Linni Eats World

The Great Squash Famine of 2010

2011-10-17T14:07:00.000-04:00

The 19th century Irish taught us an important lesson about diversifying our diets. But in the spiteful vitriolic months of a New England winter, there sure aren't a lot of options for a girl trying to eat more or less local.

When my sundresses start to hang stale in the closet and light summer winds turn bitter, I stockpile winter vegetables. Every market I happen upon finds me picking up a random butternut here, a bundle of carrots there. This year, for example, I've been consistently adding miscellaneous potatoes of every shape and color into a low-lying drawer in my kitchen.

But I don't cook them yet. An odd twist, maybe, but I have always had an almost Buddhist devotion to delaying this comfort food gratification, to forestalling the inevitable moment when I dive headfirst into kale and kabocha, bidding adieu to most things refreshing and light until the tulip bulbs start their peek-a-boo game again.

Last winter, however, tragedy struck my household. My landlord decided the winter was the best time to gut the bathroom completely, leaving me not only with a dust storm fit for a Steinbeck novel but also some dim contractors who turned the thermostat up all the way while working. I escaped to my mom's during this literal hot mess, and upon my return found cataclysm in my market reserves, a pantry despoiled of its winter staples. You see, these hard, sturdy vegetables can be kept for months without refrigeration--but they must be stored in a cool, dark place. Exposed to the high heat of my apartment, the skins had lost their stiffness, bizarre dark spots had cropped up, and some even fell apart under their own weight when I attempted to pick them up.

A calamity of heartbreaking caliber, indeed, but not a lesson unlearned. I've never understood how to use that old adage about counting your chickens before they hatch, but some aspect of it has got to apply here. And this winter, though a healthy amount of delay has proved a hard habit to break, I am getting these winter staples involved in my kitchen larks sooner than later.

And with that in mind, you get kind of a two-fer deal on this post. I dipped my toe in last week on one of our first truly cold days. It was raining, and Whole Foods had pretzel rolls just hanging out in big wicker baskets by the cheese counter, like it was no big deal. Those made it home with me, miraculously dry despite my half hour wait for the bus amid a monsoon. I sliced up a little bit of everything in my cheese drawer (Asiago, brie, gouda, cheddar), poured some premade Imagine broccoli & leek soup into roasted acorn squash halves, and served my man a fancy fall version of grilled cheese & tomato soup (he hates tomatoes).

The success of that dish goaded me on, and I guess you could say I went for a push on my next try (I know nothing about poker, though, so maybe I'm misusing that). I filled up two whole sheet pans with beets, carrots, pumpkin, red kuri squash, and some tart green apples I'd picked up in Danvers a few weeks back. They don't need much more than olive oil, S&P, and maybe some pie spices or molasses if you're feeling bold. Meanwhile, I threw into my rice cooker a mess of leftover grains & wines—mostly couscous, bulgur & reisling. It was risky to go with a sweet wine, so I blended it with water and mixed in a handful of dried sour cherries halfway through.

All that remained was to grab a big bowl, mix the winter veg with the grains, and do some accessorizing with chopped pan-roasted cashews, fresh arugula, nutritional yeast and a little more balsamic & olive oil.

The moral of this story is twofold. First of all, I need to work on trusting my ancestors a little more, since clearly the Irish's bout with blight taught me nothing. Second, I now know that these standbys are a little more jeopardous than I once imagined. Rather than take them for granted, we've got to enjoy them while we can. You can't let your preparation for the future hamper your life now, so if your body wants squash now, give it what it wants. This may mean resorting to Chilean imports from the supermarket sooner, but if you just nest on the goods now, you may never see them hatch at all.

...or something like that.

A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Cupcakes

2011-09-28T14:51:00.001-04:00

It all started with some janky looking bananas.

That picture might not be the most enticing start to a blog post, but I implore you, stay with me.

I'm not sure where I stand on ghosts or gods, but I have something beyond myself to thank for the bizarre alchemy that took place in my kitchen last night. When I brought that rotten fruit home, the foul smell alone had me ready to ditch 'em. No sweet bread is worth that odor, especially not boring banana.

But then. Suddenly my mind was possessed with the idea of making a not-so-boring banana bread. What goes with banana? This is where I believe the spirit world stepped in—and not just any spirit, but one dressed in a gold lamé suit, or perhaps blue suede shoes. Because what could pair better with bananas than peanut butter? You could think this is where the good idea ends, but you'd be wrong.

Enter Duncan Hines—maybe they should get some of the credit for this, too. Their snack size box of brownie mix is $1 at CVS right now, so naturally I keep one in my cupboards. What possessed me to involve that homely box in my adventures with the King, I can't say. But thank-someone it did.

I whipped up the brownie mix strictly adhering to the box directions, and made half of my beloved Martha's banana cupcake recipe in a separate bowl. Yet again, an urge the origins of which I still can't identify had me plopping three big spoonfuls of plain whole milk yogurt into each bowl. No turning back now.

Serendipitously, the two batters required the same oven temp and the same cook time. I put the brownie batter down first, figuring the fudgier texture would provide a base for the more viscous banana layer.

With nothing left but to bake 'em, pray to Elvis, and cross my fingers, I set about inventing a frosting to match this doozy. It couldn't just be any buttercream, though—to temper the sweetness of the cakes, it needed to provide some kind of tang, something zingy to cut the cloying peanut butter. So into the bowl went:

1/2 cup smooth peanut butter (don't get fancy folks, the cheap stuff is best when it comes to frosting)
1/4 tsp vanilla
1/2 lb. of plain cream cheese at room temperature
1/4 cup powdered sugar
1/4 cup of milk

Beat like hell until all the little bumps & curdles disappear and the word "lustrous" enters your mind, then set it aside. Do NOT refrigerate, or you'll have one heck of a time spreading it on the cakes.

Once the cakes started to brown a little on top, I pulled them immediately. Dry cake is one of my biggest fears, and I wasn't about to come this far to settle for anything less than decadent.

And decadent they were, once I passed the painful hour of waiting for them to cool (this is a crucial step—if the cakes aren't cool, the frosting will melt, refuse to set, and mainly create a giant mess of your counter). And because the King himself was clearly with me in this endeavor, of course I had to put Nutter Butters on top of them. And chocolate sauce.

My home audience and I had a little debate on the merits of whole Nutter Butter versus crumbled cookie. As an avid peruser of food blogs and fancy bakeries, I knew that the inedible garnish might produce a more dramatic & impressive final product (sorry, guys—I do manipulate you some, but it's mostly for good). The boys baking with me, however, made a persuasive point that you would want crumbles in every bite.

Personally I think those both look like something I'd set my computer down to go eat. But the boys were right about the textures—from top to bottom, this thing was a symphony of complementary consistencies. The fudgey brownie wasn't too crumbly or too chewy; the banana layer was so far from dry, it was almost creamy; the cool, tangy cream cheese kept the whole enterprise from being too rich; and of course, the Nutter Butters gave an absolutely indispensable crunch.

I'm a sucker for the cross-section. You can almost see the moisture! Beware, though—the moisture can turn on you in the fridge overnight, where it sort of robbed the cookies of their crunch. But Elvis can't be held responsible for anything that happened overnight in the fridge. Ghosts are unpredictable, and I'm not so self-involved to think the guy was haunting me. He was just stopping by, as I assume he does in many kitchens from time to time. He was merely providing inspiration, infusing my kitchen with a little rock 'n' roll.

Linni Eats the Upper West Side

2011-09-23T21:40:00.001-04:00

Here's the thing. I know a lot about bagels.

If you're new to the blog, that's all you need to know. If you're a returning customer, expecting feasts crafted from a farmer's market bounty or certain verbose vegan rants, let me clue you in.

In January of 2010, I rode an enormous whim——roughly 747-sized——across the country to a place that eats just a touch different than southern California: Boston.

Now, New Englanders aren't still donning Pilgrim attire. They don't scarf turkeys with natives or gulp down clam chowder on the daily. That said, there's only one vegan pizza joint in the greater Boston area. For a girl fresh off the plane from L.A., that was about as staggering as if I'd been greeted at Logan Airport by John Adams himself.

I'm sounding pretty pretentious right now, huh? Well, the two years I've spent here have beaten a lot of that out of me. After becoming a work horse at a bagel shop and slinging artisan cheese at the Harvard Farmer's Market, veganism has become nothing more than a hobby I occasionally pick up for nostalgia's sake.

My pretentious urges now get funneled into cheese competitiveness and bagel snobbery. Shortly after developing these neuroses, the latter brought me to Absolute Bagels on Manhattan's Upper West Side. I'm not the biggest fan of the Big Apple, and I was sick of hearing customers from New York wear their bagel superiority on their sleeve (as they are wont to do with most things). I had to evaluate this hype machine myself. And according to Yelpers and local publications, Absolute was the place to beat.

They had all the staples, but I forced myself to ignore the sultry, dark pumpernickels in favor of a classic everything, with scallion cream cheese and tomato slices. And a last-minute salt bagel with plain. Both untoasted.

Do you see that tomato slice? I can't think of any reason for New York City to have better produce than Boston, geographically, but I suppose I can begrudgingly admit for a moment that their food standards a little higher. And...I guess that could mean better tomatoes. Whatever.

These bagels were coming out of the oven before my eyes, which boosted my confidence in ordering them sans toast (I've been told this is the only way, by many an ornery Manhattanite). Their cream cheese selection boasted impressive selections like olive, bacon, & strawberry (although I feel like New Yorkers at my shop in Boston forego these frills to insist on old standards like chive). Their tofu spreads, also surprisingly varied in flavors, were so thick, they put Boston's runny nonsense to shame.

I mean, look at that. If I was still adhering to strict vegan protocol, I might not have eaten that, just out of distrust.

So there you have it. Our Boston bagels are great——big, crusty on the outside when toasted and pillowy soft on the inside. The NY variety didn't have that crust, didn't exactly have a hole in the middle, and was certainly smaller, but was a dream to gnaw on, just sliced raw. I preferred the latter, but they both have great things going for them. Which is more than I can say for the cities they hail from.

Linni Eats Boston

2011-09-23T17:39:00.001-04:00

Well, this is awkward.

It's been nearly two years since I made that pizza in my last post, and my stomach and I have come a long way since we last shared our adventures with you beautiful people.

You'll have to forgive my obvious attempt at flattery there, but there just isn't a graceful way to side-step a two year gap like that. I guess you'll have to forgive a few things, but I hope you can because I live in Boston now and we have so much to talk about.

...this is starting to sound a lot like a conversation I have with the pages of my journal once every few months.

I'm going to keep my new posts clean and separate from this clumsy (and hopefully endearing?) greeting. But I'm here again, so check back often! And just, ya know——don't call it a comeback.

Vegan Pizza 3: Squash Blossom & Heirloom Tomato

2009-12-04T02:34:00.003-05:00

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

2009-12-03T03:43:00.005-05:00

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

2009-12-01T17:25:00.005-05:00

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

2009-11-30T19:30:00.013-05:00

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

2009-11-28T00:07:00.005-05:00

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

2009-11-17T03:20:00.007-05:00

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!

2009-08-11T17:05:00.005-04:00

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)

2009-06-21T16:00:00.014-04:00

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

2009-06-20T14:59:00.006-04:00

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

2009-06-15T22:33:00.010-04:00

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

2009-06-15T22:03:00.005-04:00

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

2009-06-15T21:45:00.006-04:00

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

2009-04-22T04:08:00.005-04:00

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

2009-03-26T12:25:00.011-04:00

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

2009-03-19T18:13:00.010-04:00

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

2009-03-05T22:09:00.004-05:00

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

2009-03-05T21:56:00.007-05:00

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

2009-03-05T21:40:00.005-05:00

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

2009-03-05T21:39:00.002-05:00

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

2009-03-05T20:43:00.002-05:00

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

2009-03-05T20:42:00.001-05:00

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

2009-03-05T20:05:00.004-05:00

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.

Linni Eats L.A.: Pink's

2008-10-24T18:05:00.006-04:00

Honeys, I’m home! And ready to continue my quest to devour the city of angels. With only one year left, that’s quite a formidable feat, but fret not, my lovelies—my stomach and I are ready.

There have been some changes since you last heard from me. Namely, I went vegan. What? How does a self-proclaimed cow-loving carnivorous culinary voyager swear off nearly half the world’s ingredients? Suppress your shock and awe, folks. Before you drop your newspaper and give up on me forever, let me just say—I’ll be eating all things animal for the sake of this column (or at least that’ll be my excuse if PETA ever comes knowing at my door).

I know that’s kind of like calling myself a virgin while having sex for research, but that’s why I won’t be calling myself vegan anymore. In the privacy of my kitchen and groceries, it’ll be tempeh and tofu all the live-long day. But on the streets of L.A., plain guac tacos don’t cut it and foregoing carne asada is blasphemy. So without further adieu, I give you…

Pink’s. If you needed any proof that I won’t be treading lightly on this animal-laden path, here’s a place where you can get meat served on top of your meat, with some more meat on the side. Pink’s has served hot dogs to the stars on La Brea Blvd. since 1939, when it began as a taco truck-esque cart. It has since evolved into a modest storefront with ample seating, a spattering of signed celebrity photos and one hell of a kitchen viewing gallery to drool over while you wait in line.

This line was over an hour long when I visited on Labor Day. Call it masochistic, call it crazy—just make sure you bring some entertainment. I came armed with a crossword puzzle while the ladies behind me brought Pinkberry, proving that you can have dessert before dinner. After the first half hour, you start catching smells from the open kitchen, then you round the corner and it hits like an epiphany—THIS is why I’m waiting in this line.

An assembly line comes into view, where practiced sausage stylists adorn dogs with every topping imaginable. Sour cream? Ok! Melt-in-your-mouth pastrami? Sure thing. Strikingly adept at their craft, these ladies ladle chili and sling onion rings as if no one was watching. Mind you, they could count on at least twenty salivating faces staring back at them, should they choose to look up.
The menu has 14 regular hot dogs, five special dogs and 12 super special dogs. Most hover around four dollars, though many are cheaper. Only one exceeds six bucks, the Three Dog Night, but you get your money’s worth with three hot dogs wrapped in a giant tortilla, three slices each of cheese and bacon, chili and onions. Other super specials include the Mulholland Drive dog, the Martha Stewart dog and the Lord of the Rings dog—a ten-incher encircled by onion rings, nested in a bun and topped with BBQ sauce.
Pink’s is known for their ten-inch dogs that snap when you bite into them. Unfortunately, their Patt Morrison vegan Baja Veggie dog does not snap. I tested it out, thinking Mr. and Mrs. Pink wouldn’t put it on the menu if it wasn’t delicious. I did lick the guacamole off the limp, lifeless imposter, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat the thing itself. The bacon chili cheese dog, on the other hand, did not disappoint, and the ridiculously cheap sides helped, too. This is the only place I’ve encountered willing to slop chili onto tortilla chips and for that, they have my respect.

While I unfortunately have a threshold for grease, I’m already planning my next visit to Pink’s. I’ll need to try a plain hot dog to experience the famous snap. I’m also looking forward to cozying up with the Mushroom Swiss dog. I also can’t wait to try that pastrami, though that’s not exactly true—I can wait, and I will wait, however long the line is that day.

For a full menu, visit www.pinkshollywood.com

Linni Eats Cape Town: Africa Cafe

2008-06-10T15:18:00.016-04:00

People are constantly asking why I came to Africa to study abroad, instead of the usuals, like Europe or Asia. My answer, aside from a chronic predilection to counterculture, mostly has to do with food.

Italian food, Mexican food, Spanish food, Chinese food, Indian food—there are myriad cultures I could name before we ran out of stock visual imagery or taste memories. But what appears in your mind when I bring up African food? Most people, myself included prior to this trip, would draw a blank. I can't speak for everyone, but I didn't like leaving an entire continent unaccounted for in my quest to eat the world. So I began this journey, not really sure what to expect outside the general categories of meat and starch. How did tribal southern Africans make use of their resources to satisfy cravings? What kind of evolutions had colonialism forced upon these methods?

