Which is why he's charming. The very instant I bring home a new dog bed and it hits the ground, Cooper places his paws onto the bed and then sinks his furry ass down on it presuming that it belongs to him. The effrontery! It could be my new foot cushion or something.

Foot cushion my ass. This whole sand is my foot cushion. Why I look so sad? Why you so nosy?

Whenever I go to the kitchen, he presumes, likewise, that it's to get him something to eat so he accompanies me. Often times when he sees a stranger walking down the street he presumes this stranger would like to pet him and so he noses their legs - occasionally to their great and vocal displeasure.

I suppose Cooper's presumptuousness is, to some degree, a species of optimism. It's a way of saying, I'd rather be hopeful than right. I'm afraid I have generally preferred being right to almost anything else in life. How unlikeable of me. But that's how my father was, and my father's father before him, and I suspect my father's father's father and so on, all the way back to the original yutjangsah. Sometimes - maybe too often - I have found myself presuming the worst, or at least not the best, about people, places and things.

And this was certainly the case when our friend Nas informed me and Soojin that we were going to have lunch to celebrate all of our birthdays at some place called Panini Cafe. In Sherman Oaks. My suspicions that I would have a second rate soggy sandwich were not allayed when I realized that I'd seen this orange and white striped awning in Beverly Hills before such that this was a chain restaurant on top of being called Panini Cafe and on top of being located in Sherman Oaks.

Well, friends, I should have known a Persian Jew aka a Korean by another mother and father knew her food. We had ginormous juicy grilled white meat chicken kebobs with rice and salad for $9.99 are you out of your mind. We also had a lovely bread pudding with ice cream for dessert.

Back and Front; either way it's bootiful.

I'd never seen a candle in a bread pudding before. Now, I have.

Best of all, the lunch conversation's juiciness rivaled and perhaps bested the kebobs themselves. So, presume the best and maybe you'll get a giant luscious chicken kebob with all the fixins. For $9.99. Mazeltov!

[Disclaimer: Results May Vary. You should not take Presumptions if you are taking an IMO inhibitor or have kidney or liver problems or have a history of eating bad food at shady looking places hoping for the best. Consult your physician to see if Presumptions is right for you.]

Seven Breakfasts for Seven Brothers (or Just Me)

2010-02-16T08:28:00.000-08:00

We all know someone who loves a big fat breakfast on the weekends. Invariably, this is a male someone because we ladies who love a big fat breakfast on the weekends disguise this as a love of brunch. I always thought one man's breakfast was really just another woman's brunch, but I'm starting to think there's a big difference, to wit: Breakfast just ain't as good as brunch.

Case in point: Little Next Door. I had a smoked salmon plate which failed to impress. The bedraggled toast was too beat down and couldn't stand up to the foxy loxy, which was itself a bit downtrodden. The little rainbow of nations was unnecessary as it chopped down the flavor of each element considerably. I was hankering for Tavern's smoked fish plate and this was no way to meet that hankering. The hankering continues. The croque madame and some roast potatoes was good. You just can't go wrong with a grilled cheese topped with egg. If you can go wrong with that then I don't want to know you.

Bottom line: I love Little Next Door because the name is magical, whimsical and clever and because you can sit outside with some trendoids in your wayfarers or aviators or the Ray Bans of your choosing and you can even smoke some Galoises if you're retro enough to smoke cigarettes. You feel a bit noir, a bit hip, so I recommend it for all squares like me looking for a novel sensation, and I like having dinner here but the breakfast, well, you know. It's pretty.

Next stop: Blu Jam Cafe. This has the opposite problem of Little Next Door. I found the breakfast to be quite delicious but the atmospherics are wanting. What do they want? Well, my personal preference as a lady who brunches is for sunlight, open air, large windows, and if any music must be endured at brunch, it had better be like obscure alternative music or icelandic opera made by mating pelicans or hybernating dungbeetles and the volume should be very soothing and low. At Blu Jam, the music was loud rock and it was dark inside. I'm just not down. The food though is quite quite good, especially that breakfast sandwich. The pancakes are heavy and cake like. Strangely, I mean that as a compliment.

Eat Well. This is the kind of place you want to make into your local breakfast joint. They have dog bowls set out for the sidewalk seats and crayons and paper tablecloths you can go Cezanne on. It's got sunlight galore. There's music but it's classic rock like Led Zeppelin which is never offensive and probably a digestive aid to some degree. But the food is wanting. What does it want? Flavor. However, this is my neighborhood joint so I stick up for it and I patronize it anyways.

Basix Cafe is another neighborhood breakfast favorite and I like it too. It's got outdoor seating so the sunshine will toast you a golden brown but it's more of a masculine vibe here. The food is pretty good too, especially the breakfast burrito with chicken and potatoes, but the bloody mary is a bit of a travesty. I'd eat here more often but the breakfaster's eyes don't gaze favorably on Basix. There's no "I" In "TEAM" and there's no "I" in BREAKFAST" either. Democracy is inefficient. We know this. Basix Cafe, we could have been good together. See you around.

