SW Stark Street between 10th and 11th Avenues is further evidence of Portland's evolution as a budding culinary center, though with traces of excessive youthful naiveté. The affordable and modish Ace Hotel anchors the block and is sandwiched by today's subject, Clyde Common, and a branch of acclaimed roaster Stumptown Coffee. (Stumptown's espresso was, if not watery, too thin and overly precious. Coffeehouse Northwest, with its characteristic fastidiousness, achieved greater results with the very same Stumptown beans.)
A brasserie, Clyde Common has a spacious and airy dining room with an open kitchen, a very long zinc bar, and an even longer list of whiskeys. The menu changes frequently, and unlike Los Angeles analogue BLD, Clyde Common avails itself of high quality local produce and challenges its customers, such as with the inclusion of a tongue sandwich on its lunch menu. With limited time before a business meeting, I solicited a recommendation from our sprightly server. He counseled the sole pasta dish on the menu: a fresh egg pasta, basically spaghetti, with arugula pesto and walnuts, topped with shaved pecorino romano. While I normally eschew pasta from non-pasta specialists or chefs of unproven technical soundness, the server's advice and the $11 price tag for the larger portion were all the wheedling I needed.
The dish proved to be inventive and delicious. The arugula pesto was, at least for me, a new idea, and the kitchen succeeded in capturing the leaf's peppery bitterness. The pasta itself was toothsome, and the walnuts and cheese provided the requisite nuance. All in all, the dish was quite nourishing on a sleepy and snowy day.
Frustratingly de rigueur in several modern Portland restaurants, communal dining is also the practice at Clyde Common. Though the Portland everyman is a shade under 30 and has defaced his epidermis with depictions of girlfriends past and kitchen utensils, there is no social compact that requires everyone to sit together. Portland is a vibrant and compelling city and does not need to act like a living, breathing Obama rally. (We already won.) Besides, communal dining is always available at the bar, and Clyde Common has a good one. But I'll forgive the Portland pioneers for this conceit. It may be a necessary evil supporting Portland's rewarding dining scene.
Pakistan’s Federally Administered Tribal Areas (FATA) are infamous for their lawlessness and poverty, and for hosting the Taliban and Al Qaeda (whether wittingly or not). The FATA’s remoteness and impenetrability have left the region beyond the meaningful reach of the U.S. military and the writ of the Pakistani state; instead, it remains in the hands of the local inhabitants, the disagreeable and dysfunctional Pashtun tribes.
Within the FATA is Landi Kotal, a small and ancient frontier town, located five kilometers east of Afghanistan at the top of the Khyber Pass, the mountainous and ancient trade route that connects Afghanistan to Pakistan. It is hardly a surprise that Landi Kotal is an infamous center of smuggling, drug dealing, and weapons sales. But it is also a center of commerce for the Shinwari and Afridi tribes, which are ethnically Pashtun, and most of NATO’s supplies in Afghanistan come through Landi Kotal and the Khyber Pass. NATO’s supplies have recently come under Taliban attack, just as the British struggled with the Afridi uprising in the frontier town in the late nineteenth century.
According to Khaled Ahmad, a prominent Pakistani journalist, Landi Kotal may be the original home of the deliciously spicy balti stew. Not being a historian of the Pashtun and being a denizen of the ‘wood, I could not discover what the balti stew’s original composition was or when it may have been concocted, especially since the Pashtun are known to eat little other than meat.
We do know, courtesy of Mr. Ahmad, that the balti stew is named for the round, open, double-handled pot in which it is prepared, i.e., the balti. In an unusual fit of linguistic cross-pollination, the Urdu word “balti” is actually a transliterated Portuguese word, introduced into India and meaning a “cylindrical pail.” (Apparently Vasco de Gama brought with him a lot of pails. Yes, I just made a Vasco de Gama joke.) However, in Pakistan’s North-West Frontier Province, the word "balti" bizarrely took on the definition of the double-handed pot, which in southern Pakistan is known as a karahi. (The Portuguese word is actually spelled “balde,” but the revised "balti" is a more convenient spelling according to Ahmad.)
