Vegan Pizza 3: Squash Blossom & Heirloom Tomato

The South Pasadena Farmers' Market is a magical place. The quaint block, intersected by train tracks and lined with brick shops & cobblestone walkways is really too charming for its own good. And that's just the architecture, but then they throw in the babies. And, oh god, the babies. The sheer volume of young professionals who stroller up and down Mission Street, stinking of newfound wealth and naive wonder, is enough to make a cynic keel over and die right there, in front of Buster's Ice Cream Shop.

Luckily, I'm no such cynic. At least not on the days I get my pants charmed off by little towns like South Pas. So you can imagine my dismay when my schedule this fall barred me from witnessing this microcosm of happiness and fertility every Thursday. No, those days are now spent rushing in traffic from work (ironically, in South Pas) to Pasadena City College. My heart always leaps when I see a couple strolling away from the market, spears of baguettes and brussel sprouts sticking triumphantly out of their Radio Flyers. I gape longingly out at them through my car window, waiting for the street lights down Fair Oaks to change.

It's a sad state of affairs, really.

But! Last week! While I still had a freezer full of vegan pizza slices from Whole Foods' Black Friday sale, work let me off early enough to visit my old sampling grounds. I hit up all the usual spots, toothpicking a makeshift dinner for myself and buying a teeny kabocha squash along the way. I hadn't planned to purchase anything else, until the squash blossoms.

I am always looking for new things to do with these, ever since I realized they are probably the best quesadilla filling after cheese. So what else has been carby and cheesy in my life lately? VEGAN PIZZA.

The charade could have stopped there, but the vendor took forever to notice me. During my wait to purchase 5 measly blossoms, I noticed the beautiful heirloom tomatoes perched beneath them. Pizza. Tomatoes. Obviously.
I'm thinking you can probably guess what I did when I got home from class...
And...it was delicious.

Soyrizo Chili

For dinner last night, I whipped up a bowl of my winter stand-by soyrizo chili. I used to make this stuff by the truckload last winter, when emotionally unavailable men and my fears of the future were failing to keep me warm at night. I'd make one giant batch and store it in tiny containers in the freezer, like little pockets of hope saved up for the more biting nights.
I don't know if it was spring weather that made me grow tired of it, but this habit eventually came to a halt. It wasn't until last week, shivering in the Trader Joe's fridge aisle, that I spotted the soyrizo and decided to give it another go.

As soon as I added the fake pork to my oil-onion-garlic combo spitting in the pan, the smell of senior year on Armadale hit me like a load of textbooks upside the head. I hadn't realized I missed it, but man alive, the nostalgia that came from the smell of ever-softening carrots and kidney beans bubbling up with chipotle paste was enough to make my eyes water. And no, it wasn't from the onions--I had my goggles on.The sweet potato boat was a last-minute decision, but one I'm pretty proud of. I think it's safe to say I'm about to go on another chili binge--next time I pop one of these out of the freezer, it's going on my vegan wheat cornbread!

Vegan Pizza Part 2: Cranberry Bacon

In celebration of Whole Foods 50% vegan pizza sale, my experimentation posts continue!

Last time I put avocado and tempeh on top of my whole wheat-black garlic-mixed Daiya pie. This time, it was Fake Bacon! And because the meal didn't seem complete with just that, I reheated some roasted kabocha squash from my work, a winter vegetable I literally could eat every day--I know this because I've had it the past 4 days. The cranberry sauce was also from my work, and it made its way onto the pizza at one point, with pretty delicious results. But I'm not that into gussying up Daiya too much--it's a great topping in its own right, and sometimes (most times) I want it to be the overpowering taste.

Bad Apples? Make Butter

I recently bought a 2 lb. bag of granny smith apples from Trader Joe's for $2.99. This seemed like a steal, until I got them home and realized they were riddled with bruises. Rather than toss the bad seeds, my mission became clear—I had to get my booty into baking gear.

Now, maybe it's just me, but I feel like apple pie is the baking equivalent of a technical writing manual: boring, stagnant, and dry as a well-done burger. There's nothing alive about an apple pie. It's pretty difficult to mess one up, and while you can pony around with a lattice or some cheddar cheese, the formula is pretty set. Don't get me wrong, they're a damn tasty American past-time. But they leave very little room for experimentation.*

I considered crisps, crumbles, and a tarte tatin, but those things are just apple pie that's thrown on a suit jacket to go out for an evening on the town. A pie sprinkled with oatmeal or tossed upside down is still a pie, guys. So what to do? How obvious. Apple butter.

But because I can never just keep my creativity in check for two seconds to test out classic recipes, I had to substitute balsamic vinegar and bourbon for the apple cider most recipes called for. Why use apple cider in something that's already going to taste like apples? That's just asking to be tweaked. And tweak, I did, with surprisingly professional-looking results, and a house that will smell like cinnamon apples and booze for days. That's a recipe for holiday cheer if I ever smelled one.

Balsamic Bourbon Apple Butter

Ingredients
Roughly 2 lbs. small granny smith apples
1/2 cup boiling water
Some generous splashes of balsamic and bourbon
A couple tablespoons of brown sugar, if you like
Pumpkin pie spice
Ginger
Cinnamon
Allspice

Start by chopping up your apples into small cubes, maybe 1/2 inch in size. Leave the skin and as much of the core as you can while still discarding seeds and stems--the pectin is stored in the skin and the core, and that's crucial for keeping this from turning to liquidy mush. Put the cubes in a pot of water—mine was already boiling from tea I had just made, but you can just heat it all up together, too, I assume. Splash some bourbon and balsamic on top, but not enough to submerge the apples entirely in liquid. Once it's all boiling together, lower the heat a smidge but maintain a low boil for about 20 minutes, until there are no apple chunks that you can't crush with a fork and the liquid is almost entirely dissolved.

Add the spices, some sugar if you think it needs it (do a taste test first), and a little more of the booze and vinegar if you like. Once it's thickened up and there's no liquid left, remove from the heat and cool for a few minutes before putting in a blender. At this stage, you're welcome to stop and leave it. The chunks are just apple skins, which impart a strange texture by themselves but are totally fine to leave. If you want it smoother, just puree in the blender until silky. It's pretty stellar warm, if you want to go ahead and use some right away for toast or oats. Otherwise, store in the fridge or freezer. I've heard this stuff adds a really interesting flavor and texture to vegan baked goods, and web rumors have also come by way about plopping a few spoonfuls into the filling of pumpkin (or even apple) pie. Experiment away!

*I have, since writing this, dreamt up a million new tricks to try with apple pie, maybe to prove to myself that no food is boring if you've got the moxy to change it. From bacon lattices to curry powder to whatever the heck that kid in the American Pie movies did, I realize now how close-minded of me it is to think apple pie leaves no room for exploration.

Black is the New Garlic

I recently told someone that vegan pizza is my boyfriend. In keeping with the metaphor, my boo and I have been going steady for some months now, and things are going really well. I think about him even when he's not around, we get together pretty much every weekend, we even meet for a secret late-night rendezvous from time to time, after my Italian class--Whole Foods Arroyo doesn't close til 10pm, don'tcha know.

