Oh, Hungry Cat, Why Do You Torment Me?

I want to like the Hungry Cat, I really do. The location is perfect post-Arclight, and a seafood spot that's open late-night is an undeniably great concept. Add the fact that you can pretty much eat outside year-round at the ol' kitty and you've got a place that should make the husband and me all a-twitter. Especially since Steve loves to get his oysters and chablis on. But although the Hungry Cat's oysters are terrific, little else manages to hit the spot.

A fan of Pearl Oyster Bar's sublime lobster roll, I was thrilled when the Hungry Cat opened in 2005 so that we Angelenos could have a lobster roll to call our very own -- and one that was Suzanne Goin-approved, at that. Turns out, the lobster itself is quite good but the portion is disappointingly puny for the bloated price ($23). Meanwhile, the golden little brioche in which the lobster comes perched is too buttery. With the VERY salty accompaniment of the fries, there's no way to order that dish and leave feeling human. It's at once underwhelming and overwhelming, if that makes any sense.

The Hungry Cat is also known for its signature "Pug Burger." The burger's flavors are tasty (mainly by virtue of overkill; I mean, for crying out loud, bacon, blue cheese, avocado, mayo, and onion -- are you kidding me?) but, as you can infer from my parenthetical aside, it's just a big ol' sloppy mess and the proportions are way off. The burger is one of those thick numbers, like Eddie Murphy's mother used to make on white bread while all the other kids got McDonald's.

A few months ago, I decided that I would not leave another meal at the Hungry Cat feeling violated by my dinner, so I ordered the relatively virtuous peel and eat shrimp. Sadly, they were beyond repulsive -- overseasoned to the point of being inedible. And I LOVE salt; in fact, that's my picture up at the top of this post. Anyway, the first time I ordered the shrimp, I had to send them back (which I never do). I gave those shrimpers a second chance on a different occasion, but that only served to prove the "fool me once, fool me twice..." adage. And there was shame.

But the worst part? We keep going back because, sometimes, it's still the best possible choice.

The Hungry Cat

1535 North Vine Street

Hollywood, CA 90028

(323) 462-2155

Paella Porn

Separated at Birth: Mario Batali and a Garden Gnome

Osteria La Buca 2: Electric Boogaloo

I happen to be the other half of that "we" that Steve described in his seemingly merciless review of Osteria La Buca. While I agree that La Buca's take on amatriciana was unacceptable (more on this later), I managed to enjoy our meal there much more than my husband did. Perhaps it was the thrill of a one-time, guilt-free carbohydrate indulgence or maybe it was the divey charm of that cramped hovel of a restaurant, but I'm not willing to write off our dinner as a disaster. After all, we had fun and, by golly, we had pasta.

Admittedly, I'm not the pizza expert that Steve is, but I found Osteria La Buca's "Jijo" pizza to be quite tasty with a light, well-seasoned crust that served as a thin pillow of yumminess cushioning a balanced combination of textures and flavors. My primary gripe with most pizzas (and one of the reasons, perhaps, that I don't cite pizza as a go-to comfort food) is that it's often just bland and starchy, the dough and mozzarella comprising an amorphous blob of whiteness. But not the Jijo. The smoky, salty speck provided a welcome burst of flavor (and color), enhanced all the more by a smattering of chopped walnuts and a drizzle of truffle oil. I thought it was earthy and delicious.

(On the other hand, the caesar salad was standard-issue mid-level restaurant fare, overwhelmed by a relentless flurry of parmesan coating absolutely everything in the salad bowl. But, as Steve might point out, that's what I get for ordering a caesar salad at an Italian restaurant in LA.)

As for the pasta, it comes down to the question of whether one prefers fresh or dry pasta. Steve rightly pointed out that, sometimes, dry pasta is better suited to the texture of some sauces. In the case of the fume pasta, the freshly cut ribbons of trenette made for a terrific complement to the creamy, but light, smoky sauce that reminded me -- a little -- of the essential flavors in the pappardelle alla fiesolana at our beloved Bar Pitti in New York. That same pasta in the amatriciana, however, was a complete misfire; the amatriciana sauce was downright puny, a watery mess that collected at the bottom of the bowl, leaving Mamma's noodles to shiver in the nude. It was so very sad, especially for my darling Stevie, who could get no satisfaction from that sauce, so reminiscent of V-8 juice, but studded with Bac-Os.

If ever again I get the urge to throw carb-caution to the wind, I'd be willing to give Osteria La Buca another shot. Wish me luck convincing the husband.

Separated at Birth: Suzanne Goin and Frida Kahlo

Bad Lettuce Dinner

BLD, the newish offshoot of the much-lauded Grace (which Steve unfairly despises), is everywhere we look these days. Everyone from The New York Times to Irene Virbila has decided to crawl up chef/owner Neal Fraser's ass to sing his praises for reinventing the casual dining scene in L.A. We think it's a load, but we cannot argue with the convenience of the place, which is open late and is on our corner. Plus, the room -- formerly a grim little spelunker's paradise -- is now light, spacious, and inviting with a good vibe. Accordingly, we eat at BLD when we can't think of any other place to go; however, while it does the trick and is pleasant enough, we wouldn't actually drive there. The important thing is that we can get a decent salad there in a pinch -- and that's how it became "Bad Lettuce Dinner" in our household, courtesy of Anthony after Steve complained about having to endure another dinner consisting of salad and, uh, salad. (And yes, I do cook for Steve -- frequently and with pleasure -- but when he spends his lunch hour gorging on tacos with his work cronies, a salad-based dinner is often the most appropriate coda to his otherwise unhealthy day.)