Since Landi Kotal is essentially a small and ancient transit point, the balti dish would have to travel to find a larger audience. It found its way into Punjab, the heavily populated region that sprawls across India and Pakistan, where it rose in popularity. It subsequently found its way into the Western world when South Asians, including many Kashmiris who have claimed it as their own, immigrated into Britain in the late Seventies and early Eighties and served the dish in their new restaurants. A cottage industry of balti specialists, the so-called Balti Triangle, famously took root in Birmingham, Britain’s second largest city and the home of 200,000 “British Asians.” The composition of the dish is now much better known in the English-speaking world:
It is a type of curry. The food is cooked quickly in some ways akin to a stir fry. The ingredients are generally fresh meat and/or vegetables which are first marinated and then cooked with spices. The meal is served piping hot as soon as it has been cooked . . . The dish contains spices such as coriander, ginger, cumin, cloves, cassia bark amongst others. It is best sampled with naan bread or chapattis.
Indeed, the dish has proved so popular in Britain that there has been a movement to give balti a protected status under EU law as a food that originated in a particular area, in this case Birmingham. Yet some Birmingham restaurateurs have been dismayed by these efforts, citing the Pakistani origin of the dish.
Balti’s elusive origins of the dish and its popularity in Britain have provoked deeper questions on the issue of “British Asian” identity, providing succor to British social critics such as Ziauddin Sardar, who recently wrote Balti Britain. Peter Barber, reviewing Sarder’s book in the Financial Times, argues that “The ‘traditional’ Punjabi cuisine known as Balti turns out to be an invention of Birmingham’s Asian communities. It is . . . a product of the UK’s long entanglement with the subcontinent. It shows how Asian immigrants have repackaged tradition and mixed it with modernity to create something new, and how the rest of the UK still insists on reducing them to an undifferentiated mass.” Put more crassly, Sarfraz Manzoor argued in the Observer that “balti (which means 'bucket' in Urdu) is a generic term, in this case one that was basically cooked up by enterprising restaurateurs to fool whites into believing they were eating something significantly different from regular curry.” As for Sardar himself, he writes that “By attaching a different label to what is basically the same food . . . the Indian restaurant reframed its image,” such that “British Asians can be authentic to themselves, reclaim their history, in a number of different and innovative ways.”
We’re a long way from Landi Kotal, and much of the story is incomplete. But to the Fress, these writers’ assertions have some validity. One of the foremost balti restaurants in Birmingham is Muhammed Arif’s Adil, which has been in existence since 1977. Adil has such a staggering number of balti dishes on its menu -- well over 100 -- that the word is either devoid of any meaning and really is a marketing tool, or so expansive that it means any food cooked in, say, that round, open, double-handled pot described by Ahmad. We could then refer to much of Chinese food as “wok.” (Which we probably should do, regardless.) At the very least, there would be a link back to the original Pakistani hinterlands.
The complexities of the British Asian experience and the elusive roots of the balti dish have, of course, found their way to Los Angeles. Pursuant to local custom, they have been condensed into a nondescript-looking restaurant -- in this case Agra Cafe -- which is located in the elbow of a shabby strip center, beneath a tae kwon do studio and adjacent to a seedy liquor store (the sign would indicate that it is simply called “Liquor”). Agra is in Silver Lake, which would seem unlikely relative to, say, Artesia which boasts a large Indian population. But if balti is a food for unsuspecting Caucasians like the Birmingham natives, then Silver Lake with its ironically dressed hipster population ("dot-nose" belt buckles, Members Only jackets, etc, etc.) is the perfect home. Nevertheless, I love this place.
Other than its 10 or so distinguishing balti dishes, Agra offers the same standards seen at virtually every Indian restaurant in the city, though the menu is significantly more comprehensive than the ones that so often litter our doorstep. Moreover, Agra executes these Indian favorites with consistency and notable quality. (The smoky and sublime baigan bhartha, or roasted eggplant with spices, is one of my favorites.) The service is efficient if curt, and well-deserved compliments on the food (particularly the excellent lamb balti) are met with silence. According to Agra’s menu, the stew is made with chopped onions, green peppers, turmeric, cumin, garlic, ginger, and crushed tomatoes. Not having been to Birmingham or the Punjab, I cannot make any determination as to the authenticity of Agra’s balti. But I can confirm the accuracy of the restaurant’s description of the dish as “rich and hearty” with a nice balance of “hot & sweet spicing.” The lamb is unfailingly tender; it may be the rare example when take-out is superior to dining in, for the lamb soaks up the sauces for greater lengths of time.