Yup, vegan pizza and I have been pretty happy together lately. But if VP is my BF, then black garlic is my not-so-secret crush. He's the boy that shows up unexpectedly and leaves me speechless, curious, intrigued. He's held my attention for months, though we've never even met properly. At least we hadn't met. Not until today.

Before you assume I've betrayed my significant other, let me assure you that I'm not trying to make black garlic my lover, or even my emotionally-inappropriate "best friend." This isn't Twilight, ladies and gents, and no amount of watching New Moon would make me want to split my love down the middle.


But I don't have to! The most beautiful thing happened today. Whole Foods decided that, in honor of Black Friday or hangovers or Pilgrims, they wanted to make ALL pizzas 50% off this weekend. Including vegan. Including the mysterious, ephemeral, fairytale topping choice, black garlic. I've tracked this stuff across L.A. and had no idea it was lurking in my own backyard at the Glendale WF all along. So I placed an order at 10am this morning to be picked up after work tonight, and watched the minutes tick painfully by while I awaited this glorious union.

All-told, I walked out of the store holding a seemingly-flimsy unimpressive disc of tomato sauce, wheat crust, Daiya cheddar-mozz blend, and black garlic pieces. Plus an avocado, for textural enhancement, and leftover chipotle tempeh pilfered from my work, for protein.

Back home, it only took a brief stint in the toaster oven before my slices were done. The pizza was ready, though I don't think I was. I sunk my teeth into the first gooey bite and immediately cozied up in the familiar arms of my beloved Daiya/crust combo. Next I tasted how the tempeh jived with the cheese, and tried an avocado bite, too. I was clearly avoiding those intimidating night-hued dots on my pie. We were doing that awkward dance that I'm sure happens during any threesome, where everyone does what they're comfortable with and anxiously avoids the point of no return.

But we went for it--all three of us. Creaminess coiled itself around musky, woodsy bite and the comfy, silky textures in my mouth flirted with the utterly bizarre tastes. It was an odd combo, but certainly a classic case of opposites attract. I think that's why we work.

I have visions of the three of us meeting after Italian class, the whole crew getting together to watch bootleg copies of New Moon on NinjaVideo. As with any new relationship, we're going to take it slow. But look at how tasty these photos are. I bet they'd make pretty impressive Save The Dates...

Vegan Sweet Potato Biscuits with Rosemary & Pumpkin Pie Spice

As a Chicago native, I'm going to incur a lot of flack for saying this...but it's been freezing here lately. And by here, yes, I do mean Los Angeles.

My body's natural reaction to cold weather is to, of course, eat everything in sight in an effort to pack some meat onto this frame. I switch from my summer staple of tofu and mixed green salads to roasted root vegetables, pan-fried kale chips, and all those Morning Star goodies designed to make us think we're eating meat. I mean, seriously--what self-respecting vegan actually misses buffalo wings? I'm pretty sure I don't eat buffalo wings even when I'm going through an omnivorous phase, so why do I adore the fake kind? But when the temperatures drop, I swear I could scarf fake "chicken" strips and vegan corn dogs til the grateful, un-slaughtered cows come home.

But you know what I really miss in those winter months when I'm actin' a fool and foregoing butter? Popeyes biscuits. Nothing pads my seasonal hibernation layer of body fat faster and more deliciously than these butter-soaked patties of joy. Have you seen these things? They are almost radio-actively yellow, and I'm not 100% convinced they're even legally a food product. But toss me a honey packet through that drive-up window and I could honestly care less. I've spent some outright blissful moments in the front seat of my car plowing my way through a paper bag of these.

But I digress. The seasonal impetus I'm describing lead me out of the car this time and into the kitchen. Well, first it lead me to Google. "Vegan biscuits." A lot of people were putting margarine in them (gross), but I had no Earth Balance on hand, only olive oil. One recipe called for vegetable oil, but it also had potatoes. Strange. Intriguing. I had some sweet potatoes in my cabinet I had bought to make french fries, but that plan was quickly tossed for the sake of experimentation.

Fast forward a short and simple 30 minutes later, and you get this:

The spices were a last minute decision, I'll definitely cut back on the salt next time, and I think I'll make an apple-honey-butter "gravy" to accompany them next time I buy Earth Balance, but these were pretty close to perfect just spread with some fig jam [pictured] or honey. Did I mention they are way too easy to make? The following recipe is so simple, it makes the Popeyes 2 miles from my house seem like a friggin' chore.

Vegan Sweet Potato Biscuits with Rosemary & Pumpkin Pie Spice

1 cup flour
1 tablespoon baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup mashed cooked sweet potato
1/4 cup olive oil
1/2 to 1 tsp of salt, to taste
A liberal dashing of pumpkin pie spice and just a few sprinkles of rosemary [or thyme would also go excellently here]

Mash it all together, form little discs, place on cookie sheet, and bake at 375 for 15-20 minutes.

Seriously. That's all that stands between you and 5-10 extra pounds of junk in your trunk this holiday season.

Life Goal Accomplished: 100% From-Scratch PBJ!

Back in high school, a good friend of mine named Blake insisted that all of his friends create a bucket list. It could have as many items as the individual wished, and they could be of any caliber, from skydiving to attending a professional sporting event.

One of the more attainable items on my own list has taken me nearly five years to get around to: Making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, entirely from scratch. Seems easy enough, right? So how come it stayed squarely on that list as I collected two new diplomas, gathering dust with the likes of "Swim with Dolphins" and "Go See The Bears Play in the Super Bowl"?

Over the years, I have definitely made jam, certainly baked bread, and even took up the new habit of making my own sunflower seed butter on a weekly basis. I had no excuses left up my sleeve.

So last week, upon moving into my beautiful new house in Highland Park, I decided there was no better way to break in the new kitchen than with this neglected endeavor.

First, the PB:

This is something I make, like I said, on a weekly basis. I know the traditional recipe calls for Peanut Butter, hence the unforgettable initial namesake. But my mom developed a peanut allergy years ago, our house made the switch to SunButter, and I just plain prefer it this way. Sorry, tradition.

Next up, the J:

This is made from a medley of fruits I had in my freezer, care of Trader Joe's. Someday I'll make this with fresh organic crap from a market or something, but for my current unemployed status, this had to suffice. It's a blend of raspberries, blueberries, blackberries, and mango with some pumpkin pie spice tossed in at the last minute. According to the roommates, it smells like Christmas and tastes like pie filling. That'll do.

Finally, the part I put off til last, the bread:

I got really lucky here. For starters, I could not find a single recipe simple enough to accommodate the ingredients I had on hand. Everyone wants to be a star, everyone wants to throw honey in, etc. I decided to toss conventional baking and chemical wisdom over my shoulder with the dish towel and make do with what I had: All-Purpose flour, water, table sugar, Flieschmann's packets, grapeseed oil, and some vital wheat gluten leftover from my last seitan batch. I messed up a few early steps, had to shape leftover dough into makeshift baguettes for lack of a second loaf pan, and actually had to knead the gluten in after forgetting to mix it with the flour.

