Thwarted in our attempt to spot bats in Prospect Park, we drown or sorrows in the excellent hand-crafted cocktails at Applewood. I had the bourbon-based Bangkok Buck which came with a lovely sprig of basil. Our server brought is 3 types of butter to spread on the homemade bread.
The butters were not turdy as they appeared, rather light and mild enough to let the flavor of the bread break through. This prepared me for the superb bass with corn puree and broken olives.
The sweetness of the corn supported the beautifully seared bass and the chopped kalamatas on top added the necessary salt pinch. The dessert menu proved to be so intriguing we were compelled to sample: chocolate tart with pine nut ice cream was more like a shortbread cookie (a little too dry) concealing a chocolate frosting bomb inside.
The butterscotch pudding was the favorite: smooth and creamy and covered with more chocolate.
They both paired well with a glass of cool ice wine. But then everything does.
I’d not been to Spoonbread Too in quite some time and it had really improved with age. The Sunday special was barbecued shrimp with 2 sides. I chose cornbread stuffing and candied yams.
The shrimp came in a sweet sauce that complimented the shrimp without overpowering it. Yams were soft like baby food and the stuffing was savory, if a little dry. The portions were small enough so that there was room for coconut cake, which was surprisingly fresh for a Sunday.
Bits of pineapple were tucked between layers, suggesting a tropical breeze--with frosting.
How did they make this salad so good?
Open Door Gastropub (oh, if only we could eliminate that word “gastropub” from the culinary lexicon. Do you want the word “gas” in a restaurant name?) is a sprawling place downtown with a good beer selection and surprisingly high-quality food. I’m pretty sure that what made my salad so good was the pears on top. They had apparently been soaked in sugar and vanilla for quite some time, which made them irresistible.
Fatty Cue had been on our list for awhile, so we chose a steamy, Malaysian-hot evening for our investigation. The air conditioning was off, which made it a little too authentic. We started with Smoked Eggplant Nam Prik: chili, scallion, green mango, bok choy and chicharrones.
I just like to say chicharrones. The mango was very spicy, without any visible evidence of spice. I suppose they must have soaked it in fire. The green beans snuck along for the ride. It was all invigoratingly tasty, but was it $12 worth of tasty? I think not. Next was the ‘Cue Coriander Bacon with steamed yellow curry custard.
The custard had the essence of all Southeast Asia condensed into one small cup. Surprisingly mild and very pillowy, it spread easily on the buttery flat toast. The bacon was mostly fat, which was a little too greasy for me. Again, the portion was tiny for the money. When we first read the menu, the Dragon Pullman Toast with a side of master fat pretty much jumped directly onto our thighs.
The fat turned out to be the stuff that you can’t quite figure out what to do with after you’ve cooked the Sunday morning pig fest: throw it down the sink? No it will clog. Put it in the fridge and forget about it? Yes! Good thinking! They’ve gone one step further: Put it in a little bowl, then dip buttered toast into it and wait for the triple bypass. Fazio Farm Red Curry Duck with sweet pickled daikon and smoked red curry was a little dry as we wrestled the meat off the bone.
Came to about $6 per bite. Brandt Farm Beef Brisket with chili jam, aioli, bao, red onion and bone broth was alarming because the bao looked just like Homer Simpson’s lips.
Totally creeped me out. Pork Loin, smoked on the bone and sliced thin, was exactly the same as the brisket, complete with the cartoon lips, but this time with garlic mayo.
Eating Heritage Pork Ribs was like Sunday barbeque in Kuala Lumpur if you were the crown prince in a greasy apron.
We ended with s’mores pie,
which came with heavy cream to pour over it, just in case there was any room left in our arteries.
You know what’s good about visiting home is? After an afternoon visiting friends, when you finally go home, and Dad makes you a margarita and then a fresh fruit sundae with peaches and raspberries and whipped cream.
The secret ingredient is a splash of creme de menthe, for that extra aaahh.
Everything at Lemonade is pretty: the food, the decor, the people, the lemonade. It’s an upscale cafeteria with bright, healthy salads and hearty stews. I picked 4: brussels sprouts, jicama, cauliflower with raisins, and avocado with tomato.