In the U.S., it's standard to have low-end, no-name versions of a particular cuisine in addition to the nicer establishments. You can count on finding a non-descript Mexican joint on shady street corners, and there's certainly no shortage of cheap hot dog hole-in-the-walls. So I expected Africa to have some of these, serving up whatever the locals eat. I've been here five months now, and I've yet to see anything that satisfies this description.

The times I've been served anything with the tag of African food, it has come in a touristy package, usually served buffet-style at a high-end locale marketed for its entertainment value as a dining experience, rather than a simple connection to the culture's food. I've felt more in touch with the soul of South African palates at the under-staffed and under-frequented Cape Malay joints, the stores with halaal plastered on the door where the man behind the counter is studying a recipe book for new ideas.

My trip to Moyo may have fallen under the glamorized, slightly impersonal category, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. In my ranking of these types of establishments, next in line is the Africa Cafe. More expensive than Moyo and located in the heart of downtown Cape Town, this yellow stucco building is bubbling over with kitsch and folk art, chandeliers made of empty bottles and beads clanking overhead as you climb the stairs to any of the country-themed dining rooms. I am not sure which country I was seated in, but the Winter 2008 menu was painted on the side of a ceramic pitcher and the colors threatened to overwhelm. Luckily, I have come to positively associate this over-saturation of hues with this charming continent and it did not bother me. I could see how some might find it jarring, though.

The costumed waitresses started us off with Xhosa pot bread, steamed and both crunchy and moist. We also received some things to dip our bread into, such as Moroccan zeilook made with eggplants, coriander seeds, and garlic and Ethiopian iab, a white curd cheese with herbs that was like a soupy cottage blend. Next came various finger food, which I imagine would be served at Super Bowl gatherings if this culture was somehow married with my own. Zambian bean pies were fried and had a little too much pastry and not enough bean; Malawi mbatata cheese and sweet potato balls rolled in sesame seeds were less than memorable, but the Xhosa imifino spinach patties and Egyptian ta amiya white bean patties with coriander and parsley were kind of addictive, especially when dipped in the zeilook and iab.

Other sides included Congolese spinach and Egyptian koshery, made with noodles, rice, lentils, and tomato gravy. But the meat-crazed locals joining me for this experience were passing on these dishes, anxious for the meat courses still to come. Finally, our table received a lamb stew called mwanawa nkhosa, which, like much of the meat I have been served here, was more bone and fat than anything else. The Ghanaian groundnut chicken was delicious, though, even if it did taste like something on a Thai menu, and the Cape Malay coconut mussel curry may have changed my mind about those slimy little creatures. I hate mussels, so that speaks volumes about Africa Cafe's simple marinade.

Dessert was a confusing and disappointing brownie sundae, and I was left with mixed feelings about this place. The wait staff, despite their charming getup, seemed too crazed by the clock to make any impression on the environment. The decorations are representative of the region to

an extent, but a little over the top. While the food did lead me to excited exclamations at certain times, it was simply mediocre at others. In terms of African dining experiences, I'd say it is worth the drive to Stellenbosch to choose Moyo instead.

Linni Eats South Africa: Lalibela Game Reserve

2008-06-10T15:16:00.009-04:00

I know this site is not meant for hotel reviews, but my recent lodging at Lalibela Game Reserve was as much of a culinary safari as it was a wildlife experience, and it deserves that kind of attention.

I psyched myself up for a gluttonous vacation our first day, when the lodge hostess explained our gastronomical schedule—continental breakfast at 6:30, coffee and snacks after the sun rose, brunch around 11, lunch if we wanted it, high tea at 3:30, snacks and drinks at sundown, a pre-dinner glass of sherry, dinner and dessert at 7:30, then more drinks if we desired. I am exhausted just typing that, and my stomach recoils in fear at the memory.

Ok, maybe fear isn't the best word. Me and my lower half certainly enjoyed ourselves. But where to even begin explaining the diversity of dishes put before me on this trip?

We arrived midday and were almost immediately seated in a dining room lined with at least 30 djembes and lighting fixtures made of kudu horns and ostrich eggs. The buffet lunch featured a hearty and complex bobotie in a charming little iron pot—in case I haven't explained yet, bobotie is made by mixing ground beef with raisins and sweet spices, then topped with an egg custard and served over yellow rice. It quickly became one of my favorite South African dishes. Lalibela opened me up to a new world of bobotie, though, by serving it with condiments like banana slices, coconut shavings, cucumber yogurt salsa, and chutney. A fruit salad, parblended vegetable soup, and vegetable salad bar were also available, but I was especially blown away by the dessert options—camembert, brie, and bleu cheese on a wood block with preserved figs and walnuts, in addition to miniature lemon pies and mint-Amarula phyllo tarts.

I doubt even two hours had passed before they were calling us for high tea, which included meat pies, strawberries, kiwis, and coconut, chocolate, and biscuit truffles. On the night game drive, we stopped the car to have drinks, trail mix, and chutney-flavored crisps in a field of zebras. The post-drive, pre-dinner sherry was phenomenal, though I don't know how high my sherry standards are. Dinner was enormously packed with springbok stew, cheesy cauliflower, steamed veggies, rice with gravy, multiple salad platters, potato wedges, and a meringues drenched in some gourmet cherry pie filling. No, thank you, I will not be needing an after-dinner aperitif. I might pass out at this table, actually.

Their "light" breakfast had yogurt, fruit, toast, cereals, muesli, and cookies, and our coffee break on the game drive brought rusks into the equation as well. These are like biscotti—too crunchy to eat unless dipped in some beverage. The next big feast was already smelling good when we returned from our drive--we were met with eggs cooked three different ways next to fried mushrooms, roasted tomatoes, sausage, and bacon. Further down the line, I spread a crumpet with cream, doused it in sherry nut syrup, and topped it all off with more fruit salad.

Unfortunately, due to lions roaming wild, we were not allowed to hike or walk so the time between meals was spent digesting by the pool. My body hadn't done much to work up an appetite before they called high tea again. Lalibela's definition of high tea might not be up to British snuff, but you're not likely to hear complaints when chocolate raspberry and chocolate ganache cupcakes or pizza are on offer. I'd learned my lesson the previous day, though, and only nibbled, saving room in my dreams and my stomach for what dinner would bring.

Along with more company from new guests at the communal dining table, this evening's bounty came in the form of lamb with mint sauce, springbok schnitzel with bleu cheese sauce, mealie pap, green beans, and two cold side salads I had seconds and thirds of. One was a curried vegetable slaw and the other a simple mix of beans that must have been spiced by a magician because I could not get enough. And needless to say, I was more than full when dessert came round. I glanced at the brown lump in front of me and briefly considered foregoing sweets altogether that night.

But as they brought more and more of the decorative plates to the table, each swing of the kitchen door wafted more of the spellbinding aroma my way and my spoon had dug into the dish before I even had time to consider the capitulation.

And thank god for that decision, since this Cape Brandy pudding was possibly the best dessert I've had in South Africa thus far. It was a simple cake with pecan chunks throughout, but the brandy syrup drizzled on top had caramelized in the oven and the top layer was ever-so-slightly crunchy, chewy, a little like an under-fired creme brulee. I ate the whole thing and was going to town on my mom's leftovers before I realized I still had another day at Lalibela. Pace yourself, Linni.

Our final day's brunch had mushroom stroganoff and mince this time, and high tea featured lemon cream tarts and sandwiches. Our goodbye dinner had mixed meat curry, vegetable rice, cinnamon butternut slices, spinach salad,

carved chicken, steamed vegetables, and a ham and tomato couscous that looked and sounded simple yet outshined all the other dishes. Dessert was an apple raisin cobbler, served beside an adorable sprinkling of cocoa powder over a bushman stencil and almost as hard to stop eating as the previous night's masterpiece.

But it wasn't time for a detox diet yet—next stop, the Victoria Falls Hotel.

Linni Eats Stellenbosch: Moyo

2008-06-10T15:15:00.011-04:00

For the perfect marriage of sophisticated tastes and childhood thrills, look no further than a treetop table at Moyo, an African buffet paradise on the Spier Wine Estate in Stellenbosch. Not only do you eat in a glorified tree house, but costumed African women come round to paint your face in between courses!

While these course breaks are self-imposed, they provide much-needed downtime when you’re tackling a 180+ dish spread, spanning the entire continent of Africa from salads to desserts and everything in between. If dancers, singers, and other forms of entertainment weren’t around for distraction, food coma might settle in before you get to the Amarula cream sauce or rum spiced bananas, and that would just be a crying shame.

But I’m getting ahead of myself here—the adventure begins with bread. Sounds normal enough, but this is far from your average bowl of rolls. The plate’s edge is decorated with lumps of brie, coconut, and onion bread with coriander seeds, sweet potato and pumpkin bread with pumpkin seeds, Egyptian rose petal semit bread with sesame seeds, and fried Tunisian flat bread. In the center, tiny dishes of dukkah, harissa, and the most uniquely delicious hummus I’ve ever tasted await plunking. I took delicate bites and tried desperately not to fill up, but for what it’s worth, the Tunisians won the bread battle.

A moment of silent hesitation then came over our table as we shot questioning looks at each other. We had our drinks and now nothing was standing between us and the buffet, save for our climb down from the tree. Time to dive in.

The next hour or so of my life was a whirlwind of flavors. Many metaphors come to mind--a rollercoaster, or perhaps a carnival; it’s actually a wonder no stomachache came from such a multiethnic party in my tummy. I began with balsamic-marinated crunchy spinach leaves tossed with a spicy caramelized nut mix. The cold salad bar also featured a green bean and sun-dried tomato salad, a chickpea mint medley, and beets blended with caraway seeds, honey, and garlic. The meats were served with a saffron mayo and date chutney, and while the matured oryx fillet was satisfying, it was the condiments I couldn’t get enough of.

Over at the fish station, dorado was plated with mango relish and butter fish steaks were skewered and fried while you watched, along with grilled strips of calamari steak, marinated in molasses and peanuts.

There was more sea fare over in the potjiekos, a station overflowing with cast-iron pots filled with stews, potjies, and breyanies. The fish breyani was stunningly spiced but the eggplant potjie stole this show. It had a smokey, mushroomy thickness far more intoxicating than any meat—my entire table got seconds. I inquired about the recipe, but got a convoluted reply in a thick accent. I suppose I can’t blame the guy for not wanting to share the secrets to a dish so breathtaking.

There were also springbok shortribs and a lamb tagine roasting in stew pots, with an orange herb sauce on the side. This finalized my opinion that, despite their impressive efforts in every other category, Moyo’s specialty was sauces. My favorite part of the meal might have been using the leftover bread to soak up the date chutney and orange herb saffron soup collecting in the center of my plate.

The usual South African stars shone at dessert—a thick Amarula cream coated soft-serve ice cream, milktart, and especially syrupy koeksisters. I was a little surprised to see zucchini bread and brownies on an African dessert buffet, but neither disappointed. I’m not usually a fan of meringues, either, but these were the perfect texture complimented by dried apricots, crushed pistachios, and a chocolate drizzle. And the final surprise, pears spiced with thyme and rosemary and poached in a red wine that no doubt came from the nearby vineyard. They were reminiscent of Thanksgiving, not an altogether inappropriate sentiment given the amount of food we ate that day.

Those who prefer to recline after a big meal will find plenty of comfortable options at ground level, where futons are laid down beneath Moroccan-style tents and blankets are draped on the backs of chairs. For the ambulatory folk who get antsy after dinner, the restaurant stretches back into many enclaves, one a thickly forested garden path and another filled with colorful leather chairs, carved iron lanterns, mirror mosaic angels and brightly painted wine barrels. I don’t think we saw the entire space, but enough to decide this would be the perfect location for a wedding.

Unfortunately, due to shifting menus, we missed out on the potato and banana curry, gingered sweet potato lentils, butternut cheesecake, and sherry hazelnut cake, all of which sound like they could have tipped the delicate balance I found between hunger and uncomfortable fullness. How I arrived at that balance with so much food, I’m not too sure. My advice? Take one bite of everything. It may sound modest, but one bite each of 180 courses? You do the math.

But for extreme cases like the eggplant potjie, I’ll concede a bit—if it’s really good, take two bites.

Linni Eats Cape Town: Maharaja

2008-06-10T15:01:00.008-04:00

Call me ignorant, but I didn't know what halaal meant before coming to South Africa. Apparently it's like kosher, but for Muslims. Given the enormous Muslim population in Cape Town, it's a buzz word you can find stamped on anything from potato chips in the grocery store to a classy beach-front restaurant.

When I first walked into Maharaja, a University of Cape Town campus secret, I was a little put off. One dining companion had groceries in tow, and was almost sent home with her turkey lunchmeat. It wasn't because she wasn't buying anything from Maharaja's purveyor, but because he cannot allow meat in the store.

But luckily we weren't dismayed by this jolly Muslim man's religious restrictions. Call us immoral, but we pleaded and wore him down eventually-with his sunny disposition, it didn't take long. Say what you will about Europeans, but folks on the African continent have been nothing but friendly to us, even after hearing the first tones of a Yank accent. In fact, sometimes that brightens their mood even more.

This proved to be the first of literally countless trips to the Maharaj, who follow stricter halaal standards than most of the joints in Cape Town. The word literally means "permissible" in Arabic, and whether or not it connotes vegetarianism is debatable. This debate is a moot point at Maharaja, where the "chicken" curry uses TVP (Textured Vegetable Protein) in ways I never thought possible. An absence of meat was the last thing on my mind.

What I really came here for, though, was the bunny chow. This is a South African staple, made by filling a loaf of bread with a curry of your choosing. It started during Apartheid, when lower-class citizens were not allowed to sit down at restaurants and therefore needed portable dishes, issued through restaurant back doors. The chow came out to us portable as ever, wrapped in foil that gave way to heaping steam when peeled back. The thing was big enough to feed at least two and too hot to touch-I could hardly imagine carrying it an alley, but maybe the serving methods have changed.

Spilling over with butter beans and curry gravy, the bread was still light and downy, the kind you can squeeze into a ball then watch bounce back. I've ordered this many times since, though it's always a tough decision. There's the mushroom breyani, a highly-spiced, risotto-esque blend of creamy yellow rice and a marinated trio of mushrooms. Then there's the usual staples like palak paneer and tikka masala. But what it usually boils down to, at least for me, is bunny chow or rootie.

Ah, rootie. For you Midwesterners out there, this is like the roti prata served at Flat Top Grill when you put a blue stick in your stir fry concoction-only worlds better. Imagine the eggiest, doughiest, and greasiest pancake imaginable, then flatten it out, heat it in a little more butter for good measure, top it with a stew of butternut squash and chickpeas, then top it all off with some cucumber yogurt sauce. Sound heavenly? Well, it isn't my staple lunch here for nothing. Every Wednesday, before my African drumming class, the jolly Muslim man greeted me, never failing to offer a samosa even though I never ordered one. No, his smile and simple experiments with carbs and curry were enough for me. That, and the occasional banana coconut pineapple lassi.

Meat? Who needs meat?

Linni Eats Cape Town: The Old Biscuit Mill Neighborgoods Market Samples: 10.05.2008

2008-05-11T13:07:00.005-04:00

Quiche, 3 ways: Trout and cream cheese*
Mushroom and gruyere
Salami and olive
Portugese dark, light, and medium-bodied beers
Shiraz from Stellenbosch
Smoked olive tapenade
Roasted kalamatas
Green olives in lemongrass oil
Gorgonzola
Smoked tuna
Orange and ginger Turkish delights
Porcini butter*
Shitake bread*
Mushroom pate
White chocolate espresso beans*
Wasabi peanuts
Pecan pie tartlet
Cinnamon vanilla mixed nuts
Butterscotch brittle
Mushroom brie
Citrus stingers with sea salt
Plums poached in red wine
Brie in Moroccan dukkah
Hazelnut honey
Eucalyptus honey
Cape malay dukkah
Pineapple relish
Goji berries
Raw granola
Raw cacao bean
Ethiopian beberie*
Moroccan harissa and chermoula
Aubergine olive pesto
Rocket walnut pesto
Pancake truffle
Various onion marmalades
Spicy chili jam*
Olive marmalade
Figs
Blue cheese fig and walnut samosa*
Butternut feta spinach samosa
Cardamom clove mulled white wine
Chocolate flavors: White: egoli flake, saffron cardamom, lemon verbena
Milk: cape malay spice, orange, lavender
Dark: lime, pink peppercorn

[this is spread out over a long time period that would include breakfast and lunch]
[and the portions are all teeny]
[and we walk more than two miles each way to get there]
[shut up, it’s not called the FAT pack for nothing]

*things I am OBSESSED with

Linni Eats Stellenbosch: Sosati

2008-03-20T19:15:00.004-04:00

“Where can a girl get some ostrich around here?”