On top of that, LADWP decided to cut off my power during the second rise, rendering my stove and freezer useless for about 20 hours. This dough rose far more than it should have, but as soon as the power went back on, I tossed it in and took my chances.

The results were a glorious pillowy salty, almost sourdoughy loaf that I literally cannot stop eating. It's almost as bad as the great Challah binge of Passover 2009, but I've managed to stop myself long enough to write this blog entry.

THE RESULT:

Bliss.
Sublime, perfect, intoxicating bliss. I sat at my desk eating this masterpiece, enjoying it just as much if not more than anything Grant Achatz, Wolfgang Puck, or Mario Batali ever fed me.

The moral of this story is cheesy and stereotypical, as great things in life sometimes are: Today, I ingested the ultimate proof that it's the simplest things that mean the most, and also that delayed gratification is always worth the wait.

Now if only I could stop eating this bread...

Linni Eats L.A.: Cru (Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the V-Neck)

Hip·ster / ˈhipstər/
• n. inf. a blanket term describing middle-to-upper class young people associated with alternative culture, particularly alternative music, independent film and a lifestyle revolving around thrift store shopping, eating organic, locally grown, vegetarian, and/or vegan food, drinking local beer, listening to public radio, and riding fixed-gear bicycles.

A wise woman once told me that it takes a hipster to know a hipster, and that was the thought plaguing me on a recent dining excursion in L.A.

The restaurant was in Silver Lake, hipster haven and domicile to all things scene. American Apparels line the streets, Schwinn Stingrays deliver their owners to another shift at the coffee house, and even the dollar stores sell Ray Ban knock-offs. I've spent a great deal of time hating on the particular genre of human that inhabits this neighborhood, but I never judge without the slight nagging suspicion that I could be one of them. I was having a hell of a hard time shaking this feeling when I found myself at a restaurant just off Sunset Blvd. A raw, vegan restaurant. Wearing a flannel.

The idea itself nearly ruined my appetite, but self-loathing tends to come hand in hand with the v-necks and zip-up hoodies. How else would the Silver Lake crowd manage to appear so aloof and judgmental if they weren't constantly judging themselves as well? But this is not a psych analysis—it is a restaurant review. And I'm just giving you a taste of the neuroses that haunted my expectations of Cru, arguably one of the most popular vegan eateries in Los Angeles.

The waiter who let us in was appropriately odd, but the experience itself did not force itself down your throat as some trendy establishments tend to. There was an unpretentious subtlety in everything, from the decor to the menu, and even the clientele. The couple next to my table were sporting some sweet southern accents and mullets, and asked our advice on how to order vegan food. On the other side, an older couple said they'd made the trek from Culver City, which had been a common tradition for years since the wife decided it was her favorite restaurant in Los Angeles, vegan or otherwise.

The menu keeps things simple as well—as simple as a gluten-free and mostly raw menu can be. We started off with the chickpea fritters, which came with a dilled sour cream made with cashews, coconut meat, dill, and garlic. The fritters were fried using coconut oil, a flavor that nearly overpowered everything else in this dish. The sour cream's dill cut the sweetness, but these fried-egg look-a-likes were almost too moist for dipping. This wasn't entirely unpleasant, but a touch less grease and a bit more pan time would elevate this dish to perfection.

Our entrees were a little closer to sublime. The mushroom quinoa risotto came with a mixed green salad and a fig pate made with apricots, dates, and something that tasted a little bit like pumpkin pie. The quinoa made this dish a little sweeter than your ordinary risotto, and the chefs opted to forego cheese, which left it a little lacking in creaminess. Fortunately, our waiter had overheard me expressing regret at not ordering a side of cashew cheese and brought some out with our dinner, which blended into the risotto in perfect harmony.

The cheese also tasted great on the pumpkinseed walnut chorizo wrap, a blend of bell peppers, zucchini, chorizo and onions wrapped with field greens, tomato, avocado and cilantro in a perfectly unblemished, thick collard wrap that held this baby together better than any tortilla could. The chorizo and nuts blended to create an earthy warm vibe in my mouth, but the collard made this downright refreshing for comfort food. It also came with a dipping sauce made with mustard seeds, coconut meat, and some vague hint of tamari, perfect for dipping either the wrap or the raw sweet potato chips that came along with it.


While the desserts are often the most astounding part of a raw or vegan menu, this "light" meal had us groaning in expanded-belly bliss before we even polished off the cashew cheese. It's a shame—the Cru chocolate truffle fudge cake has quite the reputation, as does the brownie a la mode with coconut meat cashew ice cream. Judging from the satisfied moans of the southern couple next to us, that brownie alone would be worth another trip to scenester-ville. Silver Lake isn't so bad after all, and if this is what it means to eat hipster, I think I could get on board with the movement. My dining partner and I did manage to order all cooked entrees at this nearly-100% raw restaurant, which could mean there's hope for us yet.

Then again, it could mean we're just so good at that odd-ball "alternative culture" thing that we don't even notice it anymore. And now my appetite's spoiled.

For more information on Cru, visit www.crusilverlake.com.

"Hipster" dictionary definition courtesy of Wikipedia

Linni Eats L.A.: Dino's

Legend is a funny thing. Nowhere is this more apparent than Los Angeles, a city that puts a higher premium on hype than Kanye West, environmentalists, and 10th graders stealing their parents booze.

So after hearing all the Dino's lore, I had visions of a chicken shrine dancing through my head on the ride over. I pictured a hole in the wall with one dude leaning from a rusty, cracked window ledge, flinging entire chickens like frisbees at loyal devotees anxiously awaiting their bouquet-toss moment. I thought I'd feel like the chosen one when my order was finally up, awarded with a small fortune in french fries so amazing, they might as well be diamond-studded.

My imagination, of course, got the best of me. Every time I think I know better than to let Los Angeles legend get my hopes up, another Casa Bianca, Pink's, or In-N-Out comes along to smash my dreams.

To all the Dino's converts out there, please don't get the wrong idea. I do think your precious chicken & fry combo is a fantastic deal and really quite tasty. My let-down stems not from lackluster flavor, but from the fact that people talk about this place like it is where chicken begins and ends. At the end of the day, it's a burger joint that just happens to make a brilliant concoction of Tabasco, citrus juices, and whatever other secrets Dino has stashed in his war-torn apron.

There is something to be said for this sauce, though. Forget Big Macs—this stuff is special. It would have to be, to make me not only enjoy soggy fries, but wolf them down like I hadn't seen food for days. A $5.50 order comes out in a large styrofoam box, the bottom layer a thatch of fries soaked by juice from the half-chicken nestled on top. The chicken looks tandoori-style, with skin the pinkish-orange of a desert sunset. I spent the better part of my time at Dino's trying to decide what was in the sauce. I saw chili flakes, and there was a faint hint of citrus. It wasn't traditionally spicy, yet my nose was running like crazy. Overall, it just tasted red.

