The Foundry on Melrose

When two gorgeous Asians invited me to dinner, oops, rewind, I'm not supposed to write that. Okay, I met these two women, co-workers, uh, fellow professionals for dinner at the Foundry. Do you know the Foundry? It's a fine-dining establishment in the same Melrose neighborhood as the "Gig" and the Groundlings Theater. I've seen some great bands at the Gig including a set by one of the great unsigned acts of our time, Roger Moon. The Groundlings, which gave us Phil Hartman and Pee Wee Herman, is my favorite entertainment venue in the city. And the Foundry serves crispy skin salmon over horseradish puree which is remarkable. The pork belly appetizer hit the spot, but then again, when does pork belly not hit the spot? And there's calamari with grape, which sounds like a weird combination but it is great. I ordered the creme brulee with orange sherbet for dessert but it was my friend's bread pudding with raisin rum ice cream that was the spiritual experience. Crispy skin salmon, raisin rum ice cream, I can't get these phrases out of my head, and it's been DAYS. As far as my dinner company, I'm supposed to keep it a secret, something about the danger of mixing pleasure with work. I will say this: lately I've been swimming with sharks, folks that don't have my best interest at heart. What can I say, it's been a bad year. I've been stolen from, stood up, betrayed, and swindled. Some of my so-called friends and family have shown their true colors and their hues have been running streaks of yellow with hearts as black as night. But these two? It's good to know that there's still some good left in this wounded city. And no, it doesn't hurt to look fine while they're at it.

W

No, not that W, Wolfgang Zweiner
If you can get a good table at Zweiner’s Steak House in Beverly Hills, you’re either a liar or Leonardo DiCaprio. Upon walking into this spot on Canon Drive, I thought that it is everything I hate: crowded, loud, with the Lakers game blasting oppressively from the monitors. This place appears about to burst there are so many people and the windows shake from the roar of the voices. The drunken scenesters at the bar cheer loudly for the team and I turn to leave. But my dinner companions bid me forward. This group, mostly LAUSD teachers seem cheerful but wise to ways culinary. Amelia, Katheryn, Lauren, Mr. Newell and I sit at the table. The server is no-nonsense and drops hot bread in front of me. My friends nod their approval and reach for the basket. I inhale the bread and butter. The server quickly returns with homemade potato chips with blue cheese dip. Lauren and Katheryn smile. Me? I want to burst into tears. HOMEMADE POTATO CHIPS with BLUE CHEESE DIP. These are tears of joy, people. My filet mignon arrives cooked medium rare and impeccably seasoned. I hardly notice the roar of the room that was an inconvenience just moments before. I hear nothing. But I see steak. They come with German potatoes, which are cousins to hashed browns but have this crunchy texture on the outside. Killer. The creamed spinach arrives and I happily plop some on my plate. Katheryn tells me to get more. I no longer argue with women so I slap more on my plate. Here comes the mashed potatoes. Steak, spinach, potatoes on top of more potatoes. A perfect meal. As I eat, the server taps my shoulder. “I have a hot fudge sundae for you, sir. The fudge is thick, rich, not overly sweet and the walnuts lightly sprinkled. You will find the whipped cream perfectly mixed.” And I did.
It happened, great food trumped bad vibes and poisoned atmosphere. Wolfgang Zweiner, I’ve never met you, man, but, sniff, sniff (reaches for handkerchief), I like you a lot…okay, I love you. There. I said it.