Could I be any more of a tourist? The hostel owner indulged in a quick laugh before maintaining his hospitality and pulling out a menu. Apparently a restaurant called Sosati’s down the road would be a good bet, but I perused the document to find not a single trace of ostrich. Bummer.

I wandered the streets, wondering if I’d ever get to try that bizarre South African animal, and decided to hit up Sosati anyways. The hostel gave us coupons for free wine there and here in Stellenbosch, the Napa of South Africa, that’s a guaranteed glass of delicious.

A Michael Clarke Duncan-esque waiter ushered us warmly into the exotic open space, sporting a bright orange dashiki that reeked of Oxy pride. The lighting fixtures were made of ostrich eggs and wildebeest antlers and cast a glow that I couldn’t help but relate to those cliché African sunsets you see in The Lion King. We were seated at a corner table, between a mini stage scattered with African instruments and a wall covered in one big zebra hide. It may sound like they were overdoing it, but it felt perfect.

I should begin by telling you that sosatie is a South African word used to refer to kebabs. We started our meal by avenging Steve Irwin’s death—that’s right, crocodile sosatie. This tasted like sweet and sour pork, and I’m not sure if that was the sauce or the typical taste of crocodile. There was a lot of fat on the wooden stick, but the parts with meat were pretty tasty.

Now, brace yourself for the next course: wildebeest, springbok and kudu sosaties. In case you’re like me and don’t know what a springbok or kudu is, there are ample photos online. They both appear to be members of the antelope family, but judging by taste all of these meats could be members of the cattle family. I don’t know what I was expecting, but they were just like steak.

At first bite, the three were indistinguishable. Slowly I began to notice subtle differences, though. Wildebeest was chewier and bloodier; kudu was lighter in tint and more pork-like; springbok was the most well-rounded in texture and taste, and my favorite of the bunch. This veritable feast of wild animal came with a side of mealie pap, another South African treat I’d been hearing about. This was a disappointingly bland white lump of starch, similar to polenta in texture but lacking in any flavor whatsoever. Our banana salad made up for it, though—sliced banana, papaya and pineapple were mixed in a creamy sweet mustard sauce and tossed with pumpkin seeds. This essentially served as dessert—our stomachs were too full to even consider dessert. This was unfortunate, considering the koeksisters being brought to tables all around us. These are fried shiny pastry braids similar to donuts, but drenched in syrup and surrounded by ice cream. As if that wasn’t amazing enough, their name is always good for a chuckle.

I could go on, but any writing talents of mine are rendered somewhat pointless here. Eating four different kinds of animal I’ve never tried before, many of which don’t even exist in the States, kind of speaks for itself. As the different waiters took turns banging on the drums and talking to us about Barack Obama and Michael Jordan, I had no choice but to lean back in my chair, fully content with my African experience. Because even though I haven’t seen many safari animals yet, at least I can now say I’ve eaten them.

Linni Eats Cape Town: Ocean Basket

2008-02-15T07:51:00.003-05:00

I’m a big fan of puns, so when I read that the slogan for the Ocean Basket seafood joint was “Your Sole Provider,” you could say I was hooked.

At Cape Town’s Victoria and Alfred Waterfront, it’s hard to tell where your best meal is hiding. Herds of tourists disembark from short boat cruises to Robben Island while others stampede through the mall on a hunt for “authentic” wooden salad spoons and carved ostrich eggs. Everyone’s hungry for seafood and it’s nearly impossible to tell the fried fish chains from the real thing. The Ocean Basket may not have been the most glamorous of the area’s offerings, but it certainly wasn’t the seediest either.

I should mention that we had my roommate and his friend in tow, both from Namibia, both sushi virgins and possibly even seafood virgins. Certainly chopstick virgins. That part was fun.

Our table of four decided to share a California roll, a salmon roll, and the Princess Platter. The table’s sushi veterans were unimpressed with the Ocean Basket’s take on those standard rolls that had too much rice and hardly tasted like fish, but we were too busy educating the Namibians to care. It was good that we saved room, however, because the main course was enormous.

The Princess Platter comes with 18 prawns, grilled sole, French fries, fried haloumi cheese, and grilled calamari steaks, all on a bed of spanich rice. The prawns, eyes and claws still intact, felt and tasted like buttery delicious lobster and were just as fun and messy to eat. I’m not usually a fan of calamari, but the little orbs they served were seasoned perfectly and gave me new appreciation for what goes into the glorified fried version you see on so many appetizer menus. The sole was also seasoned and grilled to perfection, and had a texture that reminded me of the ocean’s presence just outside the balcony.

The rice, bright yellow and infused with diced vegetables here and there, had sat patiently on the bottom of the fish, soaking up all the juices and waiting for us to discover it’s presence. The wait was worth it because I have never had rice that moist or flavorful, at least not outside of a risotto. And possibly my favorite part, though it would be impossible to choose, was the haloumi cheese. I think pan-fried cheese should just become a part of every region’s cuisine; those crazy Grecians yelling “Opa!” have the right idea.

Our waiter Wellington kindly wrapped up the massive leftovers we had while we paid the bill—less than ten dollars a person. Once the shock and awe wore off, me and my food baby collapsed on the bus and slipped into a rice-induced coma the whole way home.

Linni Eats Cape Town: Fat Cactus

2008-02-15T07:50:00.007-05:00

Call me ignorant, but when departing for my great South African adventure, I actually contemplated whether or not cows existed over here. I didn’t know what to expect in the way of milk or steak, and I was prepping myself for five desperate months without a taco. The thought gave me nightmares at first, but I was learning to cope.

So you guys back in California can understand how I felt upon hearing about a Mexican restaurant just a three-minute walk from Liesbeek Gardens, the res hall I call temporary home. And you can further feel my excitement upon hearing that this place has a happy hour from noon to 6, every day.

Six hour happy hour? Does it even matter if the food is good?

To me, yes. To a Mexican-obsessed, carnivorous, can’t-go-a-week-without-asada girl like me, a thousand times yes. So it was off to the Fat Cactus to test their tortilla-wielding skills, with a slightly diminished set of expectations than the ones I bring to California’s burrito joints.

Seated in our booth at this overwhelmingly decorated space, I could have convinced myself this was the States, easily. There was so much spurious Tex-Mex paraphernalia lining the walls that I half expected our waiter to come out and say “Welcome to Chili’s!” I appreciated the effort, but seriously—how the heck is the food?

The menu was definitely not limited to Mexican, that’s for sure—burgers and rib-eye steaks were easy to avoid, though, since they cost a lot more than the Mexican fare. I should mention that this section of the menu was called “South of the Border.” Funny, I’ve always wondered what type of food they eat in Antarctica.

Anyways, we started off with sweet potato puffers, which were basically sweet potato chips served with salsa, guacamole, and bean dip. The chips were baked so I felt better about gorging on them, but there was no excuse when the chips ran out and I went at the bean dip with my spoon.

Their quesadillas are named after musicians, and while the Elvis was tempting with its bacon and banana blend, I went for the Zappa—steak, jack cheese, and avocado. The steak was straight out of a taco truck, cooked in chunks and marinated in a fashion I thought only immigrants and Rick Bayless had mastered. They stayed true to their Chili’s roots by topping it with endless amounts of guacamole and sour cream, but it was easy to push to the side.

The feta and mushroom Clapton quesadilla was also satisfying, though not necessarily what you’d call traditional Mexican. Their nacho platters were big enough to be whole meals, and served that purpose for many at my table. The enchiladas were served deep-dish style in a mini casserole dish and I didn’t get to try them, but they looked appropriately melty and indulgent.

All in all, this meal was pretty pricey by Cape Town standards. Even happy hour marg pitchers set you back at least four dollars. It isn’t the cheap and greasy joint I’d hoped for with dollar tacos, but I can’t complain. At least I know now that there are some cows nearby to satiate those asada urges.

Linni Eats Cape Town: Nyoni's Kraal

2008-02-15T07:50:00.006-05:00

I’ve spent the better part of my young adult years wondering where the hell my last name came from. German, Irish, Swiss, French, Welsh—none of my heritage seems to suggest the bizarre word that is “Kral.” I’ve always felt a little alienated by its lack of meaning.

Slowly, though, the name has come up in bizarre places. In Amsterdam, I came across a Kral Photography, and my guidebook to South Africa mentioned that those colorful huts on the beaches are referred to as “kraals.” These Dutch hints finally lead me to Nyoni’s Kraal, a traditional South African restaurant on Long Street in the Cape Town city bowl.

Though the word itself is Dutch, the restaurant’s décor is very…safari. Elegant safari. The kind where you’d sport matching scarves, earrings, and pumps with your khaki fatigues. The staff is laidback and offered to put the African Cup of Nations game on for us, though it seemed very anti-whatever vibe this place was going for. The wealthy Afrikaner diners may have been put off, but we certainly pleased the kitchen crew, who peeked out to check the score every five minutes.

They brought out some steam bread for us with an assortment of garlic, chili, and herb butters. I should mention that steam bread may just be the perfect way to start a meal—the lightest, most airy slices I’ve seen, subtly sweet, encased in a thin crispy crust that is somehow as light as the rest of the loaf while still being crunchy. The menu was divided into many categories, including braai, South African, and Cape Townian. The Kraal purse was a starter of striped crunchy filo surrounding the spinach and feta mix that everyone in this city seems to go crazy for.

The local lasagna was a heavy endeavor, comprised of cream sauce-soaked vegetables in a bowl beneath a flat pasta sheet coated in melted cheese. (Other restaurants in the area have proven that that is how they do lasagna in Cape Town.) I tried a classic South African dish, the breyani, a hump of minced beef and rice with sweet Indian spices, topped with diced tomatoes and a cucumber-yogurt sauce and flanked by little fried bread balls that were hush-puppy-esque, though a little tougher and therefore not as good.

The meal was topped off with the epitomous Cape Town dessert item, malva pudding. This liquor-drenched spongecake was like gingerbread doused in brandy, served with vanilla cream sauce and ice cream. I’d been warned about this staple, as if it would be scary or difficult to sample, but it was definitely an enjoyable experience.

I was sad to see the safari come to an end, but delighted to know that if all else fails, I can identify with Dutch South African colonizers! They may have a history of oppression, but they sure know how to cook.

Linni Eats Cape Town: Cocoa Wah-Wah

2008-02-15T07:49:00.002-05:00

Cocoa Wah-Wah. I don’t even know where to begin. If ever heaven existed on earth, it may very well be in this South African paradise of refreshing drinks, Michael Jackson-obsessed waiters, and free wireless internet. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

This Eden hides on the main strip near the University of Cape Town. If it has any signage, it’s obscured by large trees—I thought it was a dentist’s office for my first few days here. But the whispers of free internet circulated and soon throngs of wireless-starved and Facebook-obsessed Americans made plans to visit the café.

The interior smacks of sunshine, with white, yellow, and orange everywhere. One side features a wall covered in alphabet magnets, which the waiters have arranged to say “Obama=Bliss.” There’s a basket with blankets and games like Monopoly and Jenga and a table stacked with magazines of every genre. Pastries adorn the countertop and bottles of hard liquor are propped upside down behind it, at-the-ready for shots when the slow wireless has got you cranky. The mirror in the bathroom says “You are beautiful,” but the African waiters will tell you the same in between their renditions of “Thriller” and old Craig David songs. And I haven’t even gotten to the food.

My first time around was a bowl of Bulgarian yogurt with meusli, papaya, pineapple, apple, and dried banana. In a place that seems casual, I was surprised to find they’d artfully drizzled a honey swirl across the bowl’s rim and dashed some cinnamon on there, too. Their drink specialty is the Crush, and the Mango Mint Crush gave me brainfreeze after blissful brainfreeze. The Chai Chiller aint half bad, either.

Moving on to sandwiches. While my dining companion wasn’t wowed by the sloppy mess of a cheeseburger, Cocoa specializes more in healthy fare. She sampled the Sun-dried Tomato and Feta Tramezzini during another visit and while the bread was a little too much for the minimal amount of ingredients, the taste was on par with other Cocoa fare. Their chicken and avocado wrap features orange-tinted chicken that tasted like tarragon, and all these sandwiches come served with a side of roasted veggies and the best fried potato wedges I have ever tasted—no joke, they actually look like potatoes and go perfectly with the South African ketchup that actually tastes like tomatoes!

Other winners on the menu include the Pesto Almond Pasta, grilled cheese and tomato, and grilled mozzarella, olive, and tomato sandwich. These pressed flat “toasters” are served on dark sandwich bread and are kind of a steal if you’re coming here broke. Another money-saver is the Breakfast Expresso, a standard breakfast of bacon, eggs, and toast with tomato slices and jam.

Have I still not convinced you to buy that one-way ticket to Cape Town? They offer a make-your-own-muffin service, where you drop by anytime before 11p.m., when they close for the evening, and put in an order for a muffin that you can then pick up the next morning. You can choose from a cocoa or pumpkin base and add things like espresso and white chocolate. Muffins that come standard daily include the spinach and feta, carrot cake, and banana meusli. And the star of their bakery case comes in the form of a chocolate-chocolate cookie with a fudge center that they insist on heating up for you before you eat it. It’s the size of a discus and weighs about the same.

Now that I’ve typed the longest internet café review in the world, I’m going to leave you on this note—all the things I’ve mentioned cost around 50 rand or less, which means you can walk away from Cocoa no more than six American bucks lighter than when you came in. Enjoy your flight.

Welcome to Cape Town!

2008-02-15T07:47:00.003-05:00

Whoever told me that South Africans eat nothing but meat and starch (cough, LonelyPlanet, cough) must have never visited the country. I’ve eaten a lot in just a few weeks, and while meat and starch play important and delicious roles, they’re far from the only thing offered.

That said, all bread I’ve tried is extremely hearty. Even the bread offered as a precursor to dinner at restaurants is brown and full of seeds. The one exception is steam bread, a traditional recipe with some beautiful name that I’ve forgotten, though I’m pretty sure it has clicks in it. The slices are very light, the interior moist and airy, while the thin crust provides a quite satisfying crunch. And to top it all off, there’s this fruity sweetness to it that I can’t place, but it’s unlike any bread I’ve ever tasted before.

We’ve had multiple braais, which is what the South Africans call their barbecues. They’re eerily reminiscent of American barbecues, serving meat with Italian salad, beer, and perhaps even beans. One afternoon, we got roasted lamb that fell apart after hours on the grill, all stacked in the corner of the braai, ready for scooping. I had way too much of this, and thanked the man behind the grill a zillion times. They’re very proud and competitive about their braais, so I figured it was the least I could do to show my appreciation.

Another braai served boerewors, a spicy sausage that was red inside, for some reason unknown to me (but I try not to question when things taste good.) The campus food is also stellar—we found a tiny Indian stand made of brightly painted wood, sort of giving off a circus vibe. The tiny woman behind it served up apple cinnamon, butternut squash, and spinach & feta samosas. Did I mention they were 60 cents each and the size of my fist? Did I also mention this stand is in the philosophy and politics building where all my classes are? Yeah.

They like to call their paninis “tramezzinis” here, tahini is referred to as sesame pulp, and sunflower seed oil is just sunflower fat. It’s very difficult to find skim milk or yogurt, I’ve only seen one McDonalds, and there are KFC’s everywhere.

