Like any good foodivore, I took full advantage of a recent trip to L.A. to sample some regional specialties, and some non-regional specialties as well. We had some hits and some misses. So, this edition of the round-up can stand as proof that I am not only critical of the restaurants here in little ol' Nashville, but am an equal-opportunity curmudgeon.
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We arrived at LAX at 7 p.m. on a Thursday. Our first stop? -- well, after baggage claim, the rental car counter, and my friend Kelly's to drop off our luggage -- Pizzeria Mozza. We arrived at about 10 p.m. sans reservations and only had to huddle in the waiting area sipping a glass of wine for about twenty minutes before a table opened up. (Given the press the place has been getting, not a bad wait at all.) The room itself was warm and dark, yet lively and somewhat cacophonous -- a nice combination for a late-night dinner at high-end pizza joint. As for the food, it was promising from the get-go. The roasted bone marrow appetizer was positively gluttonously fattily wonderful. We're glad there were three of us to share it though, because the portion was enormous and would surely have caused instant cardiac arrest if one of us had tried to tackle it her or himself. A simple mixed salad served as a pleasantly vinegary counterpart to the bone marrow, and the pane bianco highlighted exactly why this place is famous for its bread.
Then on to the stars of the show. We tried three pizzas: the margarita pizza, the egg, asparagus, and guanciale pizza, and the clam pizza. The egg was the clear favorite, featuring tiny strands of roasted asparagus, salty cured ham, and a barely-cooked egg on top. The clam was also flavorful, but I found the composition, which included pre-shucked clams, rather dry. I prefer my clam pizzas to come with clams in the shell, not only for appearances' sake, but also because it makes for a juicier pizza. As for the margarita, we were roundly disappointed. The sauce was thick and sweet like something out of a jar (though I know it wasn't), and the cheese was rubbery and had been rather stingily portioned out. But beyond the highs and the lows of the toppings, I was rather disappointed in the crust, which was just kind of . . . bready. I know, I know, Nancy Silverton is a master breadmaker, and the place is famous for its crust. People wax poetic about the "hole structure" of this crust. But I just guess I like my crust a little . . . crustier. And I was shocked to realized that I found myself thinking I'd rather have a pizza from City House -- in NASHVILLE, mind you -- than one from the hallowed Mozza. Needless to say, I don't think we'll be back next time we're in L.A. Except maybe for that bone marrow.
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Next stop? Mexican for breakfast. A little hole-in-the-wall, neighborhoody, divey Mexican joint near Kelly's house. I'd give you the name, but I can't remember it. (A little help, Kelly?) We ate heartily of a bowl of chips that seemed extra crunchy and a green salsa with a little heat. J-P and I shared the chorizo and eggs, which was good, although Kelly's machaca and eggs was even better. The tortillas were warm and seemed freshly home-made, and the jamaica had that perfect balance of sweet and tart. We also tried the mole in the form of the mole burrito, and that deep, rich, thick concoction just may earn this little joint a legitimate claim to its self-proclaimed title of "Best Oaxacan in L.A."
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We also headed up to Little Armenia in Hollywood, where we picked up some staples for our next khorovats. As it turns out, you can carry all the cheese you want in your carry-on.
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Dinner (such as it was) consisted of margaritas and nachos at Tequila Jack's in Long Beach. Chain-ish Americanized Mexican, it was not my top choice from a food perspective, so not much to report.
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For another dinner in Long Beach, we found ourselves at King's Fish House, one of those big seafood houses with eight thousand things on the menu. Eschewing my normal M.O. of eating fresh and local, I dove right in and went with the Maine lobster. I know it traveled three thousand miles to my plate, but dammit sometimes in the summertime I just want a nice steamed lobster to dig into. And I got it, by god, licking every bit of that tasty crustaceous shell dry. The verdict on the more local fish that my companions opted for? Mostly overcooked, and nothing worth writing home about.
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Finally, on the last day: lunch at In-N-Out, because it wouldn't be a trip to California without it. I finally got my hands on a cheeseburger animal-style, which is definitely the way to go. As for the animal-style fries, the cheese wasn't especially melty, and I don't think the sauce and onions added very much, so I'll just stick to ketchup from now on. I'm not so convinced that this place is worth quite all the hype though. Sure, if you compare it to McD's or Burger King or Wendy's it most surely comes out on top, but that's not especially distinguished company, now is it? I think a fairer comparison would be other niche fast-food places -- Dick's in Seattle comes to mind, or Fat Mo's here in Nashville. In that kind of company, I'm not sure In-N-Out would have quite the following that it does.
