L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon, Paris

L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon is above all fun. On Sunday night at 10 pm, the place was packed with the usual assortment of foodies from all over the world and a few would-be models struggling to find a seat. My neighbors to the left and right, struggling in English, urged us to try a glass of the 2003 Segla Margaux whose double magnum our server was proudly parading around the bar. The first sip revealed that classic Bordeaux taste coupled with an element of spice.

We enjoyed a most delicious brandade, somehow eclipsing Le Comptoir’s masterpiece from the previous day, and a platonically good green asparagus veloute soup rivaled only by the chestnut veloute we had there in December 2003. Also outstanding was a variation of the Alsatian La Flammenkuche, a pastry cooked to a crisp in a waffle cooker with shaven old parmesan and young julienned onions. As delicious as it was, without ever having the regional standard, one cannot have a full appreciation of it. I will just have to add Strasbourg to the list.

What is amazing about the place is that with the exception of the manager, a JR lieutenant for at least a decade, not a single employee was 30 years of age, and only one employee’s tenure exceeded nine months. For chefs and servers, the job is highly demanding, both physically and mentally, and 17 hour days are commonplace. With the restaurant’s turnover and stringent hiring requirements, it is a mystery how the restaurant has improved over the past five years.

L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon
5, rue de Montalembert
Paris
Telephone : 01.42.22.56.56

As a postscript, on a recent return visit to the Las Vegas branch for a business dinner, I can report that there has been significant improvement due to a less ambitious menu which is not so reliant on technical bravado. For example, l’oeuf cocotte and its concomitant pyrotechnics were gone. Most dazzling was the poached baby Kussi oysters served on the half-shell in a small dose of butter. The dish was visually indistinguishable from a plate of raw oysters, which is what I then expected upon being served. The dish, like a great comedian, took me in another direction, and captured so much of the oyster’s plump flavor. Overall though, the restaurant’s atmosphere is still like an assembly line, much like the “city” that is its home.

Astier

Astier is a warm neighborhood bistro in the Eleventh which features daily preparations of the house specialty, rabbit, and an affordable 26 € menu for an appetizer, entrée, cheese and dessert. Thanks to Patricia Wells, I also knew that Astier serves that most magical and sapid creation, les filets de hareng, pommes à l'huile, a bowl of herring fillets bathed in olive oil, served here with onions, carrots, peppercorns and fresh thyme, and of course accompanied by warm, olive oily potatoes. My introduction to the dish was in a most memorable meal at Chez Georges when the PM and I shared it. Two years later (and ago), back at Chez Georges, it was equally good and memorable when split with a Nation dead-ender. That les filets de hareng, while not offal, retain the capacity to scare the timid only bolsters their appeal. Astier’s version was not too salty; it did stink, and it was delicious. I ate three fillets, and then yielded the bowl to the adjacent table.

I followed with a solid rendition of sautéed whiting fish. (Deep-fried whiting fish is interesting because it is both Joël Robuchon’s signature dish and a staple of African-American soul food, which only shows that the great distance between “high” cuisine and “low” cuisine is an illusion.) Marisa had a tasty cauliflower mousse with beetroot and pieces of bacon. She then had an excellent preparation of rabbit, wrapped in bacon and stuffed with reblochon along with a side of potatoes stuffed with reblochon. If a dish this perversely cholesterolic is a standard, then there are going to be few compelling reasons not to conclude with a cigarette.

For the first time in years, I gambled on crème brûlée. I have long avoided it in the U.S. for the obvious reasons: the fossilized shells of sugar; and the bland, incandescent, yellow substance underneath. But Astier’s version was soulful, perhaps the best dessert on the entire trip. Its sugary “crust” was browned but by no means required a miner’s assistance. The crème itself had a muted sweetness and its color was a muted brown. The dish was the perfect coda, a delicious and a subdued bookend to everything preceding it.

Astier
44 rue Jean-Pierre Timbaud
Paris
01.43.57.16.35

Gagnaire and Ducasse can suck it.

Gaya Rive Gauche

Pierre Gagnaire’s experimental seafood restaurant on beautiful Rue de Bac has all the charm of an underfunded government laboratory. Its primary dining room on the second floor has a low ceiling that cultivates a nauseating claustrophobia. Moreover, the food itself failed in dramatic fashion. An appetizer of a bed of crab topped with octopus jam tasted flat and forced. The mains—scampi in an esoteric green sauce and scallops in a red sauce—were disappointing, even if the seafood itself was cooked properly. A fruit-infused rice pudding was an unswallowable, visual pollutant.