You know I love my Chinese chicken salad. The best I've had is from Broadway Deli which has a dark mysterious version with oyster mushrooms, dark meat, and the shredded head of like two cabbages and an alluring dressing that I keep to the side as always. The worst is probably Jack in the Box with its mandarin oranges and dried out carrot sticks. Getting a side of curly fries is probably the only way to salvage that situation but it defeats the entire purpose of ordering a fast food salad, so yeah, struggle with that, urban soldier.

Nor is the breakfaster too keen on Hugo's Restaurant, another local favorite from day to night. Celebs like Orlando Bloom, Pink, Nicole Richie, etc. dine here. It's got ginger candies at the cash register and serves everything from a Cuban sandwich to Chinese stir fry to Mexican food to granola/Buddha/bird food. I like it because it's close by and it's sort of healthy. The chilaquiles are fair, but I always get the Go Green Frittata which is basically chlorophyll and fiber. It's chard, beet greens, kale, spinach puree, broccolini, zucchini, and quinoa topped with alfalfa sprouts. You feel like your skin might turn green after eating this. It hasn't so far though. If it does, I'll sell my story to the National Enquirer and join a circus. I'm a pragmatist/fantasist. It's a good combination.

Full disclosure: I only got one bite of the chilaquiles. There are two "I"s in CHILAQUILES but apparently no "TEAM". From what I tasted though, Loteria Grill has nothing to worry about.

I also had a decent breakfast at Food and Lab. The fig proscuitto sandwich was a disappointment being mildly sweet and easy going almost to a fault. Recall when Scarlett O'Hara accused her cousin Melanie of being mealy mouthed? Well, call this sandwich a Melanie. I did, however, love the croissandwich. Add some hard boiled egg for like 50 cents or a dollar extra and It was gone like the wind in 60 seconds. I've referenced two movies in one blow. Go yutjangsah.

This cornichon and olive looks like a Mapplethorpe scenario. Am I wrong or am I right?

However, this crossandwich has been rated "G" for all audiences.

A breakfast featuring a "build your own" and "bottomless" Bloody Mary (for $20) is an offer I certainly can't refuse so when Starchy Marie and Hanhnonymous invited me to breakfast at Rush, I drove myself on down to Culver City to architect and drink my custom made bloody mary. The worcestershire sauce kind of makes it I think, as did the amazing pickled okra and green beans. It was so much fun playing bartender but no one besides us three seemed game for it. The food was fair. I had a shrimp salad and it was kind of greasy because I forgot to order the dressing on the side so I held that unfairly against my salad. However, the truffle oil fries were terrifyingly compelling even though they were way more greasy than my salad could ever be. Bottomless bloody mary and truffle oil fries? Danger, Will Robinson, Danger. Much as I would like to be mad, bad and dangerous to know, I'm not, so one bloody mary was more than ample for yours truly ($10). Mild Danger, Will Nerd-Robinson, Mild Danger.

This post covers breakfasts from several months and I've saved my 8th and favorite for last: Sam's Bagels in Larchmont Village has the best bagels and consequently the best bagel sandwiches - oh, excuse me, Samwiches - heehee Samwiches. I adore the turkey bagel samwich far far far above any of the breakfast bagel samwich. It's got some red onion, crisp lettuce, sliced cucumbers, tomato, mustard, fresh turkey. I just realized it's not like a turkey sandwich is the Colonel's secret recipe. Anyways, I thought you should know what goes into a turkey sandwich - in case you're like a foreigner or something. I like the everything bagel. What a surprise huh? And I bet you didn't know a turkey sandwich makes a stunningly wonderful breakfast. Now you know. Sam's also has white fish which I will try if I can ever get over my turkey samwich addiction, ie never.

I was going to call this a "life-sized" bagel. I guess one can dream.

My fundamental problem with breakfast is that I think this is one meal that should almost always be eaten at home - unless it's yum cha. Breakfast should be cold cereal, preferably corn flakes or raisin bran or it should be just regular food eaten earlier like omurice and miso soup or beans and eggs or a dungeness crab or two.

Now, brunch, well, that's a whole different story: brunch is a meal that must always be eaten a restaurant. Clear as mud? Good. If you've got a favorite breakfast spot, let me know and I'll check it out.

Lunchee Special

2010-02-10T08:29:00.000-08:00

Is there anything that warms the Korean heart more than a lunchee special? I can count on my hairs the number of times I've heard my mother use the words "lunchee special" with an intonation combining reverence, greed and fear in equal measures. Usually this is because it's a weekend and there is no lunch special as is obvious from the menu which clearly instructs that the lunch special is reserved for Monday to Friday dining. Nonetheless, my mother always asks if there's a lunch special even though it's a Saturday. The funny thing is she's always a bit disappointed when it is confirmed that the lunch special is a Monday to Friday event. She recovers but she longs for the lunch special with its ample portions, its delightful bounty and its absurdly cheap prices. I must confess that secretly, the same longing for the lunchee special rings fast and loud in my own Korean heart.

