Ride Report: Just one of those days...

Location: Venice, California, to Top of Topanga Overlook, Topanga, California and back
Miles: 36
Duration: Two hours, including a stop for gas and a stop at the overlook
Accommodations: None

The only way through Topanga Canyon, California, is a nice twisty ride up from the PCH. It is also a gateway ride to Mulholland Highway, one of California's most notable and fun two-wheeled rides. I rode up and down Topanga Canyon for a month on my first bike, a Honda Rebel, before I took that left turn onto Mullholland and went over. I rode up and down Topanga for another month on my next bike, the CB350, before I turned left. This is the second time up and back on the Ducati, which in retrospect, makes the CB350 feel like I took my house slippers out for a walk up the canyon. This new wisdom is half of what made yesterday a perfect ride.

The days everyone tells you are coming your way as a new rider are the days you will panic swerve to miss a left-turn driver, or the day the bike dies in traffic in the number three lane, or when it rains and the bike won't start for two days. Or the accident. Those are easier to talk about than the good days, perhaps because they allow ego-inflating "I'll ride anyway" machismo to infuse the tales. Fewer riders mention the days that contain inexplicable soul-cleansing rides, the ones where the teller has to get mushy to talk about them. Days when ideal temperature, wind and sun conditions, the bike running on its best behavior, and a series of good human decisions become the platform for the feelings you have when you drop into a curve in the road at exactly the right time, with the perfect lean, completed by that beautiful slingshot exit, heavy on your chest but in the best possible way. It becomes the perfect ride when that happens not once, but over and over again on the same trip, like Groundhog Day for lottery winners. Your mind goes to a happy place that you could mistake for a dream - oh sh*t, you are daydreaming - and you snap back to the road and continue having an amazing ride.

It was an incredible ride on the way up.

The twisties on Topanga relax towards the top of the canyon, where we stopped at the Top of Topanga overlook. As an aside, when you leave the overlook to return to Topanga Canyon road, the paint on the pavement directs you to only turn right, and head, gasp, into The Valley. Which is fine if you're proceeding down the back side of the hill to catch the left onto Mulholland. Otherwise, do what you must to return back down the canyon and back to the oceanside. I've heard stories about The Valley.

Top of Topanga Overlook. That's the San Fernando Valley. (Such a perfect ride, I wasn't thinking about framing up a shot.)

I didn't jinx it. It was an incredible ride on the way down, too. I think I'm ready to go over Mulholland Highway on the next ride.

Ride notes from Topanga:

The PCH from its start (Santa Monica) north to Topanga Canyon road, about five miles, is a busy section of the highway. Watch out for tourist u-turns to claim a parking spot, sports cars with something to prove, and a whole lot of cyclists and foot traffic. Once in the canyon, watch out for two congested areas, with a couple of blind spots, within about two miles of each other, starting about five miles up the canyon. You'll see them coming because it starts to get populated, and the posted speed limit slows from 45mph to 35. Many of the turns' posted speeds are 25.

Ducati and the house slippers

Until I figure out how to manage helmet hair, I'm putting a ridiculous filter over every picture of me on the road.

Motorcycles: A Food Detour

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Many of you come here for the food. Today, I invite you to stay for other hobbies.

The Bug

I caught the two-wheeled bug on a trip to my cousins’ place outside of Omaha, Nebraska. They let me ride their dirt bike all over their 15-acre playground known as home. I was 11. When my aunt returned me to my parents, of course, I wanted a dirt bike. They said no. I needled the want into an ATV, like alllll my friends had whose families lived on ranches. They actually nibbled on that. My mother took me, sister in tow, to the Honda dealership down the hill to check out these machines my mother was not familiar with. The guy selling them said to my mother, “For a girl, you’ll probably want a quad.” My sister remembers that moment over the rest of the affair, because she knew it was exactly the sort of statement would galvanize my determination to defy it, then and now. Sadly, after that, sales dude proceeded to tell my mother that they flip a lot on inexperienced riders, and that was the end of the discussion. I think they bought me a new bicycle, and the dream of owning a motor-powered two-wheeled something-or-other fell dormant.