For your Lincoln-and-change, this order also comes with a few warm corn tortillas and some really basic coleslaw. I doubt there was anything more than mayo and cabbage in it, but it was a perfectly cool partner to the chicken's heat and great for dipping those saucy fries. Apparently one must also order the root beer here, another subject of hype that I didn't quite understand. My dining companions insisted that Dino's had somehow achieved the perfect balance of syrup and carbonation, but if this differed from A&W, I couldn't tell.

All root beer aside, if I'm going to get on board with any Dino's hype, it will be because of the fries. As someone who digs shamelessly through fry bags for the crunchy ones, the idea of a bed of fried potato soaked in chicken sauce makes me a little nauseous. But this place isn't famous because of it's ability to win crispy-lovers over to the soggy side. They're famous for the intrigue of that mystery sauce, about which the counter man remains mum. After eating way more than I intended, hoping with every new bite to guess the secret ingredient, I'm still clueless. Ketchup? Oranges? Black tar heroin? All I know is that it had me burping up garlic hours after dinner. If this all sounds worth the hullabaloo to you, let Dino's try to give you a run for your money—at $5.50 for a half a chicken and sides, they won't have to try very hard.

Visit www.dinoschickenandburgers.com for more information

Linni Eats L.A.: Osteria Mozza

When dining at the restaurant of a celebrity chef, it's hard for me to stay focused on the food.

One minute I'm scanning the diners for a familiar face, the next I'm glancing up at the waiter to find that Wolfgang Puck has decided to deliver my steak. It was no different at Osteria Mozza, where I found myself scanning footwear for Mario Batali's orange Crocs. I wasn't expecting him, but then again I wasn't expecting Colin Farrell to walk behind me during dessert, either. This dinner was full of surprises.

Things started off pretty predictable for a high-end restaurant. The menu couldn't be navigated without waiter assistance, the crowd of elites and wannabes were sweating money, and the acoustics made conversation damn near impossible. But hey, at least we weren't seated in the restaurant equivalent of a nosebleed section, as I've often gotten at popular spots like this.

The menu is divided into antipasti (which includes the mozzarella bar), primi, secondi, and dolci. The secondi mains were primarily enormous slabs of meat, so my table stuck to what Italians do best—cheese and pasta. Our primi selection included the scamorza panino, a smokey mozzarella sandwich whose bread had slices of Armandino mole salami pressed onto it. The crunchy toasted bread gave way to tangly threads of perfectly pliant cheese that cut the spicy mole and a side of dressed arugula completed the picture. I didn't splurge on these, however, assuming that an Italian restuarant's pastas would steal the show from any other course. My table eagerly ordered the orecchiette with sausage and swiss chard, tagliatelle with oxtail ragu, and the maltagliati with wild boar ragu after much heated debate with each other and guidance on the foreign titles from our waiter.

Perhaps our mistake was ordering two ragus. Perhaps I shouldn't have heeded my mother's advice that calf's brain ravioli would be mushy and tasteless, or maybe it would have helped to heed the waiter's suggestion to try the gnudi, a pasta dumpling Mozza was filling with ricotta and serving with chanterelles. Whatever we did wrong, the primi course brought our first big surprise--or should I call it a disappointment? The pasta at this institution was—gasp!—underwhelming. For being handmade in the back of the very space we were dining in, these slippery noodles and meat sauce tasted like nothing more than just that—noodles and meat sauce. The orecchiette's sausage had remote subtleties, but where was the swiss chard? And the maltagliati (which means hand-made), advertised as delightfully rustic torn shreds of pasta, differed only marginally from the tagliatelle in both flavor and mouth-feel. I actually picked at our side of spinach with crispy garlic with more excitement than dinner itself. Put briefly, I was bored.

Was I just inept at recognizing good Italian food? Or was Mario's absence from the kitchen a real hindrance? I dog-paddled through the waves of self-doubt and confusion long enough to accept the dessert menu placed in my hands. The sweet cap on meals isn't usually what gets me juiced, but this proved to be the meal-saver this place needed.

I should have known—Mario opened the joint with Nancy Silverton, pastry chef extraordinaire and co-founder of L.A. bread cornerstone La Brea bakery. And what the dinner chefs lack in pizzazz, fancy Nancy more than makes up for at meal's end. The three desserts we ordered were, hands down, the best I've ever tasted. I know that blanket statements like that are pretty useless, but this one is worth it's weight in honesty. The apple borsellino with apple cider jelly gelato and caramel sauce had the most delicate flakey pastry and sultry, salty caramel flavor, while the bombolini with huckleberry compote and lemon gelato tasted like a cake donut on uppers. The texture, temperature, sight and smell of these pastries couldn't please my senses more, but the accessories nearly steal the show by staying so true to their titles—the lemon gelato tasted like a lemon, while the caramel sauce made me realize that perhaps I'd never tasted caramel before. The big finish came, however, with a dessert to tug at your heartstrings. The rosemary olive oil cakes with olive oil gelato and rosemary brittle were the reason I decided to come to Mozza, and with such high hopes, a potential let-down was in order. But Nancy couldn't let that happen, could she?

I would not be exaggerating to say that this dish brought slight moisture to my eyes. I had to plant both forearms on the table and just look at it, for a moment. The moist tiny cakes came in shapes like stars and flowers, flecked with rosemary specks; the brittle sat in a neat shiny wave, breaking against the gelato it perched on; and the gelato. The gelato. It wasn't enough for it to taste like olive oil—it had to taste like earthy, expensive, high-quality olive oil. The cakes managed to taste like they'd been soaked in the stuff, yet weren't greasy, and still retained their wintery rosemary warmth. I tread lightly with my fork, never wanting the moment to end. I think I may have had a religious experience with that plate.

It will be hard to go back and order anything else, but Silverton's also crafted a fritelle de riso with Nocello-soaked raisins and banana gelato to tempt me away from rosemary olive oil heaven. And there's also a tre agrumi ghiacciati with grapefruit sorbetto, meyer lemon gelato, and key lime cannoli, and while I haven't the faintest clue what the first part of that means, the side components are enough to make me find out.

For a celebrity chef's joint, Osteria Mozza is relatively affordable. I still wouldn't make a habit out of eating dinners here, but that may be due to my sub-par pasta experience. It's probably worth it to give the meats a try, or go for just a starter cheese course. But I'd say save your money and just go in for what they do best—dessert.

Visit mozza-la.com for more info on both Osteria Mozza and Pizzeria Mozza

Linni Eats L.A.: Barbecue Trucks

Why do trucks have to equal tacos around here? Why don’t any other cheap and dirty foods find their way into our bellies via motor vehicle? The Leos and Rambos of our world sit comfortably on their high horses, assured of their seat at the top, so comfortable they barely keep an eye open for competition. It seems like, under these conditions, an enterprising entrepreneur-on-wheels could hatch a unique model that would siphon customers away from the monopoly of masa, no problem. But what would they serve?