Of the fabled lunch specials this town has to offer, the one I've longed for ardently has been the lunch at Sushi Gen. Well, several weeks ago, my friend Lisa and I organized things so that we could realize this long deferred dream. She called up and made a reservation and was instructed to show up around 11:00 a.m. I picked her up for this momentous event and we made our way to Sushi Gen as instructed. There was a short line but when the doors opened, we filtered in and were seated at which point we both lost our heads. Having failed to research, panicked by the crowds and our own ignorance how to proceed, we did the unspeakable: we ordered the chicken teriyaki. When we saw that everyone else had a sashimi platter, we realized the depths to which we had plunged, we felt the cold seep into our bones and the life ebb from our flesh. Much as Adam and Eve staggered out of paradise, we trudged our way out of Sushi Gen our breath reeking of chicken teriyaki flavored remorse for what could have been.

The line-up starts around 10:50 a.m. or so. Everyone was seated and it appears that you can come as late as noon without having much of a wait for a table.

Miso soup and tender tofu braised in a sweet soy sauce with chunks of beef.

Salty pickled cabbage and cucumbers.

Sashimi slices that accompany the Teriyaki Chicken lunch special. The chicken was wonderfully crispy on the edges, tender and full of that sugary umami smoky flavor of teriyaki.

Unlike the original sinners, however, Lisa and I returned to the scene of the crime, as it were, and we made things right. We ordered the sashimi lunch special for $15 and this is what we got.

Tuna, spicy tuna, crab meat, salmon chopped up and seasoned with sesame oil and green onions, octopus, squid, hamachi, braised tuna in a soy reduction and grilled salmon.

You walk out of there looking like this fellow.

A few weeks later, I brought my mother because I knew if anyone would get a kick out of this almost too much abundance, "it would be she" as a Real Housewife of New Jersey might say in lieu of saying it would be her. Not only did she get a kick out of it, she took out her little notebook where she keeps all manner of phone numbers, addresses, trivia, english pronunciations, bon mots, recipes, birthdays, gifts received, gifts bestowed, who owes who, etc. etc. and she opened it to a random page and began writing down the address and phone number so she could come back with her cronies.

We then marched triumphantly to Mikawaya for some mochi ice cream and mochi. Whilst eating our Sakura mochi with its salty cherry leaf and its delightfully bumpy strawberry like appearance, my eye was drawn to one of those machines full of stuffed animals and a mechanical arm that you can use to pinch a plushie.

I hankered for the plushie with all the fervor of an eight year old. My mother provided the dollar and I gave it my best shot but I didn't even come close to pinching a fat plush head. My attempts to wrest a further dollar bill from my mother being unsuccessful, we left this plaza of broken dreams. On our way back to Sushi Gen, in the Honda Plaza, we passed this sweet shop, Frances, that I had never seen before. I stopped in and was dazzled by the desserts. Being too full I could only photograph them like the food lecher that I am. However, there's always room for chocolate so I got a green tea and a salt truffle. They're hand made but they're also $2 each. I got them to see if they'd be suitable for gift giving, and while they're nice, they didn't punch you in the guts with flavor which is essentially what a $2 choccy should do. I'd definitely try a tart though. Next time I guess. After I win myself a bratty looking plushie doll or two.

Yes, those cuticles belong to me. I guess my hand modeling career is over.

Suitable for all ages. That's what it said.

This is the bratty face and bangs of the plushie that I wanted to pinch with the metal tweezers. So cute huh?

Frances has been around for like 30 years according to the bakery employee I spoke with. I have no idea why I've never seen it before as I've been to the Honda Plaza numerous times.

The saran wrap really hurts the presentation but there's a large selection of treats.

The fruit tarts are stunningly gorgeous. Look at those purple black blueberries and those scarlet strawberries. Yum.

I love the look of these truffles.

My hands are just dry. That's not leprosy. Anyhows, I highly commend Sushi Gen for their sashimi lunch special and I would bestow my bratty looking plushie doll to them if I had one to bestow. The fish is fresher than fresh, the portions are obesity inducing and the price is so very right. This is a lunch special that makes for a very special lunch indeed.

Sail Away Sail Away Sail Away

2010-02-05T16:57:00.000-08:00

As you know, my dears, when you last saw our heroine in action, she claimed she would be baking Amanda Hesser's almond cakes for "Cookies Without Borders", a bake sale to benefit the Haitian earthquake victims and Doctors Without Borders organized by the No Cookie Left Behind taskforce.

Well, I am, if nothing else, a nervous baker. I can drive with one eye closed, I can go for a night run wearing an all black ensemble, I can peel an apple with a razor blade. I can do a lot of things with James Bond insouciance and get away with it. However, baking makes me decidedly uncool. I stand in the kitchen the ENTIRE time something is baking. I just stand there like a ghost often peering into the oven, other times talking to the cake or cookies with soft encouraging words that can switch lightning fast to curses and threats of death and torture. It's not good for animals or bystanders to watch. My name is yutjangsah and I'm a nervous baker.