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July 24, 2009
July 6, 2009
"Ebelskiver" is Swedish for "yummy delicious stuffed pancake balls"
I don't know how Williams-Sonoma does it, but it drives me crazy.
It all started when I bought a lovely granite mortar and pestle at a market stall on Granville Island in Vancouver. I happily lugged all ten-plus pounds of that mortar and pestle home in my carry-on, even though I had to empty my bag to demonstrate to the security officers at the airport that I wasn't smuggling enriched uranium home in my backpack. It was gorgeous, it was unique, and it was a steal, so it was well worth the hassle.
Barely a month later, I flipped open the Williams-Sonoma catalog and what did I see? The EXACT same mortar and pestle. Everything was the same -- the curve of the bowl, the smooth carved interior, the polish on the nubby exterior. But I was comforted by the fact that the Williams-Sonoma version was easily twice the price, even if they had totally knocked off my awesome mortar and pestle.
Fast forward a few years, and I come across this device while perusing the latest Williams-Sonoma catalog. The stuffed-pancake concept sounded right up my alley, so I pointed the image out to J-P. "OH!" he said, "That's an ebelskiver pan! My dad has had one for years."
Harrumph. Another nifty, obscure unitasker be-corporatized and marketized by the power that is Williams-Sonoma.
But, that is all prelude, because the real story here is the ebelskivers, which can be described simply as little balls of pancake wonderfulness, cooked in a special pan, and often stuffed with sweetness -- jam, apple sauce, fruit, you name it. (And, in case you're wondering, it's pronounced able-ski-ver, emphasis on the "able.")
Before that fateful day when I flipped open the Williams-Sonoma catalog, I had never so much as heard the word ebelskiver, let alone tried one myself. But when we were in Idaho recently, I had the distinct pleasure of tasting my first ebelskiver (and my second, and third, and fourth...), cooked by my dear father-in-law, in his decades-old ebelskiver pan.
Some we ate with a strawberry rhubarb compote. Others we sprinkled with lemon juice and powdered suger. Some were filled with cherries, others with apple sauce. And some we just popped in our mouths plain, hot and right out of the pan.
Williams-Sonoma's knock-off may look pretty, but I'm pretty sure it's got nothing on this one.
___
It all started when I bought a lovely granite mortar and pestle at a market stall on Granville Island in Vancouver. I happily lugged all ten-plus pounds of that mortar and pestle home in my carry-on, even though I had to empty my bag to demonstrate to the security officers at the airport that I wasn't smuggling enriched uranium home in my backpack. It was gorgeous, it was unique, and it was a steal, so it was well worth the hassle.
Barely a month later, I flipped open the Williams-Sonoma catalog and what did I see? The EXACT same mortar and pestle. Everything was the same -- the curve of the bowl, the smooth carved interior, the polish on the nubby exterior. But I was comforted by the fact that the Williams-Sonoma version was easily twice the price, even if they had totally knocked off my awesome mortar and pestle.
Fast forward a few years, and I come across this device while perusing the latest Williams-Sonoma catalog. The stuffed-pancake concept sounded right up my alley, so I pointed the image out to J-P. "OH!" he said, "That's an ebelskiver pan! My dad has had one for years."
Harrumph. Another nifty, obscure unitasker be-corporatized and marketized by the power that is Williams-Sonoma.
But, that is all prelude, because the real story here is the ebelskivers, which can be described simply as little balls of pancake wonderfulness, cooked in a special pan, and often stuffed with sweetness -- jam, apple sauce, fruit, you name it. (And, in case you're wondering, it's pronounced able-ski-ver, emphasis on the "able.")
Before that fateful day when I flipped open the Williams-Sonoma catalog, I had never so much as heard the word ebelskiver, let alone tried one myself. But when we were in Idaho recently, I had the distinct pleasure of tasting my first ebelskiver (and my second, and third, and fourth...), cooked by my dear father-in-law, in his decades-old ebelskiver pan.
Some we ate with a strawberry rhubarb compote. Others we sprinkled with lemon juice and powdered suger. Some were filled with cherries, others with apple sauce. And some we just popped in our mouths plain, hot and right out of the pan.
Williams-Sonoma's knock-off may look pretty, but I'm pretty sure it's got nothing on this one.
___
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