Aux Lyonnais

As we took our seats and had to endure a waspy, Upper East Side ashkenooz discuss her struggles in freshman philosophy at Bryn Mawr and then debate Turkish entry into the EU, we knew we were in trouble.

Aux Lyonnais’ ersatz Belle Epoque décor and its bright, antiseptic vibe bore too close a resemblance to the Grove’s Morels or any of those Keith McNally theme parks with which New Yorkers are so inexplicably enthralled. Compared to the venerable Le Voltaire or Bistro Jeanty, Aux Lyonnais’ quenelles were Sederic. It is pretty clear to me that Alain Ducasse and Pierre Gagnaire can suck it. I am an ass for wasting our precious time and money.

Gaya Rive Gauche
44, rue du Bac
Paris
01 45 44 73 73

Aux Lyonnais
32, Rue Saint Marc
Paris
01 42 96 65 04

Guy Savoy, Paris

A lunch at Guy Savoy ranks as one of the finest meals in recent memory. Savoy has a San Franciscan embrace of fresh produce and eschews the egg-and-cream focus of traditional Parisian cuisine. Lucky for Marisa and me, we were there in late March, at the tail end of the traditional black truffle season.

The restaurant has a few dining rooms of varying sizes that have a subdued and clean décor that is livened by colorful modern paintings. After sitting for five hours in Per Se’s arena-cum-boardroom the previous week, it was a relief to be somewhere with a sense of intimacy, style, and comfort.

The kitchen served two amuse bouches. The first, an unofficial amuse, the amuses’s amuse, was a miniature, thinly sliced, triple-decker foie gras sandwich with black truffles and a light truffle and pepper vinaigrette, all held together with a toothpick. The sandwich’s delicacy and those truffles made it a delightful and most propitious start.

The actual amuse was a double espresso shot's worth of fresh carroty, carrot soup. The soup was a textbook example of Joel Robuchon’s postulate that “[a]s chefs, we don't have a right to make a mushroom taste like a carrot. Our job is to make a mushroom taste as much as a mushroom as we possibly can.” Lifting the soup’s cleverly designed demitasse off its ceramic saucer revealed a deliciously sweet spoonful of crab salad.

Savoy’s next preparation or preparations, as it were, was tuna and asparagus served two ways, or “crus-cuits.” He served an impeccably fresh tartare with beetroot, olive oil, and a little black truffle. In his second preparation, the tuna was sliced and seared so slightly that the edges’ resulting fraying was barely detectable. While these two preparations were flawless, these staples of Los Angeles cuisine would have been just that if it were not for the dish’s counter-intuitive emphasis on the raw asparagus which showcased Savoy’s vision and his raw potential as a surgeon. He served three tall razor-thin slices of asparagus, which were cut vertically and appeared as an illusion in light of how asparagus is normally viewed. Savoy’s dexterity with a knife doubtless would have impressed an incarcerated Paul Cicero. More importantly, the raw asparagus’s intrinsic sweetness was so delicious that it rendered the tuna’s two preparations as the playful complements. One day after eating an entire bloody entrecôte and fried potatoes and drinking almost an entire bottle of Bordeaux at the venerable Chef L’Ami Louis, it seemed improbable that a veritable comrade, intentional or not, of Alice Waters was a premier chef in Paris.

More sliced vegetables followed, a mild disappointment in itself. Carrots, celeriac and others were served in concentric circles with the raw slices circumscribed around the roasted ones. The vegetables were dressed in a superfluous light (and slightly malodorous) oyster sauce that concealed the high quality of the vegetables and, frankly, made Marisa gag a little. Basically, Savoy’s dish was redundant.

Savoy’s grilled lobster claw served in two preparations also adhered closely to Robuchon’s postulate. He served it by itself and unadorned, which emphasized the purity of its flavor, and down-home succulence and tenderness. Its texture was critical: it was not so soft as to be flaccid, and allowed us to gleefully sink our teeth in it. The second preparation was with a panure d’herbes, or breadcrumb “dressing,” which was like a slightly spicy, even zesty purée made with tomatoes that had the consistency of a coarse hummus. The lobster was served in its own consommé, which tasted like unvarnished, undiluted lobster. Perhaps Robuchon’s postulate was a lesson learned from Savoy. In the rarefied world of “haute cuisine,” Savoy was not afraid to bring out raw food and was not afraid to provide some spice, in marked contrast to the Per Se scandal, which is as out of place in New York as Gay-rod, pre-April 2007. This grilled lobster was outstanding, as measured by the high and the low, and Marisa offered her first reprimand of the day for smacking in a three-star.

