Sunday, September 14, 2008
David Foster Wallace: In Memoriam
David Foster Wallace's untimely passing is a great loss. The title of this blog is a Yiddishe trencherman's homage 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.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Choke on This: A Tale of Two Coffees
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.
Choke Motorcycle Shop
4157 Normal Ave.
Los Angeles
(323) 662-4653
http://www.chokemotorcycleshop.com/
Cafecito Organico
Hollywood Farmers’ Market, Sunday mornings
Ivar & Selma Avenues
Hollywood
(213) 305-4484
http://www.cafecitoorganico.myshopify.com/
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.
Choke Motorcycle Shop
4157 Normal Ave.
Los Angeles
(323) 662-4653
http://www.chokemotorcycleshop.com/
Cafecito Organico
Hollywood Farmers’ Market, Sunday mornings
Ivar & Selma Avenues
Hollywood
(213) 305-4484
http://www.cafecitoorganico.myshopify.com/
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Kindred Spirits: Four Decades of Chez Panisse and Steely Dan
Last month, we visited Berkeley to see Steely Dan stamp out any lingering idealism at the Greek Theater. Nevertheless, Chez Panisse (and the Cheeseboard Pizza Collective) demonstrated that Berkeley’s Sixties legacy is not dead; it’s just confined to Shattuck Avenue’s Gourmet Ghetto. In contrast, downtown Berkeley is still plagued with faux radicals who disregard their surreal inauthenticity and congregate along fetid Telegraph Avenue and in People’s Park, when not sitting in trees. These shenanigans helped elevate Kid Charlemagne that evening to an especial darkness.
As Chez Panisse celebrates its 37th anniversary, its cuisine feels as timely as ever, much like Steely Dan’s four-decade old brand of melodic sarcasm. Panisse’s once revolutionary philosophy has endured by continuing to utilize impeccably fresh, local ingredients for its deceptively simple preparations. Chez Panisse has sustained its reputation as the most influential restaurant in the U.S. in part through its ability to attract young talent drawn to the training, résumé enhancement, and dreams of grandeur associated with the matchless list of alumni. The larger names include Mark Peel and Suzanne Goin here in the ‘wood (our peeps), Jeremiah Tower (albeit controversially), Zuni’s Judy Rodgers, Mark Miller, Paul Bertolli, Joyce Goldstein, Cowgirl Creamery founder Peggy Smith—maker of the Red Hawk cheese, a veritable first cousin to our favorite, Époisses—and Fress-maligned but elsewhere acclaimed Michael Tusk. Prominent recent alumni include Russell Moore and Allison Hopelain of Camino who have already garnered praise in the Times and the Chronicle. It is no surprise that under Ms. Waters’s auspices, Chez Panisse's coterie of young chefs displays peerless technical competence, or at least fluency in the Panisse lexicon. Of major restaurants with kitchens visible to the diner, only the chefs at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon in Paris appear younger.
While the list is Northern California-centric, Los Angeles—at least between La Cienega and La Brea—is catching up, though at a glacial pace. Waters’s ideas have obviously found a home in feisty Portland where its chefs and obsessive foodies, having ditched the pretension, are trying to out-San Francisco San Francisco. (On the coffee front, the Portlanders have arguably out-Seattled Seattle.)
What about the provincial East Coast? With the ascendancy of Dan Barber and Blue Hill and the cute “Greenmarket” phenomenon (not to mention that French Laundry spinoff in the Columbus Circle mall), formerly rough-and-tumble New York has succumbed to the idealism of Berkeley’s Alice Waters, just four decades after the fact. The Gray Lady even lauded the Finger Lakes agricultural region of "central New York," which is supposedly somewhere between Rochester and Syracuse, whatever that means. What ever happened to the New York of Steinberg's "A View of the World from Ninth Avenue?" Apparently, that's pre-Waters New York. The new New York reads the United States of Arugula and might as well be called New Munich.