Barbecue, apparently. In 2009, Eagle Rock has seen the introduction of two new members to their motorized fleet, neither of which are serving your mom’s asada burrito. Hollywood darling Kogi BBQ hasn’t strayed too far off the tortilla-pressed path, as they still serve burritos and tacos with only the fillings tweaked. And those fillings aren't all that impressive--I once had the famous short rib taco and had to actually look for the meat, because I sure couldn't taste it. Over on York Blvd., though, there is a truck making BBQ the likes of which I’ve never tasted in southern California, much less from an automobile.

Caribbean Dreams Texas BBQ has had a bold yellow sign draped across what looks like an apartment balcony for the better part of my time at Occidental. The building looks abandoned, as does the parking lot in front of it, except for one stationary truck. The sign has read “Coming soon!” rather emphatically for as long as I can remember, and I had pretty much given up my hopes of ever trying it upon leaving for Winter Break this year.

But wait. In January, things were shifting. Each drive by, something had moved—stacks of chairs and tables littered the lot, grills were set up on the concrete and one day I even saw smoke billowing out the top of the truck. Rumor had it they weren’t technically open, but a friend of mine had walked right up to sample the goods and they hadn’t turned him away. After weeks of hearing about this special treatment, I had to see for myself.

The friend insisted on coming with—“they know me,” he said, insisting I wouldn’t get the special treatment without him. We moseyed up to the abandoned-looking vehicle and he poked his head inside the passenger door. Out came a tattooed waitress who set up two chairs and a table for us in the parking lot and Fausto, 5-star chef extraordinaire and ex-cop, who kindly embraced us both before retreating into the belly of the beast to whip up something magnificent. I’d told him to give me a sampling of their best, and to throw an empanada in for good measure.

The story of the York lot goes like this—Fausto is Ecuadorian, and became a police chief there before transferring to the U.S. to work a similar job (he’ll flash you his FBI badge at the merest mention of this). He then quit to cook in several 5-star restaurants before deciding to open up a barbecue place with his business partner, who sadly wasn’t there the day I visited. The waitress had joined the team under the guidance of Fausto, a father, uncle and mentor figure who’d helped her get out trouble and was now teaching her to become a chef. She prepared our homemade horchata to-order and it was divine.

Despite the setting, we had clean glassware, sharp steak knives and silver cutlery—no plastic here. First up was the pumpkin empanada, a big doughy pocket filled with a cheesy pumpkin concoction that wasn’t cloyingly sweet or pie-like, just solid squash flavor. Then Fausto himself brought out the main event, a large plate stacked with rice, corn on the cob, salad and a heaping pile of sausage, ribs, chicken and tri-tip, all smothered in barbecue sauce. You can try eating with the fancy silverware if you want, but I gave up the ghost about halfway through the meal and used the sophisticated utensils god gave me, leaning heavily on the never-ending napkin supply.

I’ve struggled to find decent barbecue in this state, but it’s good to know there’s a 5-star chef who clearly knows what he’s doing a mere textbook toss away from campus. They technically open mid-morning and close around 8, but according to Fausto, he lives right behind the truck and will serve us whenever we knock on his door. They may develop real hours, though, when the grand opening takes place and a real menu surfaces. That’s tentatively scheduled for a month from now, and the team has big plans and decorations all lined up. But for now I’m just happy to show up with a ten dollar bill and get a veritable feast from the side of an automobile.

Caribbean Dreams Texas BBQ is located on the corner of Hazelwood and York Blvd.

Linni Eats Boulder: Centro

Awarding a restaurant the title of "best happy hour" is a little bit like awarding a serious film the title of "hottest cast" --sure, it can be an enjoyable side effect, but it is so not the point.

Any serious chef will tell you that working in a pub kitchen is not the most stimulating exercise of their culinary skills. It doesn't take much to deep-fry and it's pretty easy to please a cheap crowd getting increasingly lubricated by the drink. But in a town like Boulder, Colorado, where the 21+ crowd of college students, hippies and hipsters make it their mission to visit at least one happy hour per day, places pull out all the heavy kitchen artillery to keep a competitive edge.

This is where Centro's Latin American kitchen comes in. If any place relishes their status as one of the best happy hours west of the Atlantic Ocean, it's this fusion spot, formerly run by a Top Chef contestant and now boasting a Monday all-night happy hour, weekend brunch happy hour and a weekly slot that runs 4-5:30 Tuesday-Thursday and 3-5:30 Friday-Sunday. I haven't partaken in the brunch yet, but am certainly tempted by the sounds of the crispy hash browns with pork green chile and cotija; the flour tortilla breakfast taco crammed with scrambled eggs, tomatillo salsa, cotija , radish, and candied onions; and mimosas and bloody marys to wash it all down, each item only $2. If you're willing to spend a bit more, the regular breakfast menu has something called Latin Kitchen Hash that showcases sweet potato, fried banana, blackened shrimp and two eggs, or griddled plantain bread with house smoked salmon, poached eggs and more candied onion. With sweet offerings like almond crusted toast with cream cheese and cherries or dried fruit with cottage cheese, honey, and grilled bread to complement the savory, you would think Centro would settle, content to stop at the first and most important meal of the day.

But where's the fun in that? There's hardly any booze on that menu, and that's no way to serve a college town. Centro's afternoon and evening happy hours veer away from champagne and dip a trendy toe or two into the hard stuff. Gaggles of 20-somethings in their most impressively boho or neon attire order Centro's specialty $2 Cuba Libres by the trayful, while others can choose from $4 wines and margaritas or $2 Tecates.

Any time you're unloading drinks this close to free onto people, it's important to make sure they've got some heft in their bellies. This is where your average happy hour tosses out a basket of onion rings or maybe a tray of sliders if they're feeling adventurous. This is also where Centro wins the bulk of it's customers over. Sure, $2 doesn't seem like a good discount price on your average taco. But does your average taco come stuffed with habanero roasted pork with tomatillo salsa? Belizean BBQ duck carnitas? Griddled shrimp with garlic chipotle mayo? Didn't think so.

You'd also probably be hard-pressed to find gourmet offerings like seared greens or chips with apricot habanero carrot raisin salsa, also for $2. If you're willing to shell out four bucks, they'll also bring out manchego chimichurri fries, yam chorizo hash or even grilled chicken enchiladas with roasted red pepper goat cheese cream.

I must add a tiny caveat here, though--while the menu descriptions may have me salivating while writing this, execution of the happy hour items is sketchy. The famous duck carnitas have an oddly bitter taste, not particularly spicy, ducky or barbecuey, while the habanero pork is almost too spicy to have any memorable redeeming qualities. This leaves the shrimp, with the least exciting description but most successful delivery. While the yams in the hash are perfect, the grey tasteless chunks trying to pass for chorizo were doing a very poor, nearly insulting job.