Musso and Frank

Musso and Frank pushes 1945 L.A. ambience with their eight dollar Bloody Mary cocktails. Even the menu choices here seem a bit dated and if you are offended by twenty four dollar beef stroganoff and an eight dollar parking lot rate then this might not be for you. But if you want to feel William Faulkner’s ghost as you churn out your next movie script, then you need to make it your next stop while driving through Hollywood Boulevard. Everything, from the wood-paneled interior to the servers wearing red tuxes speaks of the past, and I suspect viewings of “Sunset Boulevard” and “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane” are enough to make you nostalgic and misty-eyed. When you sit at the counter, the server will tell you to avoid the ravioli while singing about the braised lamb shanks. I mean, literally sing. He tells me he’s been serving cosmopolitans longer than I’ve been alive as he plops a bread basket in front of me. Maybe I’m overly appreciative but I always like it when joints offer sliced bread and butter before my meal, especially when the bill goes skyward. Loretta ordered the Salisbury steak, as did I, as our conversation veered on cheats that we’ve met. I myself have never cheated on someone because I have learned how to handle exes and all women in general when I’m in the midst of a relationship: cut them off. All of them. Delete them, all numbers, erase the Facebook, the MySpace, everything, every detail. I’m no dummy, I know that if the contact with an ex doesn’t turn into a disaster and destroy a relationship, the ensuing argument about the contact will. Can we finally be honest with ourselves? “Network” websites are really only about one kind of network. It’s inexplicable why some people don’t get this.
So has anyone ever cheated on me? I don’t think so, but if she has, I just want to let her know now that I just cheated her out of Musso and Frank, with its singing waiter in a red tux, thickly cut bread and butter, steak and creamy mashed potatoes, served with carrots and peas. I cheated her out of Faulkner, Chandler, Elroy and ninety years of LA history. I’ll call it a push.

Restaurant 7: Pat and Lorraine's

Or diners, drive-ins, and dives

Pat and Lorraine's of Eagle Rock is not on the 99 Essential Restaurant list but with the demise of Banh Thung, I thought I’d throw in one of my own recommendations. You may know this diner from the opening scene of Quentin Tarantino’s “Reservoir Dogs.” When you eat here you realize why these hard-boiled punks out to rob a diamond store filled with armed cops picked it for a hearty breakfast. This is not a bad place for a last meal: big soups, hearty chicken, big, bad omelets. Being an admirer of Guy Fiere’s show, I wondered why he rarely visited Los Angeles with his “Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives.” That answer is we’re too nice. LA cares too much about your health. You want a burger? Let’s throw some sprouts and tomato on it. You want an omelet? But of course…with egg beaters. This is getting ridiculous. Where’s the extra-thick bacon burgers, the fat Reuben sandwiches with extra pickles, and omelets packed with enough cheddar and meats to feed a Central American uprising? Enter Pat and Lorraine’s. If you think deep fried potatoes with seasoned salt is a perfectly fine veggie side then this is the place for you. When I met Suzanne here this past Saturday, she told me noon was breakfast time for her. I bird-eyed that chile verde omelet special on the chalkboard. I thought to myself that this is the perfect American story: an American eating with a Russian Armenian girl at an American diner eating Mexican food. The chile verde omelet has arrived. It is big, it is mean, and it is good.

Restaurant 6: Phillipe the Original

Or Farewell, My Lovely

I got stood up. But I saw it coming. The lady in question, Michelle, is someone I know well. If pressed, if, say, a chili dog at Chroni’s were on the line, I may even admit that she and I had been romantic. I often say never date a co-worker but I have done so twice. The first time it ended badly and felt that I got off lucky. The second was catastrophic.
It’s never a sign of a healthy relationship when someone breaks up with you four times via text. But to me, I am an eternal optimist. I find this to be a mere bump in the road, a tic in the ointment of love that I can merely shake off with my charm and wit. “Oh, yes, I got your text. You’re so cute. Let’s hang out, Friday!” And then, poof, this “on-again, off-again” romance was on again. What our relationship needs is the thing I dread most: confrontation. When a relationship isn’t working I would rather things just fade away than find myself tangled up in the razor claws of a young pretty. Why expend so much negative energy? Why the histrionics?
Our plan for lunch today resulted in a no-show. How humiliating! Ah, I hate when I get one-upped like this. This was the final straw. To disrespect me like that has brought me ready to draw blood and to receive her kind of below-the-belt jabs. She’s that kind of person. Worse for her than dealing out my humiliation with apathy: she missed out on the pleasures of the famous French dip at Philippe's the Original.
When you walk into Phillipe, don’t be discouraged by the lines. Take your place among the multitudes of French dip fanatics and bring a newspaper to wile away the five minute wait to the counter. Better yet, strike up a conversation with the lovely standing in a line to your right or the pretty but confused British tourist standing in line to your left. Don’t be scared. It’s very easy to do because you share a common bond: you’re standing in line after dealing with a horrific parking situation for a deli sandwich. Say this: “Isn’t Phillipe’s the best?” And then go from there. Romantic flings that led to wrong-headed marriages culminating in messy custody battles have started on flimsier premises.
When they call you forward, order the beef or lamb dip, though a friend of mine swears by the turkey. When you ask for blue cheese on your dip you’re asking for a palate explosion, especially if you touch it up with the complimentary hot mustard that sits on every table. It’s marvelous. I find the pickled eggs to be bland so you’d be advised to get the dill pickle spear instead. Do yourself a favor and avoid the tables where the scenery is concrete wall and framed food reviews. Go upstairs and sit by the window. Today I plopped myself down alone. I looked longingly outside and saw the shadows that the buildings of downtown LA make at dusk. How can you not think of a Raymond Chandler novel with such a view? As I ate my beef dip I looked around the room and saw a community of Phillipe lovers, alone but unified. As for my date, I ordered her a dish, nothing on it, just the dish, cold.