The Chez Panisse Café sits on the building’s second floor, and has an extensive à la carte menu that changes everyday. At a leisurely afternoon lunch at the Café before the concert, a few items stood out. The California Kid and the Ever Sagacious Gravida both ordered the heirloom tomato salad with “hand-pulled” mozzarella, basil, and a lively olive oil. While the dish was visually beautiful and abounded with flavor, it distinguished itself as a model of control and refinement. In a certain sense, the dish was a lesson, at once remedial or advanced, about how tomatoes, mozzarella, and olive oil are supposed to taste and why their flavors are harmonious.
If the salad was a showcase for the state’s summer produce, the pan-fried California sea bass was a revelation. Chez Panisse sautés a grayish hued fish so that it takes on the coarser texture of swordfish while still retaining its moisture. The lean fish has a natural richness, yet the preparation is the embodiment of restraint. There are no superfluous sauces; the only accompaniments were halved cherry tomatoes, small spherical potatoes, and a handful of ridiculously good green beans. The California Kid pronounced the bass the finest he ever tried. Strictly speaking, the "California sea bass" is not a bass at all, but a member of the croaker family of fishes. If Panisse were more faithful to its sustainability principles, its menu would use the fish's true and much less marketable name, not the euphemism.
While The Kid was enthralled with Panisse, he was still reeling from the peculiar genius of the Cheeseboard pizza where we noshed before lunch. The Cheeseboard Pizza Collective makes only one type of pizza a day and is operated by the 12 most rugged kibbutznick-pizzaiolos in the East Bay, who make fine companions to the laboratory workers of Forno Campo de' Fiori. (To be fair to the employees of the famed Roman bakery, it may take a dose of alchemy to create pizza that divinely good.) How this Collective coaxed so much great and interesting flavor out of July 26's improbable combination—zucchini slices, cilantro pesto, olive oil, feta and mozzarella on a vibrant pizza dough— is beyond me. All these old school and New Wave pizzerias in more traditional pizza locales can just step aside, with the exceptions of Una Pizza Napoletana and Geraci's.
We finished with an exquisite Ruby Grand nectarine tart and vanilla bean ice cream. Nectarine and peach tarts were ubiquitous in the Bay Area all weekend long. It’s a shame that Los Angeles chefs aren’t featuring them, a disappointment exacerbated by the superiority of the stone fruit available at the Hollywood farmer's market. Waters sends her people even further south to the cultish Chino Farms market in Rancho Santa Fe. The Hatfields also make the schlep, which makes for great Wednesday dinners at their eponymous restaurant.
Later that evening, Steely Dan's sly and pristine musicianship was on full display. Waters and Fagen/Becker showed that they are in many ways kindred spirits. Both Steely Dan and Chez Panisse demonstrate a great commitment to technical acumen, the effective and prolific use of young musicians and chefs, and, through food and music, social critiques as relevant as ever. (Steely Dan may have sets its sights too high with its rendition of Godwhacker, which is clever, but not as funny as Hitchens' God Is Not Great. Also Becker cannot sing.) Ultimately, Steely Dan and Chez Panisse, from their respective perches of East Coast irony and West Coast idealism, offer up refined and thoughtful sensibilities for the ears, mouth, and brain.