If, however, you're willing to splurge for the real menu, the road gets a little less bumpy. The green plantain ginger fritters with chipotle remoulade are reminiscent of tempura, and their sauce pairs great with chips or fries. I'm counting the weeks til my next visit, when I can sample the white seabass ceviche verde with olive and avocado, or the quesadilla with shrimp, crab, chorizo and avocado.

That doesn't even begin to exhaust the dessert and drink menu items I've yet to sample. While the grapefruit margarita was a little disappointing in it's lack of grapefruit flavor, I doubt I'd be disappointed by the Kentucky Wildflower, a mix of Maker's Mark, vanilla cognac, lavender agave nectar and lemon, or the Hot Rosser, which blends tequila with lemon and OJ, strawberry puree and fresno chiles.

But if you're too liquored up by meal's end to get your sweets in liquid form, order the baked-to-order pineapple upside down cake. I don't even like pineapple upside down cake, but this comes pizookie-style in its own frying pan, a plating that could win me over to even the blandest dessert. Luckily for Centro, though, this cake and most other items on offer are anything but bland.

Linni Eats L.A.: Fry Crawl

You might celebrate turning in a 50-page paper with a Homeric journey through local bars, or even through your own liquor cabinet. Why not reward the brain for months of thinking with a night of killing brain cells?

Well, I can’t offer any scientific justification for the epic I had in mind upon completing my senior thesis, other than mere craving. It wasn’t a bar crawl that I had in mind, no—I wanted a fry crawl.

Consider, if you will, the French fry. The starchy slivers didn’t used to do much for me, but recent debates over the Marketplace’s shifty potato sticks and the proximity of my house to Troy Burger on York Boulevard have given me cause for re-assessment. I’ve made many a 3 a.m. walk home from Troy, greasy bag in hand, knowing full well that the contents of my satchel will save me from a hangover. That alone has fostered in me a love of the fry.

It was with that in mind that I set out to discover the best around Oxy. A ranking was the goal I had in mind, but my journey reinforced the truism that when it comes to fries, it really is to each her own.

We began at The Bucket on Eagle Rock—I say “we” because, pride aside, I couldn’t do this alone. My team consisted of three ladies and one gentleman, all slightly dubious of my plans for their arteries. The first shot to our hearts came from a B-rated burger bar, serving gut bombs out of a rickety hut where the patio overlooks Eagle Rock Blvd. and an aging biker gang will drunkenly slur at you at 5 o’clock in the afternoon.

Their $2.50 fry basket fed four people but was nothing to write home about. The skinny fries, only occasionally crispy, function perfectly as a side to what the Bucket does best—burgers and beer. The seasoning on top was a nice touch, as was Julio’s sauce—an orange peppery mustard that, according to our server, had a splash of Two Buck Chuck thrown in. But tasty though it was, I’m ultimately looking for a fry requiring no accouterments.

Next up was Oinkster, a self-proclaimed “Slow Fast Food” restaurant that made us wait ten minutes before re-placing our forgotten fry order. Emphasis on condiments was highest here, where they make their own house ketchup, chipotle ketchup, whole grain mustard and garlic aioli. They also have mustard and malt vinegar for your dipping pleasure, but these “Belgian style” fries could star in their own show. They’re a strange breed, like a bigger In-N-Out fry that actually tastes good. They resembled tempura, with a brittle albino cavity that required no salt and tasted great alone, though it was hard to resist the homemade condiments. The small order was $2.35 for a basket about a quarter the size of the Bucket’s, but our already-swollen bellies weren’t complaining.

We waddled out and over to Penny’s on Figueroa and York next, a cartoonish spot I had doubts about. Their purple and teal exterior intrigued me, but I knew nothing about their food. Our $2.10 no-frills to-go order came out in your average white paper fast food bag, filled to the brim. I reached in for the first bite and stopped immediately—winner. They were Troy style larger wedges with Bucket-style seasoning and everything about them was uniform—no soggy bites, no sporadic grease wads. The exterior was unambiguously crisp and gave way to a dreamy burst of pillowy goodness like mashed potatoes in a crunchy casing. We’d made our way through half the stuffed bag before even thinking about the now-buried Heinz packets. For an order that could feed five people, this was by far the best deal, and the best fry.

I took a break at this juncture, and a much-needed shower. Who knew that eating three orders of fries could make you feel like you’d rolled around in them? But if Penny’s was going to contest the Troy loves that started this mess, I needed one last taste to solidify the decision. Troy’s $1.99 order equaled Penny’s in size, but required both salt and strenuous squeezing of the Fancy Ketchup packets. They aren’t uniform with any consistency, and if you aren’t careful you’ll definitely get some soggy or burnt pieces. While they are fried in the same style as Penny’s, they taste distinctly like everything else at Troy, a grease I could recognize anywhere.

Unfortunately, my final ranking put my former beloved at third place, succeeding only the Bucket in fry glory. From now on, I’ll be making my way over to Penny’s when a craving strikes, although there’s something to be said for the bizarre style on offer at Oinkster. While all these places deserve a review in their own unique right, when it comes to fries, York & Figueroa is the place to be.

Linni Eats L.A.:Pure Luck

Something shifty has been going down with Los Angeles vegan cuisine. An already difficult dining task has been made more so by the dubious closing of several herbivorous favorites, causing me to pause and ponder—must we all convert to carnivory in times of recession?

Many food bloggers blame the economic crisis, an easy target were it not for the other carnivorous restaurants that seem to be hanging in there. Has the vegan lifestyle been relegated to the status of luxury?

Many deride organic, local and sustainable food movements as snobby, a reputation that unfortunately gets slapped onto vegan establishments too. This is hardly fair when you consider not only how many restaurant choices animal-eaters have, but the ever-expanding population of vegans. With the number of converts increasing every day, it’s getting harder and harder to use the excuse that there aren’t enough vegans to justify multiple vegan joints.

While many favorites have closed, I recently found a secret vegan combo that’s surviving the bad economy—Scoops ice cream shop and their neighbor, the aptly-titled Pure Luck cafe. Located in the HelMel interchange in east Hollywood’s bicycle district, Pure Luck is a vegan gastro-pub and Scoops serves up ice cream flavors that are so unique, they make 21 Choices look downright bland.

A gastro-pub! For vegans! Somewhat hidden off the main drag, Pure Luck is just across the street from Scoops. With all this right next to L.A. City College, I’m considering transferring out of Oxy to make a home with this hip crowd.

In actuality, the crowd may be the only drawback at these two places. Dudes looking to fit in ought to don a flannel and a solid next-day shadow, while the ladies best have those tattoos showing. Or you could awkwardly stumble in wearing Crocs and feel like a square, like me. Don’t let the hipsters get you down—the food tastes the same no matter how tight your jeans are.