Drinkwise, I’ve sampled the local Castle and Black Label beers (Black Label is the way to go, as if you can’t tell by the name). Amarula is their cream liquor from an African plant, but it’s pretty indistinguishable from Baileys. Instead of Smirnoff Ice with a variety of flavors, here they just offer Smirnoff Twist, a lemony bottle of 5.5% alcohol that could pass for Sprite if it really wanted to. I tried the locally-brewed sorghum beer, made from sorghum and served in a huge wooden bowl. To be quite honest, it tasted like beer-flavored yogurt that had been left out on the counter for a few days. But the experience of drinking it and passing the huge bowl around was a fun one.

And finally, I ordered my first frilly mixed drink in a restaurant my second night here—it had a fancy name that other Americans at my table knew, but I can’t recall. The umbrella spear sported some pineapple and lime slices and sat atop a mix of ginger beer, dark rum, and lime juice. At the risk of pulling a she-who-must-not-be-named, yummo.

I should also mention that, at a bar called Rafiki that played Sublime and the Beatles, I asked for a lime to accompany my tequila shot and was given another shot of lime flavored liquor. Noted.

GLOSSARY:
Boerewors—spicy sausage
Breyani—mix of rice and minced meat, sweetly spiced with yogurt sauce
Malva pudding—brandy-soaked sponge cake topped with vanilla cream
Geelrys—rice with raisins and spices
Blatjang—spicy fruit chutney
Smoorsnoek—flaked snoek with potato slices and tomato
Witblitz—strong spirit distilled from peaches
Sosaties—kebabs of meet, onion, and dried fruit basted in a curry sauce and grilled
Bobotie—minced beef baked with egg custard topping
Melktert—milk tart with cinnamon topping
Mealie papp—porridge/grits
Bunny chow—portable loaf of bread filled with curry, made during apartheid when blacks weren’t allowed in restaurants

STILL TO TRY:
mealie papp, bunny chow, ostrich, cape malay cooking, bobotie, melktert, sosaties

Linni Eats L.A.: El Huarache Azteca #1

2007-10-03T02:31:00.001-04:00

This world has myriad lessons to offer me. I’ve picked up quite a few gems of knowledge in school, in topics ranging from the mass media’s meddling in politics to oppressive post-colonial relationships. Outside of the Oxy bubble, however, I recently had a profoundly eye-opening experience just a half-mile east on York Blvd.

It is here, beyond Marty’s and The York, buried deep in a Spanish-speaking territory with a tendency to intimidate that you’ll find El Huarache Azteca #1. From the street, it looks just like any other Mexican hole-in-the-wall. They’re all over L.A., boasting carne asada tacos, burritos and whatever other doughy concoctions can be dreamed up to hold meat. They all look the same—dirty, nondescript and not worth the time or effort. Why take a chance on a seemingly broke-down storefront whose signs you can’t read and who barely has the wherewithal to name their restaurant? I’ll just stick to Leo’s for my taco fix, thank you.

At least this used to be my outlook, before I took said chance on huaraches. The word means sandal in Spanish, and I had to know what they were serving that not only warrants that name, but deserves to be the shop’s namesake. As it turns out, a huarache isn’t far from a sope—the thick, fried masa dough is shaped into an oval vaguely reminiscent of an Old Navy flip-flop and topped with the meat of your choosing, sprinkled with cotija cheese and cilantro and drizzled with milky crema. But here’s the kicker [pun intended]—the “shoe” is filled with a thin layer of refried beans. I made the mistake of gobbling this up too fast the first time, but that’s another lesson learned—take it slow. You have to appreciate the simple greatness of this dish, let it consume you, become one with the huarache.

El Huarache Azteca #1 holds a special place in my heart, not simply because it freed me from the false stereotype of dingy Mexican joints. I will always remember this place as the first time I tried lengua and huitlacoche as taco fillings—tongue and corn fungus, respectively. This restaurant offers you just about anything you want in any form you want it, from brain on a quesadilla to tripe in a burrito; you can even get their famed barbacoa on Saturdays and Sundays piled onto a sope or torta. The tongue was pink and softer than any meat I’ve ever tasted, while the huitlacoche had an almost bitter taste like the juice in a jar of kalamata olives.

The best part about taking risks here is that you won’t break the bank if you realize you don’t like to eat stomach lining after already paying for it. Three tacos and a pop cost $2.99, as does the huarachito (smaller huarache) served with rice, beans and a drink. In addition to the usual sodas and Jarritos, they have five large containers lining their countertop, filled with agues frescas made daily in a variety of flavors. Horchata will always be my favorite, but the pina is great for those who like something sweet and fruity, and the tamarindo offers a less-sugary, brown-hued substitute for you Coke-lovers out there. They’re so fresh, I didn’t even mind squeezing the chunks of pineapple through my straw.

The daily specials are also not to be missed—from the spicy albondigas on Mondays to Wednesdays’ mole verde and caldo de pollo, the soup-slingers and masa masters behind the counter here sure know what they’re doing.

So don’t be fooled by the plastic silverware and Styrofoam plates. Don’t let Highland Park’s dingy dollar stores and nameless storefronts keep you away from a culinary experience that blows corporate “clean” Mexican places out of the water. I’ve learned my lesson, and it’s time you learned yours—if a Mexican place doesn’t seem dirty and seedy, it probably isn’t good.

El Huarache Azteca #1
5225 York Blvd.

Linni Eats L.A.: Chungkiwa

2007-09-19T03:12:00.001-04:00

Surprisingly close to Oxy, past the chaotic strip of Alvarado known as Filipinotown and through a dizzying maze of strip malls, there is a magical place called Koreatown, home to the dining craze, Korean barbecue.

To describe my first BBQ experience in K-Town as overwhelming would be like describing Lindsay Lohan as an occasional drug user. Respectively, I have never been so confused and Lindsay has never had more reason to be in rehab. Upon entering Chungkiwa, I was too befuddled to even speak to the hostess about my dinner reservations. I instead stared at the enormous tables, set ablaze by tiny Korean women, empowered by their fire-starting ability and shared knowledge that they could serve unsuspecting white folks cow tongue without them knowing.

I was seated near a table of Korean business men and my party was late, so I had the opportunity to observe the process prior to placing my own order. I watched, simultaneously intrigued by the giant pit in the center of my table and the giant plates of raw meat being brought to the men beside me. Studying the menu proved fruitless, as most of it was in Korean, and I saw no buffet to uncomplicated the procedure—I was in pretty dire straits.

Mustering what courage I could in this culinary equivalent of a wild-life safari, I peeped at the waitress and pleaded for guidance. In what little English she had in her, she got the point across that we should order five plates of meat for our party of seven. We’d be needing two plates of the kalbi, their specialty beef short ribs, some chicken and pork for the less adventurous and a plate of kalbi with mushrooms. I have been having a love affair with mushrooms this summer and always make a point to order them, no matter the format in which they are being served.

I sensed we were being duped into spending too much, but figured that was almost unavoidable in a situation like this. Our waitress made a production of the routine fire-starting I’m sure she does hundreds of times in a day. In a flash of lighter fluid and matches, the pit in the middle of the table was set ablaze and soon enough slabs that closely resembled extremely thick-cut bacon were being tossed on, grilled and diced up with industrial-strength scissors.

I should mention that prior to the meat, our table was blanketed with countless mis-en-place dishes filled with various unidentifiable appetizers and accompaniments for our meal. The star of these snacks, known as panchan, was the sweet black beans—shiny and jet black, the sugary things appeared far healthier than they tasted. Winner of the most intriguing award definitely went to the bluish white sponge that tasted like nothing and turned out to be egg. What kind of egg and cooked in what way, I have no idea, but the waitress didn’t understand when I posed these inquiries. Oh, and did I mention all of these dishes are refillable?

Soon enough, the kalbi was roasting and filling our tiny back room with an aroma so intoxicating that I thought I’d accidentally downed one of the 40 oz. Korean beers available to those old enough to buy one—I, unfortunately, am not. Chungkiwa prides itself on serving all USDA-certified Angus beef from extremely juicy, lean and flavorful cows, and it shows—or should I say it tastes? Either way, we had no trouble finishing what I had originally considered an exorbitant amount of food. The steak is coaxed by the burners into wilting capitulation, melting in your mouth between the rice noodle sheets, given to wrap around the beef in a distant approximation of a sandwich. Fresh, thin daikon slices are also offered for this purpose.

The mushrooms were, of course, too delicious for their own good once steeped in the smokey aroma of Angus beef. Large silver pots of cold barley tea were constantly being refilled as we washed down swallow after swallow of the spicy kimchee and kalbi. Rather than having food leftover, my table was left picking at the scraps in the burner bowl as our waitress tried to carry it away.

My advice to those considering this adventure is to bring a Korean if you can find one—a wise Oxy student offered me this counsel and I ignored it. It isn’t that you can’t survive without knowing the language, because I’d like to think I did quite well for a first-timer with just a few years of high school French under my belt. However, it would have been nice to know what exactly I was dipping my fork into in those mysterious white dishes, how to ask about dessert or how to inquire about prices. At about twenty bucks for a plate of meat with all the accoutrements, the bill could be kept under control if you exercise caution, but I’ve heard that other K-Town offerings have all-you-can eat buffets for as little as $14.99. Chungkiwa’s Angus beef was undoubtedly spectacular, but you might want to try something like Tahoe Galbi if you’re pinching pennies. And, let’s face it, aren’t we all? Chungkiwa is located at 3545 W. Olympic Boulevard; Tahoe Galbi can be found at 3986 Wilshire Boulevard.

Linni Eats Chicago: Johnnie's Beef

2007-05-20T12:27:00.001-04:00

Well, it's summer and I have officially returned to the gusty winds and moody weather of Chicago. What better way to celebrate my arrival than a trip to the legendary Johnnie's Italian Beef in Elmwood Park? On the long stretch of North Avenue leading to the airport, Johnnie's tempts me to stay each time I depart for Los Angeles and I have daydreams of the juiciness as I suffer through southern California's dry heat.

Daydreams no more, my month-long cravings were satisfied on a recent trip to the miniscule store front that hides massive flavor. One step in the door and the smell alone reminded me of what I had been missing. No dreams of Johnnie's beef could do it justice, not even aromatic memories. The usual line extended out the door, but was actually pretty small for this time of year. Throngs will soon come from all corners of Chicago to wrap around the building like a necklace of summer salivations, frought with the anticipation of such a primal satisfaction.

You can spot the folks who have been here before by the way they order. "I'll take one beef, almost dry," requests one plump man, whose well-fed belly stretches out the front of his White Sox World Series Champs t-shirt. Another customer steps up behind him, this time a younger boy--"Two spicy beefs, two fries." This kid knows his stuff so well, he doesn't bother with any extraneous words. Others follow, hopefully knowing what they are doing or with someone who does. An aged woman, clearly a seasoned Johnnie's veteran, orders an extra-juicy beef and I look down at the tiny counter where my sandwich is propped, wishing I had ordered it a little more sauced. The no-nonsense workers behind the counter seem like the intimidating type, but they will actually accomodate just about any requests regarding juice and spice.

If you're feeling especially carnivorous (as I so often am) order a combo--this has an Italian sausage embedded in the beef sandwich, soaking up whatever amount of juice you've stipulated, providing a spicy kick to the surrounding meat and appropriately soaked bun. Their menu also offers tamales and hot dogs, but those in the know come here for one reason and one reason only--to get a taste of the best Italian beef in Chicago, the Midwest, and possibly even the United States.

Congratulations, Jonathan Gold!

2007-04-17T20:46:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, April 16, Jonathan Gold became the first food writer to win the Pulitzer Prize for Criticism. He has written for Gourmet magazine and is currently the food critic at the LA Weekly.

Big congrats to Jonathan, for bringing this incomparable level of respect to the world of food writing!

Linni Eats L.A.: Mi Piace

2007-03-29T23:44:00.001-04:00

Los Angeles has the most competitive restaurant scene I've ever witnessed. There are perfectly good restaurants that I wouldn't go back to eagerly, simply because there are so many new places to try. Why waste time eating somewhere you have already tried when you could test out that hot new Thai Latin fusion everyone's been talking about? Or that classic Italian trattoria that you can't believe you haven't tried yet? For me, wanting to visit a restaurant twice is an enormous compliment--you have got to have one hell of a menu for me to think there is something worth coming back for. This is not food elitism--it is the simple reality of living in this melting pot of people, cultures, and kitchens.

That said, I have found a restaurant I will willingly take guests to, will happily open the doors of time and time again, and that place is Mi Piace, an Italian showcase of glamour and glitz on the Colorado strip. Outdoor seating stretches the distance of three store-fronts and couples with dogs casually co-exist with elegant groups and hostesses who are too pretty for their own good. Your typical L.A. woman can be found in front of the dessert case, picking at her salad and trying not to glance up at the shining glass box of pastries that are actually prettier than the hostesses.

Seating varies from large wooden tables to low-riding white leather booths that require some mild gymnastics to get comfortable in. Once that is settled, a lively waiter will likely grace you with his presence, dripping with the charisma of an aspiring actor. He will bring you their trademark herb bread, delicious alone but out of this world with their vinegar-olive oil plate, poured simultaneously at the table to create a beautiful split.

The Fiammiferi di Zucchini, or crispy zucchini sticks, arrived next with a spicy roasted sweet bell pepper sauce. These were only ok, but no one noticed because our other appetizer was the Calamari Fritti, which came with a housemade lime, cilantro, and jalapeno dipping sauce that knocked us back in our loungey leather seats. These threatened to fill us up, as did the next course, salads. Insalata di Spinaci was a baby spinach dish tossed with dried Michigan cherries, sliced strawberries, caramalized pecans, California goat cheese, and a star anise apple cider balsamic dressing. The description alone is a mouthful, and the taste was equally overwhelming in the best possible way.

The absolute star of the meal arrived for me next--Ravioli Al Burro E Salvia, ricotta and pumpkin ravioli in brown butter and creamy pesto sauce. The creaminess of this dish forced me to close my eyes momentarily, and the lids continued to flutter as I detected strong hints of sage from the leaves perched atop the fresh pasta. The ravioli, made entirely from scratch, was featherlight and thin, just strong enough to hold it's heavenly sweet pumpkin interior, which tasted exactly like Thanksgiving.

One of the day's specials, the Osso Bucco di Vitello, featured a slow-braised veal shank with port wine, julienne of carrots, onions, celery, tomatoes, and fresh thyme, all atop a mushroom risotto. This came close to the angelic status of my previous dish, and next in line was the Petti di Pollo, a roasted free-range chicken breast stuffed with mozzarella, pesto, and basil and served with a couscous-fresh vegetable medley in a creamy roasted garlic sauce. Their side pasta dishes all shine the brightest--it is clear that the couscous and risotto were made from nothing but flour, eggs, and dedication to good food.

I really enjoyed the feeling that Mi Piace knew me, understood how I operated and could push just far enough without filling me up. Your typical Italian joint loads you up with enough pasta to feed a family of marathon runners, and many would argue that is tradition and that is how it should be. Mi Piace, however, also prides themselves on their bakery--all bread and desserts are made by their own Pasadena Baking Company. Luckily, the portion sizes were perfect to leave us ready and willing to tackle that dessert case in front. Throwing caution to the wind, we ordered a dreamy mango mousse, the New York style cheesecake, the mysterious banana pyramid, and a miniature apple pie. Some of these may sound basic, but believe me, they were not.

The apple pie held a secret savory dash of rosemary, which elevated the American flavor to gourmet status. The cheesecake came in a neat circular unit, seated atop a brownie crust, rolled in chocolate sprinkles, and capped by decadent chocolate frosting and caramelized pecans. The mango dish was more like a petit four, with an airy cake surrounded by a thick mango sauce. The mystery of the banana pyramid was solved, much to my delight, when we discovered a banana cream filling on a thick chocolate crust, rolled in almond chips. This was all presented so beautiful, we almost didn't want to eat them.