Chez Panisse Café
1517 Shattuck Ave.
Berkeley
(510) 548-5049
http://www.chezpanisse.com/
The Cheeseboard Pizza Collective
1512 Shattuck Ave.
Berkeley
(510) 549-3055
http://cheeseboardcollective.coop/Pizza%20Collective/PizzaPage.html
As Chez Panisse celebrates its 37th anniversary, its cuisine feels as timely as ever, much like Steely Dan’s four-decade old brand of melodic sarcasm. Panisse’s once revolutionary philosophy has endured by continuing to utilize impeccably fresh, local ingredients for its deceptively simple preparations. Chez Panisse has sustained its reputation as the most influential restaurant in the U.S. in part through its ability to attract young talent drawn to the training, résumé enhancement, and dreams of grandeur associated with the matchless list of alumni. The larger names include Mark Peel and Suzanne Goin here in the ‘wood (our peeps), Jeremiah Tower (albeit controversially), Zuni’s Judy Rodgers, Mark Miller, Paul Bertolli, Joyce Goldstein, Cowgirl Creamery founder Peggy Smith—maker of the Red Hawk cheese, a veritable first cousin to our favorite, Époisses—and Fress-maligned but elsewhere acclaimed Michael Tusk. Prominent recent alumni include Russell Moore and Allison Hopelain of Camino who have already garnered praise in the Times and the Chronicle. It is no surprise that under Ms. Waters’s auspices, Chez Panisse's coterie of young chefs displays peerless technical competence, or at least fluency in the Panisse lexicon. Of major restaurants with kitchens visible to the diner, only the chefs at L’Atelier de Joel Robuchon in Paris appear younger.
While the list is Northern California-centric, Los Angeles—at least between La Cienega and La Brea—is catching up, though at a glacial pace. Waters’s ideas have obviously found a home in feisty Portland where its chefs and obsessive foodies, having ditched the pretension, are trying to out-San Francisco San Francisco. (On the coffee front, the Portlanders have arguably out-Seattled Seattle.)
What about the provincial East Coast? With the ascendancy of Dan Barber and Blue Hill and the cute “Greenmarket” phenomenon (not to mention that French Laundry spinoff in the Columbus Circle mall), formerly rough-and-tumble New York has succumbed to the idealism of Berkeley’s Alice Waters, just four decades after the fact. The Gray Lady even lauded the Finger Lakes agricultural region of "central New York," which is supposedly somewhere between Rochester and Syracuse, whatever that means. What ever happened to the New York of Steinberg's "A View of the World from Ninth Avenue?" Apparently, that's pre-Waters New York. The new New York reads the United States of Arugula and might as well be called New Munich.
The Chez Panisse Café sits on the building’s second floor, and has an extensive à la carte menu that changes everyday. At a leisurely afternoon lunch at the Café before the concert, a few items stood out. The California Kid and the Ever Sagacious Gravida both ordered the heirloom tomato salad with “hand-pulled” mozzarella, basil, and a lively olive oil. While the dish was visually beautiful and abounded with flavor, it distinguished itself as a model of control and refinement. In a certain sense, the dish was a lesson, at once remedial or advanced, about how tomatoes, mozzarella, and olive oil are supposed to taste and why their flavors are harmonious.
If the salad was a showcase for the state’s summer produce, the pan-fried California sea bass was a revelation. Chez Panisse sautés a grayish hued fish so that it takes on the coarser texture of swordfish while still retaining its moisture. The lean fish has a natural richness, yet the preparation is the embodiment of restraint. There are no superfluous sauces; the only accompaniments were halved cherry tomatoes, small spherical potatoes, and a handful of ridiculously good green beans. The California Kid pronounced the bass the finest he ever tried. Strictly speaking, the "California sea bass" is not a bass at all, but a member of the croaker family of fishes. If Panisse were more faithful to its sustainability principles, its menu would use the fish's true and much less marketable name, not the euphemism.
While The Kid was enthralled with Panisse, he was still reeling from the peculiar genius of the Cheeseboard pizza where we noshed before lunch. The Cheeseboard Pizza Collective makes only one type of pizza a day and is operated by the 12 most rugged kibbutznick-pizzaiolos in the East Bay, who make fine companions to the laboratory workers of Forno Campo de' Fiori. (To be fair to the employees of the famed Roman bakery, it may take a dose of alchemy to create pizza that divinely good.) How this Collective coaxed so much great and interesting flavor out of July 26's improbable combination—zucchini slices, cilantro pesto, olive oil, feta and mozzarella on a vibrant pizza dough— is beyond me. All these old school and New Wave pizzerias in more traditional pizza locales can just step aside, with the exceptions of Una Pizza Napoletana and Geraci's.