Restaurant 4: Pie N' Burger

Or cracking open the high school year book I may be the most nostalgic person you’ll ever meet. Did I take marching band with you in seventh grade? Let’s talk about it on the phone. Did I have a brief flirtation with you at the summer camp of ’87? Let’s exchange My Space info. Not all of this wistfulness is of the romantic nature. As ridiculous as it sounds, every spring I make a pilgrimage to a certain little league in Covina. What am I hoping to see? I don’t know. Maybe I’m hoping to feel something I’ve lost? I’m in love with the past but not in the way you may think. I don’t like to talk about past accomplishments, relationships, or activities. But I love to see all of it, the old school grounds, baseball fields, the dairy, and experience it again before it slips away for good.
I’m game to talk with just about anyone from grade school so when I received a Facebook invitation from former classmate Loretta to be my friend, I asked her out. Nostalgia wins again.
I couldn’t have picked a worse place to meet. Pie 'n Burger is the Apple Pan of Pasadena,all counter and atmosphere and burger. I wished, however, more from the atmosphere, like tables and parking spaces, for instance. As we sat, we talked about the old times. The server had to come back three times to ask if we were ready. Well, there was a lot of ground to cover, twenty years worth. She ordered hers without cheese (a small crime where I come from) and we shared fries. Good thing, too, because how would I be able to fit in that boysenberry pie? We talked about Glendora High School and I remarked at its pretentiousness, especially to the insecure momma's boy I was. But Loretta is anything but pretentious. As we wrapped it up and I made the long journey to my car, I contemplated the hamburger I just ate, but all I kept thinking were these words:“The Bucket Burger, In-n-Out, The Bucket Burger, In-n-Out.” I wonder what she was thinking.

Restaurant 3: Golden Deli

Or “Mom, let’s do lunch”

With its line of people wrapped around the building waiting for an open seat, Golen Deli has become the Space Mountain of San Gabriel; but because I firmly believe that length and quality of life depend on consistent exercise and a steady diet of potent broth, I ventured into that mini-mall on Mission and Las Tunas. You see, the pho at Golden Deli soothes me, the cold noodles with pork satisfy, and the egg rolls simply inspire. When I met my mother here she wondered what made this place special from all the other Asian noodle shops that abound. Vietnam House, Pho 49, Noodle City and others litter the landscape. One bite into that egg roll answered her question. “Thanks, Mom, for raising me and giving me that neat camera.” “Shut up, Ruben, and pass the fish sauce.”

Restaurant 2: Asanebo

Or I wonder if my ex will pick up?