UNTIL NOW.

Snap from my MSF class

The Itch

Fast forward many, many (really too many, like mid-life crisis too many) moons, and the bug, like a mysterious parasite caught abroad, reignited with little warning. This time, I did adult things first; by taking the Motorcycle Safety Foundation class. As an aside, the jackass classmate who brought all his fancy racing gear and fancy racetrack stories to ride beaten up Honda Rebels at six miles an hour in a parking lot for two days was the only guy who dropped his bike during the class. I still wonder how many times a month the MSF instructors deal with that guy

After passing the class, I went to the DMV to take the test for my M1 license, which certifies one to legally operate two-wheeled vehicles over 50cc engine capacity on any street in the United States that honors a California license. During this testing session, I passed the motorcycle license test, and failed the driver’s test. I had to take the driver’s test again. Maybe it's a sign.

CM1 in California, baby!

The license showed up in the mail last week, ink dry, ready to be tested.

The Search

If you haven’t gathered by now from somewhere on my blog, I am a female. As such, I have observed that women interested in motorcycles are sized up with one of three stereotypes when they walk into any motorcycle-centric space, like a shop or a dealership.

• Harley Passenger
• Pirelli Calendar Girl Fantasy
• Butch Dyke

I would not use any of these terms to describe any of us. How about, A Person Interested In The Lifestyle Of Motorcycling, Subcategory, Street, Sport, or Touring?

But no.

As a woman, if you are met by a (likely) male salesperson, they will project the lowest common denominator stereotype on you, also known as the direct route to the penis; the Pirelli Calendar Girl Fantasy. Here’s how this plays out:

Me: “I’m looking for my first bike… something small and manageable, a starter bike…just seeing what’s available…”

Salesman: How about the blah blah SuperSexy ExtraSport crotch rocket substitute for my penis? Climb on and see how she feels. Don’t worry that your feet can’t reach the ground, I’ll make sure everything stays right up where it should. These words are so close to actual conversations, if I worked for TMZ, I could put them into quotes without violating their definition of lying. After these words come out, like clockwork, every other man in the dealership looks up from their work to watch, Boogie Nights-style.

Brilliant.

So, after giving half of Los Angeles’ motorcycle salesmen afternoon mental porn breaks, I turned to Craiglslist to look for used bikes. Armed with some great advice offered by everyone but the Ducati dealer, the plan is now to start looking at smaller bikes first, get my chops on me, then sell the bike to trade up later.

What I’m half-heartedly, practically, looking for is this:

Librarians can ride this. With all of their cats as passengers.

What I want, is this:

Straight for the gold, Ducati's entry-level bike, the Ducati Monster. White. Say it a couple of times, Rocky-style, like you're psyching yourself into something. (Who's living the fantasy now, hacks?) 

Will I ever get there? We’ll see. First, I must actually buy a bike, then, work my way up through not stalling at stop signs, not dropping the bike by taking the turn into my alley too fast, then not spooking or injuring myself out of the hobby, and lastly, not getting killed by one of Los Angeles’ six million distracted drivers. What fun!

The Scratch

To be continued…as I search for my first bike.

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Ladiez, here's a mini-resource guide, if you are brave enough to take resource suggestions at this stage of research. In my reconnaissance, I found three exceptions to the above mantard description: Route 66 Modern Classics, (Venice) Deus Ex Machina, (Venice) and Atlantis Motor Corp. (Silverlake). Thank you all for being good people.

And, sorry, librarians of the world, especially those of you who are my friends. Love you, mean it.

Two years ago today...

I rifled through my old posts to see what I said on previous Valentine's Days. Not surprisingly, I said nothing, since I don't celebrate it in a typical way. But I did find something relevant in the files. Two years ago, my husband and I were in the Middle East, having going-away drinks with our manager on a project there. The guy gave us some great marriage advice over multiple beers in the lounge of a Western hotel. At the time, we had been married two months. Today, back in Los Angeles, it has been two years and two months, and I am just as eager to have dinner with the hubs tonight as I was then; giddy, excited, and hopeful he will be excited, too. I'm making Manifest Vegan's Bulgogi-style tofu, which has been marinating since last night. No, I'm not a vegan. I'm a killer recipe lover.