We finished with an exquisite Ruby Grand nectarine tart and vanilla bean ice cream. Nectarine and peach tarts were ubiquitous in the Bay Area all weekend long. It’s a shame that Los Angeles chefs aren’t featuring them, a disappointment exacerbated by the superiority of the stone fruit available at the Hollywood farmer's market. Waters sends her people even further south to the cultish Chino Farms market in Rancho Santa Fe. The Hatfields also make the schlep, which makes for great Wednesday dinners at their eponymous restaurant.
Later that evening, Steely Dan's sly and pristine musicianship was on full display. Waters and Fagen/Becker showed that they are in many ways kindred spirits. Both Steely Dan and Chez Panisse demonstrate a great commitment to technical acumen, the effective and prolific use of young musicians and chefs, and, through food and music, social critiques as relevant as ever. (Steely Dan may have sets its sights too high with its rendition of Godwhacker, which is clever, but not as funny as Hitchens' God Is Not Great. Also Becker cannot sing.) Ultimately, Steely Dan and Chez Panisse, from their respective perches of East Coast irony and West Coast idealism, offer up refined and thoughtful sensibilities for the ears, mouth, and brain.
Chez Panisse Café
1517 Shattuck Ave.
Berkeley
(510) 548-5049
http://www.chezpanisse.com/
The Cheeseboard Pizza Collective
1512 Shattuck Ave.
Berkeley
(510) 549-3055
http://cheeseboardcollective.coop/Pizza%20Collective/PizzaPage.html
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Kareem’s Restaurant
Southern California’s endless contradictions make it the country’s most interesting metropolitan region, if also the most frustrating. Take, for example, the mythology of Orange County as corrosively artificial and the spiritual home of the subprime mortgage.
On one hand, the O.C.’s most popular restaurant, at least among its coastal, pre-recession glitterati, may be Mastro’s Ocean Club. According to Irene Virbila, the Ocean Club’s “concept is so simple” that it “doesn't need a high-end chef to execute its menu. Line cooks will do.” (Actually, they won’t do, as the food does not approach even the most liberal definition of “edible.”) On the other hand, Kareem’s Restaurant in inland Anaheim is a bastion of traditional Lebanese cooking, emphasizing quality ingredients and painstaking preparations. In Kareem’s 12 years of operation, Mike and Nancy Hawari, the co-owners, co-chefs, and sole employees, have not served any dish that they did not make or prepare completely, the very antithesis of the “collateralized” debt obligation.
Anaheim’s contradictions are staggering; David Addington would consider them Manichean. The suburb is the home of Disneyland, which is ludicrously marketed as the Happiest Place on Earth. Yet the uber-American theme park shares a freeway exit (the Ball Road exit off the 5) with Kareem’s and its menacingly named neighborhood, “Little Gaza,” whose referent could be the Least Happiest Place on Earth and where an apparent majority of the storefronts have signage in Arabic script.
A seemingly ubiquitous contradiction, Southern California has relegated yet another sophisticated practitioner of a traditional cuisine to the sterile, rootless home of the strip center. At least Kareem’s shares this dubious distinction with such gastronomic stalwarts as Jitlada, Park’s Barbeque, and Kiriko. Unlike those establishments, Kareem’s tiny and sparsely decorated dining room has little physical charm, though it is too clean to be a dive. Still, the owners provided a gracious welcome which was all the charm we needed.
While Ed and I waited for AO to navigate South L.A. County’s smorgasbord of freeways, we noshed on a delectable order of falafel and hummous. Kareem’s falafel is crispy and moist, its interior green from fresh parsley. The hummous is creamy with spicy undertones. Mrs. Hawari told us that she makes the hummous twice a day, beginning on the preceding evening when she soaks the beans, and then finishes the recipe with onion, garlic, and spices. Circular pitas accompanied the platter, and though fresh and fluffy, their spartan flavor made them not worth the precious stomach space. (If I learned anything in Texas, it is not to fill up on irrelevant carbohydratic foodstuffs.)