In all fairness, a few things at BLD are indeed worth leaving the house for. Steve and I are both fans of the well-proportioned butter lettuce salad, with its flavorful balance of fresh greens, consistently sweet cherry tomatoes, smoky bits of bacon, and a light but kicky blue cheese dressing. I also like their tuna salad over greens, which is prepared with roasted garlic aioli, celery root, and pistachios. Although these ingredients sound interesting, the ultimate execution is merely better than the average tuna salad, but not transcendent. It is, after all, just tuna. Recently, Steve ordered a special salad of frisee with bacon, blue cheese, and pear, which happened to be "very good." (I wrote "great" and my curmudgeonly lesser half just corrected me.) But Steve genuinely does like their Spanish Scramble, an egg dish with chorizo, manchego cheese, and piquillo peppers. He orders it sin lomo in the interest of restraint. The problem is that it's only available in the mornings, and we tend not to go out for breakfast.

I used to order the innocuous curry chicken salad, which happily is not a mayo-fest (unlike their crab salad, which is Steve's worst nightmare not involving raisins). I think it's best to order the curry chicken over greens instead of as the sandwich it's intended to be because the lame bread with which the sandwich comes isn't worth the calories. Lately, I've been ordering the caesar salad with grilled shrimp, which is a nice, light dinner option. The shrimp is flavorful and well-seasoned (though it does walk a tight line); the caesar itself is a little bland, but generally is not overdressed, which is good enough for me most nights.

Steve's occasional go-to is the serrano ham and manchego panino with piquillo peppers and honey. I give it an "e" for "eh." Although serrano ham with manchego is an objectively good combo, the piquillo peppers overwhelm and it is hard to love a panino with such mediocre, dry bread -- especially when the sublime panini at 'ino loom so large in one's culinary consciousness. If I'm going to eat wheat, it better rock. Other things we've tried haven't been worth repeating -- the aforementioned crab salad (which is sickeningly mayorific), the braised pork sandwich (fine but dull), and the burger (which Steve says is bad and overseasoned, but I have not yet tried). Anthony likes their "Self-Constructive Dinner" (shouldn't it be "Self-Constructed Dinner?"), a handy little arrangement in which you can select your protein, sauce, and Cartman's all-important side dishes; but I found the chicken option a little greasy for my taste.

Still, I must give Bad Lettuce Dinner props for a number of things, such as offering Epoisses -- a creamy Burgundian cow's cheese with which I fell madly in love on the portion of our honeymoon that we spent in the Loire -- on their excellent, comprehensive cheese menu. They also offer charcuterie made by Fra'mani, apparently a big deal in the foodie world and something that makes my husband happy. Also delighting my husband (and by extension, me) is the generally good wine list. And the last time I was there, my friend ordered fries and, while they were not Carney's level, they were still pretty terrific -- thin and crisp and salty.

My biggest gripe with BLD is the service. Although the pretty servers appear to try hard and are friendly enough, they very rarely get things right. Recent annoyances include touting the special black bean soup, but serving black-eyed pea soup; bringing out whole salads and charging accordingly even though half salads actually were ordered; and never remembering the wheat-free request of no croutons, please. It's the little things that make a restaurant great and this kind of nonsense does not help BLD's case.

Tonight, still a little sick and on antibiotics, Steve and I decided to get out of the house for a quick Bad Lettuce Dinner. With an hour wait (fair enough, it was 8-ish on a Saturday night), Steve decided to pop his head into his beloved Hatfield's next door to see what was up. Super-cool Karen Hatfield was gracious enough to get us a table (and a lovely one at that) in a mere 15 minutes even though her restaurant was fully (and well-deservedly) booked. We ended up eating and spending more than we planned, but you know what? It was totally worth it. So, Bad Lettuce Dinner, you -- like Mark Bittman, Jonathan Gold, and Padma Lakshmi before you -- well, you can suck it.

BLD
7450 Beverly Blvd.
Los Angeles
(323) 930-9744

Top Chef: Padma Can Suck It

This week's "Top Chef" episode distinguished itself from previous airings by including the now-requisite reality television explosion of inappropriate behavior. While I understand the impulse to want to crush the deeply annoying Marcel, the behavior of the otherwise likable Cliff (pinning Marcel down, and fratboyishly attempting to rally the other chefs to shave off that ridiculous Ed Grimley-inspired hair of his) was cringeworthy, disturbing, and, to borrow a phrase from Anthony Bourdain earlier in the season, utterly "Flintstonian." Although I was sad to see him go under those circumstances, Cliff's mediocre sirloin with pureed lentils dish otherwise would have heralded his departure. Ah, c'est la vie, Cliffy boy. If you want to go to Hawaii for free, you're going to have to get Bonnie to adopt you and take you for the winter holidays.

But I digress. I do, after all, have a point here.

When the panelists at the judges' table decided to boot Cliff after the "incident," Padma Lakshmi noted that it was "ironic" to be sending him home for his bad behavior, as they would have sent him home anyway for his lackluster sirloin.

But see, that is not so much ironic as it is coincidental, Padma. Do you want to know what is ironic? That Salman Rushdie's wife does not know the definition of irony.