Read the old post here back when Burwell General Store was called Our Other Car Is A Camel. All those posts are now tagged on this blog as UAE, if you're interested in reading some Dubai adventures.

Whether you celebrate this day or not, it's always a good thing when you stop for a moment to think about and honor those who you cherish. Love to all of you!

Napa Sugar

In the kitchen at Cooks County, or any commercial kitchen for that matter, ingredients must be labeled when they are stored. That's part health code, part convenience. Kitchens, the great cultural levelers, (perhaps best chronicled by George Orwell) usually contain language barriers, which can make the entire experience more interesting than any other place on earth, at the moment. Every now and then, I'll go into the walk-in and find "brocoley." Or "Water Crest."  Or "gabbage." The best one, which I didn't see but chef told me about was something labeled, "Potato Leek Beets". The contents; rhubarb. It's what someone hoped the rhubarb would be. And that's okay. I believe in hope. And, I believe in laughing.

Last night, I found "Napa Sugar," the work of another hope peddler. He could not know that today, Napa Sugar is my new phrase embodying a spirit of hope and levity. Falling out of a pose in yoga is my Napa Sugar, my opportunity to laugh and strive for improvement of my craft. Picking up my drawing pencils is a statement of hope, in this case, exactly like Napa Sugar in that I hope the thing I wrote on looks like what I just tried to make it. I like to take Napa Sugars along Venice Beach, my new home, to soak in all of the fun.

Taking a Napa Sugar before I knew what they were called, last weekend.

What's your Napa Sugar? Go find some this weekend and tell me when you find it!

Don't try this at home

I had but a minute to lament the death-by-overpreparing beautiful two-year avocados. That was last shift's lesson. Last night at Cooks County, I received a hard lesson in under-preparing.

Embrace the silence.

Roxana, one of the chef-owners, shares the station with me. Her side of the counter is pastry, I'm on the cold line, making appetizers and salads. While prepping our stations in moments of relative calm, conversation goes like this:

Chat chat chat what kind of yoga do you do? chat chat chat You need to get some more sleep, girl, and drink water... I love the huckleberry sauce you serve with the pop tart dessert! chat chat chat How long do you proof the spretzel dough? chat chat We need to make more mustard dipping sauce, but let's put it on the list for tomorrow.

Then:

Wham.

Oh. Shit. This is what I get for making fun of vegans. I've got 16 salads up and that's not counting the chicken liver and radish apps. One table ordered four radish plates? "Don't worry about new tickets, Chris, just clean up what you have." Dan, the other chef-owner calls over; Christianna, "Fire what you have." I sense that is code for "Hurry *%@$!^ up." I'm out of the avocados I over-prepped the other night. I'm out of grapefruit. 25 plates due five minutes ago and I'm segmenting grapefruits and avocados on the fly. Roxana, the owner who employs me, is working four of my tickets. Not her own. Mine. Joy of joys, they are called The Weeds, and I am in them.

After the tickets clear, I look out into the dining room. People are having fun. They're standing, waiting for tables on a Wednesday night. I get my station back in order, and watch the wave that hit me land on the hot line, then desserts. The steelhead salmon steaks searing on the wood-fired grill catch my eye from across the kitchen, glowing a beautiful orange. The whole line smells of mussels steaming in white wine and roasted tomatoes. Those plates go out, rustic but composed. Roxana, done with her charity work for the evening on my station, is back to plating her gorgeous desserts.

Pop tart with huckleberry sauce

Roxana says, "I haven't had a run like that in six years." Okay good. Context is good.
"I did not handle that well."
"It's fun, right?"