AO eventually arrived, and we got down to the business of eating. For his part, AO was totally useless. He ordered a beautiful dish of sautéed sirloin steak diced with onions and tomatoes and just inhaled it. Ed and I got bupkis, no samples, nothing—just AO’s excuse that he was ready to eat that day and that he loved it.
Tempted by the sautéed lamb liver, I asked Mrs. Hawari what to order. Her only counsel was that everything is good and that if it weren’t, they would not serve it. Kareem’s may be the only restaurant where that reply is justified, but it was less than helpful. So I pressed further, and she confessed to a predilection for the kufta kabob.
Kareem’s kufta consists of two long grilled sausages made of ground lamb and beef, onion, parsley, and other spices. Served with rice, they are tender and have a rustic spiciness that I really enjoyed. They are not unduly moist or geysers of fat like those Texan links. Mrs. Hawari told us that they make the sausage with their own grinder and source the meat from a trusted local halal butcher, insisting on low fat quantities. I couldn’t resist ordering it again the following day, postponing the lamb’s liver to a later date.
Not until the end of our meal did Mrs. Hawari serve our plate of glistening baba ganough. But we quickly realized there was no delay or miscue in the kitchen. She made it from scratch for the order. Her baba is intensely flavorful. It has a rich, creamy texture and a nuanced spiciness that reveals itself a few seconds into each bite. For Ed, the experience was epiphanic as he now, quite understandably, braves the Santa Ana Freeway once a week for baba and kufta.
The only misfire at Kareem’s is the fuul, a plate of diced favas mixed with garlic and lemon juice. The languid favas aren’t bad, but they lack the farmer’s market freshness that the rest of our meal had.
After this gem of a lunch, I wanted something sweet. But the Hawaris do not make dessert and thus they do not serve dessert. This rigor, while laudable, is also annoying; I don’t think they even serve coffee. All they could offer were recommendations for their favorite local bakeries. But after a three-hour lunch break, the bakeries would not be in the cards.
Kareem’s Restaurant
1208 S. Brookhurst St.
Anaheim
(714) 778-6829
On one hand, the O.C.’s most popular restaurant, at least among its coastal, pre-recession glitterati, may be Mastro’s Ocean Club. According to Irene Virbila, the Ocean Club’s “concept is so simple” that it “doesn't need a high-end chef to execute its menu. Line cooks will do.” (Actually, they won’t do, as the food does not approach even the most liberal definition of “edible.”) On the other hand, Kareem’s Restaurant in inland Anaheim is a bastion of traditional Lebanese cooking, emphasizing quality ingredients and painstaking preparations. In Kareem’s 12 years of operation, Mike and Nancy Hawari, the co-owners, co-chefs, and sole employees, have not served any dish that they did not make or prepare completely, the very antithesis of the “collateralized” debt obligation.
Anaheim’s contradictions are staggering; David Addington would consider them Manichean. The suburb is the home of Disneyland, which is ludicrously marketed as the Happiest Place on Earth. Yet the uber-American theme park shares a freeway exit (the Ball Road exit off the 5) with Kareem’s and its menacingly named neighborhood, “Little Gaza,” whose referent could be the Least Happiest Place on Earth and where an apparent majority of the storefronts have signage in Arabic script.
A seemingly ubiquitous contradiction, Southern California has relegated yet another sophisticated practitioner of a traditional cuisine to the sterile, rootless home of the strip center. At least Kareem’s shares this dubious distinction with such gastronomic stalwarts as Jitlada, Park’s Barbeque, and Kiriko. Unlike those establishments, Kareem’s tiny and sparsely decorated dining room has little physical charm, though it is too clean to be a dive. Still, the owners provided a gracious welcome which was all the charm we needed.