On top of all the spectacular things we did try, there were at least five other menu items I need to come back for. To give you an idea of how extensive the menu is, let me just tell you that half of our party was stuck in traffic for 30 minutes and we still hadn't decided by the time they arrived. As if that weren't enough, Mi Piace's kitchen dishes us breakfast as well. The Waffles Bambinos are four baby waffles with sauteed bananas, walnuts, and brown sugar. They also offer savory breakfast items like the Smoked Salmon Fritatta and Spinach and Mushroom Croissant. As swanky as the space can be at night, it would be just as good for people-watching on a Sunday morning by yourself or with the whole family. There is really no group you can't take here, it has something to satisfy every taste. I can't recommend it enough and I am waiting with bated breath to see what my next visit will bring.

Mi Piace
25 E. Colorado Blvd.
Pasadena, CA
(626) 795-3131

Linni Eats L.A.: The Counter

2007-03-29T02:35:00.001-04:00

When it comes to making your dining experience one of a kind, the folks at the Counter get right to the point by handing a clipboard to anyone who enters the crisp, modern Santa Monica space. Chic silver chairs and cool blue walls give a clean background for the eclectic art and wine collection adorning the walls. The diversity of design carries over into the patrons who stockpile at tables and of course, the Counter. Sit here to avoid the waiting list for a table and gain the added bonus of a menu tour guide—the staff behind the bar will answer any questions you have about the menu, as well as offer suggestions about their favorite combinations.

Each clipboard comes standard with a menu printed at the bottom, including regular specials like the 50/50 fries, where your table gets to choose two fried items from the list of sweet potato fries, fried onions, and regular old French fries. They also serve uncommon fare along the lines of cranberry-topped turkey chili and hobo packets, a childhood camping favorite of mine that involves taking whatever veggies you’ve got, wrapping them in foil and tossing it in the fire. The result is delicious and I’ve never before seen a restaurant try it.

Above this menu, you’ll find a tear-off checklist of burger accessories, organized into neat sections to simplify the near-impossible task of designing your sandwich. First, choose your meat—their beef is freshly-ground 100% natural Angus from corn-fed cattle raised on an all-vegetarian diet, but if you’re not feeling that, go for the turkey or veggie burger, or even grilled chicken. Next up, decide how hungry you are—burgers come in 1/3, 2/3 and 1lb. sizes. I chose the 1/3 lb and it was definitely enough, but there’s no shame in going big! Cheese comes next, and I chose the Danish Blue Cheese from an agonizing list of ten amazing choices. To complement that, I chose dried cranberries, grilled pineapple, mixed baby greens and avocado from the list of toppings and with the help of a friendly staffer, chose the apricot sauce to dip it all in. The fifth and final step is choosing your bread—hamburger buns, honey wheat buns and English muffins are all available, as well as the option to have your burger in a bowl on a bed of lettuce.

When this masterpiece arrived, I didn’t even want to disrupt the beautiful display with my silly mouth. I couldn’t bite into this any more than I could bite into a Monet painting! But of course, the hunger that developed in traffic en route to Santa Monica overcame me. The leaning tower of beef was toppled, the heavens opened up, naked chubby babies with harps sang to me…ok, not quite. But this was one of the best burgers I have ever tasted. Call me crazy, but for a moment I wished the toppings weren’t in the way so I could just taste the pure, unadultered cow.

Mine was cooked medium-well, but the menu suggests getting it done medium and after sampling my friend’s medium patty, my lesson was definitely learned. This didn’t stop it from being appropriately crumbly, juicy and moist, the perfect base for the salad of toppings I had selected. The waitress said I could try another sauce if I thought the apricot was too sweet, but it was just right for this fruity sandwich. The English muffin I ordered wasn’t dry or rigid like I feared. It absorbed the mixture of blue cheese morsels and sauce and hugged the interior like a crunchy blanket. I also got to try a medley of lettuce, avocado, american cheese, and dill pickles with honey mustard and the melted cheese took the burger to a whole new gooey dimension, wholly distinct from the blue cheese experience.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed by the 27 toppings listed, they do have a few tried-and-true recipes on the menu, as well as a burger of the month. They featured a halibut burger with jicama slaw while I was there, and I can’t wait to go back and try their namesake Counter Burger, served with sharp provolone, lettuce, tomato, fried onion strings, sautéed mushrooms and sun-dried tomato vinaigrette. There’s also the herb goat cheese spread and gruyere left to sample, the caramelized onion marmalade and roasted garlic aioli have yet to tantalize my taste buds, and I won’t even get into the laundry list of toppings I have yet to explore—lets just say there are sun-dried tomatoes and honey-cured bacon strips in my future.

Believe it or not, this whole sandwich was under ten bucks, and the entire bill was less than 15 when you add my apple pie milkshake, with actual pieces of crust and apple blended in. They also whip up banana, peanut butter, and coffee flavored shakes and malts. The only downside to the Counter is its location, easily a half hour drive from Oxy, but if you get some friends together for a beach trip and make a day of it, I promise you they won’t let you down. For a full menu and locations, visit www.thecounterburger.com.

Linni Eats Chicago: Hot Doug's

2007-03-10T19:22:00.001-05:00

When I emailed Hot Doug to inquire about the day's specials, he replied pleasantly, signing the message "Sausagely, Doug." This is just a preface to the wonderful things he will continue to do throughout the story of my first experience at Hot Doug's Sausage Superstore and Encased Meat Emporium. I can only hope this will be the first of many entries to come, as he rotates his specials on a daily basis.

We arrived at 3:45 on a Saturday, one of the only days out of each week that Doug dishes up his Duck Fat French Fries(the other day is Friday). The store closes at 4pm and a line of at least 20 people wrapped its way outside and down the block. I parked right out front and could smell the goods before even opening the car door. After a chilly 20 minutes outside, debating whether or not we would make it inside, the warmth finally blanketed us, as did all of the Elvis memoribilia and pictures of people with sausages. This all rested on a pervasive paintjob of primary colors with a giant quote in glittery writing across the wall: "There are no two finer words in the English language than 'encased meats,' my friend."

The specials menu captivated me with tales of Ale & Chipotle Buffalo sausage with Hard Cider mustard and Monterey-Jack cheese and Mediterranean Lamb Sausage with Red-Curry Garlic sauce and Feta cheese. A man on his way out cheerily shouted "Try the rabbit," but unfortunately the White Wine and Dijon Rabbit sausage with Truffle sauce Moutarde and Port Salut cheese that he was referring to was finished for the day. We made our final choices only to be struck by a small cash-only sign. I experienced waves of disappointment to think I couldn't afford the duck fat fries and a special sausage. Apparently, I conveyed these emotions well because next thing I knew, Doug was writing down duck fat fries on our order sheet, saying he couldn't have anyone looking that sad in his store. He cheerily took what money we could give him and told us to get some drinks and find a seat, never once expressing irritation with us.

The order was out in a few short minutes, and the waittress was happy to dump an obscenely large order of the fries on our table. They didn't look like anything impressive but as soon as I popped one of the skinny delights, totally condiment-free, I was overcome by a flavor never this apparent in regular fries. They weren't the super-crispy texture I usually look for, but it didn't matter. They were dashed with grains of sea salt visible to the naked eye, a perfect complement to the smokey, natural flavor.

It was tough to halt my frenzied shoveling action with the fries, but my Apple and Cherry Pork sausage awaited, with Sweet Dijon mustard and Blue cheese, all drizzled with honey and topped with Griottes (tiny canned sour cherries). I ate in brief silence for a minute and closed my eyes to shut out the madness of the restaurant's interior. It was kind of mind-blowing.

Unfortunately, it probably has the potential to blow arteries as well as minds. I opened my eyes to observe the range of healthy-looking customers as well as the more full-bodied ones, and I could tell they were all dedicated Doug-followers, for better or worse. With delirious smiles plastered on everyones' faces, who can even bother to think about the nutritional value of the various encased products? My stomach can't wait to try them all, no matter how my heart feels.

Check www.HotDougs.com to see the day's specials before you go.
Open Monday-Saturday, 10:30-4:00
[If you're outside in the line by 4pm, he will serve you]
3324 N. California
Chicago, IL

Linni Eats L.A.: Señor Fish

2007-03-04T14:49:00.001-05:00

When I say that I have found the cheapest and best seafood in all of Los Angeles, I doubt a small Mexican restaurant in Eagle Rock comes to mind. Believe it or not, this is the case at Senor Fish, where rainbow Christmas lights hang year-round on the wooden porch out front. Massive tree trunks poke up through the floor-boards and one might find themselves leaning their back against one while sitting at one of the lower picnic tables or bar stools that complete the eclectic atmosphere.

A dry-erase board inside lists the day's fresh fish specials. There are usually about eight, but they get erased as the kitchen runs out, a sign of their interest in freshness and quality. Sea bass, salmon, and swordfish tempt you away from the carnitas and asada usually ordered in a taco joint, and listings of fresh tuna and trout distract from your average pastor. Arguably the most popular dish is the Callo de Hacha, an enormous and well-constructed scallop burrito filled with spanish rice, beans, and surprisingly high-quality fish for only 6.50. Not only is this the only place I've ever seen a scallop burrito, it's also probably the only place serving multiple scallops for under seven dollars.

These flakey morsels also work their magic in the soft-shell scallop tacos, amazingly 2.75 each, topped with cilantro and cheese and served with pinto beans and rice. Despite their emphasis on fish, the asada taco was just as good, and I'm willing to bet they don't slack off on the pork or chicken dishes, either. They offer to grill any fish for you, if you prefer that texture, and any of the day's specialty seafood can be ordered in taco, burrito, tostada, torta, enchilada, and quesadilla form. The scallops in the burrito were soft and juicy, while those in the tacos were grilled to achieve an irresistible crunchy exterior.

One might think that it is easy to get away with using mediocre seafood if it is just going to be mashed up in a burrito, but I tested this theory and was shot down. The baby green salad gave the orange roughy room to shine, and shine it did. On a bed of mixed greens, avocado, and mandarin oranges and topped with cotija cheese, this fish was better in quality than a lot of what I've been served in upscale seafood restaurants. And this cost less than ten dollars.

I recommend starting with chips and guacamole, just like any other Mexican joint. Their chips are fried to the point of amazing and there is a full bar of salsa options, of which we tried at least 5. And if you think the dinner prices are cheap, head back for the lunch special, which includes a drink, rice and beans, and two tacos of your choosing for 6.50, 7.50 if you choose shrimp or scallops. And as if they hadn't spoiled us enough, they also offer a weekend breakfast menu. Next time you're craving incredibly good seafood, don't get bogged down by visions of high-class snobs rude waiters, and depleting bank accounts. Senor Fish is making incredibly good seafood at all hours of the day, and you won't have to break the bank for any of it.

Linni Eats Newport Beach: Haute Cakes

2007-03-04T13:35:00.002-05:00

When you spot the long line lingering outside of Newport Beach's Haute Cakes Caffe, don't be dismayed--you will need that time to decide from the delicious menu. The restaurant's owner will serve you fresh strawberries with greek yogurt as you contemplate your options, and will even field questions about their breakfast offerings and that day's specials. If nothing on the menu tickles your fancy, the line also offers a great view of the prepared pastry case, practically overflowing with red velvet cupcakes, quiche slices, and myriad other morning pastries.

When it's finally your turn, be sure to get some of their fresh-squeezed orange juice, and try to fit pancakes into your order somewhere--it is their namesake, after all. Their specialty blueberry cornmeal variety is a classic, safe bet, but the orange ricotta is also worth a shot. If you're watching your figure and these carbs sound terrifying, fret not. Mona's Breakfast offers egg whites cooked with spinach and salsa and is served with a bowl of haute oats, berries, and non-fat milk. This healthy choice is just as good as the carbo-loads and disappears from the plate just as fast.

The Mexican Scramble is another one that doesn't stick around for too long--despite ample portion sizes, it is just hard to put the fork down at this place! Chorizo, tomatoes, onions, potatoes, and queso fresco are served with guacamole and sour cream and one can't help but savor those flavors, silently gobbling up all the eggs in sight. They offered a special scramble that day with sausage, onion, and apple and the owner was kind enough to make a half size for me. The Haute Scramble was also served in half size and featured tomato, basil and spinach.

Another special, and arguably the best, was the hot cereal. It sounds a bit boring, but there is nothing plain about the warmth of five grains served with sunflower and pumpkin seeds, almonds, dried cherries, and fresh bananas topped with a dollop of cool, refreshing greek yogurt and drizzles of honey. Why this isn't a regular menu item, I do not know, but I would pay good money to have this appear on a more regular basis.

The restaurant is tucked away off of the street and offers outdoor seating in a relaxed setting, where you may find yourself surrounded by beautiful, well-behaved dogs and babies of all shapes and sizes. Wealthy Newpsies in their velour track suits make for some interesting people-watching, and the owner makes frequent trips around the patio to socialize. Sunday mornings can be rough, but this is a place worth waking up for. If you can't get yourself out of bed before noon, they also have a lunch menu, featuring more classy fare like the brie sandwich served with oven roasted tomatoes, basil and balsamic all on a toasted baguette.

Linni Eats L.A.: Souplantation

2007-03-04T13:17:00.001-05:00

It was always my goal to keep chain restaurants out of this column, but I have recently experienced a delight in Pasadena that everyone should know about. This temple of good health and choices is called Souplantation, and it is chain-dining at its finest.

The buffet begins with 55 feet of salad bar stretching down the neck of the restaurant. On a Saturday night at dinner-time, a line weaves down both sides and out the door of the Lake Street location. There are mixed salads available at the start of the line as a foundation for less creative folk—cranberry chipotle spinach salad with walnuts was one such mix. A plethora of dressings are set out with calorie-counting labels and tiny sample cups. The creamy cucumber was refreshingly light and I opted to get some on the side to dip veggies into.

After paying the absurdly reasonable price of $8.99 for all-you-can-eat, we moved on to the soups. Here, sampling is also a possibility—pour yourself some soup and if it’s not what you want, just get something else! The Spanish Albondigas meatball soup with cilantro sounded tasty, but it turned out I was more in the mood for chili. I bypassed the pasta options, though it was tough to not swoon over the warm glow of the mac ‘n’ cheese. A fruit salad bar and a bakery corner battled for my attention until the baby apple bran muffins finally swayed me with their oatmeal topping. These sat nestled between baskets of baked potatoes wrapped in foil and other muffins, rolls and brownies. A giant pan of apple crisp beckoned to me, but manners told me to wait for dessert.

A multitude of juice options jumped out in bright colors from clear plastic containers and the vivid pineapple slices and strawberries sat dangerously close to the frozen yogurt machine. My tray was full. It was time to sit down.

After promising not to go back up, I began round two by snagging six muffins to wrap up and put in my purse. My dining companion and I felt like old ladies, and I joked about stealing some sugar packets as well. After our brief period of kleptomania subsided, it was really time for dessert. The frozen yogurt machine was accompanied by all the sundae accoutrements you could think of, including granola and Oreo crumbles. A delightful Souplantation employee was very excited about refilling the Oreo container for us and insisted we fill our bowls to the brim—this idea was met with no resistance on our parts. The frozen yogurt also paired well with the apple crisp, though it was divine on its own as I kept going up for seconds…and thirds…and fourths.

Quite the opposite of food coma, we left the restaurant in a hyperactive food high, snagging cornbread on the way out and trying to conceal our purses full of rolls. The cornbread was the best we’d ever tasted, with bits of corn baked right in and it went especially well with the honey-whipped light butter they offer. The line had shrunken since we arrived, so if you are headed here on a weekend, it might be best to go later. You could also wait until Sunday morning, when they have a breakfast buffet. I can’t wait to see what I can steal from that! So despite it’s West coast infamy as a run-of-the-mill chain buffet, I insist you go see for yourself before writing it off. They certainly have more salad bar options than a school cafeteria.

Linni Eats L.A.: Malagueta

2007-02-14T20:29:00.001-05:00

Colorado Blvd. zips through Old Town Pasadena in a flourish of magicians and overpriced boutiques, of diagonal crosswalks and captivating cafes. There are restaurants on top of restaurants, literally in the case of J.J.’s Steakhouse, which sits atop Melting Pot, which sits atop Kabuki. Amid all of this bustle, it’s hard to find a truly stellar, mind-blowing dining experience every time. This is where Malagueta steps in.