Yes, it is. For a restaurant that has been open just over two months, it is a good problem to have that most nights feel like Friday nights in the kitchen. Our reward for the night's work: there's one half of an avocado left, and Roxana and I split it. We're back to chatting while we break our stations down. Chat chat avocados are great for your skin! Don't let me forget to make the mustard dipping sauce tomorrow. Chat chat chat I think I'm going to bring my paring knife in for service tomorrow. It's better for segmenting.

"See you tomorrow night?"

Of course. I wouldn't miss this much fun for anything.

A New Year, A New Voice

View from my station.

Three months ago, a friend of mine opened a restaurant in West Hollywood, and I called to see if I could help out. She said yes, and, she’s letting me document the experience. For the thousands of ways food establishments close, there’s only one way to open. It involves 80-hour weeks, sleep-deprived decision-making, and if you can think it, you can worry about it, from napkin inventory to payroll taxes.

I work the cold line, nights. My worst fear is running out of food on a busy shift, especially while I’m still new on the line and both chef-owners are in the kitchen with me. Last week, I cut too many two-year avocados for my mise en place, and all night they sat there, decaying. No worries, we can just compost them and grab more. In two years. A well-designed plan you can’t execute might as well be no plan at all, in the kitchen, in business, in life. And sometimes, perhaps most times, logic won’t get you to that great plan. I heard it, the voice that said, “Those are too many avocados.” I didn’t listen, because I didn’t want to have to cut and season avocados on the fly with seven tickets up during service. I reasoned it would be a busy night, and it was, just not for the avocado salad. While I was prepping, my gut said, “Easy on the avocados, cowgirl!”

Sorry, kids.

Enter the new year. I feel like setting a resolution is creating a plan I can’t execute, but a conversation with my loving compadre opened my eyes to a new way of preparing for the year. “What are your posts contributing outside your community of foodies?” he asked. The question hit me simultaneously like a ton of bricks and an inspiration. This year, I have one thought in mind when I hit the post button, “What else am I contributing when I publish this?” If this remains a straightforward recipe blog, I’m denying the side of my brain interested in people’s stories, and our senses of place and culture. There will still be recipes, to be sure. But, I set an intention to write more stories and take more pictures of subjects that intersect with food (and are not just about it.) My gut is telling me that’s the sweet spot, so I’m going to start there this time, with some fun stories from a back kitchen in Los Angeles.

Sadie & Emma Pottery Company

Last week, I went to UniqueLA, a craftsperson's boutique that "pops up" every six months or so, allowing craft-minded buyers to vote with our dollars and meet the people making products we love.

My favorite find was from Sadie & Emma Pottery Company, based north of the Valley, in Sunland, California. Their pieces are a once-fire process to cone 6, which is brave for potters (usually ceramics are fired twice, a sure way to achieve strength) and beautiful for buyers. Minimal use of glazes and beautiful clays make for clean, simple kitchen and tableware. I lucked upon these little jugs, modeled after old whisky jugs, and realized I found a blog mascot, reminiscent of the old times, when hand-crafting included not only the contents, but the package.

We are overly concerned about what goes into our bodies, yet many of us, myself included, sometimes serve beautiful, handmade meals on cheap mass-produced plates. It's a good point. Why not bring that purchasing power to the rest of the table?

Foraged acorn salad: a philosophy on life

A few weeks ago, I attended a Los Angeles County Master Food Preservers class to observe for an article I wrote here. While interviewing some of the class members, I met Pascal, owner and operator of Urban Outdoor Skills, an outdoor preparedness school (of sorts). There, he teaches classes on wild food gathering and preservation, alternative energy, and urban self-reliance. Among other things, Pascal brought pickled yucca shoots and purslane salsa to share that night as examples of his homemade foraged preserves. He also brought pickled acorns. To that point, I never tried one. In fact, previously I thought acorns and squirrels went together, not acorns and humans. I tried them, and fell in top-five-food-experiences love. Sour, humble, nutty, and herbaceous, my moment with pickled acorns must have made an impression because as he was packing up, Pascal gave me the rest of the acorns. I am currently rationing them on top of salads and crackers with goat cheese. I haven't yet decided what my last meal with them is going to be.

