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.

Linni Eats L.A.: Homegirl Cafe

A little while ago, I took you on a tour of Los Angeles taco trucks, looking for basics like carne asada and carnitas. These no-frills fold-ups got us to the heart of the taco, but what about businesses that try to expand on the fundamentals?

Enter Homegirl Café, where they thrive on exaggeration of the essentials. The restaurant sits on the ground floor of the Chinatown’s Homeboy Industries, an organization based in Boyle Heights that helps at-risk youths and gang members by giving them transitional jobs. The company oversees restaurant, bakery, silk-screening, merchandise and maintenance services, all of which employ formerly at-risk or incarcerated men and women.

It’s important to keep all this in mind when you arrive at Homegirl. After awkwardly questioning the existence of a hostess, my group sat ourselves and waited 15 minutes, feeling slightly invisible, before flagging down some menus. The Saturday lunch crowd was hardly putting constraints on the large staff, but the girls did runs between the gallery kitchen and tables as if we hadn’t plopped ourselves down at a barren table in the middle of the space. I slurped up drool dribbles as table after table got bowls of blue corn chips and bright orange habanero salsa.

Finally our turn, we ordered eight of their inventive tacos and a coffee, then tucked in to gorging ourselves on chips and salsa. We could have splurged on pineapple guacamole or sourdough walnut raisin bread with cilantro, jalapeno and pecan pesto, but I saved the dough for dessert. In the meantime, we were served a small side of disappointment—Homegirl’s website had made the false promise of all-day breakfast Saturdays, which proved heartbreakingly false. Sorry, squash blossom omelettes and cactus eggs—perhaps another time.

Regret pangs subsided soon enough when the waitress graced our table with tacos, tacos and—wait, what are those? More tacos! Eight sounds like a lot, but they’re really no bigger than the paper-wrapped goodies at La Estrella. And similar to their mobile cousins, these wore the simple garnish of two lime halves and radish slices. Three tacos for seven bucks ought to come with rice and beans, if you ask me. Or at the very least, charge less than two bucks each for those sides. But the quality of the taco ingredients makes you forget you could be eating something a little simpler for a lot less back in Highland Park.

Beginning with the meat, as I have a tendency to do, the journey began with apple-tomatillo-topped carnitas, which proved that the tried-and-true apple pork combo exists for a mighty fine reason. The flavor pairing overpowered my ability to discern quality carnitas from their mediocre counterparts, but suffice it to say, you’ll probably enjoy eating this.

They continued to excel at flavor pairings, sticking carne asada with a thick peanut sauce in an unexpected but pleasant marriage. This was followed by beef tinga, a dish of shredded chicken and chorizo I recently cooked at home. Homegirl’s was better.

Next was another filling I’ve tried my hand at in the past—cochinita pibil. Homegirl’s drove me to exclaim “favorite,” while still chewing and staining my lips with its orange grease. Cochinita was famous by Once Upon a Time in Mexico’s main character, Agent Sands, who kills any chef who prepares it too well. No one killed me when I made it, but Homegirl’s chefs out to watch their backs.

Stepping out of Central American terrain for a moment, the ladies behind the counter cooked up a chicken taco topped with orange slices and tamarind sauce that tasted very Thai and a salmon taco that smacked of the sea. They return to the southwest, however, for the big finale of the nopales salad taco—that’s right, cactus. These green strips come off a little too pickled at first, but give it time. Like any infamous taste shrouded in infamy, such as Marmite, caviar or pate, this is an acquired taste.

The wait resumed as we resorted to pushing lime rinds around the plate and pressing our thumbs against chip crumbs to pass the time. Eventually dessert was ordered, coffee was refilled and new paintings by local artists were hung by Homeboy Maintenance crew members. We marveled at these and their flavorful coffee, a mild brew with orange blossom and cinnamon, while we waited to put the finishing touches on our meal.

The mango upside-down corn bread finally came in all its dense, sugar-soaked glory. Crusty at the edges and warm throughout, the ice cream melted onto this slice of maize heaven. A caramelized mango slice was embedded in the center while thin strips of fresh mango had been spilled around the plate.