In the grand tradition of Pasadena cuisine, it combines exotic cooking styles for a Brazilian-meets-Mediterranean festival of delicious. There is prime people-watching to be had, so sit outside if you can. Inside, the restaurant’s wood-burning oven casts a glow on the happy diners. The pile of logs next to it provides a cozy juxtaposition with the contemporary bar’s vividly illuminated bottles.

The menu of Homer-esque proportions has small pictures in the back to serve as a guide to the laundry list of foreign dishes. Take a risk and share the Brazilian or Mediterranean Sampler, both of which feature a large selection of traditional finger foods with names you might not recognize. We ordered the Brazilian variety, which included Bossa Nova bread that resembled cheese puffs, plantains, hearts of palm, calabresa sausage and fried yucca with their signature salsa that is more like a choppy chutney. Yucca is a root not unlike a potatoe and at Malagueta, they slice it thinly and serve it like French fries;. Calabresa is a Brazilian take on pepperoni that is sliced smoothly and has an addictively sweet taste. The plantains, a fruit similar to the banana, are grilled with an aptness that leaves them neither greasy nor mushy.

Our pleasant waiter was attentive despite the fact that we were his only outdoor table, and brought water refills and drinks, like the Guarana soda, promptly. Half the meal may be spent deciding on an entrée from the extensive, multi-page and multi-meat list. They offer the Brazilian Barbecue craze, Churrasco, as well as pizzas from the wood-burning oven. Pizzas can be topped with virtually anything, from banana to smoked gouda and from shrimp to calabresa sausage.

The Northern Brazilian specialty Moqueca de Camaro involved ample chunks of silky shrimp sautéed in cilantro, onions, tomatoes, pepper, dende oil and coconut milk. It was served with more of the plantains, as was the Bife Acebolado. This abundant serving of skirt steak was also topped with onions, garlic and parsley and was accompanied by black beans and rice, which all blended together in a jumble of juices and spices that I could not stop eating, long after I was full. If you’re feeling really hungry, the Gaucho ribs offer a thicker cut of beef and additional yucca French fries with the entrée.

The menu also has pastas, salads and more Mediterranean fare, including the Mediterranean Sampler, which features falafel, grape leaves, hummus, yogurt and cucumber dip, taboule and pita bread. They do offer some simple desserts such as flan and chocolate cake, as well as myriad inventive cocktails if you’re of age. The proximity to 21 Choices ultimately kept me from tasting any of these treats, however, and I went on to stuff myself full of fro yo. There is always next time—I will definitely be returning to Malagueta, which is a huge compliment to any eatery on the dizzying Colorado strip.

Linni Eats L.A.: Cafe Cordiale

2007-02-14T20:13:00.001-05:00

We can all appreciate the age-old pastime of going out to dinner with friends, but occasionally an evening needs more substance than the simple pleasures of a good meal. Look no further than Café Cordiale, a charming late-night spot in Sherman Oaks that is also open for lunch during the week and brunch on the weekends.

Café Cordiale features aspiring musicians that perform while you dine every Thursday-Saturday night. The acts stand in front of a red velvet curtain, separating them from the bustling kitchen. The restaurant is divided into two rooms by sliding glass doors that are pulled open to include all diners in the private concert. The candlelit tables and exposed brick walls are charmed by the assortment of wooden chairs and upholstered benches.

Waiters in formal wear brought out the first course, which consisted of Salmon and Lobster cakes and Appetizer Pizza. The cakes were served with deliciously fresh mixed greens and a light mustard sauce and offered an interesting new take on your average crab cake. The pizza, which had a flashy menu description, arrived on a boring circular plate looking like it came from Domino’s. The breadbasket was equally uninspired, making it evident that they must not have a baker on staff.

I waited patiently for my cup of the daily soup special, Carrot Ginger, and had forgotten about it by the time our entrees arrived. The Butter Lettuce Salad featured asparagus, avocado, bleu cheese, tomatoes and pine nuts and the chef was kind enough to add a salmon filet for me. This all went together beautifully, and the salmon was equally outstanding when served alone with a delicate dill and shallot cream sauce. The Grilled Orange Roughy made me do a double-take, cooked to some sweet perfection I had never before experienced in a white fish. The daily special Filet Mignon, as well as all other meat and seafood entrees, were served with a refreshing combination of squash, zucchini and broccoli, cooked without the excess butter that often weighs veggies down.

Our waitress must have gone on break when I remembered my absent soup. By the time she resurfaced, I was full and the first musician of the night had begun to perform in the tri-weekly Acoustic Cordiale act. The volume was just loud enough to demand your attention, while still allowing for some side conversation about what desserts to order.

We settled on the Black & White Chocolate Mousse cake and Crème Brulee, sadly saving the Bread Pudding with dried apricots and French Apple Tarte Tatin for next time. The mousse resembled cheesecake with its double-decker white-and-dark chocolate creams stacked atop an Oreo cookie crust. The chef had achieved the perfect texture for the crème brulee crust, which had no burnt spots and was joined by a generous piling of strawberries.

It was probably the slowest I have ever eaten a crème brulee, but it is worth post-poning the meal as long as you can to hear the music, even on amateur acoustic night. The café usually features R&B/Jazz groups on Thursdays and Saturdays, R&B on Fridays, and Rock or Acoustic on Wednesdays. Their schedule is available online at http://www.cafecordiale.com. The menu can be a bit of a gamble, but the stirring atmosphere and quality of certain dishes makes it worth the drive.

Linni Eats L.A.: Gingergrass

2007-02-01T16:26:00.001-05:00

The Los Angeles area is saturated with Vietnamese restaurants, and it seems like stumbling into any of them could satisfy a quick pho fix. Gingergrass, however, shines brighter than the rest on its quiet corner in Silver Lake. The modern American interior and matching clientele could have indicated low food quality, but I decided to give it a shot.

The inter-workings of the kitchen are on full display behind a casual take-out counter. This is an interesting juxtaposition next to the swanky dining room, warmly lit by giant canvas orbs that hang from the ceiling’s wooden rafters. The day’s specials are displayed on a fuss-free chalkboard, bragging of dishes from clay-pot vegetables to whole crab. My table decided to start with the appetizer special, Shrimp Yam Fritters, which came out deeply orange, fried and delicious at the ridiculously affordable price of 4.95. We munched on irresistible, light shrimp chips while waiting for this and the next course.

One of the restaurant’s most popular dishes, the Banana Leaf Fish, featured a tilapia filet steamed to flakey, fork-tender perfection in banana leaves with lemongrass and ginger and topped with a tomato whose zing complemented the other flavors well. Strips of flank steak had also been cooked in the eatery’s namesake combination of ginger and lemongrass, and served cold atop cabbage, red peppers and jicama in the Mako salad. The beef was a little tough and chilled for my taste, but made a palate-pleasing turn when it showed up in the beef noodle bowl. This dish was accidentally sent to the wrong table, but showed up under 10 minutes later and was free due to the error.

Our waiter joined in our dessert vacillations, agreeing to surprise one of my companions with his favorite dish and talking up another about a shared obsession with the TV show Lost. The desserts came to our table in a flourish of balanced, artful plates. Taro flavored ice cream arrived in a small bowl garnished with mint leaves, while fried Banana Spring Rolls descended on a plate criss-crossed with chocolate sauce. The Coconut Lime Bars consisted of four squares, all refreshingly cool and silky. Horchata ice cream was also quite pleasurable, though heavy on cinnamon and too light on that ricey sweetness characteristic of the Mexican drink.

It is evident from the variation in their ice cream flavors that Gingergrass is attempting to marry two L.A. standards. They toss in local flavors while remaining true to the authentic Asian cuisine so many people look for in southern California, while pulling off a high-class interior that is also laidback. Dark wood tables and beige runners are surrounded by Vietnamese families and local students alike at this appeasing, affordable Silver Lake secret.

Linni Eats L.A.: Mia Sushi

2006-12-11T16:50:00.001-05:00

Eagle Rock, a modest neighborhood in northeast L.A., wouldn't immediately strike you as the place to go for a glamorous sushi experience. That's the beautiful thing about Los Angeles, though--like a tree that grows in Brooklyn, you can always count on the city of angels to sprout elegant eateries in the most unexpected parts of town.

Enter Mia Sushi, nested between a liquor store and law office on the Taco Truck-laden Eagle Rock Boulevard. The place is soaked in swank, with a water fall in the outdoor seating section, chrome and wicker seating arrangements, and warm orange lamps that add an irresistible glow to the dark red and tan walls.

I came with a large group of 8 people and we were late, but the hostess was nothing but pleasant as she seated us. The equally agreeable wait staff brought out drinks and edamame in a timely fashion, considering the large Friday night crowd they had. The bar offers all the regular nigiri and sushi, but also has an extensive list of specialty rolls, all paying homage to local attractions and street names. From this list, we sampled the Colorado, Oxy, Highland Park, and Eagle Rock rolls. The Colorado, named for one of the town's main boulevards, featured salmon, cream cheese, and avocado, fried with a crunchy tempura exterior and drizzled with creamy lemon sauce. The crunch of the tempura was fantastic, as was the presentation. The roll itself was a little bland and the lemon flavor was almost nonexistent, but it was almost too pretty to notice those things.

The Oxy roll, named for nearby Occidental College, showcased salmon, shrimp, white fish, avocado, and cucumber baked in Mia's special sauce. I don't know what that special sauce involved, but this creamy masterpiece basically exploded in my mouth, with the perfect combination of ooze and flavor. (There was some argument over who got to finish these.) The Highland Park roll was a basic California roll topped with baked scallops in eel sauce. This tasted great, but the scallops did not hold together or stay on top of the roll and not even the best chopstick users at our table could eat one successfully.

We also sampled the octopus, which had great texture and was plated beautifully. The last of the specialty rolls we tried was the Eagle Rock roll, made up of spicy tuna and asparagus with a fried tempura coating and lemon sauce. This was more flavorful than the Colorado, probably due to the spice of the tuna and the crunchy asparagus, but the lemon flavor was still missing in action.

For dessert, we were given their Strawberry and Banana Tempura on the house for a birthday in our group. It was served with whipped cream and chocolate sauce and despite the odd appearance of the fried fruit, it tasted incredible. Be careful, though--the strawberries have maximum tongue-burning potential.

The ambiance was great--everyone at nearby tables seemed to be thoroughly enjoying their dining experience in this misplaced oasis of laidback trendiness. It manages to exude a vibe of modernity without going over the top, and while the sushi may not be the best I've ever had, Mia certainly provided a pleasurable evening--the hostess even hugged our birthday girl on her way out. This place has a lot of promise and I can't wait to try some more of their specialty concoctions.

4741 Eagle Rock Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90041
323-356-2562
Open Tue-Sun 5:30-11pm

Linni Eats Newport Beach: Il Farro

2006-12-05T20:32:00.001-05:00

I must tell you up front, I am not usually crazy for Italian food. I used to swoon over a good bowl of pesto pasta and my heart still warms at the thought of a perfectly executed margherita pizza. That said, the passing of the carb craze and my realization of the calorie content in pizza added a negative association to treats from that Mediterranean boot of gastronomical pleasure. Therefore, when a friend told me she would be taking me to the best Italian restaurant she knew, I thought I would order a Caprese salad and be done with it.

Thank god I refrained from this silly path. Newport Beach's Il Farro is currently staging a comeback for farro, a rare organic grain spilling over with health benefits and rich flavor. Learning this and spotting the dessert tray, I knew I had to abandon all hopes of dietary reservation and dive into this experience, fork first.

We were given a basket of bread, baked with farro grains that were visible and gave a wholesome, nutty taste to the warm loaf. Next came the enormous menus and supplementary specials list and a brief panic overcame me--everything looked amazing. Do I order the lobster ravioli with walnut sauce? The farro risotto with pancetta and white wine sauce? I decided on two of the day's specials--Shrimp Bisque and Pumpkin Gnocchi with vodka cream sauce. The bisque arrived at the perfect temperature and was creamy without being too milky. The flavor could have been a bit more explosive, but the consistency was excellent. Baby shrimp give me the creeps sometimes but these did not distract from the soup's texture--they were just as velvety as the rest of it. The gnocchi had just the right amount of subtle pumpkin flavor, and the chef didn't overdo it by adding any orange dye--the dish was a greyish hue, accented by the purple grilled onions in the sauce.

I also had the opportunity to sample the fettucine with sundried tomatoes, salmon, and scallops. This was absolutley breath-taking. I performed the dietary double-take we all know, where you take a bite and immediately bug out your eyes and unabashedly shout an exclamation with your mouth still full of food. The smokiness of the salmon in this dish mixed with the lavish earthiness of the tomatoes formed the epitome of taste perfection. My gnocchi was nothing short of outstanding, but I did experience some fetuccine envy across the table.

We grudgingly decided it would be wrong to miss out on dessert, despite already-extended bellies. The waiter brought a tray with at least ten choices. I ordered the panna cotta while my dining companions sampled something that looked like chocolate pie and home-made biscotti, served with a glass of amaretto for dipping. The feel of the egg-free panna cotta was sublime--like a creme brulee without the excess load of guilt and egg yolk. The biscotti bursted with flavor and purposeful crunch, unlike the stale, tooth-cracking bricks you find at corporate coffeehouses. The pie dish had a crust made with farro grain, woven into a lattice on top. Presentation was pleasing without trying too hard, a feeling that permeates the establishment. The spectacular food thrives in a simplistic atmosphere, small but dressed to the nines in remnants of Italy. Both the owner and chef came by to make sure we were enjoying ourselves, but they had no reason to worry. Everyone there was having a good time.

We arrived at 6:30 on a Friday and had no trouble getting a table, but any later than that and we may have encountered a wait. There is an outdoor seating section that looks out onto the Newport pier restaurant strip, but it is less cozy and warm than the glowing interior. Wherever you choose to sit, Il Farro has something for everyone, from their extensive wine list to their fresh, authentic ingredients. Rumor has it, you can ask the chef to make you anything in the Italian genre of food and he will make it, provided he has all of the necessary components. This kind of focus on pleasing your individual palate makes you feel like you are in the kitchen of your best friend--if your best friend could cook the best damn salmon fettucine this world has ever tasted.

All pictures c/o http://www.ilfarro.com/restaurant.htm

Linni Eats L.A.: Hollywood Farmer's Market

2006-12-03T17:47:00.001-05:00

LIt’s a situation college students are all too familiar with—drowning in a pool of junk food and empty coffee cups, going on your 50th consecutive hour of not leaving the dorms. It’s finals, and it’s always the same. But it doesn’t have to be. Next Sunday, before getting bogged down by books, stop by the Hollywood Farmer’s Market on Sunset and Ivar, a stimulation for all five senses.

The rainbow of Swiss chard and free smells of freshness are unavoidable, and no money is required to get the full sensory experience. They allow liberal testing of nearly all products, and will even give things away for free if you strike up a conversation with the vendors. This isn’t difficult, as they are all extremely friendly and happy to discuss their products. I asked one man what his heirloom tomatoes tasted like and he handed me a whole one, which I proceeded to eat like an apple. Bargaining is also an option—my last purchase was sugar snap peas and when I told them I only had one dollar left, they gave me a bag at half price.

If the ample samples of persimmons, tangerines and grapes do not satisfy your sweet tooth, head on over to the kettle corn stand. The vendor simply dips a folded newspaper into his giant vat of popped goodness and pours out however many warm kernels your two hands can hold. Next door, there is a table with at least a dozen open containers filled with Indian concoctions that range from mango lassi to red lentil curry, and they let you try all of them. Across from him, you’ll find the Mediterranean man, who has homemade pita in both fried and fresh-baked varieties, and countless open offerings of hummus, tabouli and baba ganouj. This area of the market also features other prepared foods, such as fresh tamales, corn on the cob, and a vegan spaghetti that was nothing to brag about.