I attempted to interview the proprietor about balti stews, but he seemed to know as little as I did. (Well, he knew how to make them.) He seemed to believe that balti is a Bengali dish, popularized in England. I attempted to inquire further, but he grew annoyed with me and finally just asked if I was going to order something.
Growing up amidst Cleveland’s gray winters and Iron Curtain demographics, this Jewish boy was raised on schnitzel, spätzle, pierogis, wurst, and other Central and Eastern European staples -- the food of classic Jew-haters. A native-born Angeleno, my infant daughter should grow up to love the classic stews and dishes that come from another region of the world not known for being on the Bar Mitzvah circuit.
Agra Cafe
4325 W. Sunset Blvd.
Silver Lake
(323) 665-7818
www.agracafela.com
Robert Louis Stevenson would have loved the strange case of David Myers’ Comme Ça. During the day, when Dr. Jekyll inhabits the restaurant, it is a convivial brasserie with quality French standards, adjusted to the Los Angeles diet, with few discernible sacrifices aside from the Restoration Hardware aesthetic. Plentiful sunlight enlivens the main dining room’s dark colors and creates a leisurely atmosphere. The usual crowd of failed Queer Eye auditioners and ladies all gussied up with collagen and faux sophistication is more amusing than grating.
The food is very good during lunch service. The parentals and the now Ever Sagacious Primipara delighted in the lemony smoked salmon tartare. Served on a thin, crispy potato galette, i.e., a latke, the salmon had a bright taste and a subtle smokiness that compelled my parents to order a second helping. My father and I split the mustardy, caper-laden steak tartare, a particular treat because of the beef’s rich texture.
I ordered the moules frites as a main. The mussels and frites were satisfying if less than masterful. The broth revealed David Myers’ sophistication, or perhaps my idiosyncrasies. The kitchen spiked the light, creamy broth with a dose of pastis, specifically Pernod, which provided a welcome nuance. Pernod seems to be the only pastis seen stateside, and it is drunk less as an aperitif than used as a cooking additive, and then with such infrequency that it must be listed defensively, like an adequate warning of anise flavor to unwitting diners under a product liability standard. (For what it is worth, its manufacturer, Pernod Ricard SA, claims that Pernod is not a pastis because it is does not contain natural licorice extracts like Ricard. Pernod has a milder or at least less strident flavor, which may account for its greater prevalence in recipes relative to other anis-based spirits.) For example, on the menu’s description of the dish, “Pernod” appears even before “pomme frites,” when the only question concerning the broth that warrants an answer in print is whether the broth is based in cream, butter, or some other substance. We finished with a delectable tarte tatin from Comme Ça’s sibling and neighbor, Boule Bakery.
Mr. Hyde stalks the restaurant during dinner service when Comme Ça transmogrifies into an echo chamber-cum-nightclub. The half-hearted welcome at the front desk is as gracious as the greeting from the burly doormen at Bardot’s shrine to meretricious phoniness. The sound system broadcasts the pulsating noise euphemized as “techno music,” which irritates regardless of the decibel level. (There must be some middle ground between hearing “La Vie en Rose” on an endless loop and ripping off the soundtrack from O-Bar.) Worse, the restaurant succumbs to the great plague afflicting restaurants popular among Los Angeles Caucasians wherein management’s attention to the food is subordinated to its attention to the scene.
The kitchen demonstrated a perplexing lack of confidence in its brandade de morue gratinée, the timeless purée of salt cod, olive oil and milk. Served in a casserole, the brandade itself was delicious. The cod’s creaminess and salinity were in perfect equipoise, and the zesty, gratin crust was well executed. So why would David Myers, in his infinite wisdom, choose to smother the brandade in a superfluous, scarlet purée of piquillo peppers that seeped its way into the cod, imperiling its consistency? I was forced to use our bread to scrape the piquillo purée off the cod and then conceal the detritus from my vision in the breadbasket’s cloth folds. However, once I finished off the brandade, my own disgusting indiscipline forced me to scarf down the bread, replete with that cloying piquillo gunk.
