Le Food News

I was looking for Villains Tavern (which, as it turns out, is open only at night) but found, first, Wurstkuche (highly recommended but had a line that I didn't want to deal with), then NOLA's (I entered but no one ever greeted or seated me), and finally Cafe Metropol. (Zip Fusion sushi didn't appear to be open.)

Where was I? In the triangular mix of the Warehouse and Arts Districts and Little Tokyo in downtown Los Angeles. Okay, make it a quadrangle, as there is also a Toy District, but to me, the toy, warehouse and art territories basically overlap.

Since I was out at lunchtime and Villains was closed, Cafe Metropol it was. I ordered the Metropol Burger with Swiss and Blue cheese, bacon, argula, and etc. on a brioche bun. It was a strange size, weighing in somewhere between a slider and a regular burger, but I lamented not getting the American Burger (cheese, onion, pickle, etc.). These designer burgers somehow don't turn me on. I long for the coffee and malt shop burgers of my youth.

Most people at Metropol seemed to opt for the pizza, however, so that may say something.

One thing did excel during my experience, and that was the glass of Lyeth Cabernet Sauvignon I had with the burger. It was divine.

Will I return? No, not to Metropol, but I do want to try Wurstkuche (home of the designer sausages).

And definitely, I want to experience Villains and see how that establishment's burger fares.

Just don't get too fancy with it.

In a matter of days, I went from celestial strivings—The Bazaar and its Spanish tapas, both modern and traditional—to the quintessential American repast, the hot dog.

None of this was planned. I'd been meaning to catch a screening of the black-and-white, silent French movie The Artist, so on the day after Christmas, I journeyed down to Brea, Calif., to catch an early screening. (My take: Those under 50 probably won't relate to The Artist, which concerns itself with the nexus between silent and talking movies and the resultant effect on silent-screen stars).

Next door to the theater are several fast casual eateries, including the Berkeley Dog (whose roots are in the town where the University of California main campus is located, sometimes referred to as "The People's Republic of Berkeley").

I wasn't that hungry, but I stopped in for a frankfurter (American-style wiener) to take home with me. The place is smallish, but with lavish offerings, both in terms of sausage (the company bills itself as "A Sausage Kitchen") but also in terms of condiments. The condiment table features about ten different sauces, including several unique mustards (Coney Island, Hawaiian, Pineapple, Russian, and so on—all pretty darn yummy).

I overloaded my frankfurter with so many mustards and grilled onions that it made the bun soggy, so I deconstructed the dawg and ate it piece by piece, first the wienie, then the onions, then the bun.

I must say that was the tastiest wiener I've ever had; plus, it was grilled to perfection. Perhaps these commies, er, people do make the best sausages around.

(Speaking of deconstructed hot dogs, I'd like to see what Jose Andres would come up with, although that hardly fits into a Spanish theme.)

Still, my deconstructed Berkeley Dog was somehow better than the sum of its parts. And the whole thing was pretty darn good too, what few bites I had of it.

If I listened to my wife, I'd be the first person in the galaxy to pan Jose Andres and his Spanish tapas creations. After all, the guy has won chef of the universe for about two aeons running now.

However….

I must confess that there's a great dichotomy between the Traditional Tapas and Modern Tapas offerings on his four-page (somewhat bewildering) menu.

I found the traditional tapas to be either too salty or too sweet, but the modern versions offered some wonderful surprises. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The occasion was Christmas Eve dinner, which also bears the honor (haha) of being my birthday as well. My wife said to choose the restaurant, and I figured what better place than the much-acclaimed Beverly Hills Jose Andres offering called The Bazaar.

Much like a Las Vegas hotel, where you must march through a beckoning casino with slot machines clanking out loud winnings (probably a sound track) to find the lobby, the SLS Hotel in Beverly Hills, where The Bazaar is located, has its lobby tucked away to the side unnoticed, and as you drive up, you're greeted by the huge and open entryway to The Bazaar. Much like a Middle Eastern marketplace beckoning.

The interior of the restaurant I could only call faux Moroccan moderne with Spanish touches. The fittings and decor are so moderne, in fact, that I had to have someone show me how to use the sink in the restroom.

I won't get into the confusing alignment of the restaurant's many components (all meant to get you to spend more money as you sample different fare), but I assume I ended up in what is called Rojo y Blanca.

The service was first class, and since the tapas are such small dishes, you're advised to order three or four tapas per person and then share them (they generally come in two to four portions each). 