To get a little fat in your diet, stop by one of the cheese or nut tables. One woman offered cheese curds in many varieties, but I found the plain fresh curds to be the best. California farms some of the country’s best pistachios, and one vendor offered them with different flavors—my favorite was the lemon zinger. The bakery stands featured great alternatives to your everyday white bread—one man sold gluten-free muffins and banana-chocolate brownies, while another offered yeast, wheat, and sugar-free sourdough bread.

Bluegrass bands play intermittently between tents, keeping spirits high in a sea of people literally stopping to smell the roses. I spent plenty of time at one spice booth, holding fresh thyme, lavender and lemon verbena to my nose. A woman was selling birds of paradise nearby, which she advertised to me as a great dorm flower that will last two weeks without much work. One man asked me to describe the difference between his yellow, orange and red carrots so that he would have a better idea of what to tell customers who made that inquiry—we decided the red was spicy, the yellow was bitter and the orange was sweet.

I entered the market with high hopes and a five-dollar bill in my pocket. I left with one pound of sugar snap peas, two heirloom tomatoes, one Satsuma orange, two sourdough olive rolls (one with orange peel and thyme), a sunflower, and a full brunch under my proverbial belt. Not only did I feel energized and productive, but I felt empowered knowing that those snap peas would be a guilt-free way to mindlessly munch while pounding out a 10-page research paper.

Linni Eats L.A.: Dave's Chillin-n-Grillin

2006-11-09T01:18:00.001-05:00

I first met Dave, the proprietor of Dave’s Chillin-N-Grillin, next door to his sandwich shop at Swörk, where I overheard the baristas inquiring about his morning vegetable hunt. He was enthusiastically touting the Reuben he would be making that day and the girls were swooning over the famed avocado he had apparently purchased. Curiosity moved me to interject, and all parties involved were shocked and concerned that I was a student at Oxy, yet had never set foot inside Dave’s.

To be honest, I had noticed the shop before and wasn’t that intrigued. The tiny space and bright purple awning with loud yellow letters didn’t immediately evoke thoughts of freshness, and I thought if I really wanted a greasy sandwich, I could go to the Cooler. But with the coffee girls’ culinary coercions and the proprietor’s sunny demeanor, I knew what I had to do.

I couldn’t have been more wrong about the freshness—Dave wakes up with the birds every morning to shop for the freshest ingredients, meaning that the menu is subject to delicious changes every day. He was out of avocado the day I went but one could hardly notice with the excellence of the other ingredients. My grilled sandwich was served on fresh-baked wheat bread and was filled with thin shaved turkey, mustard, tomato and mayo, all heated up on the griddle right in front of you. Dave’s turkey is special—he will only buy it with no water added and if he can’t get the 0% turkey that day, turkey subs are off the menu.

With the daily selection of sinfully aromatic roast beef, meatball, pastrami, salami, ham, and sometimes even crab, I don’t know how any vegetarian’s will-power could survive. However, if you are one of the strong ones, he offers a Greek Veggie Sub, served on sourdough smothered in oil and vinegar with pepperoncinis, tomato, olives, lettuce, and a substantial spreading of feta cheese.

If you devour your sub as quickly as I did (two halves overflowing with turkey in about five minutes) you might need some help washing it down. Look no further than the selection of smoothies, sherbert chillers and ice cream milk shakes. We switched things up a bit on the Blueberry Banana Bash, made on my visit with mixed berries instead due to a lack of fresh blueberries that day. I know it sounds crazy, but this tasted clean, and that was what made it so delicious. Some smoothies can taste artificially sweetened but the incredible saccharine quality in this was pure and natural, never watered or juiced-down. It was gone in a time span similar to that of the sub.

Dave, a Boston native, is friendly and open to talking about anything from his business to his hometown. His shop has old school arcade games and art from locals and legends like Salvador Dali. The sandwich-and-smoothie agenda may seem limited but the selections within each category are vast and ever-changing. The simplicity allows them to focus on making the best quality products a starving college student could ask for, and at six dollars for my sandwich and 4.50 for a big smoothie, the quality far exceeds the price. So if you’re waiting for motivation to come from Dave in the Swörk coffee line, stall no more. You really aren’t an Oxy student til you’ve tried this stuff.

2152 Colorado Blvd
Los Angeles, CA
Open Daily 11am-7pm
Cash Only

Linni Eats L.A.: Providence

2006-10-28T22:47:00.001-04:00

I realize that not everyone scours epicurean magazines as avidly as I do, but any Californian can appreciate that of Gourmet’s Top 50 Restaurants in America, the golden state is home to nine of them, with nearby Providence grabbing 35th place. Located at 5955 Melrose Ave. right by Paramount Studios, it is an Eden for sophisticated diners and celebrities. At $35 an entrée, it may require some saving or some whoring yourself out on the street. However, the artful plate designs and inventive ingredient combinations at Providence make it worthwhile, even if it’s reserved for special occasions.

Satin pillows adorn burgundy couches in the entryway and ceramic petals are clustered into the corners of tall ceilings. The kind host escorts you around the wet sand walls and dimly-lit white table cloths to your seat. There is an eclectic blend of mature touches, from dark wood to frosted glass panels in white frames. The waiters, dressed casual but chic in tan robes and black t-shirts, are available to answer any questions about the unusual menu items while Beck, Fiona Apple, and Neil Young emanate softly from the speakers.

I started with the Maine Lobster Bloody Mary, a salad of lobster and grape tomatoes with a tomato and celery gelee. It was joined by a celery sorbet with horseradish crème fraiche that highlighted the horseradish flavor without the painful, nostril-flaring heat it usually packs. I also tried the Foie Gras Parfait, which had a gel layer of Hungarian sweet wine and came with poached Asian pears, curry pear au jus, toasted brioche and foie gras powder. This all sounds kind of intimidating, but it’s good if you can handle that much foie gras—I thought the buttery texture was too rich after awhile.

Before the appetizers, the considerate wait staff brought us some spectacular amuse-bouche—free creations to sample while you wait. What looked like a mini mug of beer turned out to be a divinely rich melon soup with flavorful lime foam, paired alongside a soy marshmallow with crunchy wasabi seeds. The chef tries some wacky things, but you’re in good hands here. Our attentive waiter always came by between bites, when our mouths were not full, and the staff was conversational without being annoying.

Providence specializes in seafood, so for dinner I tried the Sea Scallops and Pacific Big Eye Tuna. Santa Barbara raw pistachios and Tahitian squash joined the scallops in a dish that plays mind games with your fork—think you’re stabbing into another pistachio or squash chunk? It’s actually sweet pistachio cream or squash puree. The scallops were velvety and nothing was overcooked, as squash and scallops can easily be. The tuna came with small chunks of chorizo, Japanese sword squid, fennel, and oven-dried tomatoes. The chorizo was very cured, which gave a strong flavor to everything, even the tuna. It was the heart of the dish, so make sure you really like chorizo before ordering this.

With such amazing savory samplings, one might expect a skimp on dessert. Not here, where I was shocked to find bizarre flavor combinations pleasing my palate. The Chocolate Mousse with Horchata ice cream and green avocado-banana puree had glazed sliced almonds and cookie crumbs as a garnish, and a brown sugar crust on the mousse. This mix seems to lack focus, but put a little of everything on a spoon and you’ll be astounded at the premeditated medley of textures and flavors. The same can be said for the Milk Chocolate Panna Cotta, with mini house-made marshmallows, cocoa-coconut streusel, and Kahlua sauce, where the creaminess of the panna cotta holds the family of ingredients together.

The chefs at Providence are truly inspired, but they check themselves. They don’t go out on limbs without knowing the delicious results and it shows. Ordering these types of dishes can be scary at first but doubt fades with every course here, all the way up to the dessert amuse-bouche that accompanied the check—orange spice caramels, dark chocolate peanut butter cups with sea salt, and raspberry gelees. These chefs never skip a beat, though with that chocolate mousse, my heart surely did.

Linni Eats L.A.: Auntie Em's

2006-10-25T03:11:00.001-04:00

Life at Occidental can be tough when you don’t have wheels, especially when you’ve had it with cafeterias and silver roadside trucks. Fret not, ride-moochers—hope can be found at Auntie Em’s, the heavenly healthy market-fresh diner on Eagle Rock Boulevard, mere blocks from campus.

The brick-red exterior and cozy striped awnings lure you in, but it’s the cupcakes and their mountain of icing that keep you there. The day’s bakery creations are displayed near the entrance and the menu is written up on green chalkboards. The kitchen is open for everyone to see and pastry chefs ice cupcakes at nearby tables, covered with floral, vinyl tablecloths. Local art is displayed on the mandarin orange, butter yellow, and lime green walls and syrup served in glass Coke bottles adds to the quaint, kitschy atmosphere.

I sampled the daily specials of clam chowder and broccoli red pepper quiche with Gruyere cheese, and tasted a vegetarian sandwich with sprouts, avocado, cucumber, Gruyere, and tomato. All dishes are made with ingredients bought at local farmers’ markets, and the sandwich was served with a pickle that actually tasted like it was once a cucumber! It was steeped in vinegar with bay leaves and onion and was the perfect compliment to the mammoth sandwich.

The sizeable quiche slice went well with a flighty, French album that emanated from the speakers as the pastry purveyors tested batters and declared a batch of snickerdoodles too chewy. Each entrée was dished up on cute, random plates—the sandwich came on red and white gingham and the quiche on rustic orange floral, adding to the aura of being in a family kitchen. I was tempted by another mismatched casserole dish near the register that held rosewater rice pudding with a cinnamon pistachio topping, a thick and creamy indulgence that disappeared from my plate all too quickly.

On another visit, I had the privilege of trying their sandwich of the day, an autumnal treat of roast turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. The spices in the stuffing and turkey were so reminiscent of my house at Thanksgiving, and eating it in that homey atmosphere was a great dining experience. Make sure you try the mint iced tea, a California warm-weather take on an old tummy-soothing favorite of mine. They even have fresh and dried mint leaves floating in it for maximum flavor.

The diner has an ever-changing menu of breakfast items made right in front of you, and an adjoining store that sells every specialty food item you never knew you needed. Let your eyes wander from classy confits to artisan cheeses, from frozen crab cakes to ceramic cookware, but don’t expect a deal here or in the restaurant. The quiche and sandwich were nine bucks each, and although they were good, they weren’t that good. The fresh ingredients might be worth it to some people, but even if you aren't one of them, at least make your way down to try one of Em’s bakery items. Trust me, you don't want to pass up these coconut cupcakes--did i mention they have cream cheese icing? And come on, no human should die without sampling a chocolate chip cookie that is larger than their face.

Open Mon-Fri 8am-7pm
Sat-Sun 8am-4pm, but get there earlier for the best bakery selections
4616 Eagle Rock Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90041
Photos c/o AuntieEmsKitchen.com

Linni Eats L.A.: Burger Continental

2006-10-02T03:19:00.001-04:00

As if having a burger selection worthy of naming your restaurant after it wasn't enough, the owners of Old Town Pasadena's Burger Continental took it one step further. Or maybe nine steps further. OK--a bafillion steps, but who's counting?

Their overwhelmingly diverse selection of dishes might have you standing in line staring at your menu for days if it weren't for the adorably complimentary men who come up to take your order. I kid you not, when I ordered my baklava, the man said "YOU are a baklava, you lovely girl! You're the baklava, so beautiful!" Hey, if nothing else, you can count on B.C.'s for an ego boost. But they will deliver so much more.

The restaurant spreads back from the miniscule entryroom into a vast, enclosed garden patio with romanticly dim lighting, vines creeping up the walls, and a band that is often accompanied by belly dancers. Keep going and you will reach yet another back room, kept closed for cooler nights but with windows that disappear if the al fresco mood strikes. Before taking a seat, however, you must place your order in front at the counter and help yourself to the Mediterranean salad and soup bar, equipped with a delicious vegetable soup and the best red, spiced couscous I have ever tasted.

I sampled the Mediterranean Salad, which is not actually a salad at all but just the ideal all-in-one plate for someone wanting the typical sampling of falafel, hummus, grape leaves, and taboule. It also includes Armenian cheese boreg and a cream-based chunky eggplant sauce similar to baba ganouj. The grape leaves were delicious and the flavors on the plate all blended together wonderfully when put together on a pita, all for under $9. Next up, I had to sample the restaurant's namesake, and the Alamo burger seemed like the best bet. This came with bacon, gaucamole, cheddar cheese, grilled onion, and tomato on a grilled sourdough bun, all for under $7 and I could have eaten about six of these. Of course, that would probably have made my heart stop and then who would be telling you all about this wonderful place?

I feel that this does not do B.C.'s justice, as their menu also includes zucchini fries, a plethora of pizzas and pita sandwiches, steak and seafood specialties, Armenian, Greek, and Middle Eastern dishes, and a menu section entitled "Continental Baja Baja." With a great atmosphere, low prices, and high quality, there is really no reason to not check this place out. An added bonus is the rumor that they do not card college kids, a plus for any nearby Occidental or Cal-Tech students looking for an exciting new weekend destination or place to take an awkward first date. Nothing like spicy frog legs and margaritas to break the ice!

All kidding aside, I depart with this image for you to keep in mind when ordering dessert--even though it was some of the best baklava I have ever had, do NOT order this unless you a) have multiple friends or strangers willing to share, or b) you are going through a bad breakup. It is also worth noting that any of the other desserts in the alluring front window, chocolate cakes and strawberry tarts alike, are offered in similar portion size. Whether it's that time of the month, you're partying with a group of 50, or if you're just a plain old fatty, this is the place for you.

Burger Continental
535 South Lake Ave.
Pasadena, CA 91101
(626) 792-6634
Open Daily 7am-11pm
All You Can Eat-->
Breakfast Buffet
Mon-Sat 7:30am-11am, $4.99!
Lunch Buffet
Mon-Sat 11am-3pm, $8.99!

Linni Eats L.A.: Gaby's Mediterranean

2006-09-29T02:08:00.001-04:00

Tucked between a flashy sushi joint and a Starbucks, it would be easy to pass quickly by Gaby’s Mediterranean at 10445 Venice Blvd, but don’t be deterred by the meek blue awning that boasts “Creating a Healthy Habit Everyday!” Even if you’re in a hurry to escape the mumbling bum who followed you from the beach, give this surprisingly delicious ethnic establishment a chance.

You can watch the onslaught of Schwinn Stingrays and skateboards float by if you sit outside, but the midday rush makes this difficult. Once inside, you might get distracted by the dessert case, but hurry up and sit down because no sooner will your butt hit the seat before they are bringing baskets of warm pita and plates of zaatar, the house specialty sauce made with olive oil, sesame seeds, oregano and thyme with diced onions and tomatoes. I lost count of how many of these they brought us.

The falafel came out a little mushy in the center and the grape leaves were too minty for my taste, but they don’t slack on the old hummus standby, which was served on a huge plate with lemon juice and spices. Don’t be afraid to branch out beyond the basics, though—just because you can’t pronounce it doesn’t mean it isn’t amazing! I recommend rakakat, a puff pastry roll filled with cheese, onions, and tomatoes. If you’ve got leftover pita, soak it up in the creamy, tangy pureed golden lentil soup, or the garlic cream sauce that comes with the rotisserie chicken entrée.

It’s easy to order too much food with their ludicrously low prices, but save room for dessert. The menu lists many enticing choices, but only the baklava was available when I visited. It was made with cashews and orange blossom honey, but was a little on the mild side despite these unique additions. Even though some areas need work, there were still so many mysteriously named items I can’t wait to come back and try. Open from 11am-1am, it’s a great spot for those late nights when the thought of another dorm party or Taco Truck run makes you want to hide in the closet.

Linni Eats L.A.: The Omelette Parlor

2006-09-26T19:49:00.001-04:00

Preface: I have packed up my bags and moved to Southern California this fall, so my apologies to any Chicago readers who cannot attend the restaurants I will be writing about. I now have a food column in the weekly newspaper at Occidental College and will be writing on a variety of Los Angeles restaurants--hopefully you can all come out here to try them sometime!