Baked in-house by the Homeboy Bakery, this dessert was a mere $3.50, and the fresh muffins were similarly affordable. The delicious jalapeno corn and banana nut came highly recommended by the tattooed bakers, and I’m anxious to return for Mexican wedding cookies to dip in their spicy coffee. Sounds like the perfect accompaniment to an omelette, don’t you think? Next time I’ll know to get downtown before eleven o’clock rolls around.

For more information on Homeboy Industries or the Homegirl Café Menu, visit www.homeboy-industries.org

Linni Eats L.A.: Fiesta Sa Barrio

Are you in an Eagle Rock dining rut? Feel like you’re up against a dining wall of Spitz redundancy and Casa Bianca boredom? If you think Auntie Em’s and Señor Fish are as exciting as things get around here, think again. The jaded need look no further than the strip mall masterpiece that is Fiesta Sa Barrio, conveniently nestled next to Little Caesar’s on the corner of Eagle Rock & York Blvds.

Now, if you’re like me, you’ve driven by the colorful Barrio Fiesta across from All-Star Lanes dozens of times, writing it off as a creepy and potentially out-of-business Mexican joint. You might assume the same of Fiesta Sa Barrio across the street, given it’s Spanish-tinged title. Don’t be fooled by the misnomer, though—these establishments are hard-core Filipino destinations, thriving with the business of large immigrant families, reveling in the comforts of home food.

What ingredients make up this traditional culinary genre? Banana ketchup, taro ice cream and pig knuckles, to name a few. If ever a carnival unfolded on a dinner table, it would be at a Filipino restaurant. The electric colors and mind-boggling food combinations make it abundantly clear why both of Eagle Rock’s Filipino restaurants use “fiesta” in their name. From the friendly family of ten who offered us advice on what to order to the cheesy exotic game shows and soap operas playing on the flat screen, it was quite the culinary fête.The menu reads Dostoevsky, requiring multiple readings before comprehension even sets in. I’d advise taking a large group—most of the dishes feed two people, but I guarantee you’ll be intrigued by at least half the menu. We started off with the fried pata, or pig’s knuckles, a ubiquitous dish that graced every table in the place. I was wary but these blew me away—once you eat your way through the crispy outer layer of fried skin, the tender pink meat inside shreds to pieces at the slightest touch and melts as soon as it hits your mouth.
Adobo is another classic dish in which chicken and pork are marinated to silky oblivion in a garlic and vinegar sauce, then served in a thick silver fry pan with an abnormally large handle. We ordered the mixed meat, but you can get single-meat pork or chicken adobo as well, and any combination comes with pickled hard-boiled eggs, too. The pancit malabon noodle dish also featured eggs in a big way—chunky yellow strings with tidbits of egg, pork and shrimp weaved throughout were served with slices of lemon and hardboiled egg and topped with baby shrimps.

If pig knuckles don’t pack enough adventure for you, take a page from my book and scoop the eye out of their whole tilapia wrapped in banana leaves. You are served the entire fish, so all fins, bones and eye sockets are fair game. Our table was littered with animal carcass and random bone collections at the end of this meal, and it was impossible to resist the temptation to play with our food. Wait until no one’s looking and fist pump the knuckle bones—you won’t regret it.

The grand finale of this meal came when a neighboring table had an essential Crayola box in a bowl delivered to their table. “Would you like anything else?” Our waiter enquired. “That,” I replied, pointing directly to the nearby umbrella-topped pseudo-ice cream sundae. The halo-halo is served in a large glass goblet with several smaller bowls for sharing. The bottom layer is composed of fruit and sweet bean preserves with gelatin squares and orange chunks that may or may not have been sweet potato. The next layer was a mixture of crushed ice and cream, followed by a dollop of purple taro ice cream and an umbrella. Halo-halo means mix-mix, and the nearby patrons instructed us in stirring the hodge-podge together before dishing up.
While the mesh was good, the bright purple ice cream and mysterious orange chunks stuck out to me, as well as the tiny red beans. The crushed ice seemed a little superfluous. Next time, I’m going for the buko pandan, a mix of green jell-o, young coconut and coconut palm in a rich cream. I’m also looking forward to the crab and eggplant omelettes, dried and fried beef strips and a soup thickened with pig’s blood.