I was fine with the Modern Tapas. The Japanese Taco (grilled eel, shiso, cucumber, wasabi and chicharron) ranks among the tastiest of treats I've ever sampled. The Caprese Salad with liquefied mozzarella that explodes in your mouth was fun, and I found the Tortilla de Patatas "New Way" creamy and yummy, kind of like mashed potatoes in a chowder form.

My beef came with the Traditional Tapas, which I found routinely too salty or too sweet, probably reflecting European taste standards that I don't share.

Now, as for my poor wife, she lamented the whole meal and the two C-notes it set us back. She didn't like a single dish.

Myself? I've lost some enthusiasm for the whole Jose Andres approach, but I'd give it another try.

So don't count me as the first person to pan the chef of the ages. Not yet, anyway.

Postscript: Within hours of my review, I'd received a personal e-mail from Chef Andres that invited me back for a second try. Most tellingly, the e-mail betrayed not a hint of disapproval or displeasure, but was gracious to the utmost—first class like the service we received at The Bazaar. I will be back. I'm just not sure when.

Sorry for the long absence, but that salmonella, or stomach virus, that had me throwing up for 25 straight hours also knocked my kidneys for a loop, so I was on a water immersion diet for two or three weeks, with little desire to sample new fare.

I finally made it out and about a few days ago to visit my beach-bum daughter Donna (pictured). I was hoping to sample the fare at the legendary Backstage dive bar in Culver City, Calif., whose food has been voted "best bar food" in Los Angeles (by whom isn't exactly clear). However, when we walked inside, the place was cavernously dark with big-screen TVs blaring out football games to the tune of obnoxiously loud cheering. We left as soon as I could avail myself of the restroom and dispense some of my water immersion residue.

We ended up at a French bistro-like place called La Dijonaise.

Mistake.

I'd been dying for a good Salade Nicoise for ages, so I ordered La Dijonaise's version with seared Ahi tuna. Another mistake.

Not only was this undoubtedly the worst Salade Nicoise I've ever had, but the Ahi tuna was pale, gummy and tasteless. To top it off, the waitress couldn't even recommend a decent wine.

Anyway, I'm dying to get back to the Backstage Bar & Grill when it's not crowded. Which shouldn't be hard. It's open 365 days a year from 10 a.m. to 2 a.m.

No, I never had any turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy or anything else on Thanksgiving Day.

Instead, I was in bed 25 straight hours with the worst food poisoning I've ever experienced, length-wise anyway, I'm still living through the after-effects of reduced appetite and energy and, most of all, the need to sleep day and night to recuperate.

As I lay in bed those 25 hours during the moments when my body wasn't in excruciating pain, I pieced together what evidently happened.

At first, I blamed a tuna salad I'd purchased the day before from a local fast food place. Then I got to thinking that from Sunday on, I'd begun to feel some kind of sickness coming on, one whose symptoms got progressively worse through the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. Then it hit me: The oysters from Rock'N FIsh, which when I ate them had tasted a bit off-putting, perhaps too old.

So my "Splendid Combo" of oysters, cars and wine on Saturday turned out to be my T-Day "Raw Deal" five days later.

This is the first time in 30 years of oyster eating that I'd gotten any ill effects, so I drew this ironclad rule: Unless the restaurant maintains a raw bar staffed by at least one person and does a steady business, don't buy oysters from the menu. Who knows how long they've been sitting in some refrigerator just waiting…

…to ruin someone's life.

It's often the unexpected that yields the most pleasure in life. On Saturday my wife had a stylist's appointment in downtown Los Angeles and asked me to accompany her. Since the whole affair was going to take about four hours, I figured I could hit the L.A. Auto Show and then have lunch. Little did I know as I parked a half mile from the Convention Center (site of the car show) that my trek would take me past a place called Bottle Rock, which—lucky me—was holding its 3rd Annual Holiday Wine Tasting and Retail Bazaar at noon.

Hoping the place hadn't sold out for the wine tasting, I scurried over to the Auto Show, only to be wowed by the Kia GT concept car (see photo). "Now that's what cars should look like," i kept telling myself. Watch out, Detroit, the South Koreans are taking over the auto world.

After a couple of hours viewing cars that I can't afford, I walked back toward L.A. Live and gulped down six oysters at Rock'n Fish and then proceeded to Bottle Rock, my fingers crossed.

Success: The place had plenty of tickets left (success for me, anyway).