I asked Pascal if he orients himself and his business more to food foragers or survivalists. In a sentence, he changed a bit of my perspective on life. He explained that typical "survivalist" goers tend to be isolationists man-in-the-mountains apocalyptic types. "Survivalism is a community effort. It's actually a very social activity." 

He's right. In the day-to-day, survivalism takes shape in mild, resourceful forms. I have extra garlic, you have extra tomatoes, he has a pressure canner, we all have tomato sauce. Those daily interactions intensify when times become tough, or extreme. As we watch our society limp along economically and philosophically, I see (and report on) demonstrated acts of our increased resourcefulness. We are becoming more responsible and vocal about our purchasing power and our activities. We are able to wipe our own slates clean right now and start anew, learning things we have always wanted to try, and new skills that add a more tangiable value to our lives. As I watch the Occupy movement coalesce, whatever its outcome, it is pushing "intentional communities" to the front of the media, and if you look at it through the right lens, how is that not the kind of community-based survivalism Pascal is talking about? How is it not an opportunity to do one new thing to improve the household today that we may not have tried in a while? Mend the shirt, stick a lettuce plant in a flower pot. Make a salad from the dandelion greens growing in the yard, and share it with a neighbor.

Our instincts are to pull together, not away, and sharing skills is a skill in itself.

Move Over, Mojitos, The Mint Swizzle Is Here

There are many things one might do in the name of being a food blogger that one might otherwise not do. Buy three pints of ice cream to decide which one pairs best with the cookies one is craving. Roast an entire chateaubriand just to say you've done it, and then invite half the neighborhood over to help eat it. Fuss over the placement of pieces of lettuce on a plate for 30 minutes until they have reached optimal beauty for photography.

Oooh, the fourth wall, my notebook, a bounce for light.

While I may or may not have done all of the above, I did walk into Sotto the other night, a southern Italian restaurant on Pico and Beverly in the old Test Kitchen space, and said, "I have an odd request." I'm not sure what kinds of other odd requests they hear at the bar, but everyone in my eyesight bristled until I pulled out a bag of mint and set it on the counter. Making me a drink with Maggie's Mint, a hybrid variety reminiscent of spearmint, was suddenly a relief. Why Sotto? It is one of the few restaurants that lauds their mixologists as much as their chefs, and that fact will guarantee you a solid mixed drink from the bar. (And amazing wood-fired pizzas to pair with them.)

What you're supposed to do with a swizzle spoon.

My mixologist, Kate, came up with a swizzle; an agitation technique that lands safely in between shaken and stirred. (The swizzle spoon is that long, twisted, wrought-handled thing I thought was a long stirring spoon at the bar, demonstrating where my culinary knowledge starts to fray.)  Lime juice brightens the drink, rum softens it, bitters give it some heft and the presentation is sophisticated yet fun. The most important people in my life; my contractor, my accountant, my mixologist.

Maggie's Mint

Queen's Park Swizzle
Recipe courtesy Kate Grutman, Sotto Restaurant

Serves: 1

Ingredients:

A handful of mint, about ten leaves, plus sprig for garnish

1 oz fresh lime juice

3/4 ounce evaporated cane sugar syrup (simple syrup)

2 ounces Rhum J.M. agricole white rum

three heavy shakes each Angostura and Peychaud's bitters

Method:
Gently muddle mint in bottom of glass with swizzle spoon. Pour in rum, lime juice and simple syrup, add ice until glass is 3/4 full. Agitate with swizzle spoon. Top with bitters and garnish with mint. Serve.

Notes:
You can use any white rum, but agricole is a pot-distilled, unaged variety, explaining its lack of tannins and color. The pot-distilled process brings a woodier, fuller flavor to it than other rums.

Queen's Park Swizzle

Sotto

9575 West Pico Blvd., (between Beverwil and Beverly) Los Angeles, CA,  90035

310-277-0210

Kitchen at Sotto

Bar Bouchon, Beverly Hills, CA

I love finding little gems in Los Angeles.  Bar Bouchon's happy hour is one of them.