Each one was perfect and fresh and just the right portion. It was hard to choose which unusual beverage to pick from, but the pineapple coriander won. Sweet and refreshing and healthy after a heart-stopping bout with my Mexican lard-based favorites.
The greasy Mexican breakfast at last! I dream of this most nights, probably because I can’t get it in NYC. And why is it so difficult, New Yorkers, WHY? At Tarasco we got chorizo, eggs, rice, guac, and refried beans with lard. Plenty of lard.
A breakfast burrito on the side just in case we got hungry during breakfast. It all gets spooned into fresh flour tortillas and it is the best breakfast in the whole world. So good we barely noticed crazy angry Venice guy talking to the trash can nearby.
Despite all the whole/healthy/nourishing choices in Los Angeles, this is still the best thing going: the combo plate. This particular assemblage was from La Talpa.
Chili relleno, enchiladas, and a chicken taco. The grease stays on your face for days, creating a smooth, soft complexion. The lard goes directly to the hips--the better to sit all day. The soul is satisfied at last. All it took was $9, 2 Pacificos and 7000 calories.
How do you top Philipe’s? With tiki drinks, of course! We wandered over to L.A. Live, which was created out of wasteland so that Laker fans would have something to light on fire after they win the championship. Wandered into Trader Vic’s, which was one of the original tiki bars of the last century. It’s all spiffed up now (and in a different location) and doesn’t have quite the same wacky soul, but it’s still pretty cool. The drinks are made with great care.
I had the traditional Mai Tai. It came with a tropical garden on top. Syl was driving, so she opted for something non alcoholic and coconutty, which was also carefully concocted and quite delicious. The glass said hello. I did not take it home.
Is there a better meal anywhere than the French Dip Sandwich at Phillipe’s? No my friends, there is not. I get so nostalgic for this place, I cry when I walk in and smell the sawdust on the floor and the pork/beef/lamb fumes. I’ve been going here since childhood, as has my mother and her parents before her. It is a Los Angeles institution and deserves the claim. Allow me to describe it in detail: You drive through a sea of infuriating traffic until you arrive downtown. You are agitated...and then you see the classic signage. All concerns drift away. You enter and then smell the beautiful warm smells of a million perfect sandwiches being prepared. You wait in line. It takes a long time, but everyone around you is so darn happy to be close to a French Dip, they just smile and chat. At the front of the line you peer over the tall counter, past the very purple pickled eggs, to see the ancient waitress in a ’40s style uniform. She is very nice, if a little tired. You ask her to please, please, please bring you a double dipped French Dip, a side of potato salad, a side of macaroni salad, a giant slice of lemon meringue pie and a Pacifico. She does.
And she puts it on a tray and then you walk past the other envious customers in line as they gaze adoringly at your meal. You take everything to the long bench and plop down. Pick up the sandwich. It is slightly moist with au jus at the edges. Squirt a small dollop of hot mustard horseradish sauce on the spot you’re about to bite. Chomp. The bread is soft and fresh and clings a bit to the roast beef, cooked until it almost disintegrates. You have never been happier. You take another bite, and then another, and then you consult with your mother whether one sandwich each is enough. You gaze at your tart, wiggly lemon meringue pie. One sandwich may possibly be enough. As long as you can talk your brother into mailing you another next week.
Sometimes, when the s’mores call your name, you must heed that call. I answered by placing the chocolate on the graham cracker, and the marshmallow on top of the chocolate. Put it in the toaster oven and went to the other room until I smelled them burning. Took them out just in time.
The marshmallows had expanded were just about to catch on fire. Burned my mouth. Choked a curse. It was good.
There is nothing like the summer beach ice cream cone. It just tastes better on a hot day near the ocean. Our favorite is Sweet Treats in Brigantine, New Jersey. Lori makes all the gelato from scratch. When I was there the previous month, she told me she’d been working on s’mores gelato, and I could not stop thinking about it.
It was worth the wait: creamy rich gelato with intense chocolate flavor, dancing with marshmallows and topped with a hungry animal cookie.
So we reconfigured the feast from Friday night to make it look festive, like something we could sing “Happy Birthday” around. Made a big salad with the steak sliced and rearranged on top. Sauteed some zucchini and cheese for the calabacitas and found some perfect Jersey corn n the fridge.
Becca procured the appropriately worded cake for her mum
which was a fine summer strawberry treat.
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