I guess when you bake for others, which is always the case unless you're some kind of bake for yourself weirdo, you feel like your cookie, pie or cake has to be perfect and delicious and wonderful and magnificent and witty and well-dressed and brilliant and seductive and above all, perfect. It's a tall order for a home made baked good. It's too much for me at times. Which is why I don't bake that often. And which is why when someone bakes for me, I'm overwhelmed by the gesture, the effort, the vulnerability. It's one of those, "for me? you shouldn't have!" moments in life. I would have actually said that to Diana when she dropped off her Skor bar cake for my birthday last Saturday but umm I sort of uh requested she make it for my birthday so that would have been disingenuous. It was fantastic and it was huge! And it was the first time anyone had ever baked anything just for me for my birthday. It was special. And I couldn't hoard the goodness all to myself. I asked and Diana agreed that half the cake should be donated to the bake sale.

Later that day, while grocery shopping, I couldn't find almond paste at the store and I didn't want to go to Surfas, so I decided to make a chocolate chip cake for the Cookies Without Borders bake sale. I had never made this recipe before but I got it from my neighbor Jordan who had baked it for me for Christmas. But being the piggie I am, I amped up the peanut butter and the chocolate chips in the recipe and I had a very nervous time wondering if the cake would bake properly in the inside before getting too hard on the outside. I sweated more than I did in my bar method class that afternoon.

Well, of course I'm biased but I thought Jordan's cake came out delicious! So I cut up Diana's cake and mine, wrapped them in waxed paper, put them in shoe boxes, bid adieu to the yutjangsah bakes mental health squad of dog and friend and popped over to Scoops to deliver the goods. As you all know by now, the bake sale and the fund raising effort by the No Cookie Left Behind folks netted over $5,400 for Doctors Without Borders, which is wonderful.

The bundt came out great. The loaf was a tad undercooked in the middle so I kept that for home consumption.

Diana's Skor Bar cake incorporating six Skor bars! Buttery toffee goodness.

Aerial views of the goodies. I wish I could have baked more. Next time.

It was a piece of cake really.

We skored alright.

After dropping off the goods to the lovely ladies of No Cookie Left Behind, I hauled ladyass to Tavern for birthday brunch with my favorite bloggers, Diana, Lauren and Sarah.

I'd been to Tavern for a coffee break during one of my long runs from Santa Monica to Brentwood and I loved the way it looked but I hadn't eaten there.

When I stepped into the rearmost dining area, I was just like wow. Wow. Wow. Wow. It was like sailing in a huge yacht. Streams of sunlight just poured down on us like we were cats napping by a window. I got a serious tan. The space is beyond beautiful and the moon roof is beyond genius. There are these two huge butterscotch colored leather booths that could probably seat like 12 to 16 ladies and it would be a wonderful place for a big fancy feminine brunch.

The combination of sunlight, muted putty tones and Pottery Barn-esque furniture makes for a very relaxing mood. It just transported me to some Pottery Barn fantasy life where I just sail around in yachts and speak with some kind of Bostonian accent and wear white knitted sweaters and linen trousers and rope soled espadrilles. I became like Katherine Hepburn for a split second. That's the power of design. Done right it is transformative.

The mirrors are also pivotal to this airy mansionesque feel. Rather like the hall of mirrors in Versailles, the room just seemed to go on forever because of the mirrored effect. And the trees inside. I love it but they're apparently being uprooted and thrown into the fire soon because they're dying and they get in the way. Too bad because they so enhance the indoors as outdoors feel.

Do I love this room more than the main dining room of Campanile, more than the outdoor patio of Lucques? I just may. Yes, I quite might. Perhaps is all I'll say. Perhaps yes. Perhaps maybe. Not perhaps no.

What brunch is complete without prosecco? I submit it is inhuman to brunch without bubbles or a bloody mary or some type of uh restorative from bake sale anxiety. Thankfully, I was brunching with like minds or perhaps more accurately, like livers.

The regular bread was moist and hearty and the butter had lumps of like cream or solidified fats in it that just made it perhaps the most exquisitely creamy butter I'd ever had. The monkey bread was fun because we could pull it apart but it was essentially just brioche with cinnamon. The table bread was better.

Lauren's salad was beautiful to look at. I had a taste of one of the leaves which I snagged off her plate with my fingers. Apropos of nothing, Lauren launched into a reminiscence about a family friend who her sister complained ate off her (the sister's) plate with her fingers. Lauren asked what the big deal was and her sister said she had been eating some hot pasta at the time. Good story huh? What that has to do with my eating off Lauren's plate with my fingers, I don't know. People go off on the strangest tangents sometimes.

Sarah ordered the frittata which I just spelled fitatta then had to change to frittata. Stop with the freaking double consonants already Italians. Pete's sake. Maybe I'm dyslexic in Italian. Anyhows, this was scarily yellow like did someone triple up the yolks on this thing or what? Other than that, it was underseasoned and forgettable. It's a frittata worthy of Jinky's Cafe. Sorry to be a bitch on my birthday brunch but that's the truth Senora Frittata. Maybe some Tabasco could have helped.

Diana's eggs benedict was rich and buttery and lemony lemony lemony. I liked this thing. I could get to grips with this again. I love Mr. Benedict in egg form. The limon hollandaise was a fun twist. But it is very very rich indeed.