Some people come to Occidental College for the sense of community, talented teaching staff, or abundance of palm trees—I came for its proximity to The Omelette Parlor.

I first experienced breakfast heaven at this Santa Monica Pier eatery while visiting Oxy last spring and their old-fashioned beachside charm won my heart. The name was enticing enough, but the Colonial décor, lace-covered windows and Surfer Crossing sign didn’t hurt. You can sit in the vintage main dining room, at the soda shop counter, or on the outdoor patio, quaintly enclosed by brick walls lined with vines and flowers.

You might go in expecting an omelette, but prepare to be blown away by their extensive menu. I got oatmeal with the works, which included walnuts, raisins, strawberries and bananas and made me feel full without feeling like a fatty. You can also get it with a warm banana topping; both come with their honey-nut English muffin and apple butter, served with all main dishes.

After dreaming about it all summer, I returned this fall for an omelette. They have creative recipes like the Renter’s Rights, which has bacon, potato and sour cream, but I made my own with sausage, feta, tomato, and spinach. Omelettes come with a side of fruit and an English muffin and the egg dish itself is about the size of my American Experiences textbook, so save room for this or split it with a friend if you’re strapped for cash. An omelette should only set you back about eight bucks, and the oatmeal was around four.

The chef makes a daily pancake, raspberry or butterscotch nut to name a few, and they’re also known for their diced potatoes. Service is timely even during peak hours and its location on Main Street is perfect for a weekend shopping trip. Surfing got you beat? Sick of scrambling to find a decent breakfast at home? Come to this affordable adorable café at 2732 Main St. and get your omelette on.

Linni Eats Chicago: Ann Sather's

2006-05-15T15:06:00.001-04:00

If you don't like the sound of free cinnamon rolls the size of baseball gloves--well, you might be crazy. But you also might want to head over to Chicago's legendary breakfast mecca, Ann Sather's, so they can change your mind. The hearty serving of two cinnamon rolls with every entree is a pleasant alternative to your run-of-the-mill restaurant bread bowl.

This authentic Swedish dining room got its start on Belmont and has since spread to 5 locations throughout Chicago. The restaurant's namesake moved here from Scandinavia and opened the Belmont spot in 1945. Her original cinnamon roll recipe is still served today, and can be purchased to go if you don't have time to eat in.

On this particular rainy Sunday, I found myself at the Andersonville location, a two-story space designed with Swedish floral wallpaper and traditional, comforting decor. It has a great ambience, very old-fashioned, yet frequented by anyone from church-goers to the heavily-pierced couple with matching eggs benedicts next to our table.

We were seated on the second floor, and were eating in the drought between lunch and breakfast crowds. Our expedited service may or may not have been a result of this, but we were definitely never left hungry. The waitstaff were extremely friendly, but not annoyingly chatty. Our cinnamon rolls were on the table in no time in all their glorioius gooeyness. Bear in mind that you get two cinnamon rolls in one order, so definitely plan on splitting with others at your table. I would also recommend taking some home to heat up in the microwave later. Our waiter actually gave us a few leftovers to take home, free of charge, due to the switch to lunch patrons.

Our entrees were out in no time--I ordered Debbie's Delight, a serving of oatmeal on a plate, topped with rice porridge, dried cranberries and apricots, raisins, and granola. This medley may sound a little over-the-top, but I was supremely satisfied. A fellow diner of mine tried the potato pancakes served with applesauce and sour cream. The pancakes were not as potato-y as we expected, but we decided to trust the Swedes working in the kitchen over our own American assumptions. I also got to sample two omelettes, both of which were a little disproportionate--the salmon, cream cheese, and asparagus dish looked as though a filet of smoked salmon and a slab of cream cheese had been placed in the center of it and not mixed at all, and the goat cheese omelette had a definite surplus of cheese. These egg dishes were made with quality ingredients and both tasted amazing once you do the mixing yourself, but you shouldn't have to.

You won't spend too much here, average entrees run from $8-15. There is an entire case of pastries, breads, and of course, cinnamon rolls on the ground floor of the Andersonville location, as well as the Belmont location. These both feature large, full-scale dining rooms. The newer additions have a more cafe-feel and are usually in smaller spaces with possibly more limited menus.

Andersonville
5207 N. Clark
773-271-6677
7-2:30 Mon-Fri
7-4 Sat & Sun
Closed Tuesday
For a complete list of locations, phone numbers, and hours, visit their website at www.annsather.com

Linni Eats Oak Park: Cafe Le Coq

2006-05-12T23:15:00.001-04:00

Tucked away between a small town bakery and mainstream stir fry joint, Cafe Le Coq doesn't immediately stand out from the plethora of dining options available to folks in the Western suburb of Oak Park. On a rather homey stretch of Lake street, some people find this turn-of-the-century French bistro kind of intimidating.

I was pleasantly surprised at the charming and unpretentious vibe. The collection of chicken figurines and paintings are highlighted by a dimly-lit honeyed glow and, despite the obvious presence of candles, chandeliers, and manners, it requires no effort to feel at ease here. Many are under the misconception that Cafe le Coq requires elegant attire and a Parisienne accent, but this is not so.

We ordered from an authentic waiter who was speaking French to the table behind us, and shortly after were greeted with tiny ceramic tureens of roasted garlic and tomato soup. This delectable complimentary touch is something all restaurants should do--one of my companions ordered this very soup as a result of the sampler!

This was not, however, the favorite at our table. The soup du jour was carrot curry, served in similar adorable ceramic bowls, and was the perfect combination of sweet and spicey. I believe there was cinnamon or clove in it in addition to the curry, and it was topped with a crunchy baquette slice covered with melted cheese, or au gratin, as the French would say. Both this and the tomato soup were fantastic paired with the pumpkin seed bread from the bread bowl.

Next course was the cheese plate, which features a melange of cheeses selected by the chef, alongside an apple slaw with sliced almonds. One fromage favorite was the Comte, which was the perfect firmness and balance of sweet and nutty flavor. Despite also having a great brie, the star of the platter was the Roquefort bleu cheese. It practically combusted in my mouth with this sweet crumble that wasn't too dry or too bitter, as a bleu often can be. The density of flavor can't be explained by just "sweet," as there was a diversity of tastes going on in my mouth at once. You will just have to go and taste for yourself!

I ordered the crab cakes off of the appetizer menu, not even aware that they were crab cakes. My 5 years of secondary school French did me no good when I read the title of this hors d'oeuvre, whose translation listed only crab meat, red peppers, and a cream sauce. That was enough to entice me, and I am glad it did as I am always open to a crab cake! If you are going to order your entree from the appetizer menu, however, be warned--they are not the most sizeable portions. My order involved two crab cakes, one inch tall and one inch in diameter, and someone dining with me ordered a goat cheese and onion tart that looked like a dessert tart.

Both appetizers were quality dishes, and perfect compliments to our soup orders. The crab cake itself was a wonderfully flakey medallion that held together really well, and its whole-grain mustard sauce sparked around on my tongue without overwhelming the flavor of the crab. I only wish they hadn't put so much sauce, a problem easily solved by the addition of some more cakes.

Others dining with me enjoyed the bouillabaise and the mussels, which reportedly could have had a stronger sauce. As this was my first experience with clams or mussels, I can't comment on the sauce quality, but despite my initial reaction to the texture, it tasted great, albeit a little salty.

As it should be for all French restaurants, the dessert menu was a thing of beauty. One of my companions ordered the chocolate mousse with strawberries, which was served in a crepe, wrapped into an upright cone. Another had the Tart a la Creme Brulee, which bore strong resemblance to the goat cheese tart at dinner, but possessed a much different taste. It wasn't bad, but I found it lacked the signature vanilla bean flavor that its name suggests. I was, of course, drawn in by the Creme Brulee Trio, as I am always anxious to try new flavors of my favorite dessert. The samplings were classic vanilla, chocolate, and caramel. I was still most taken with classic vanilla--although the caramel was an interesting juxtaposition of flavor with texture, the chocolate just felt like chocolate pudding to me.

Though the menu can be hard to read, this bistro definitely won me over with the quality of its food, pleasant staff, and overall charm. I will definitely be coming back to try some more interesting seafood--perhaps I can comment on the mussels' sauce next time!

Seating is available outside in the summer months, and you may want to make reservations on busy nights.
Cafe Le Coq
734 Lake St.
Oak Park, IL
708-848-2233
Open for dinner Tue-Thu 5-9:30
Fri-Sat 5-10:30
Sunday brunch 11-2:30
Sunday dinner 4-9
Closed Monday
Average Entree $15-25

Linni Eats Chicago: The Walnut Room

2006-05-04T18:05:00.001-04:00

My first thought upon entering Marshall Field's famed Walnut Room was that they have more tables than they will ever be able to use. The restaurant's 17000 square feet of space seemed superfluous, if not even a little presumptuous. We didn't even mention our reservation as we were lead to a table at the base of a gigantic ballerina, with a skirt made of fine china and a curtain of ballet shoes encasing her. This towering figurine is replaced by an even more colossal Christmas tree during the winter months, a time when not only are all of the tables booked, but there is an hour-long waiting list at all hours of the day!

It felt a bit unorthodox to be making my first visit to this famed establishment on a clammy Wednesday evening in May, when the Circassian wood archways and Austrian chandeliers shone only for a scarce and scattered crowd of theatre patrons. Alas, we too had tickets to a show at the Goodman and thought we would give this 7th floor specialty, hidden within the beloved State Street Marshall Field's, an opportunity to wow us.

Theatre-goers get special privileges here--we were promised a 45 minute dining experience, which included free dessert--you just have to flash your ticket stub. But I am getting ahead of myself here, dessert comes later! I settled in with the Crab Bisque to start, which came to the table in about 5 minutes and was divine. The hint of sherry made it an incredibly silky affair, while the actual pieces of crabmeat gave it more substance than the flimsy seafood bisques I have had in the past. Definitely a great way to start the meal.

The entree was a more difficult choice. The Walnut Room is famous for their Chicken Pot Pie, the dish that actually got the restaurant started in the 1890s, when a Marshall Field's employee cooked pot pies for her lunch and decided to start selling them to hungry shoppers. I was also tempted by the Butternut Squash Ravioli, which was served in a light sage cream sauce with dried cranberries, baby spinach, leeks, and roasted peppers, and topped with parmesan cheese and walnut pesto. (I couldn't believe this was the only mention of walnuts I saw on the menu!) I decided, however, to continue with the seafood theme and order the Seared Scallop Salad, which included leeks, pineapple, red peppers, Savoy cabbage, and baby greens, all topped with shoestring potatoes and a pineapple vinaigrette.

Before I go on, you should know something about me--I could compete in speed-eating contests if I thought it wouldn't ruin my metabolism. In fact, I could probably make a living at said contests. I know that as a "foodie," it is my job to savor, to thoroughly enjoy and hang on every bite, picking out undertones, moving pieces around in my mouth, letting my taste buds soak in the sauces for a moment...that just isn't me. I do that occasionally, especially if there is a good creme brulee involved, but if a dish stands apart from all others, the way I hope most dishes to be, I have difficulty stopping myself. I know, I know, I'm getting help.

That said, this scallop endeavor was...mediocre. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't gagging, but let's just say it was the kind of entree where I didn't mind putting my fork down for awhile to tell my fellow diners a story. The shoestring taters and scallops had this burnt flavor, which couldn't have been on purpose. The leeks were raw and placed on the sides of the plate, as was the pineapple. Unlike the pineapple, however, no one wants to make an extra effort to eat leeks, there is no motivation there, especially when it is raw. At least the pineapple was grilled, I gobbled that up right away.

I didn't feel bad leaving room for dessert, and I had glimpsed a creme brulee at a table nearby. But this classy eatery's location inside Marshall Field's gives their dessert chefs access to Frango chocolates, and their most popular item is the Frango Mint Chocolate Chip Pie. I wanted to, I was tempted, I really was, but I have a relationship with creme brulee. We love eachother. It relies on me to order it wherever possible, and I rely on it to make that beautiful sound when I hit it with my spoon. Besides, chocolate makes me breakout.

So I ordered my one and only, and as is almost always the case, I was satisfied. The wonderful crack was music to my ears, the crust was not too thick or too thin, and the custard itself was sublime. My only complaint would be that the top was broiled a bit unevenly, with some spots a bit more burnt than others. This place needs to calm down, take a deep breath, and stop burning everything!

My fellow patrons both ordered the famous Chicken Pot Pie, which came with a nice spinach and mandarin salad with sesame dressing. Be warned, however, this is not the down-home country pot pie you get at Boston Market (don't lie, you know you love it)--the "pie" is more like a chicken soup with two oversized triangles of puff-pastry on top. According to them, however, it was still delicious. They also ordered peach cobbler and key lime pie, of which no complaints were made. The crust on the key lime pie actually made me want to snatch the fork out of my grandma's hand and nab me some of that thick, crumbly, golden goodness, but my loyalties were with the creme brulee.

The experience was nice and elegant overall. The waitstaff seemed experienced and polite, not the snooty 20-somethings you sometimes get stuck with at American Contemporary dining locales. It is a calming oasis in the middle of a hectic shopping environment, although I am sure that tranquility wears off in the holiday season. Despite my complaints, I definitely look forward to coming back for that ravioli...and maybe also some Frango pie, but I can't make any promises.

The Walnut Room
111 N. State St., 7th Floor
Chicago, IL
312-781-3125
Open 7 days a week, 11am-4pm
Holiday hours (post-Thanksgiving to early January)
Mon-Wed. 8am-one hour before store closing
Sunday 9am-6pm
Average Entree $8-15
Accessible by CTA Red, Green, Purple, Brown, & Orange line trains at Washington stop

Linni Eats Chicago: Irazu

2006-04-27T17:35:00.001-04:00

On an unfrequented and bleak strip of Milwaukee Avenue, you might not give a passing glance to the tiny green hut on the corner. Look again, my friend, for there resides Irazu, one of Chicago's only Costa Rican restaurants that boasts fare so exotic that the first half of the menu is definitions.

Now, don't let the language intimidate you--Avena is just a fancy name for the eatery's signature drink, an oatmeal milkshake. Yes, you read that correctly--an oatmeal shake strongly reminiscent of the Mexican rice drink, Horchata, but delicious nonetheless. And that cinnamon-topped specialty isn't all--other shake flavors include corn meal, blackberry, and exotic Central American fruits such as the tamarindo and mamey, a mild apricot-raspberry flavor that will give you cavities on the spot.

Yuca is another menu favorite, a potato-like root vegetable that can be served boiled or fried. We chose the fried option, which was topped with garlic oil and deep-brown bits of roasted garlic. It tasted amazing at first, but proved a little too greasy for my taste. Just make sure you don't fill up on this or the salty-greasy tortilla chips--both are out of this world, but a little heavy.

I was looking forward to the gallo pinto, a Costa Rican breakfast of white rice and black beans served with fried plantains or eggs. This was served every morning when I visited Costa Rica, and it was hard to overcome that craving when I returned to the regular American pancake breakfast. Irazu's take on this authentic dish featured the rice and beans molded into a delectable dome and served with steaming aromatic corn tortillas. I chose the fried plantains, which were another oily-yet-extraordinary menu item--they could create a new genre of food with their collection of fried, heavy treats! A dining accomplice of mine chose the gallo pinto with scrambled eggs, which featured diced onions for a surprise twist of flavor.

We were served promptly by an adorably authentic old man who spoke minimal english and seemed a little aloof. You won't have to wait long for any menu item--the vegetarian burrito, steak tostada, two gallo pintos, and order of fried yuca took under 15 minutes. There is ample outdoor and indoor seating, although the food must speak for itself in this minimalistic environment. The slightly drab interior might be more seductive if you visit at night, but I would eat Irazu's unique and consistent cuisine from a street vendor if that was what it took.

Very affordable, most entrees under $8.

Irazu
1865 N. Milwaukee
Chicago, IL
(773)252-5687
Open Monday-Saturday-10am-9pm
Closed Sunday
Accessible by the Blue Line- .2 miles southeast from the Western stop on Milwaukee