The Primipara, then still gravid, wanted the aforementioned salmon tartare, which was the impetus for our quick return for dinner. But after dark, the salmon was insipid, its natural richness muted. Marisa’s incisions into the potato galette required the use of a steak knife, as the regular knife simply wouldn’t cut it. To exacerbate matters, Marisa’s “crispy” skate grenobloise was a wholesale disappointment. Sautéed for well beyond the filet’s level of resistance, the skate, like Burger King’s old Whaler sandwich, was ugly, brown and desiccated. At the very least, the kitchen displayed consistency, as the dish was just as bad as when I ordered it several months ago.
My loup de mer, literally the wolf of the sea, or as I later learned, the farm, is a Mediterranean sea bass prized by restaurateurs for the stability of its pricing and the yield of its usable meat. Italian restaurants refer to the same fish as “branzino.” Roasted with lemon and tarragon and served alone, the fish was as dry as the Mojave and was so compact that it could have been the victim of an unattended sandwich press. In fact, the only moisture on the table was from the non-Gallic side of mostly pureed white corn, prepared simply in butter.
We eschewed the desserts in favor of Comme Ça’s most serious endeavor, the cheese course. David Myers dedicates an entire station to its cheese counter and gives it a prominent location—opposite the bar and behind the front desk. Comme Ça may be the only restaurant in Los Angeles that employs a full-time fromagier, effectively a cheese sommelier. After we informed our actor that we wanted the cheese course, the fromagier took over service. She introduced herself and surveyed our tastes. We advised her of our obsession with Epoisses, the runny and deeply pungent proof of continued French culinary preeminence, and entrusted her with the rest.
At least for the cheese, Comme Ça’s perfectionism and sensibilities yield wonderful results. The fromagier brought out five cheeses, each from a different region, and astutely paired four of them with balancing flavors. The cheeses were served in order of ascending astringency and at the appropriate temperature which brought out each cheese’s essential qualities. Indeed, the plate was so intriguing that I finally managed to block out all the cacophony. For the record, we had the Norman brillat-savarin, a triple-cream brie with a flavorful rind, brought out by dried mission figs; the Abbaye de Belloc, a sheep’s milk cheese from the Pyrenees with marcona almonds; the Pico, a goat from the Ardeche and Drome regions in the Alps, accompanied by sun-dried tomato (the most harmonious of the pairings); the Burgundian Epoisses, wisely served unadorned; and at last a raw Roquefort, the famous blue made from Lacaune ewes’ milk in the caves of the mountainous Aveyron region, served with sweet honeycomb.
After the cheese course, the dining room’s unsettling acoustics returned. The waiter by now had switched tacks on the loup de mer, blandly describing the beleaguered farmed fish to incoming patrons with unintentional aptness, as “a Mediterranean whitefish.”
With the Ever Sagacious Gravida clamoring for a spicy dinner before the Mad Men finale but not in the mood to leave the house, let alone abide my wishes to go to Park's Barbeque, it was time to give KyoChon a shot for some take-out. KyoChon is the KFC of South Korea where it has over 1,000 locations. It has expanded to the U.S. in recent years with a location in Queens and four in Southern California.
I ordered the whole chicken, half with a sweet hot sauce and half flavored with garlic soy. KyoChon carves the chicken into bite–sized pieces, but leaves the chicken affixed to the hacked up bone. They then fry the chicken pieces twice in a manner that "renders out the fat in the skin" and brush the pieces with the sauces somewhere in the process. Everything is made to order at Kyochon, which led to a 20-minute wait even on a quiet night.
The end result of what must be the most laborious recipe in fast food history is that the chicken fat and skin turn into some of the crispiest and tastiest fried fry around, while the meat remains juicy and tender within. The sweet hot flavor, with its red pepper base, is closer in style to the cayenne-dominated sauce accompanying Buffalo wings, and the garlic soy's flavor is self-explanatory. The dark meat, as always, was better than the white (though the ESG doesn't necessarily agree with that statement), and the hot sauce’s moderate fire was just what we wanted -- though it wasn't enough to put the ESG into labor, as she'd hoped.