The best part of this meal, though? Getting the check. All this food for six people, with tip included, was only $54, just nine dollars a person. Considering the food baby we were all nursing, that’s pretty impressive. So don’t ever let anyone tell you not trust a strip mall restaurant. It is in these overlooked and unkempt nooks of Los Angeles that some of the city’s most thrilling dining takes place.


For a full menu, visit http://www.sporq.com/losangeles/fiestasabarrio/

Linni Eats L.A.: CUT

When I chose Wolfgang Puck’s steakhouse Cut as the restaurant for my mom’s visit this weekend, it never occurred to me that the celebrity chef himself might be there. When we settled into a table in the middle of the room, I was actually surprised at the lack of pretension. Sure, there were blown-up portraits of celebrities lining the walls, but compared to other high-end Hollywood eateries that hide unknown diners in the corner, I was pleased with our treatment.

If only it had stopped there, this would be a much easier review to write. I would be able to maintain composure and not erupt into giddy exclamations every time I try to formulate a sentence. But right after we tucked into the crunchy cheese straws waiting at the table and began to study our menus, who should sidle up to the table but Wolfgang himself! No, we didn’t observe him greeting a privileged group of elites or catch a quick glimpse of him in the kitchen. I shook his hand. The hand that has prepared historical, momentous, ethereal culinary creations. Here’s hoping some of it rubbed off.

Focusing on the menu was a bit tough after that. Other distractions included an entirely unique and bizarre silverware set, Holly from The Girls Next Door dining to my left and gargantuan photos of Cate Blanchett and George Clooney bearing down on me. But I pressed on.

While waiting for starters, we were brought a plate of bread selections to choose from. Puck doesn’t have a reputation for baking, but this was easily the best pretzel roll I’ve ever had, especially when spread with their thyme and lavender-dusted butter.

I haven’t really gotten to the heart of the establishment yet, though. The name says it all—when you come here, it is for the meat. There were tribes of testosterone populating tables throughout the dining room, where men far outnumbered women Perhaps this is why our waitress seemed pleasantly surprised when we ordered veal tongue and bone marrow as appetizers, followed up by three different cuts of cow to share. What can I say, we knew what we wanted.

Had we been indecisive, however, the platter of raw meat brought to each table might have helped us in choosing. Easily over 50 ounces of raw beef are displayed on a plate to exhibit the degree of marbling and lustrously sanguine hue of blood.

Our starters came shortly after some amuse bouche gougères—balls of puff pastry filled with steaming gruyère. These melty bites gave way to the even more luxurious bone marrow flan—two bone vessels were filled with a savory custard, drizzled with an earthy syrup, topped with capers and flanked on either side by a wild mushroom paste that made me weak in the knees.

We knew big things were coming our way when seven tiny dishes were delivered to us, carrying Dijon and whole grain mustards, Dijon sauce, house steak sauce, Argentinian chimichurri, sea salt and a grape mustard made with the must left behind from crushing wine grapes.

Our hedonistic foray into blatant carnivory reached it’s peak when they brought out the platter of Japanese Wagyu beef from Kagoshima Prefecture in Kyushu, Japan; American Wagyu Angus “Kobe Style” beef from Snake River Farms in Idaho; and U.S.D.A. Prime Nebraska Corn Fed beef that had been dry aged for 35 days. All of these cuts had been grilled over hard wood and charcoal, then finished under a broiler. The spiced outer char was perfectly flavorful, without overshadowing the true meatiness of the steaks. This meatiness shown through in a way I’ve never tasted, and doubt I’ll taste again soon. The Japanese Wagyu melted in my mouth in an almost mousse-like manner, while the American Wagyu had a bit more marbling.

To appear somewhat healthy, we ordered a side of cavolo negro, or black kale, with escarole sautéed in garlic. It was great, as were the sauces, but it was hard to pay attention to much else with such glamorous cow in front of me.

Just when I thought we’d reached the pinnacle of decadence, a colossal Valhrona chocolate soufflé, decked out in crème fraîche, hazelnut glacée and the darkest chocolate sauce imaginable. Too much? Wolfgang doesn’t think so, apparently, since we received caramel cashew brittle and citrus bars made with the Japanese fruit yuzu next.

