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The Voice must really be hoping to build a library of signature gestures, since judges are 

Willie...

Willie was a kid who stuttered. He lost his parents when he was young and ended up having a real sucky childhood with his relatives. He was awkward with girls, didn’t have many friends, and felt suffocated by his mean uncle. When he was old enough to get out, he escaped. He travelled to Germany and France to check what the art scene was all about. He made some bohemian friends out there, you know, guys who would grow their hair long and not take showers. These cats liked to sit around and argue art and politics. Not a bad way to waste your time, I guess. He was around twenty at this time and realized that he better get a real job. One cold day in April, he abruptly quit the art scene.
Deciding to move closer to home, Willie found a job at a London hospital. He bandaged wounds and even saved a few people’s lives, which affected him deeply, but he never forgot his smelly artistic friends. He decided that he had that artist side, too, and that it tugged at his heart frequently. At school, he had always enjoyed writing so he began to walk around with a notepad and take notes about his observations of life. Sometimes he would write down the way people talked and sometimes he would just stare at their mannerisms or listen to their inflections of their speech. Other times he wrote about the character of the people he had met in his young life and often thought that they tended to be hypocritical and outright liars. Willie was not the most optimistic person in the world.
Since he was a big reader, he would read every night after a long day at the hospital. After reading a page from a book he enjoyed, like say, Moby Dick, he would put the book down. From his memory, he would write down, word for word, the page he had just read as best he could. From his careful observations of his work life, his memories from his childhood, and his reading from classic novels like Pride and Prejudice and David Copperfield, he wrote a play. He felt so good about the work that he submitted it to a London theater company. The company liked the play and staged it in their theater. Before long, he had written several more plays, most of them comedies or light-hearted dramas. Almost every single one was accepted by theater companies. On one occasion, he had several plays running at the same time in London. Willie’s plays were hits.
Being a successful playwright meant a lot of money and fame for Willie but it did not make him happy. He never forgot about his childhood and his stuttering problem. Instead of a comedy, he decided to write something different, something that would communicate the pain from his past. It was the one advantage, he decided, that a writer had over other artists: the writer could communicate their suffering. He sat down and wrote a novel about his life. Being the pessimist that he was, he titled his book “Of Human Bondage.” By this time, Willie was known as W. Somerset Maugham. This book about his stuttering problem (in the book he changed it to a clubbed foot), the death of his parents, and the quiet cruelty of the uncle he lived with, became one of the best-selling novels of all time. He went on to write many other books such as The Moon and Sixpence, Cakes and Ale, and The Razor’s Edge. He also wrote hundreds of short stories. Many of his stories and novels were adapted into films. Willie ended up being the best-selling novelist of the twentieth century.
While writing these masterpieces, he was recruited by England to be a spy. He agreed and was very successful at it. His espionage work around World War 1 led him to Russia to attempt to stop the crazy and bloody revolution going on at the time. During World War 2, he spied on Nazi Germany. His work forced him to abandon his home in Italy which the Nazis destroyed. Another time he narrowly escaped France while German tanks were invading.
At the end of his days, (he was over ninety when he died) he reflected on his life and felt like a failure. (Imagine this man, a failure!) I think his problem was that he thought too much. He obsessed over his ineptness with girls as a teenager and he was sad at the fact that some critics didn’t like a few of his books. And he was miserable that he couldn’t stop the revolution in Russia. Here was Willie, a hugely successful playwright, novelist, and spy, and still, he felt like he didn’t do enough with his life. Wow, I wonder if I live to be an old man, and I look back at my life, what I will think about my accomplishments. Or lack of accomplishments. Or maybe, I am just thinking a little too much.

Angeli

I remember that thick, luscious, red tomato sauce-laced bubbling wonder coming out of the oven and thought this, “I am going eat this. I really am going to eat this.” By this I mean Aunt Rachel’s lasagna. Oh, it was good, so good. When I think of food that is decadent, food that really is sinful and requires confession, hail Marys or spiritual counseling, depending on where in spiritual spectrum you fall, I think of lasagna. And Aunt Rachel’s was simply the best. It had layers of soft pasta that seemed to go for miles in between perfect red sauce and ricotta. Its oozed with bubbling cheese and steam. One bite and you were done, it was that rich. But you kept eating and eating. It was the one dish that you prayed before and after the meal: before for thanksgiving, and after for forgiveness.
I love Italian food, all of it, but lasagna is another kind of romance, it is a first, second, and third date with a beautiful girl. When a lasagna is bad, say dry or boring, it is still good. I can think of a lasagna I eat occasionally that is fairly mediocre. I still eat all of it. But when it is good, oh my, I am struck by its sheer goodness. Its dessert counterpart would be crème brulee, its vegetable cousin would be corn (with tons of salt and butter). Angeli Café makes a great lasagna, I mean great. It tastes like something that you could eat about five plates of and it is one of the only foods you can just eat. You don’t need bread or salad or any other type of nonsense. Just give me the lasagna and keep it coming. Now keep in mind, it isn’t Aunt Rachel’s good, but it is good.