The biggest surprise of the night was the moderately spicy chicken fried rice. This was straight-ahead comfort food, consisting of rice, tiny nubs of moist chicken, onions and peppers, bound together with the same delicious spicy sweet sauce from the fried chicken. It made up for the mayorific cabbage slaw that came with our dinner and was too vile to ingest and the alien cubes of white radish pickles floating in an unidentified liquid. But the chicken and rice, followed by a bowl of deliciously sweet grapes from the Hollywood Farmer's Market, made for a perfect pre-baby Sunday night dinner.
Fairfax’s evolution has accelerated in recent years with the Orthodox ceding territory to the peculiar phenomenon of the Turtles. A multiracial niche of young consumers, embodied by the Entourage schnorrer, they ritualistically queue outside designer haberdasheries on Saturday mornings in anticipation of the latest fad in “urban” wear. The result is that Fairfax’s sense of style is disjointedly informed by both the ghettoes of Prague and Watts.
It is no surprise then that, in this Los Angeles mishmash, a restaurant called Animal shares a valet parking stand with its glatt kosher neighbor, Schwartz Bakery. What remains unclear is whether our subject’s name, “Animal,” refers to its food’s principal ingredient or to the co-chefs, Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo, the self-proclaimed Food Dudes. This is a compliment, mind you. These are guys who adorn the bar with a lunchbox depicting Animal, the classic drumming Muppet.
One day after our seriously enjoyable meal there, we could not figure out if Animal was a stoner’s paradise or an absurdist, Norm McDonald-esque joke. (I’m not referring to a stoner’s paradise as a commune in Mendocino, but as a den in a Sigma Chi house, say, in Ann Arbor, circa 1994, with a subliminal penis painted on the ceiling.) After all, Animal is the restaurant equivalent of a fraternity party. On a recent Friday night, the scene inside was frenzied, while supplicants outside, like freshmen, smoked cigarettes and tried in vain to finagle a table.
To wit, Shook and Dotolo are positively gleeful about stacking a Brobdingnagian hunk of sautéed foie gras on top of a johnnycake, ham, bacon, and cheddar cheese and then pouring maple syrup all over it. This is not refined food. There are few subtleties, playful nuances, or rethinking of anything. They are not challenging us to eat some esoteric, but rewarding piece of offal. The whole thing may be a joke to them with the diner as the fool, just as Mikey from Top Chef Season Two, enjoyed watching Suzanne Goin eat his “Cheetos Dick,” (made with Cheetos, Snickers and Corn Nuts.) I couldn’t distinguish one ingredient from another, and yet this artery-closing mess tasted really good. It shouldn’t, but it did. As annoyingly earnest as I can get about food, I was disarmed in one bite.
Then these guys served up a pungent crock of hot, melted petit basque cheese with sliced chorizo and shallots. This undisciplined dish is practically an insult to the cheesemaker. The essential attributes of petit basque are lost in a blunt hammer of richness, and the fancy Fra’Mani chorizo is indiscernible. Nevertheless, the temptation was too potent, and I could not stop shoveling in this wonderful, gooey mess. The dish does put into perspective the true achievement of the similar queso fundido con chorizo at La Casita Mexicana, which is a great success on textural and flavor grounds. But Animal’s version is nothing if not fun, and the burnt crust of cheese and shallots proved irresistible to the Ever Sagacious Gravida.
Shook and Dotolo show some touch with their tender pork ribs. Roasted for ten hours, the meat literally fell off the bone when I brought a rib to my mouth. Since we weren’t in Hill Country, I used a knife and fork, perhaps betraying the animalistic element, but then again the restaurant provided the utensils. The ribs were sweet from their balsamic glaze, though not cloyingly so. Consequently, the heirloom tomato and bread salad accompanying the ribs was superfluous, even if the seasonal tomatoes possessed a robustness of flavor that allowed them to stand out among the fat and pork of these appetizers.
The supposed complement to the farcical level of pork and force-fed duck’s liver on our table was a plate of grilled romano beans, which are longer and wider than the basic green bean. Yet the kitchen must have felt that beans lacked cholesterol because they saw fit to throw in a poached egg and shaved grana. They dressed the dish with a “pancetta vinaigrette,” which consisted of vinegar and scores of pancetta microcubes. If anything, this dish proved Nate’s adage that everything is much better with bacon.