Coupled with inventive cocktails like the rosemary Tom Collins; Ruby with Grand Marnier pomegranate foam; or the Wilshire, a blend of Absolut Citron, Limoncello and Amaretto, we were resignedly full. And if Mom weren’t footing the bill, I would have been broke. Alas, I can’t recommend this to kids struggling to get by, but if you’ve got the funds (we’re talking hundreds) and a hankering for steak, do it. Maybe you’ll strike gold like me and run into Joe Pesci in the lobby.

L.A. Taco Crawl: Part Dos

My Homeric quest for the perfect taco continued this week, this time leading me into the true belly of the taco truck beast—East L.A. More precisely, an area called Wellington Heights, where the I-5 meets the 710 and angry drivers shout “pendejo!” out the window at you when you’re merely trying to turn left.

But I digress. If Highland Park is esteemed for its abundance of trucks, this neighborhood deserves an Olympic gold medal in the sport of masa-flipping and al pastor-scraping. The sheer frequency of these restaurants on wheels blew my mind. The area also boasts the addition of a new meat category—chorizo!

First up, La Chapis, an establishment that foregoes the question of toppings by placing a veritable salad bar on the truck ledge. Unfortunately, limes, radishes, grilled onions and three enormous tubs of guacamole, salsa roja and salsa verde were necessary to give flavor to their light grey asada, fatty al pastor and greasy chorizo. Moving on.

El Korita is a big purple truck, surrounded by a friendly crowd of Dodgers fans and old men munching burritos in the backs of truck beds during my visit. El Korita is known throughout L.A. for making their tortillas by hand in the truck, a possible justification for how long the wait was here. Their chorizo tasted too much like brown sugar and seemed more like a paste than chunks of sausage, and the hugely oversized carnitas chunks were almost too dry to eat. The deep-brown asada, however, offered reprieve from La Chapis silvery chunks. The flavor was smokey, though, not indicative of the classic asada marinade, and the famed tortillas were nothing memorable.

The famed Taquieria La Que Si Llena was next, talked up by food bloggers city-wide. Since that’s rarely a surefire indicator of good food, I went into it skeptically, but it ended up blowing me away. The al pastor was drippingly juicy—some people might call it greasy, but some people might need to be quiet and focus on the intense flavor burst it packs instead. Here, the carne asada finally tasted how carne asada is supposed to taste, and their only pitfall was a carnitas taco with a few too many fatty chunks.

The streak of delicious continued at Taco Jeesy’s, a professional truck with business cards, where an adolescent chef-in-training took my order very politely. I saw a condiment bar and flashbacks to La Chapis had me worried these might be gross, but thank Jeesy, they were amazing. The texture and flavor of the al pastor was incredible, despite appearing too fatty. The asada also tasted spectacular, not too greasy and not grey at all. This was the best chorizo I’ve found in L.A. so far, perfectly chunky with that special cumin-oregano-sugar combo sitting thickly sweet on my tongue, like a chile dipped in molasses.

My excitement over the chorizo overshadowed the disappointing carnitas at Taco Jeesy’s, but I couldn’t help but wonder why none of these places could get carnitas right. I had one more stop, a truck called Jalisco that was out of everything but asada and carnitas. With one more chance to prove itself, Wellington Heights pulled through here with a carnitas taco that I actually enjoyed eating. It was moist, and certainly the best of the five stops, but alas, still somewhat lacking.

I’ve learned from this journey that no one truck gets it all right—I may be able to find the best chorizo or the best al pastor, but there is really no such thing as the best taco truck in L.A., and good luck finding decent carnitas. For what it’s worth, there’s a little hole in the wall in San Diego called Las Cuatro Milpas, serving up other-wordly carnitas to rival even Mexico’s. If that’s too much of an odyssey for you, though, you can always drown your sorrows in Jeesy’s chorizo.

La Chapis is located on E. Olympic Blvd, a few blocks east of Herbert Ave.
El Korita is located at the corner of E. Olympic Blvd. & Herbert Ave.
Taquieria La Que Si Lllena is located at 3600 E. Cesar Chavez Blvd.
Taco Jeesy’s is located at E. Cesar Chavez Blvd. & S. Carmelita Ave.
Tacos Jalisco is located at 3889 E. Cesar Chavez Blvd.
Las Cuatro Milpas is located at 1875 Logan Ave. in San Diego, CA

L.A. Taco Crawl: Part Uno

Not many things can bring a smile to my face in L.A. traffic. The right song on the radio, maybe, or perhaps a particularly humorous billboard. My favorite rush hour pick-me-up, though, is a taco truck in motion. Something about spotting these epic beasts on the go just makes my day. Daydreaming of all the spicy sauces, chunky guacamoles and greasy meats in tow has brought me pretty close to a fender-bender on more than one occasion.