Blogging/Writing

I have not blogged in a while but it does not mean that I have not been writing. I have been writing quite a lot, actually. In my attempt to entertain and encourage my students to read (I teach high school English) I have begun writing a novel. Reading excerpts of it to my students only encouraged me to write more. I am now about seventy pages in one novel and thirty pages into a second. I have also written two short stories. In the next few months I hope to finish these works and I will link them onto this blog. Even if neither of these novels see the light of day, it has been a fun way to while away the hours on the weekend while our theater gets ready for a makeover. We shall see how it goes…

A Catty Insult: Rejection!

This, from Madame Hulot to Monsieur Crevel in Balzac’s great novel Cousin Bette. Crevel is trying to romance Hulot but she is simply not having it: “Listen Monsieur Crevel, you are 50 years old. That’s ten years less than Monsieur Hulot, I know. But at my age a woman’s folly has to be justified by good looks, or youth, or fame, or ability, or some of the brilliance that dazzles us to such an extent that we forget everything, even our age. You may have an income of fifty thousand livres, but your age outweighs your fortune. So, of everything that a woman requires, you possess nothing at all.”

Comfort Food

Pho, chicken noodle, lemony menudo, spicy tofu. Why do comfort foods often veer toward the brothy realm? It is a question Spinoza or Aristotle might have tackled had they not been tied up by such trivial matters as the nature of evil and why the universe exists. I had an exceptionally bad migraine this week so there is just no substitute to chicken noodle. It is a food that doesn’t make you think. When I have a migraine I don’t want the unwashed masses to touch me, I don’t want to talk, and I certainly don’t want to think. Chicken noodle requires the least thought, the least maintenance, what you see is what you get. When a cold arises, menudo is a very good idea. Its fire melts away the evil nasties and its carne holds you up when all you want to do is fall to the ground. Super Burrito in Whittier has, according to their sign, “the best menudo in the world.” Or something like that. But you know what, I think they are right. Well, at least it’s pretty dang good. If you have really good pho, that would also do the trick for the sniffles. In fact, pho would be better because there are more vegetables in a bowl of pho than in the White House garden. If you want really good pho, I suggest Golden Deli, or Vietnam House. But there is something remarkable about the number 1 at Pho Minh. It is that rare dish that tastes like it could come from some old Veitnamese grandmother’s home, and yet, fits right in at a restaurant. Either the pho itself will cure you or the very nature of eating it will, that is, the act of eating something that tastes so homey. The mechanics and hung-over couples that walk in and order it seem to think they have discovered this tiny nook in El Monte themselves. Silly rabbits, everyone knows by now that the king of pho serves here. If you want a hearty broth you could hardly do better than Daikokuku in Little Tokyo. It is big, eggy, meaty, vegetabley broth, and when you have finished it you may be healed of that which ails you. But you know, talk to some people, and broth is not comforting at all. I know someone who considers comfort food juicy cheeseburgers and chocolate doughnuts. Still others turn to thin-crust pizza when sick. To these philistines I would only say, eat, drink, be cured of your ailment! But don’t come crying to me when, after developing gas, your stomach requires a softer antidote. You won’t get any comfort from me.

Another Insult

From the master of the put-down, Somerset Maugham on an acquaintance: “C.G. and I looked at the sunset and he remarked that he considered sunsets rather vulgar. I, who was impressed with what I saw, felt humiliated. He told me contemptuously that I was very English. I had thought the fact rather praiseworthy. He informed me that his spirit was French; I thought it a pity in that case that he spoke it with such a British accent.
C.G.: He has all the graces and all the virtues, (since his morals are none too good) and he prides himself on his sense of humor. To his mind the best argument you can bring in favor of a cause is that it is unpopular. He takes a singular pride in running down his country and this he takes to be an example of his breadth of mind. Ten days in Paris with Cook’s coupons have sufficed to convince him of the superiority of the French. He talks of ideal love, of Hope with a rippling laugh, and buys a harlot off the Strand for ten shillings. He explains his failures by bemoaning the age…He writes poetry which lacks only originality to be quite passable. He has no physical courage, and when bathing is terrified at the idea of being out of his depth. But he is proud of being a coward; he says anyone can be brave, it merely shows lack of imagination.”