As is so often the case, the entrées lacked the appetizers’ vitality, though they were enjoyable. The Ever Sagacious Gravida and Nate ordered the deep-fried quail, with grits, chard, and what the menu calls “slab bacon,” in yet another maple jus. While the quail was tasty— it was deep-fried, after all—the grits were unremarkable, and the several pieces of “slab bacon,” which I define as a bold swath of fat, were too rich to eat. Like flourless chocolate cake 15 years ago, one bite (albeit delicious) was enough – and I am one who enjoys putting away saline, deliquescent lardo.
My flat iron steak was the generic centerpiece of a conservative meat-and-potatoes dish. Served in a bordelaise not enlivened by the supposed addition of oxtail, the inclusion of delicious grilled torpedo onions in a potato and corn hash saved the dish. But unfortunately, neither of the two entrées we ordered demonstrated the appetizers’ humorous outlandishness nor their flavor.
The desserts were a return to appetizer form. A tiny jar of chocolate pudding was a pleasant tip of the hat to the Old School, and the bacon chocolate crunch bar was a whimsical success. It was a restaurant-quality version of Vosges’s Mo’s Bacon Bar, layered with dense ganache, topped with delicious bacon bits that had the subtle texture of toffee, and sitting in crème anglaise. The people of Schwartz Bakery next door must not know what to do with themselves.
The wait staff set an affable, informal tone through their relaxed demeanor, which bordered on insouciance. But their quiet attention to polite and efficient service never wavered. For example, our waiter, pondering Nate’s request for a cup of coffee after dinner, answered honestly: “I’m not sure if we have clean mugs or espresso cups. But I’ll bring you something.” The waiter returned a minute later with a coffee in a discolored mug lacking a handle.
A restaurant in the ‘hood like Animal—with its irreverent fun and good food—is always welcome, especially since, in Oliver Schwaner-Albright’s words, the “nameless neighborhood . . . is emerging as the culinary heart of Los Angeles.” Albright’s assertion is correct, but sometimes we want to forgo the culinary ambition. Sometimes we’d rather be tipsy while getting down on some tender ribs and foie gras-topped johnnycake with ham, bacon, and cheddar.
David Foster Wallace's untimely passing is a great loss. The title of this blog is a Yiddishe trencherman'shomage to his magnum opus's title, Infinite Jest (which in turn is taken from Hamlet). As his loyal readers, we have been touched, inspired, entertained, and challenged by his work. He will be missed. So, dear readers, when you sit down to a good meal this week, think of David Foster Wallace and, in addition to considering the lobster, raise your glasses in memory of one of the most important writers of our generation.
On the L.A. coffee scene, there are two lesser known establishments of interest. We are not talking about the Chicago interloper that is a spider web for scruffy late twentysomethings wearing clunky spectacles (regardless of medical need) and are always toiling in futility on their annual submissions to USC Film School. Nor are we talking about L.A. Mill Boutique, its $15 cups of coffee, or its array of “slow extraction” techniques. No, today we are talking about Choke Motorcycle Shop, the zenith of East Hollywood douchebaggery, and Cafecito Organico/Coffee Cellar, Angel Orozco’s labor of love.
Choke is buried deep in East Hollywood, near L.A. City College on residential Normal Avenue, just east of Virgil Avenue. While I can't speak for the location's crime statistics, the general aura of seediness and lack of other obviously licit commerce must intimidate more than a few would-be customers. From the outside, Choke gives the appearance of a ratty repair shop. Its filthy squared windows mute the view into the interior and the connected, adjacent lot is a caged junkyard of a dozen or so aging mopeds. I'll give Choke the benefit of the doubt that it repairs mopeds even if I didn't exactly see any working mechanics on my two visits.
Upon entering, I noticed that the establishment betrays some interest in dispensing espresso-based beverages. There is seating in the form of a single sofa that could incommodiously seat three and a coffee table where a beverage could be placed if the clutter on top were redistributed. Patrons also have the option of playing pinball on one of the vintage machines, assuming they are in fact operable. The espresso machine is partially concealed by the assortment of moped accoutrement and other junk including an old Dr. Pepper vending machine. In a nice touch, Choke makes a box of Lucky Strikes available to the coffee-and-cigarette purists. Luckies may not be Chesterfield Kings, but I appreciate the gesture.