My other list titled “exes who wish I were dead” has grown since I rushed into the dating scene some years ago. With each passing year it strikes me how petty the disagreements that lead to a breakup. Still, at the time her “complaints about my friends” or “that annoying roommate of hers” were the worst deal breakers imaginable. How curious, then, what a cup of miso can do to salve the wounds that can come with a vicious parting of ways. The question then became inevitable: I wonder if my ex will pick up? Sandra* obviously doesn’t wish I were dead, since she agreed to my Facebook invitation. I decided to invite her to dinner which I knew would find a way to her heart. But when I offered a sushi joint in Studio City, well, that was playing unfair. She agreed to go without hesitation. Asanebo offers Japanese food in a cluttered section of Ventura Boulevard, so come early, make a reservation, wear black, and prepare to pay the valet $3.50 to park your car five feet away. I had never been to Asanebo before but I had an idea that I would be paying some real currency at this spot. And I did. But the miso with sea bass was butter, the thimble of sake I drank felt nourishing to the spirit, and the red snapper sushi hit Sandra like a vodka tonic. In short, the red snapper was great. The tuna and California rolls worked their magic, too, but I realized during our meal that patrons were eating dishes like mussels and cooked salmon. Oh, well, next time.
The star of the evening was Sandra. She looked good; she was funny, bubbly, smart, open-minded, cool, and effortless in conversation. There are women who talk too much but Sandra has that ability to talk and listen. She is that rare extravert who asks questions. We completely disagree politically but unlike other people I know, she can talk politics without throwing knives. It had been a year since I had spoken to her but by the time we called for our cars we felt caught up. And I asked her if she wanted to go out again. Gulp. What will my ex say? She said yes, as long as we keep it in the Valley. Alcazar here we come.

The Oinkster

Or in praise of silence, maturity, and mutual respect

Cell phones and Blackberries suck the dating scene of its joy and adventure. When a woman can’t leave her Blackberry at home for two hours then she’s raising some flags tinting red; if she sends text messages during the date then it should be the last time you see her. In fact, if she texts during dinner, especially at a pricey place like Urusawa or Cut, then you should end the date prematurely, if you can. A person who feels more connected with a piece of technology than a live human isn’t worth your time.
Ten seconds into my date with Laurie*, her cell went off. My initial dread eased up when she quickly ended the call. She told her friend, “He just picked me up. I’ll tell you about it later.” And then she hung up. A little play-by-play of the date to her best friend I don’t mind. We left our cells in the car as we headed to the restaurant. An hour without the receiving and sending of text messages? Yes, and I live to tell the tale.
Laurie lives in South San Gabriel, home of 101 Noodle Express, Chang’s Garden, and Golden Deli. She had heard of all these joints and spoke with knowledge about A.O.C, Cut, and the Grill. I told her about the Oinkster and Palate and she knew of these, too; in fact, she personally knew Octavio Becerra of Palate. What’s this, a foodie in my car? When I mentioned the LA Weekly food column, she told me of her admiration for Jonathan Gold. Now this is a smart girl. Laurie wanted to go to the O I N K S T E R so to the Oinkster we went.
This was my third visit to this Eagle Rock establishment so I know exactly where it is: in the same neighborhood as the Bucket, one of my favorite hamburger joints. I told her about “The Oinkster” sandwich, a pastrami filled with caramelized onions and red cole slaw. A book can be written about this sandwich. The perfect texture of slaw complements the wicked flavors of that sweet and peppery concoction of meat and onions fitted neatly on a bun. Order it or I shall hurt you. Good luck getting that garlicky pastrami smell off your hands so you better utilize that small bucket of napkins on your table when handling your Oinkster. Otherwise, you're persona non grata around your dainty girlfriend or that pretentious cocktail party you were planning to attend.
I took the chance on the ½ chicken with rice, beans, and plantains. The chicken was excellent, the rice and beans were so-so, the plantains serviceable. But if you’re going to the Oinkster you order a burger, a pulled pork, or a pastrami, not chicken. So I goofed. Get your roast chicken with garlic aioli at Zankou and your sides of Cuban at El Cochinito on Sunset. If you go to Oinkster, do it right. Did I mention the cupcakes? Laurie and I shared one. The coconut frosting made us briefly forget that life comes with problems.



*The names have been changed to protect the innocent