Shaking off the Alice Waters influence, GS now asserted his Gallic authority in the form of his signature item, a robustly flavorful artichoke soup brimming with black truffles and accompanied by a rich and thankfully not-so-light brioche feuilletée with champignons and still more truffles. Truffle season supposedly ends in March, and with this meal taking place on March 30, Savoy did not exactly mask his desperate zeal to cook every last truffle in France. Needless to say, Marisa and I were not going to complain.

The final savory course was a roasted veal so tender that I used to a spoon to cut it. Its complement was tiny cabbage and just enough foie gras not to overwhelm. In keeping with the afternoon’s theme, Savoy also served a demitasse of what was described as a veal consommé, but based on its consistency and flavor was more of a bisque.

The dessert courses were for the most part excellent. Rather than bring multiple separate course, the kitchen brought out a continual array of small desserts, starting light, moving toward the richer end of the spectrum, and then settling back down. Trying to provide symmetry to the meal, we first had a carroty, carrot ice cream that while interesting did not prove beyond reasonable doubt that a dish with a pure carrot taste does not belong exclusively to the savory realm.

A moist twin chocolate fondant with praline feuilleté and chicory crème was presented like corresponding halves of a candy bar, the richer chocolate counteracting the saltier, spicier chicory and praline. The texture had a certain graininess that prevented the fondant’s richness from overwhelming. For any lover of the sweet/salty juxtaposition in desserts, this creation was also textbook.

The desserts then ended with a kaleidoscope of small desserts: small portions of two types of rice puddings, and, inter alia, an absolutely divine chocolate mousse and crème caramel with caramel ice cream.

Guy Savoy made a brief appearance during the meal to greet our neighbors and check on things in the restaurant. After a minute or so, he scurried back to the kitchen. He possessed a jovial physiognomy and good sense of humor, but clearly wanted to be in the kitchen doing his thing. Which was good, because I wanted to be in the dining room doing my thing.

Guy Savoy
18 rue Troyon
Paris
Telephone 01 43 80 36 22.

Sofyah 9, Istanbul

For all of its history and great architecture like Sinan’s dramatic yet serene Süleymaniye Mosque (completed in 1557) or his intimate and concealed Rüstem Paşa Mosque, Istanbul has the trappings of a modern city. It has a smart modern art museum with the requisite “industrial chic” bistro. But what makes Istanbul such a great European city is its urban vibrancy, especially in the large Beyoğlu district, as exemplified by a neighborhood meyhane like Sofyah 9. Sofyah 9 is located in the Tünel section of Beyoğlu, a gentrifying area with the extremely narrow, somewhat windy roads typical to cities with nearly two millennia under their belts.

The restaurant is an old narrow building on three levels, each of which holds a dining room seating perhaps 30. The décor is sparse, basically smoke-stained walls, some Turkish bric-a-brac, a cheap sound system piping in traditional Turkish music for strings, and a small Marlboro cigarette vending machine. We sat next to a group of eight men, probably in their thirties, immersed in cigarettes, raki, meze, and boisterous conversation. Sitting behind them was a group of six women, doing exactly the same thing and presumably on furlough from their cages.

Despite being in a Muslim country on the other side of the world, just sitting down in Sofyah 9’s cozy, intimate and blithesome second dining room felt, (yes, that dreaded cliché is on its way) like home. Sofyah 9 with its café spirit was actually a place that promotes drinking, eating, smoking and just as important, unfettered rhetoric, boasting, ridiculing, jubilant seething, and best of all, harrumphing. That the food was good but not going to win any prizes was beside the point.