Truffled popcorn? Why didn't I think of this? It's so easy... popcorn, butter, truffle oil. Well, now I know, having been to Thomas Keller's Bar Bouchon, the younger, hipper sibling to the lauded upstairs establishment, Bouchon, in Beverly Hills, California.

While big brother is exacting French technique on classics like foie gras and rillettes, downstairs plays with its food, quietly offering its menu at a more approachable price point.  Turning out good old-fashioned American "casual classics" like braised BBQ pork sandwiches, served with a tangy-sweet cabbage and fuji apple coleslaw while nodding to staple French ingredients like brothy saffron-infused mussels and delicate, cured charcuterie is what gives Bar Bouchon its charm. A few haute-cuisine standards from upstairs like Terrine de Foie Gras de Canard and Rillettes aux Deux Saumons cross-pollinate, but more whimsically opulent dishes like Tartare de Saumon and fresh tomato soup and grilled cheese on brioche are at home on the sweeping zinc bar under the soft glow of rustic Edison light bulbs, breaking with the starched white traditions of upstairs.

The bar’s popular happy hour brings prices down to an affordable slice of Beverly Hills, with a daily cocktail, beer, red and white wine selection for $5-7, and menu that includes oysters of the day ($2/ea) to smaller versions of existing menu items BBQ Pork Sliders ($8/two). It's available 4-7pm Monday through Friday. When it's not happy hour, prepare to spend between $11.50 and $18.50 per entree.

Bar Bouchon

235 North Canon Drive, between Dayton and Clifton Way

Beverly Hills, CA 90210

310-281-5698

Wheelchair accessibility:  Bar Bouchon is at ground level. If you park in either public parking structure flanking the Bar Bouchon and Bouchon building on Canon, elevators will take you to the ground floor. From there, curb ramp accessibility is great along Canon.  Access to Bar Bouchon is a wide, tiled, covered entry, with a curb ramp right in front.

A trip to Samosa House, daydreaming of India

Last week, at a blogging conference in Atlanta, I met Sonia and Raja, creators of VelvetAroma (a blog recipe search site so new, it is in beta). After our requisite "What blog do you write?" questions and answers, we exchanged thoughts and experiences of travel, landing on the riches of cultures and flavors in India. When I got home to Los Angeles, I dug out a map of India, and daydreamed. I have had this dream before.

Southern India

I never made it to India on a trip to the Arabian Peninsula last year. India's influence in the region was entrancing, each imported spice in the souks singing "Come on over! We're just across the water." Curry dishes were as common as lamb kofta in alley restaurants. This weekend, Los Angeles became my India as I set out to make a fish curry to quell the homesickness for a place I have never been.

Real Chefs Don't Blog.

Imagine a spectrum of chefs in the world.  Cut off one end, the food bloggers. Cut off the other, the televised contest winners. The array in between is filled with real, live chefs, paying their bills by putting food on your self-selected dining room table. They are the ones who walk behind the farmer’s market stalls tapping vendors for the sake of time to buy what they need.  They are, at their ages, burned out on a profession that makes them feel 20 years older in the mornings. They are inspiring characters, risk takers, and raw, honest types who will take a pan of hot oil thrown by the Chef de Cuisine for you if you cover their asses for something on the line. They are some of the most passionate people I know.

Last week, I walked through the farmer’s market with Roxana Jullapat, pastry chef at Ammo, in Hollywood, California. While there, in an interview, she gave a candied kumquat and Costa Rican prestiños recipe to Good Food's Market Report. She wrote the candied kumquat part down for me at coffee afterwards, and at home, I went crazy with all the free time of a freelancer to come up with a Candied Kumquats and Marzipan Cream Tart recipe, inspired by her original combination. 

A Southern California-style Spring Weekend Brunch

The hubs is on a production job three thousand miles away, for three months. I would love to be articulate about that, but I'm not going to. It sucks. So, I made a brunch that I thought we would enjoy if he were here sitting on the deck with me. This is also known as sulking.