My favorite plate was my own. I got the smoked fish plate. Sarah likened my smoked salmon to verging on sashimi level thickness. The fish was magnificent. Cold, salty, fresh and dense. I loved loved loved this happy fishy oniony capery plate of stinkiness.

I made a little sandwich. Then I made another one. I was transformed again. This time into Billy Crystal or one of his old man characters. I noshed. I nished. I poshed. I pished. I shmeared. I leered. It was good schtuff. Yes, I don't know yiddish. How'd you know?

I loved my Creamsicle dessert too. It was light and tasted, as promised, like a creamsicle. And it had this bitchen candle on it. It was a great birthday brunch at Tavern.

Pirate Booty at Bouchon

2010-02-02T16:31:00.000-08:00

When I think celebration, my thoughts turn, like the tide itself, to ocean creatures, cream colored oysters on the half barnacled shell, an obscene amputated crustacean claw redder than a Le Creuset or an origami shaped Lamborghini, raw peach flavored clams and firm pink tigerstriped shrimp, all of it sitting on ice like a display of jewels for me to reach out and take for myself. I think of this as pirate booty. And when it's my birthday, that's what I would like to eat more than any other food in the world.

The lovely thing is that seafood platters are ubiquitous. I've slurped raw clams and oysters at Hungry Cat, Comme Ca and Anisette. But for my birthday I wanted to go to Bouchon.

This is because after the KCRW event at the Paley Center, we were just down the street so Sarah, Lauren, Lindsay and I repaired to Bouchon for a cocktail and I was just won over, swept away and utterly enthused about Bouchon in a way that I didn't think I would be because I prefer our locals and we've got homegrown bistros here in LA, so who does this Thomas Keller think he is pussyfooting his way into our town like he owns the joint and exporting his lame chain restaurant up in here? Well, I guess I swallowed my words along with a piece of the most perfectly wonderful and crusty bread I've ever had in my life. Good bread will do that to you.

The courtyard between Bouchon and Montage Beverly Hills.

Like a pot of fire blossoms. Beautiful color.

The dining room is hideous from the globe lights to the carpet to the chairs. Hideous.

The bar is magnificent. Pewter and zinc and rimmed with seafood. Lovely. This is where the cool people congregate.

To drink and nosh. And dish.

The cocktails we had tasted like turpentine though but that's probably a personal preference thing. Everything else I just loved. Madly and unreservedly. From the sparkling white wine to the shiny sea oysters to the peanut butter ice cream but most of all the butter and the bread and the magazine rack by the bar where you can read Allure or a newspaper. I also loved the old gentleman supping by himself at the bar on a plate of roast chicken and a cone of golden french fries. Yes, it was then I knew. For my birthday, I wanted to spend it at Bouchon at the bar with some bread and butter, oysters, white wine and ice cream. So, that's what we did.

When we arrived around 8:30 p.m. without reservations because we're Bourdainish like that, the dining room was full as was the bar but there was ample seating outdoors. During summer, that outdoor area overlooking the courtyard is going to be a fabulous place to have a drink and a gossipy chit chat but not so much during winter. WIthin 20 minutes, there both the bar and the dining room opened up and you know where we headed.

The tile by the bar is a beautiful thing. It feels Spanish or Moroccan more than French. But what do I know? It could be from Paris itself.

This could be the ad for the ibar.

This gent was shucking oysters by himself which I think is a definite problem. His towel, which I didn't take a photo of, was shocking. Covered in shell bits and disturbingly brown. The restaurant was packed and almost everyone had some oysters or a seafood platter. I don't know if he was seriously the only shucker on duty but two of my oysters had broken shell fragments in their waters and a few had grit which is not right. And it's certainly not his fault if he's the only one shucking oysters for an entire restaurant. Let's call for backup on this situation. It's not the end of the world but it's never happened to me at Anisette. Never. And Anisette does have the best seafood platter I've had to date. Yes, it does. Westsiiiide!!!

But I don't mean to complain. It was a lovely seafood platter and I enjoyed it tremendously. The oysters were all from the East Coast and they were on the salty side for sure but they tasted fresh and lovely.

We also ordered some kumamotos as I enjoyed them so much during my first visit to Bouchon.

My claw made me very happy. I defy anyone to be sad when they have a lobster claw sitting in front of them waiting to be eaten. It's impossible. And yes, you should play with the claw and try to make it pinch your friend's clothes or nose or ears if at all possible. I forgot to do that. Next time America.

Ahh the good stuff. The birthday claw meat. So sweet and meaty. We had a bottle of muscadet which went really well with the oysters. A wonderful pairing.

This bread is heaven sent. I ate three leaves from this little branch here. The butter is divine as well. Perfection. I kiss the sky with my buttery lips.

Around 9:30 or so a guy came in took a seat at the bar and ordered a dish of greens with garlic and he just ate that with 3 pieces of bread and a glass of wine. What a clever chap. I may have to copy him. What a cheap and utterly delicious meal he had.

We decided to split a steak frites cooked rare.