As for the food:

Our waiter brought over eight cold meze from which to select. I chose four because Marisa was beyond caring about Turkish food. Kereviz, a simple dish of celeriac, olive oil accentuated with vinegar, and just enough greens not to be a garnish was delicious because of the celeriac’s moderately tender texture. We also had hummus made of fava beans, which was preferable to the chickpea version to which I am more accustomed. We also had taze fasulye, a plate of green beans, which in Monsieur Peckham’s words, “had been hanging around for awhile” and a tasty lakerda, small chunks of salted bonito with oil, red pepper and dill. I should really say “I” as Marisa wouldn’t touch the stuff. We then tried a few hot meze: kaşarlı börek, a flaky pastry with cheese that Marisa dismissed as Turkish mozzarella sticks. More interesting and much better was the pazi sarmasi, which resembled your basic stuffed grape leaf, but was swiss chard stuffed with minced meat and rice. The “entrées,” which were slightly larger meze plates for one, were less successful. I had an overcooked grilled fish while Marisa preferred her serviceable lamb shish to the meze.

A note on Istanbul: Culinarily, two items were standouts in Istanbul. I just about mainlined unsweetened Turkish coffee (türk kahvesi, sade) all over town. We also had success at an anonymous bakery specializing in baklava just outside the Grand Bazaar that Marisa literally sniffed out. We attempted to order two small pieces of pistachio baklava, but managed only to provoke the baker’s disdain. He just gave us our meager order for free. That fresh baklava was still warm and had the rich, proportionate, buttery flavor that French bakeries have perfected and which lingered for several more seconds than what seemed scientifically possible.

Sofyah 9

Sofyah Sokak 9

Istanbul

0212 245 0362

Per Se: Thomas Keller's Waterloo

Upon entering the mall at Columbus Circle, I heeded the posted instructions for its “Restaurant and Bar Collection” and ascended four levels of escalators. Per Se sought to conceal the restaurant from the mall’s interior through the placement of ersatz California greenery and a small kumquat tree just outside its automated door. We entered through a long, luxuriously appointed corridor that served as the restaurant’s bar and were then seated in the dining room which offered grand views of a barren Central Park in late winter. Eschewing ornateness and Batalian insouciance, the dining room was an ill-conceived attempt at the modern formality necessary for a new Michelin three star. With its multiple levels, generous spacing between tables and high ceilings, the dining room created no sense of intimacy and had all the warmth of a corporate boardroom.

Per Se offered a choice of tasting menus, for omnivores and herbivores alike. It remains an enduring mystery however why any living organism fortuitous enough to be at the top of the food chain would decline to exercise plenary powers, especially when Thomas Keller is involved, and eat only vegetation and legumes.

While the menu was long, only three of the items were memorable, the first of which soured me early on the entire enterprise. The fatal dish in question was basically a cauliflower pudding on top of which sat a heaping amount of sturgeon caviar that bore absolutely no relationship to the pudding and which likely appears on many menus in Dubai. The caviar itself was delicious, but if I suffered from the genetic dysfunction that causes one to shop at vastly overpriced Petrossian, I could have bought the same roe there and served it on a cracker.

The foie gras torchon was delicious if not as transcendent as the version I remember from our July 2005 lunch at the French Laundry that ranks as perhaps the best meal I’ve ever eaten – with a few notable rivals, not all of which were full meals: Guy Savoy, Nick's Old Original Roast Beef, Enoteca Pinchiorri 13 years ago, Paris Robuchon, the corned beef omelette at Slyman’s and the pizza at Forno Campo de' Fiori. The best dish of the afternoon—and the only one in which the kitchen took any risk—was the sautéed calf’s brain with some light brown mustard on the side. This dish was a knockout, for its tenderness and texture, flavor and muted spiciness, and above all for its successful sublation of haute technique and homier, traditional cooking into a culinary masterpiece. The kitchen clearly relished the opportunity to cook the dish, which was an added option for diners. It alone, literally alone, warranted the high price of admission.

The majority of dishes were very good, but literally not memorable as I cannot recite the list, a sea bream and a lamb perhaps. The desserts were also tasty if instantly forgettable. Aside from the cervelle, the menu was safe and predictable. The kitchen’s execution was more akin to a Toyota assembly line’s efficiency than a master sculptor’s studio. The entire atmosphere was antiseptic and boring, which comported well with the food. The crowd looked and dressed like Judge Smails’ entourage.

The wine list was a joke. For a restaurant with a distinguished Napa pedigree, one would presume that some interesting producers would be represented. Instead the safe names of Silver Oak and other prominent négociants predominated. Half bottles of smaller producers like Kamen and Patricia Green were offered, as if Per Se were perfunctorily acknowledging the new and idiosyncratic.