I wasn't prepared for what transpired. This proved to be the premier wine tasting event I've ever attended. There wasn't a single dog in any of the wines I tasted, and I discovered some really exceptional wine values hailing out of California vineyards (Paul Hobbs, for one). And I came home with, of all things, a bottle of Preston Syrah and two bottles of a Pinot Noir-Syrah blend.

Though I was late picking up my wife and she took my head off, I still count the stumbled-upon wine tasting one of the great treats of at least this decade and probably much longer.

As my Irish ancestors like to say, "May the road always open before you." On this day, it certainly did.

I forget what I called this posting the last time, but I've been predicting the end of the SoCal food truck craze for a few months now.

My recent Saturday at Santa Anita Race Track with its Food Truck Festival (for the umpteenth time) seemed on the surface to confirm my prediction that there will be a great winnowing of these trucks in the coming months.

Reason: Short or non-existent lines (except for the Buttermilk Truck and the Grilled Cheese Truck). Nom-Nom didn't even bother to show up, while in the past it would send both Nominator and Nomicita to the race track.

After losing too much money ($6) betting on the nags, I proceeded out to the infield where the trucks were parked. I honed in on Great Balls on Tires, which serves up all sorts of meat- and other-constituent-part balls. I sampled the Ballywood, which were Garam Masala Balls, but the real treat proved to be the Tomato and Cilantro Chutney dipping sauces.

On my way home, I picked up some falafels and coconut shrimp for later consumption (my wife's).

Okay, if Santa Anita has another such truck festival, will I attend?

Yes, of course, any excuse to go to Santa Anita Race Track. Maybe I'll even win, and maybe it will prove to be the real end of the food truck craze.

Which I've been unsuccessfully predicting all year.

"Lavender's blue, dilly, dilly…" goes an English nursery rhyme, which later was later turned into various popular recordings in the United States, even earning Burl Ives an Academy Award nomination. And if you like lavender, be sure to visit the Highland Springs Resort in Cherry Valley, Calif. And if you book the right room, you can even wake up to visions of lavender fields.

But the reason I journeyed to the resort near Beaumont, Calif. (where's that? you ask) was to sample the food and libations at The Grand Oak Steakhouse and Bar. The dining room looks over the lavender fields and is a splendid destination, but I chose to dine in the bar, which has all the feel of a stagecoach saloon, which not surprisingly it once was–or at least a stagecoach stop before the original edifice burned down (it opened in 1884).

Being dirt poor and on a desperation diet, I didn't opt for a steak, but instead choose the Farmer's Salad with its lavender vinaigrette, accompanied by a bowl of roasted butternut squash food. Both were very good, but what really excited me was discovering Justin Cabernet Sauvignon. That was truly excellent. I wanted to stay for more of such a fine libation, but I had a long journey home.

The two women running the bar were friendly and talkative, so I would bar The Grand Oak, bar-wise anyway, a great destination. I'll definitely be back

Ludo Lefebvre is out terrorizing the world, using his three Michelin Stars to drag mere mortals into humiliation and the hell of an irate, irrational, and immature chef.

After sickening of watching Ludo's tantrums on Ludo Bites America, I swore to forget the guy and his inanity exist, but when his food truck made its way to nearby Rowland Heights, I listened to a co-worker's ecstatic description of Ludo's fried chicken, and I went.

Unfortunately.

The chicken was mostly dry, somewhat moist but not enough so, and basically not even as good as the stuff you can buy at your local supermarket. And the cole slaw was completely below the variety you can procure at your local 99-Cent store. In a plastic container. And getting old.

Anyway, if you want the best fried chicken in America, go to Coop's Place in New Orleans.

I don't even like chicken, but Coop's has it mastered.

Sorry, Ludo, go do one of your tantrums elsewhere.

I was down in Orange, Calif., for a Burgundy wine tasting at the Wine Exchange (best cheese I've had, and the wine wasn't bad either!), so I figured I'd check out Peter's Gourmade Grill, which sports a compelling birthing story.

When I arrived a bit past 1 p.m. at Peter's Tustin storefront, I ran smack dab into a nice little line, reminiscent of a good food truck, but with a couple of outdoor tables and a few chairs along an outside counter fronting the reportedly 100-square-foot restaurant (it must be more).

I ordered the plain-jane cheeseburger and wasn't disappointed; in fact, it reminded me of the way they used to cook and serve burgers back when diners ruled the roost (and when "they" were ubiquitous).

Peter's Gourmade (nice spin on gourmet) offers more than burgers, though, so check out their menu (and be sure to read the story of how the place came about, linked above).