These fries. My fellow Americans, these are the best fries you will ever have in a sit down restaurant. We all know the benchmark is set by McDonalds. If you dispute that, let's meet for a discussion with two broken wine bottles in a dark alley somewhere you ignoramus you provoker of unnecessary controversy you donkey's ass you. Well, these fries are very close to that gold(en arches) standard. They are saltier than a salt lick, crispier than goose fat cooked potatoes, piping hot and suspiciously savory. I ate them and I ate them and I ate them to the extent I could barely eat any of the steak which was sound but you know I'm no red meat lover.

For dessert, we had the profiteroles. The dark chocolate, the ice cream, the pastry somehow it didn't blow me away but I liked it.

But because it was my birthday we ordered two desserts. The peanut butter ice cream is a dream come true. It's salty and rich and so peanut buttery that it rivals Mashti Malone's peanut butter ice cream and that thing will block your artery after one lick so you know I'm not fooling around son.

To paraphrase Lou Reed "It's such a perfect day, I'm glad I spent it with you": It was a beautiful birthday. I'm glad I spent it at Bouchon.

Where Women Glow and Men Plunder

2010-02-01T13:49:00.000-08:00

If Americans in the 80's had a fetish nation, it would be Australia. The first record I owned was Men at Work's Business as Usual. I would take out my little record player brush and proudly brush the record free of dust and lint and then I'd listen to the song "Down Under" extolling the virtues of Australia as a land "where women glow and men plunder". The men also seemed to be kind of paranoid if Men at Work was an exemplar.

Then there was also the second highest rated mini-series of all time - The Thorn Birds, set in Australia, depicting the ill-fated love between a Roman Catholic priest and a young girl he used to minister to. Pretty odd storyline, but the entire nation watched this thing. This was before cable, so from coast to coast, all demographics and across every political/socio-economic strata, we all used to watch the same television programs, because, essentially, we had no friggin' choice.

What I remember from Thorn Birds is that there's a lot of sheep farming in Australia and it's a big ass beautiful country with amazing beaches where you and your priest/ boyfriend can frolic and snorkel and get jiggy with it - at least until he decides he's actually, you know, a priest and celibate. Then it's back to the sheep station for you Maggie.

America's 1980's fascination with Australia was further fueled by Olivia Newton-John, the Crocodile Dundee movies, the whole "a Dingo ate my baby" mystery, Foster's beer, INXS and Kylie Minogue. From these cultural milestones, we all got the sense that good times could be had in Australia so long as you didn't get eaten by a crocodile or a dingo. The Outback, as a concept, like the Wild West, also fired up the design departments of various clothing manufacturers, including "The Limited" which I swear created an entire line of clothing for the Outback consisting of khaki button down shirts, long white prairie skirts, pleated khaki trousers and denim dresses and the like. Utterly Hideous like all 80's fashion. The Aborigines also captured the fancy of the American public along with the Kung San people of the Kalahari desert.

I've never met any Aborigines and I didn't actually meet any real live Australians until I traveled around Europe. The striking thing was that every Australian I met was cool, easy going, a good conversationalist, humorous and broad minded. Maybe it's the convict gene pool. Maybe it's the awesome beaches. Maybe it's the priest-penitent relationships. Whatever it is, it's good, so I was happy, as was Lauren, to accept Sarah's invitation to the KCRW Good Food Live! food and wine event sponsored by Tourism Australia, which took place two weeks ago.

Evan Kleiman hosted the all Aussie panel which included Chef Curtis Stone, Chef Peter Evens, Mixologist Gus McShane, and Wine Australia's James Gosper. KCRW producer Sarah Spitz encouraged us to drink the wine, which we did. Sarah's so cool, she's honorary Australian. These great photos of the event are from bryonyshearmurphotography.com.

Chef Evans pouring oil slowly ever so slowly. (Photo Credit: bryonyshearmurphotography.com).

Talking with the fishies. (Photo Credit: bryonyshearmurphotography.com)

Sarah titled this photo of Chef Peter Evans, "McSteamy". Clever, eh? (Photo Credit: bryonyshearmurphotography.com)

James Gosper's facial expression is positively messianic. He is bringing the Australian wines to North America like Moses brought the tablets on down the mountain! Amen! (Photo Credit: bryonyshearmurphotography.com)

Chef Stone rubbing his paws. (Photo Credit: bryonyshearmurphotography.com).

Evan Kleiman and Chef Stone made her Grilled Butterfly Leg of Lamb which was just delicious. (Photo Credit: bryonyshearmurphotography.com).

(Photo Credit: bryonyshearmurphotography.com)

This beautiful lamb lolly was bursting with juiciness and flavor. The recipe comes from Evan Klieman's Cucina Fresca which was provided in a handout for all attendees and which I'll copy here for you, my little lamb lovers.

1 Leg of Lamb (about 5 lbs) boned and butterflied

3 garlic cloves, peeled and minced

10-15 sprigs rosemary or 2 TB dried rosemary crumbled

3-4 TB olive oil

1/4 cup Dijon

1 Rosemary Vinaigrette

The night before cooking, rub the lamb well with the minced garlic, dried rosemary and olive oil. If using fresh rosemary, place the herb in a bowl and lay the lamb on top. Cover the meat tightly with plastic wrap and marinate overnight in the fridge. Let the meat come to room temp before grilling.