And later that night, among the distinguished company of the very funny blogger Heinous of Brooklyn and his even funnier better half, Mrs. Heinous, it was a relief and a joy to be at Michael Symon’s Parea, which offered delectable mezedes, good wine (and mephitic, non-potable Macedonian digestifs) and, above all, great bonhomie.

Per Se
10 Columbus Circle
4th Floor
New York
(212) 823-9335

Letter from Brooklyn: Of Tacos and Cupcakes

“Who am I, why am I here?” – Admiral James Stockdale

While I’m sure this post will carry the same weight as a vice presidential debate, read by helpless Marc Jacobs-framed foodie insomniacs with Macs and high speed Internet connections, debated with the fervor of armchair politicos with unutilized poly sci degrees and subscriptions to the Nation (which, has anyone noticed, seems to be printed on a $140 HP deskjet from 2002, appropriate for its high-school newspaper sized circulation), when Heinous (a moniker earned in college, during which time he sported a removable tooth and took showers best described as intermittent) asked me to guest blog from an outsider’s perspective on the most important culinary aspect of L.A.’s food scene, I could and did put it off for a few weeks, hoping he would forget. But then I realized that to be offered the opportunity to expound on the Taco Tour of Los Angeles, a minefield of shifting demographics and offal disguised by foreign language (lengua, anyone?), was to be bestowed the highest honor by a great friend, and I would be remiss not to give it a shot.

As the first guest contributor, I owe you readers, many of whom are undoubtedly friends or colleagues, but a few of whom may be stumblers upon, a word about your hosts, who offer up opinions on what they eat, but are less forthcoming about who they are. While the Internet Privacy Act restricts me from divulging too much, know this: however exacting and demanding they are in their views on food, they are as generous and thoughtful as people in all other respects. Whether they loved their meals (“I thanked him for what my wife and I thought was their best performance in all of our visits to Hatfield’s”), or could not leave the Chinese restaurant fast enough, they were undoubtedly cordial, pleasant and thoughtful hosts throughout. They love food, and they appreciate the rare talent necessary to consistently and inventively produce it, which shines through in their writings. I have no similar ideals, however, and while this post likely reflects Steve and Marisa’s views, it bears none of their style, grace or polysyllabic adjectives.

Back to the Stockdale quote – the answer is tacos. I love Taco Bell. Maybe not quite as much as the rats at my local outlet on West Fourth Street in Manhattan, but who can say no to a run for the Border, particularly when you don’t have a lot of pesos to spend. But when my wife and I were out in California visiting the Heinouses at their anything-but-Heinous abode, the highlight of our trip was to experience real Mexican tacos with our learned guides. This would be a brazen tour to the corazon of L.A.’s Mexican-American heritage, in a Prius, of course.

The first stop was Tacos Baja Ensenada, a restaurant specializing in fish tacos, which we thought would be a good warm up for the tour. The drive from West Hollywood to East L.A. conjured a run for the border (all we needed was a white bronco, alas those run on gasoline). With each successive block, the colors on the buildings got bolder, and signs of English more scarce. Soon after passing a Juicy Fruit striped muffler shop, we arrived at the relatively clean and welcoming stand. We quickly ordered the special of the house – fried fish tacos – as well as a shrimp ceviche dish. Fearing that the water may have lost its potability as we drove deeper into East L.A., we ordered the first of many Jarritos Tamarindos. Within a few minutes, I noticed a sign proclaiming Tacos Baja as the best restaurant in Los Angeles, and tried the tacos that backed up the claim. Despite being fried, they were light and crispy, and the fish was moist and fresh. While the size of the shrimp in the ceviche made Red Lobster’s popcorn shrimp look like jumbo Tiger prawns, they made a nice, cool accompaniment to the main draw. Within minutes, it was back to the electric Taco Tour mobile, buzzing off to El Parian, which carried more hype than an Angelina Jolie baby snatching in US Weekly.

El Parian is located in the shadows of downtown L.A. (itself a shadow of a city center). As we drove by the front of the restaurant to circle back for parking, the restaurant itself looked closed, with bars over the grimy window and a gate across the door. Was it open? Had it been opened in the last three years? As we found parking in the rear, we saw that the entrance is at the back of the restaurant, and the kitchen is located in the front. There are two sections to El Parian – the left side of the restaurant permits alcohol consumption with the meal, while the right is reserved for white people. Naturally, we were seated to the right, near an enormous glass encased refrigerator, not unlike those found at 7-Elevens, but which contained nothing but beautifully (and artificially) colored bottles of Mexican sodas and cerveza, which we were not permitted to order (despite a menu which proudly proclaimed that the restaurant “reserves the right to serve alcohol to anyone”).