The owner was sitting on the sofa, immersed in his Mac, (strange, considering that the shop’s ostensible purpose is servicing mopeds.) He eventually put his computer down and looked up. I was deeply alarmed, because this short, hirsute man revealed himself to be half-naked, dressed only in short shorts. Yet I knew this gent was the owner because there was no other male in the shop and certainly none fitting L.A.Weekly writer Linda Immediato’s obsequious description of "The alarmingly good-looking Jeff Johnsen, with messy black hair and heart-murmur-inducing blue eyes under thick black Elvis Costello frames." This little person and his Mac ignored me and swiftly departed for the vacant lot's heat and fumes.
On a second visit, I was dressed in my best corporate gear—tan corduroys and a blue, long-sleeved, button-down shirt—perfect for my prior engagement in Newport Beach. The owner wasn't there, so I wasn’t in danger of a heart murmur. But there were two heavily tattooed young women loafing inside. They ignored me for a long minute, as I, again the only customer, re-surveyed the surroundings. Only when it became painfully clear that I may have had some reason to be there did they feel compelled to interact. When I ordered an espresso, one of them welcomed me with the owner’s warmth, and snarkily spat “um, like how did you find us? On some, ugh, blog?” If nothing else, Choke Motorcycle Shop is praiseworthy in its commitment to barista hostility and to serving only hand-selected patrons.
The actual barista, who was only there on my first visit, was the de rigueur ingénue with a European accent, though in this case it was British. (Her picture is posted here.) She was armed with all sorts of homemade equipment, like a retrofitted fire extinguisher and what appeared to be an old nitrous tank. Using beans from Ecco Caffe, she drew a thick espresso that filled the demitasse with crema. But its flavor was steroidal and about as subtle as a Public Enemy anthem. It's still the best espresso in East Hollywood, save the rare day when Intelligentsia's is creamy and not burnt. Another irritating Choke affectation is to provide a napkin from the famed Sant'Eustachio Caffe in Rome, perhaps the ne plus ultra in Coffee Geekdom. But Choke’s espresso could not have been less Italian, which in my book has a subdued and sweeter flavor relative to Seattle-style espresso's sustained sensory assault. Good Italian espresso can be found at Euro Caffé, my favorite café in Los Angeles, and at the much improved Terroni.
For a purer experience, Cafecito Organico/Coffee Cellar makes a delicious cup of coffee. (The existence of the Spanish word "cafecito" demonstrates that language's superiority to English because, from what I gather, the word is a term of endearment for black coffee. English offers no such equivalent.) A native of Guatemala and a product of UCLA, Mr. Orozco taught himself the art of roasting coffee. From his Coffee Cellar cranny inside Mama's Hot Tamales Cafe, he roasts his coffees during the week to varying degrees of medium, understanding that dark roasts obliterate flavor. On the weekends, Mr. Orozco brews coffee by the cup at his Cafecito Organico stands—at the Silverlake Farmer's Market on Saturdays and the Hollywood Farmer's Market on Sundays. He offers a handful of roasts each week, and their origins fluctuate. He prides himself on sourcing quality beans from small growers with the usual “fair-trade,” “shade-grown,” and even “bird-friendly” designations.
I enjoy the nuttiness of his El Salvador blend, and Hans, Food Woolf's lesser half, likes the Chiapas. Mr. Orozco, who affects an earnest agricultural-intellectual look, also has to manage his own inner coffee snob. But he does so with grace and does not allow it to run amuck like Choke's Johnsen. Where Johnsen openly disdains the non-moped-riding population of the world, Mr. Orozco's response to violators of basic coffee etiquette, e.g., patrons asking for iced coffee even on a hot summer day, is to remonstrate politely that “ice will hurt the taste of the coffee.” (He does offer a cold-brewed coffee sweetened with sugar cane juice, the mordantly named Global Warming Special.)
I’m waiting to see what Cafecito can do with espresso. Orozco does roast beans for espresso upon request, and the website indicates that he is in the process of procuring a lever-operated machine. It may take Orozco some time to master the craft, but I know that he will. In the meantime, I will enjoy my cup of Salvadoran during my regular sojourn through the motley Hollywood Farmers’ Market.