Lift the meat off the rosemary and rub all over with mustard. Place the lamb on a very hot grill turning every 15 mins for a total cooking time of 40 mins for pink and 1 hour for well done meat. Let the lamb cool to room temp before slicing. Serves 6 to 8.

As much as I loved the lamb lolly and watching the cooking demos, I won't lie to you people, the most exciting part of the event was when Sarah Spitz introduced us to Chef Curtis Stone and he sat down with us and dished about supermarkets in middle America, The Biggest Loser, his favorite restaurants and how much he loved our blogs. Okay, I'm lying about that last part.

On Chef Stone's right is harbknocklife's Lauren and on his left is Tastespotting's Sarah who I've cropped out because she's more anonymous than Ruth Reichl during her reviewing days.

The frisson of female excitement that Chef Stone generated was enough to power a small city. Everyone got all giggly and pink like the color of the lamb lolly. Chef Stone even gallantly broke apart his sausage roll into four pieces presumably so we could partake of a chunk. How chivalrous. None of us did because we were afraid of the weigh-in but it was nice anyhows.

We already know Australian women glow due to the likes of Nicole Kidman but after this event, we know first-hand that Australian men are probably the reason why. All in all, it was a good day mate.

Cookies Without Borders (Bake Sale for Haiti)

2010-01-29T11:18:00.000-08:00

This Sunday January 31, 2010, the folks behind No Cookie Left Behind have organized a bake sale, "Cookies Without Borders", to benefit Doctors Without Borders in its efforts to assist Haitians affected by the recent devastating earthquake.

The bake sale will take place between 2:00 and 6:00 p.m. in front of everyone's favorite Gelateria "Scoops" located at 712 N. Heliotrope Drive, Los Angeles, 90029.

The bake sale will feature "a dizzying array of sweets from both professional kitchens (Spork Foods, Whisk LA whoopie pies, and Bitter Sweet Treats, Valerie Confections, Large Marge Sustainables) and and local homes, as well as a few jars of choice homemade jams, and all proceeds from the bake sale will go to Doctors Without Borders‘ Emergency Relief Fund. Doctors Without Borders a Nobel Prize-winning international humanitarian organization working to meet the overwhelming medical needs of post-earthquake Haiti and throughout countries where survival is threatened by violence, neglect, or catastrophe."

The home-made goodies that are going to be on sale include Magnolia's Famous Banana Pudding, Casablanca Cake, Chocolate Guiness Cake, gluten-free Turtle Brownies, Earl Grey Cookies, Saffron Barberry Teacake, Red Velvet Lollipop Cakes, Salted Caramel Pudding, Ginger Macha Scones and so much more deliciousness.

I'm going to bake a little somethin' somethin' too, namely, Amanda Hesser's almond cake. When I read Hesser's "Cooking for Mr. Latte", I did so with the vague intention of exploring some of the recipes in the book, which I absolutely loved. If you haven't read it, Cooking for Mr. Latte is about Hesser's relationship with her now husband Tad Friend, as well as the role of food and cooking in their relationship and her life. I particularly liked any and all references to her salty frugal grandmother who sounds like a wonderful person and I also enjoyed the chapters where Hesser has to compromise her rather unyielding standards. For example, Chapter 10 "Letting Go" describes how Hesser does not like the way her boyfriend "Mr. Latte" washes dishes and explains that she has a hard time ceding control of the kitchen. The chapter ends with a dinner party, after which Mr. Latte does the dishes by piling heavy dishes on top of her crystal wine glasses and forgetting to wipe the counters. Hesser writes. "For a moment, I wanted to pull my hair out. Instead, I walked into my bedroom, took a deep breath and thought about how nice it was of him to help, then came back to keep him company. It was time to change."

Anyhows, I wanted to make the recipe for Almond Cake in Cooking for Mr. Latte but I kind of forgot about it until I read The Amateur Gourmet's post that this cake saved his soul. Even then I didn't make it because I'm the Lazy No-Bake Oven. I did make the Pappardelle with Lemon, Herbs and Ricotta Salata which was very easy and tasty indeed.

Well, finally about a month ago, I tried my hand at the Almond Cake.

Yes, I need to clean the oven. Maybe you need to let go, eh Amanda?!

It tastes marzipanesque. Tres cosmopolitan. I ate it with a scoop of sour cream cuz I'm crazy like that. This cake could sit in a salon and discuss linguistics. It's that kind of cake, but it's so down home tasty. The only downside is it's kind of homely. I'm going to try to work on that. But it's pretty on the inside and that's what really matters. I also under-baked it and used too much almond paste, so it was a "tad" gluey the first time around, but I promise to make it more fluffy for the bake sale. Hope you can make it!

It's The Pits (Nitz)

2010-01-25T19:46:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year again - birthday time. Time for me to be wined and dined at the restaurants of my choice and I don't pay for squat. I may do the wallet reach, but we know it's ceremonial. I have zero intent to pay, just an intent to eat until my pants split with a loud tearing noise. I'm a "light eater", you know that. Thanks bitches. Your turn will come. Rest assured. Unless that hitman I hired comes through.