While Ed and I waited for AO to navigate South L.A. County’s smorgasbord of freeways, we noshed on a delectable order of falafel and hummous. Kareem’s falafel is crispy and moist, its interior green from fresh parsley. The hummous is creamy with spicy undertones. Mrs. Hawari told us that she makes the hummous twice a day, beginning on the preceding evening when she soaks the beans, and then finishes the recipe with onion, garlic, and spices. Circular pitas accompanied the platter, and though fresh and fluffy, their spartan flavor made them not worth the precious stomach space. (If I learned anything in Texas, it is not to fill up on irrelevant carbohydratic foodstuffs.)
AO eventually arrived, and we got down to the business of eating. For his part, AO was totally useless. He ordered a beautiful dish of sautéed sirloin steak diced with onions and tomatoes and just inhaled it. Ed and I got bupkis, no samples, nothing—just AO’s excuse that he was ready to eat that day and that he loved it.
Tempted by the sautéed lamb liver, I asked Mrs. Hawari what to order. Her only counsel was that everything is good and that if it weren’t, they would not serve it. Kareem’s may be the only restaurant where that reply is justified, but it was less than helpful. So I pressed further, and she confessed to a predilection for the kufta kabob.
Kareem’s kufta consists of two long grilled sausages made of ground lamb and beef, onion, parsley, and other spices. Served with rice, they are tender and have a rustic spiciness that I really enjoyed. They are not unduly moist or geysers of fat like those Texan links. Mrs. Hawari told us that they make the sausage with their own grinder and source the meat from a trusted local halal butcher, insisting on low fat quantities. I couldn’t resist ordering it again the following day, postponing the lamb’s liver to a later date.
Not until the end of our meal did Mrs. Hawari serve our plate of glistening baba ganough. But we quickly realized there was no delay or miscue in the kitchen. She made it from scratch for the order. Her baba is intensely flavorful. It has a rich, creamy texture and a nuanced spiciness that reveals itself a few seconds into each bite. For Ed, the experience was epiphanic as he now, quite understandably, braves the Santa Ana Freeway once a week for baba and kufta.
The only misfire at Kareem’s is the fuul, a plate of diced favas mixed with garlic and lemon juice. The languid favas aren’t bad, but they lack the farmer’s market freshness that the rest of our meal had.
After this gem of a lunch, I wanted something sweet. But the Hawaris do not make dessert and thus they do not serve dessert. This rigor, while laudable, is also annoying; I don’t think they even serve coffee. All they could offer were recommendations for their favorite local bakeries. But after a three-hour lunch break, the bakeries would not be in the cards.
Kareem’s Restaurant
1208 S. Brookhurst St.
Anaheim
(714) 778-6829
Monday, July 21, 2008
Hill Country Correction
Gregg informs me that every establishment we visited served shoulder clod. Yet there was some concern that it was a leaner cut and so we avoided it, which in retrospect was a mistake.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Hill Country, Day Two
We began the second day in Lockhart’s Kreuz Market, which has to be one of the few remaining American restaurants founded in the nineteenth century. A victim of too much success, in 1999 it moved from the downtown smokehouse that it made historic to Lockhart’s outskirts. Kreuz is now housed in a giant red shed of a roadhouse that, like many of its Texas barbeque brethren, could well suit a putsch. Patrons order meats by the pound inside the cavernous pit – and just like at Meyer’s, they may not enter until summoned.
The smell of smoked meat was so intoxicating that it was difficult to focus on the menu. We entrusted the ordering to our expert, Gregg, who was rendered powerless by the glorious smoky aroma. In his BBQ-fueled stupor, he failed to order the shoulder clod that we saw only at Kreuz’s, leaving us just with a pound each of beef brisket, ham, beef and pork ribs, prime rib, pork chops, and sausage. I love my younger brother, but I remain bitter.
Kreuz, in spite of its reputation as a purist’s redoubt, was the only establishment that sold legitimate side dishes; nevertheless, they were segregated and sold in one of the large dining rooms flanking the pit. The exemplary side dishes included a vinegary German potato salad (which is to say, one not tainted by that culinary ejaculate, mayonnaise), a hot and zesty sauerkraut concoction, and satisfying baked beans.