I threw mom’s warnings to the wind and visited Scoops first after getting on Pure Luck’s Saturday night waiting list. Pistachio date, chocolate Jack Daniels, pomegranate passionfruit coconut, vegan guava kiwi and brown bread made with Grape Nuts cereal jockeyed for preferential treatment. The ones worth ordering a whole cup, however, were a little more on the savory side. Scoops is known for inventive creations like strawberry balsamic, and tonight their stars were the black sesame honey, which paired gloriously with a black peppercorn chocolate. Second place went to the Guinness and Chocolate Peanut Butter pairing—the latter flavor was surprisingly and pleasantly salty, a visionary accompaniment to the standard brew. I felt like I was munching roasted peanuts out of a snack bowl at an Irish pub.

The gentlemen behind the counter were kind enough to hold our ample servings in the freezer while we ate dinner. And what gentlemen they were—if I were in the business of objectifying men, I would come to Scoops just for the servers. Luckily for them, the ice cream is good enough to be the main attraction.

Back at Pure Luck, I spotted Three Philosophers beer on tap and knew this was going to be a whirlwind experience. My cheeks flushed with excitement when I spotted peanut-oil fried plantains on the menu, and my blush grew deeper when I saw that their “carnitas” were made with jackfruit. Trying to decide between the cornmeal-fried pickles or rosemary French fries as appetizers, my face nearly exploded with giddy heat to see that you can get those specific snacks served half-and-half! They came with a garlic aioli and a barbecue sauce that smacked of homemade.

Massive entrees come with sides—fries, salads, soup of the day (an intensely flavored posole) or any substitution you desire. Our incredibly accommodating waitress dusted off our self-effacing comments about pickiness, saying my demand for plantains as a side would only be annoying if it weren’t so reasonable.

The fries carried a strong rosemary scent, but were a little soggy. Instead, I gorged on the pickles, which lived up to every carnival dream I’ve had about them. The mother load arrived next in the form of a grilled ciabatta roll with tofu grilled to perfection, with a basil spinach pesto and mayo, all vegan. Then the grand finale, Jack’s Super Burrito Wrap. This behemoth arrived neatly wrapped, showing no signs of it’s explosive interior—the jackfruit carnitas reside in a paradise of fresh cilantro, pinto beans and sweet potato fries, all luxuriously bathing in the housemade barbecue sauce. Add avocado for a dollar. You won’t regret it.

With Scoops right there, they don’t bother making dessert, though the menu says they’ll put whipped cream on the plantains if you ask nicely. This meal provided enough food to have me living on leftovers for days, a steal considering the sandwich’s $10 price tag and $5 appetizers. Their immense selection of tap and bottled beers also keep things reasonable, which leaves me wondering how the economy is putting so many of these gems out of business.

What they need is a continued fan base. So whether you’re vegan or not, head over and support the seitan out of this place—it’s the gold standard of a dying breed, the model and yardstick against which all other vegan restaurants should aspire to. If this place can’t make it, what will?

Linni Eats Chicago: The Depot

It is with a heavy heart that I write this today.

I have been a long-time fan of The Depot American diner, on Roosevelt Road, just north of the suburb where I grew up. They served me my first dinner upon returning home from South Africa and I've been hooked ever since.

So it was with dismay that I read recently of the impending doom fast-approaching this red-leather-boothed beacon of hope for classic American diner food. I can think of literally nowhere else to get an egg cream in Oak Park, nor can I remember the last time I saw a blue plate special advertised before visiting this place.


Their doors were closed temporarily when a silent business partner pulled out his funding. While they've reopened, they are unable to get loans until their three-year anniversary, which is just around the corner. I'm here to tell you why you need to go as often as possible in the coming months, and why places like this should be preserved forever.

American food culture is a tricky thing. The only family heirlooms that seem to be lurking in our attic are McDonald's hamburgers and perhaps some classic chowder on the coast. But what foods smack of American tradition to all of us, regardless of our upbringing? I personally never had meatloaf as a child, but there's something about the Depot's blue plate special slice that makes me feel at home.

There's also something conspicuously quaint about pouring gravy over just about every item on the plate. From their thick potato-slice french fries and pot roast to the Thanksgiving plate's turkey and stuffing, this milky meat juice finds it's way onto everything. Sort of like when you're ladling it up at home, no?

I can't just mention the pot roast in passing, though. It's arguably the menu's best item when served in sandwich form on a shiny glowing-golden bun, topped with skinny crisp onion strings and doused in gravy. I once took up the back booth with a group of five boys and they all ordered this. Rather convincing, although I couldn't be swayed to join them in a round of Rueben for dessert.

The after-dinner sweets get exciting around here, especially for Oak Park natives who are attuned to the donut perfection created every summer Saturday at the church Farmer's Market. If a classic cake donut, made so fresh the smell vibrates your nose hairs, is your particular comfort food, look no further than the Depot's donut holes. An order gets you five, with a bowl of melted chocolate sauce to dip them in. But if that's not your thing, turn to the ubiquitous pie case and take your pick of the day's flavors.

In a fast-paced world where the internet dominates 75% of many folks' days, keeping traditional dining like this alive is extremely important. I don't want to wake up one day to a generation of kids who've never tasted a true malt shake or corned beef hash, who would rather have Big Mac with fries than a slice of meat loaf with mashed potatoes. I'm not ready to put down my glass soda bottle just yet, so I hope you will all join me in keeping this place around.

Linni Eats L.A.: Japon Bistro

My mom’s a weird lady. Her tastes are as fickle as the current economy and her restaurant standards are higher than Jonathan Gold’s. When it comes to sushi, she only trusts one establishment in Chicago to get her toro right, and if I try to drag her anywhere else, you don’t even want to see the face I get.

Throngs of sushi aficionados these days think the mark of a good chef is wit or innovation. While these aren’t ordinarily regarded as negative traits, they tend to fog what really matters when ingesting raw fish—the fish. Bizarre concept, I know, but one we all seem to have forgotten amidst the cream cheese and fried nonsense sticking out of our hand rolls. With the right amount of American-themed ingredients and copious loads of eel sauce, pretty much any newcomer can be labeled “the best sushi in town.”

Maybe it was growing up with mama bear, but that just isn’t a phrase I throw around lightly. So when she visited me and suggested Japon Bistro, my nerves were on edge. It didn’t help that this place, which she’d read about in the hotel restaurant guide, was in Pasadena—a festival of fusion and carnival of clever that is also unfortunately a Mecca for mediocrity and often a barren wasteland of fine dining.

I feel the need to offer a disclaimer here—I hate on Pasadena a lot, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t discovered my fair share of hidden gems there. In fact, the patrons are often more bothersome than the food. Be that as it may, the boxes lining Colorado Boulevard bear closer resemblance to factories than places to dine, and I usually enter into contracts with our neighboring chefs to the east with a teensy modicum of trepidation.

Where was I? Oh yes, escorting my mother and all her sushi-snob baggage to a Japanese restaurant on Colorado Boulevard. So help me god.