In all seriousness, it's just really nice when your friends come together and take a moment from their busy lives to celebrate your birthday - especially when it's someplace cool like the Tar Pit.

I don't know what I was expecting but the Tar Pit was much darker, cooler and art deco than I expected. What shade of restaurant darkness can I compare it to? It's verging on Jones' level darkness where you can see there's a skillet on your table but the contents thereof are somewhat of a mystery. How cool is it? Tweeter @djjewelz tweeted that "everytime I walk into tar pit, I feel like snoop's sensual seduction should automatically start playing."

True. But don't worry, there's no disco balls or round circular beds. Instead, there's golden cages, black lacquer chinesey booth details, cream colored leather chairs, hanging chandeliers everywhere and the crowd is bunched up at the bar and getting their talk on. It's cool. So cool we should say it in French, c'est cool. The music is cool too. We heard Radiohead, The Knife (when's the last time you heard The Knife being played at a restaurant?) and other c'est cool bands that I can't recall just at this moment.

The food? Well, it's Chef Mark Peel and all that, and there were some sincere and tasty bites, but if it's true that there is latent post-Campanile competition between Chef Peel and Chef Nancy Silverton, well, I have to say, I'm going to have to hand the gong to the latter. The appetizers - particularly, the fried oysters, the crab cakes and the duck sliders made my mouth sing. A few of the entrees, however, in my mouth anyhows, were quite oversalted. Maybe it's too dark in the kitchen or the salt mill had a big hole in it that night, but that was the general observation made by two of my friends and myself. The other two apparently are working for drug companies that push blood pressure meds because they were like 'it's well seasoned. Whatsa matter you?'

But I don't care. Even if some of the food was a touch salty, and some bites were not life shattering experiences, I still had such an awesome "c'est cool" time at the Tar Pit. It's swanky and adult. And they play good music. And the drinks are cool.

I'm already set to go back to the Tar Pit and twice in one week is a lot for the yutjangsah to venture out, much less to the same gin joint. I guess like all tar pits, this one is a watering hole we thirsty creatures cannot resist being sucked into.

Without flash, it's this dark.

With flash, you see all the flash and the bling.

Cocktails. And flowers. They somehow go together.

I had the gin gin mule - gin, ginger beer, mint. It was sweet and gin-gingery. I liked it.

Fried oysters sitting in a tartar sauce that tasted of oyster juice. The most delicious bite of the night.

The duck sliders are delicious but the sauce that the brioche buns are drenched in is very sweet. I ate the meat without eating the buns and loved it.

This would be a perfect appetizer combo plate.

Duck rillette. I don't like stuff like this, but if you do, this was good.

The crab cakes were delicious. Each one was about two to three bites but they were full of crab, not breadcrumbs. The little slaw was divine with a licoricey note and a nice crunchy bite.

The beef tartare with its dense toothsome chunks made for serious chewing. This was good.

The swordfish was good but reportedly salty. In all fairness, the bite that I had was pretty darn good but the main eater felt this was very heavy on the sodium.

The roast chicken was delicious - but the sauce was noteably salty. Other than that though, I enjoyed the cumin-ey accents and the almost beefy flavor of the sauce and skin.

The braised pork cheeks with "little ears" pasta (I can't spell oriechette or almost any Italian words other than gelato and pizza - it's all the consonants after consonants - so confusing) was good but where is the pasta? Cut off some more ears or something Monsieur Van Gogh. Carbs are not a garnish in my world.

This octopus salad was the main offender as far as the perceived oversalting issue goes. I bit down on no less than five salt crystals with all the creepy aftereffects biting down on a hard rock like substance imparts to a meal. While I appreciate the use of sea salt, surely, surely, there's a way of using it so that one doesn't have to feel it between one's teeth when one is eating a salad - especially when you're eating a salad in the dark and you're not quite sure if that's a piece of glass or what. This was super salty to the point that I just couldn't eat it. Which is a shame because the underlying flavors were good. It had such a nice lemony citrusy zing to it.

I also really loved the Mac and Cheese. It came in a hot skillet and used thin penne pasta and had bits of burnt gruyere, cheddar and mozzarella cheese on it. Delicious. I must have been too busy defending it from all incoming forks because I didn't take a picture of it.

As for dessert, I had the best banana dessert I've ever had in my life. The Bananas Foster was bananas. It's super-sweet so for those who can't stand banana ice cream, caramel, toasted pecans and roasted marshmallows aka aliens, you won't like this. All other reasonable carbon based life forms will love this.

One of my fellow diners said she was coming back just for this dessert and she never leaves her cave so that's quite an endorsement there. Sugar has magical powers. Just ask the honeybee.

I loved the way the coffee service looked. They also give you loose sugar instead of sugar cubes. So American, eh?

So, I had a lovely time with my lovely ladies. We sure can put it away. That's for certain.

At the end of the meal, when scheduling the next birthday dinner, everyone took out their iphones and blackberry but someone busted out their week at a glance paper calendar. Hilarious. Don't you know, girl, it's all about month at a glance.