Fab's vs. Let's Be Frank

Good Old American Hot Dogs, the Rankings






I know when you bring up the “best hot dogs in LA” subject someone invariably chimes in with Pink’s. Okay, let me be clear again: NO. Pink’s isn’t even better than a Dodger Dog. I wouldn’t even rank it ahead of Weinerschnitzel. That’s right, I said it. It’s just an average dog. But there is a new contender for the top dog of LA and it is formidable. Let’s Be Frank is a hot dog cart near Helms Ave. and they are excellent. The dog comes from grass-fed bovines and they are delicious with mustard. How could you not have your hot dogs with mustard? Something wrong with you? These are organic dogs the perfect dogs for the Westside: hot dogs that ease some of the guilt as you wash them down by your icy diet Coke. But wait, what about Fab’s? If you are willing to make the trip to Reseda (and I rarely am) you could get an excellent hot dog called the Ripper. This dog comes with a spicy relish that has this vinegary, garlicky, pickly essence that is hard to forget. I have mentioned the garlic fries on this blog before and they are good. But get these to go because Fab’s, as you now know, is tiny. Fab’s, but just barely. Here is my top 8:
1. Chroni’s in East LA
2. That bacon wrapped hot dog on Florence Avenue in Huntington Park
3. Fab’s in Reseda
4. Let’s Be Frank on Helms
5. Dodger Dogs
6. Skooby’s on Hollywood Boulevard
7. Weinerschnitzel
8. Pink’s

A Real Foodie

A photo of the great Honore' de Balzac





I enjoy food like the next guy but it could never replace things like books, plays, “The Godfather,” “The Princess Bride,” or the first half of “Full Metal Jacket.” I knew a guy, I’ll call him “Wendell” who gets more enjoyment from food than anyone I have ever known. He eats, and eats, and eats. Is there such a thing as Food Anonymous? He would be a charter member. On his way to a restaurant, he would tell me things like “it’s meatloaf special day at Twohey’s” or “It’s two lobster for one day at Tan Cang.” Wendell could tell you about the best place to order carnitas burritos in the San Gabriel area (Pepe’s) the best Japanese (Yama) the spiciest menudo (Bun N Burger) the best pizza (Di Pilla) and the best chorizo quesadilla (the now shuttered Azteca), and on and on and on. I used to wonder about Wendell. Weren’t there women he wished to see? Did ever a lady friend strike his fancy enough to want to gather her in his arms, throw her over his shoulder, and, cave-man like, march her to Twohey’s for the Monday short ribs special? I think not. There are some people who are the real foodies, those whose sole purpose in life is to eat and discover all the little surprises that the pursuit of the culinary life can offer. As much as a bibliophile might get a pleasure from first discovering the power of Dostoevsky when reading “Notes from the Underground” or a film geek when standing in line for "Star Wars: Episode 2," a person like Wendell would feel this when eating at a new Italian joint which served a proper veal parm. Perhaps the best novelist at characterization, Honore de Balzac, gave us a picture of this real foodie in describing Pons, the title character in his great “Cousin Pons”: “Unrequited love—a theme overexploited in drama—is based on an inessential need; for, if we are spurned by one of God’s creatures, we can give our love to God, who can heap treasures upon us. But an unrequited stomach!...no suffering can be compared to this, for good living comes first! Pons yearned for certain kinds of crème, each one a poem, for certain white sauces, everyone a masterpiece; for certain dishes of truffled poultry, all ravishing to taste; and above all for those Rhenish carp which are only found in Paris, and with such delicious seasoning. On certain days Pons exclaimed: O Sophie! as he thought of the Comte Popinot’s cook. A stranger who heard him sighing like that would have imagined that the good man was thinking of an absent mistress, but he had something more rare in mind: a succulent carp, with a sauce which was clear in the sauce-boat but thick upon the tongue, a sauce which was worthy of the Montyon prize!”