Lately, though, those dreams have been served with a side of fear when L.A. politicians proposed an ordinance to bring these vehicular vendors to the ground. The ordinance struck terror into the hearts of taco lovers city-wide as websites and Facebook groups sprung up to assert that “Carne Asada is Not a Crime.”

To the relief of thousands of drunken night owls, the ordinance was ruled against, though the appeal process has already begun. So while our collective sigh of relief may be premature, I still thought this seemed like a good time to highlight the cream of the taco crop.

In the first of a series on the best taco trucks in L.A., I decided to start in my hometown. The Eagle Rock/Highland Park region is actually known all over the city as having some of the best taco trucks in L.A., and although most of us easterners have done Leo’s before, there are many other gems nearby. For the sake of precision, I will be sticking to the establishments’ namesake—tacos. Carnitas, al pastor and carne asada tacos, to be exact.

First stop, El Pique. This place had the most decorative and extravagant menu of the five I visited. They also have the most extensive menu, but that’s no indicator of good food—sometimes focusing all your efforts into one dish yields the best results. Maybe this lack of focus was El Pique’s downfall, since these were the worst I came across in our neighborhood. At York and Avenue 53, just 100 feet from the superior La Estrella, El Pique’s al pastor lacked flavor and their asada was dry. Their carnitas were their saving grace, with arguably the most flavor of any I tried, but they were also very oily. But hey, they were only $1.10 each.

Just a hop, skip and a jump away from El Pique, the La Estrella truck is a very different experience. With hardly a menu to speak of and certainly no brightly-colored signs, I wasn’t even sure if they had all three types of tacos. Boy, did they ever. Their tacos had more meat and overall bulk to them, at only a 15 cent difference from El Pique. The al pastor was delicious, with a sweet flavor much like American barbecue sauce, and their green sauce packed a little more spice than other area varieties. The carnitas, on the other hand, were a little dry, and the asada, though better than their neighbor’s, was not the best I’ve had.

Next up, Rambo’s. I know this place often gets overlooked by all the Leo-hypes of the world, but hold the phone—it’s delicious. For starters, Rambo gets an A for effort by having a giant mural painted on the side of his truck. He also manages to pull off having a varied menu and staying on top of the basics. Take the green sauce, for example—often times, it doesn’t seem like much thought goes into this concoction. Rambo’s, however, has a darker color and smokier flavor, that I’m willing to bet comes from chipotles. Impressed yet? His carne asada also blew me away—it was extremely juicy, yet had no fatty chunks, the result of a great marinade. The al pastor was perfectly subtle, retaining its Mexican flavor roots without an overpowering sweetness. With the same $1.25 price as Leo’s, Rambo’s only downfall is his dry, tasteless carnitas. I guess you can’t get everything right.

My next visit was to Freddy’s on Colorado and La Roda, also known as White Guy taco truck. Yes, he is white. No, he does not have carnitas or al pastor. Yes, his tacos are the cheapest at one dollar each, and his asada tacos are pretty great. The steak was cubed, yet had a Worcestershire-hamburger taste to it. He really piles the toppings on, with tomatoes, lettuce and guacamole, proving that Leo is not the only guacamole purveyor in this hood. I’ve also heard his all-meat burrito is heaven on earth.

Onward! In the home stretch, I decided to revisit the old standard, Leo’s, with the other options fresh in my mind. He doesn’t do carnitas, but the al pastor was spicier than any of the others I’ve tried and had great flavor. My only qualm with it was that the meat was chunked, not shredded. Al pastor is supposed to be made gyro-style on a spit, but this definitely did not look shaved. The carne asada was also a let down—the taste was enjoyable, but the meat cubes were a light grey color that made me kind of nervous. These tacos were $1.25 each, and definitely not the best in the area.

So if you’re looking to gobble up as many shady roadside tacos as you can before food nazis make that impossible, head to Rambo’s or La Estrella to really get your money’s worth.