The house specialty was goat. I was not going to eat fucking goat. Even Steve, who orders calf brains at Per Se just because it comes with brown mustard, wouldn’t eat fucking goat. Instead, we ordered carne asada tacos, the second-choice of the house. It’s generally never a good idea to go to a restaurant and not have anyone at a four-top get the signature dish, even if it’s fucking goat, and as punishment Steve’s order of tacos came replete with a Corona bottle cap in the center of the plate (remember, we’re in the dry white person section). We don’t know where it came from, and it certainly didn’t stop any of us, least of all Steve, from digging into the tacos. Steve had mentioned that the tacos at Parian are maddeningly inconsistent – if the restaurant isn’t busy, they are ephemeral, delicate, juicy and generously proportioned on homemade tortillas. Of course, that level of taco will draw a crowd (even if you cleverly disguise your storefront as closed), which they are unable to handle. Needless to say, despite the respect I give them for making it difficult to find them, segregating white people to the non-drinking side by the cooler, and placing a bottle cap on Steve’s plate, I was disappointed in the end. A great story, but a bad taco.

Next and last on the tour was El Taurino. As we embarked on our tour on Domingo, each of the places we tried was mobbed with people, generally families celebrating the day off together. El Taurino clearly followed suit, with two snaking and slow moving order lines and a clown in need of some cheering up of its own. If you have coulrophobia or ochlophobia, you confirm our East-coast bias against soft, trendy Californians, and also should avoid El Taurino. There are a few rent-a-policias patrolling the restaurant and parking lot (which itself includes an outpost from the restaurant if you’re looking to avoid the clown), and while we didn’t get close enough to check, I think their badges all read “Rodriguez.”

The two principal taco tour themes came together at El Taurino – the house specialty and offal (unless it’s goat). First, the house specialty. At some restaurants, such as El Parian, the house specialty is listed proudly on the menu, with other dishes as afterthoughts. At others, you need only observe what others in the restaurant are eating. At El Taurino, every third table was enjoying a Fred Flintstone beefsteak specialty, which was essentially a flank steak on a bone. Although it looked appealing, I could not see cutting the meat with the only available cutlery, plastic forks and knives, and passed. Had I been more observant, I would have noticed not only what regulars were eating, but how, and simply eaten the steak with my hands. Next time. As for offal, I’d sooner donate a kidney than eat one, but this is where Steve shines. He enjoyed his lengua taco, but the rest of us had to take his word for it. Offal eaters are a lucky bunch – they try others’ dishes, but nobody wants a return bite. The pork tacos were good – flavorful and hearty – but not worth the wait on a Sunday afternoon. I would suggest a quick trip during the week, or perhaps on a day when the clown has forsaken her painted smile for a beefsteak.

We followed our taco tour with an impromptu cupcake tour of L.A. While we were generally impressed with the quality of cupcakes available in the city, particularly given the comparison to Magnolia and its progeny in New York, special mention goes to Sprinkles in Beverly Hills. A transplanted Midwesterner wants to decry everything precious, and as much as we wanted to hate Sprinkles, for its name, its location, its precise display and, more than anything else, its price ($3.25 for a cupcake?), we were dumbfounded by the quality of the cupcakes. The cake itself was moist and delicious, and the frosting sweet and flavorful without the cloying effect that dooms so many other efforts. The Red Velvet and Banana Chocolate deserve special mention. Judging by the quality of the offerings and the crowds they drew, L.A. is clearly turning into a cupcake town. (We even had a celebrity sighting – Laurence Fishburne outside of one of the shops, looking as if he should have chosen the Trim Spa pill with Neo).

L.A. is a town of tours – Universal Studios, star homes and, thanks to the generosity of our hosts, Steve and Marisa, tacos and their natural complement, cupcakes. When in town, check your blood sugar level at the door, and enjoy a Tamarindo and a cupcake on your way through.

Tacos Baja Ensenada
5385 Whittier Blvd.
East L.A.
(323) 887-1980

El Parian
1528 W. Pico Blvd.
Los Angeles
(213) 386-7361

El Taurino
1104 S Hoover St
Los Angeles
(213) 738-9197

Sprinkles Cupcakes
9635 S. Santa Monica Blvd.
Beverly Hills
(310) 274-8765