We were the only non-Japanese folks in the place at first, which I took as a very good sign. The printed special rolls menu was two pages long and included a few efforts to pique our Western interest—the southwestern-themed roll didn’t look half bad, with cilantro and jalapenos, but we were distracted by the rice-free concoctions, one wrapped in brown rice paper and filled with asparagus, real crab, salmon, tuna, cucumber and yellowtail and another wrapped in cucumber and filled with tuna, salmon, avocado and yellowtail. While slightly inventive, they were filled with fish and we considered them a viable way to test this place’s marine quality might.

These were not the only specials—we were also presented with a dry erase board boasting more catches-of-the-day than one could feasibly catch in a day, and I don’t think we ever even opened our ordinary menus. Our extremely knowledgeable waiter described new appetizers and dishes and fielded all of my mom’s questions like a pro. She practically swooned when he described their ikura, salmon roe in a seaweed shell that I usually avoid because of how fishy it smells. Apparently, Japon Bistro is a rare find in that they have fresh ikura, not the canned kind even the classiest sushi joints employ. And I actually liked it!

Another mama bear staple order is toro, or fatty tuna, a cut of tuna from a fish so large and difficult to catch that it’s often the most expensive thing on the menu. Everywhere you go, it’s served at a fluctuating market price and extremely fluctuating quality. Japon Bistro’s was silky, creamy and perfectly pink, lavishly draped in significant portions across the cubes of rice.

The quality of the fish inside the rolls was just as good, rendering the soy sauce on our table kind of a moot point. We got a few orders of sea bream, a white fish they had soaked in lime juice before preparing the nigiri. They also introduced me to a new-found love of unagi and it was hard not to get ten more orders after dipping a toe in that stuff.

All the rolls came with seaweed salad, which would have been good to know before we ordered one for ourselves. Their concoction contained not one, not two, but three types of seaweed. Unlike the usual slippery green mess, the contents of this bowl were divided neatly into three piles, one green, one purple and one white, each with a distinct flavor but all brought together by the bittersweet wonder that is vinegar.

This hardly warranted a dessert, but I ordered plum wine nonetheless. Unfortunately, I couldn’t even finish the stuff without multiple spontaneous cavities popping up—alas, I should have partaken in their autumn harvest sake sampler instead. It was hard to be disappointed after a meal like that, though. Especially when, on the car ride back to the hotel, my mom uttered the following statement: “I think that’s the best sushi I’ve ever had.”

For more information, visit http://www.japonbistro-pasadena.com

Linni Eats L.A.: Taking Heinz to New Heights at Ketchup

The Dolce Group can’t make up their mind about who to offend.

Be it exploiting Japanese culture with Geisha House or typecasting male business professionals at the Boardroom in Texas, this team of hospitality gurus certainly strives to be equal opportunity offenders.

Take their recent endeavor, Ketchup, a restaurant in West Hollywood, on Sunset where twinkly lights lining the street make you weary of Paris Hilton sneaking up and attacking you and every car driving by has a three-figure price tag. The chilling affluence is almost enough to make you hop back into your Honda and flee to Troy Burger.

The neighborhood, however, is not the repulsive part about this place. Neither was the food, which was some of the best I’ve had in Hollywood. No, what I can’t seem to shake from my feminist conscience are the menu headings. One side, dedicated to seafood dishes, bore the title of “Leading Ladies,” while the other side boasting steak and pork chops flew the banner of “Leading Men.” I’m sorry, but what decade is this?

If you aren’t offended yet, have a look at the “Threesome” appetizer, “Deliverance” pork chop glazed with bourbon and served with cheddar grits and apple sauce, or the “Naw Leans” shrimp pasta in a cajun brandy cream sauce.

But let me put social commentary on hold for a minute to discuss the essence of Ketchup. The condiment is king here—contemporary art portrayals of America’s Favorite #57 line the walls and a red glow saturates the entire space. The red sauce adopts an air of ubiquity that could potentially annoy you, if you hadn’t been raised on the stuff. Even the pretzel table rolls came with ketchup butter.

There were not, however, a mess of ketchup-themed drinks on the bar menu—sorry, bloody marys, but you have no place in West Hollywood. The drinks we ordered in the inventively classic-American cocktail lounge featured the likes of Yoo-Hoo and Grape Kool-Aid.

Once seated, we cut to the chase—five different ketchups, a parmesan onion ring tower, Cajun, sweet potato and parmesan garlic fries. Ketchup varietals included maple, chipotle, wasabi, ranch and mango—mango and wasabi were big disappointments. The best part of this was mixing and matching to find the best combos, and sweet potato fries in maple ketchup competed with a chipotle-parmesan-garlic combo for the top spot.

Our bubbly waitress fawned over the Ahi tuna special of the night, which did showcase some high-quality fish quite well, but that’s not what you come to a restaurant named Ketchup for. The menu is chock full of spruced up American classics, from Sam Adams beer can chicken and shake ‘n’ bake chicken crusted with pistachios to mini hot dogs and burgers made with Kobe beef.

One such classic was the rib dish, glazed with ketchup BBQ sauce. These were delicious, but it was hard to focus on the side of the plate they occupied when the other side featured something I haven’t been able to stop thinking about ever since. White truffle Dungeness crab mac ‘n’ cheese. Hallelujah, there is a god. With the perfect marriage of crunchy top, oozing center and surprisingly unique flavor, this is hands down the best thing Ketchup has to offer. Sorry, Kraft, but this is the cheesiest, not to mention the best mac ‘n’ cheese I’ve ever tasted.

The Belgian beer-soaked scallops with cured bacon and lobster smashed potatoes were certainly pleasant, although the potatoes failed to remind me of anything the ocean would produce. The dry-aged New York Strip steak had somehow been cooked to absolute perfection, something I didn’t expect in a trendy establishment on Sunset. The peppery outer crust held in a rare, bloody center that blended to render me weak in the knees.

Perhaps the chefs blew their load designing the dinner dishes and left no creative juices for dessert, but nothing on the final menu appealed to me. Maybe American-themed desserts are just not that titillating—perhaps that’s something we ought to leave to the French. Either way, classic sundaes, ding dongs, shortcakes and pies bored me—where’s the Ketchup cheesecake, guys?

My table opted to share the ice cream sandwich, a decision I gave thanks for between licks of the plate it came on. This is what an ice cream sandwich is supposed to taste like—are you taking notes, Diddy Reese? The cookie must have literally just emerged from the oven and somehow managed to stay warm the whole time, despite being surrounded by swathes of frozen silky vanilla. I probably had chocolate chips melting down my face, but I didn’t care.

Despite menu headings, I must admit this was an overall pleasant dining experience, albeit rather pricey. Luckily, the Dolce Group seems to have caught wise to their sexism—their online menu is now divided into “Land,” “Air” and “Sea.” But the Threesome isn’t going anywhere, and the menu at their Alabama location is arguably worse in terms of pigeonholing. Unfortunately for my ethical code, I think the quality of the food down south would get the best of me, too—they do, after all, have mac ‘n’ cheese skillets with chipotle white cheddar and bacon apple gorgonzola varieties. Road trip, anyone?

Menu & Prices available at www.dolcegroup.com/ketchup.