Starting the morning with fresh berries, citrus, and sparkling water will cheer up everyone but the reincarnated 20th century French woman within me needing to add butter to something, anything. However, using the hubs' clean palate as inspiration, light flavor combinations became the stars of the table, no butter or snooty Frenchwoman required.
 

Southern California-style Spring Weekend Brunch
Intelligentsia coffee
Mineral water infused with thyme
Grapefruit drizzled with cinnamon honey
Fresh blueberries, raspberries and blackberries over plain, whole milk yogurt

Serves: one sulking blogger

A Trip To Neptune's Net, Malibu, California

On weekends, many of us cruise north of Los Angeles up the Pacific Coast Highway in search of a little solitude and glimpses of undisturbed nature.  In this nature, there is a place where road-hardened bikers flock to a fish shack enticed by a thin, golden-hued alcoholic beverage.  They convene upon Neptune's Net, via expensive bikes, big egos and some heavy drinking, all of which spill out onto the front parking area. It is a gritty, lively slice of Malibu, California's prime ocean-side real estate. Why are you stopping if you're not on a bike?  The spectacle, the view, the experience.

How to eat Fried Chicken: Ludo Truck in Los Angeles

Among foodies and chefs, Ludo Lefebvre is our Los Angeles French darling, popping up and out of restaurant spaces, crisscrossing town in his food truck. In combination, those things make one feel like they're a private detective hunting down an elusive person of interest, which is exactly why I jumped on my bike and rode six blocks down the hill from my apartment when I heard Ludo Truck snagged a spot this week on the Santa Monica Gourmet Food Truck Corner. Person of interest, indeed.

Photo Post: Paris Baguette Bakery, Koreatown.

I snapped this photo at one of Paris Baguette Bakery's rare US outlets in east Hollywood, California.  I love the unlikely French-Asian collaboration in pastry, a tenet Paris Baguette is founded on and gracefully executes.  In addition to this red bean bear claw, I had a purple sweet potato latte.  All were delicate and delicious. 

Photo Post: Anisette Brasserie, RIP

Anisette Brasserie, just off the Promenade in Santa Monica, California, is now closed, according to yelp.  I, too, had a mediocre food experience there, but my stars, was it a gorgeous place inside.  I snapped this photo on my maiden voyage there in November, 2010.

Let me count the ways I love Korean food: Western Doma Noodle.

In the last year, "home" has been Dubai, New York, Nebraska, Colorado and California. In these journeys, my favorite comfort foods have become Yemeni, Lebanese food and Korean food. (It's probably the most random game of connect the dots I have ever played.) So, in the process of saying goodbye to yet another locale, east Hollywood, for ocean side Santa Monica, fingers crossed for permanently, we took ourselves out to a lingering and lovely "goodbye Hollywood" lunch at Western Doma Noodle in Koreatown. They don't seem to have a website but I found this post here, and of course, they're all over yelp.

Homemade banchan with lunch.

How to eat vegan: Native Foods Cafe

Cooking vegan reminds me of Ginger Rogers' famous statement about doing everything backwards in high heels to get half the recognition as the man. In the same way,  I feel vegan food has to be 100% spot on to even have the opportunity to overcome the stigma of the "vegan" moniker.

I'm not a vegan.  I'm not even a vegetarian.  But I am an appreciator of deliciousness. So, the great thing about Native Foods Cafe opening in Culver City, California, is that west-side, meat-and-three types of which I am a sometimes-member won't miss the flavors and textures they are used to in their diets. In fact, our dining options just increased. (I never visited the restaurant that previously inhabited the space given new life by chef Tanya Petrovna.)

Rockenwagner Bakery.

Yesterday,  on Third and Arizona in Santa Monica, California,  I was on my way to find sushi for lunch, but I like the color orange, so I stepped inside to take a look at the menu in the Rockenwagner bakery and cafe. (Sorry there's no umlaut over my "o".  My current font package just can't handle the concept.)