Kreuz's brisket was the best of the trip. It had a great crust and smoky ring from the post-oak, and was tender, though not meltingly so. Both sets of ribs were delicious. Ironically, in the heart of beef country, the pork chop may have been the best thing of all. Of course, I didn’t have the clod so I can’t say with certainty. (Thanks, Gregg.) The pork chop stands out and was transcendently good with its deep smoky flavor and meaty texture. (OK, so “meaty texture” isn’t exactly the most evocative description, but dude, IT WAS MEAT AND ME LIKE MEAT.) It alone would warrant a return trip to the reddest of states. Kreuz forbids the use of forks, but this “rule” seemed more a physiological response than a normative obligation. Passing it around and eating it with our hands was totally apropos, and I was proud of any similarities to the opening scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The only drawback: Kreuz’s sausage, much like every other smokehouse’s (save Mueller’s), tasted like a greasy, unprocessed Dodger Dog.
We then moved on to Smitty’s, which is located in Kreuz’s original (and comparatively compact) location. We were somewhat nervous about going there because it had to follow Kreuz’s wild success. But Smitty’s aroma swept through its corner of tiny downtown Lockhart, its adjacent lot enticingly filled with rows upon rows of chopped post-oak. We entered directly into the hot, smoky pit, its exposed flames licking the air around the door. (There is no way this degree of danger would be tolerated in risk-averse California. I thought that it would be illegal in Texas, until I read that Texas does not even regulate its crane industry.) I could only imagine how many careless and drunken fools have fallen into the fire.
Despite its sterling pedigree and colorful setting, Smitty’s food was a disappointment. The brisket was exceedingly greasy and salty, as were the pork ribs and pork chop. The Sterns, writing in Gourmet, aptly described the sausage as “so succulent that if you plan to snap it into two pieces, you must treat it like a bottle of Champagne you are about to uncork.” However, this statement should not be construed as praise. The sausage tasted like liquefied fat. I could not swallow more than one bite. Incidentally, Smitty’s was the most racially integrated of any of the smokehouses that we visited on our trip. That was its only plus.
Our last smokehouse of the day was Black’s, a real oddity. Toward the end of the corridor where patrons enter was a pathetic salad bar of items that didn’t belong in a salad and looked like they could have prepared when Black’s opened, in 1932. My interest in eating was crushed by the salad bar's wan potato and macaroni salads and oleaginous agglomerations of beans. The interior wasn’t charmless, but after the Smitty’s fiasco and this “salad” bar, we didn’t want to stick around. So we confined ourselves to the outdoor picnic table and noshed on a pound of brisket. Seasoned only with salt and pepper, the brisket was pleasant, if somewhat greasy.
After these disappointments, T2P wisely demanded a return to Kreuz for one more pork chop. Naturally, we obliged, devoured the chop and then traveled to San Antonio for a dose of traditional tourism. We have vowed to return to Lockhart to correct Gregg’s error and try the shoulder clod.
Kreuz Market
619 N. Colorado St.
Lockhart
(512) 398-2361
www.kreuzmarket.com
Smitty’s Market
208 S. Commerce St.
Lockhart
(512) 398-9344
www.smittysmarket.com
Black’s Barbecue
215 N. Main St.
Lockhart
(512) 398-2712
www.blacksbbq.com
The smell of smoked meat was so intoxicating that it was difficult to focus on the menu. We entrusted the ordering to our expert, Gregg, who was rendered powerless by the glorious smoky aroma. In his BBQ-fueled stupor, he failed to order the shoulder clod that we saw only at Kreuz’s, leaving us just with a pound each of beef brisket, ham, beef and pork ribs, prime rib, pork chops, and sausage. I love my younger brother, but I remain bitter.
Kreuz, in spite of its reputation as a purist’s redoubt, was the only establishment that sold legitimate side dishes; nevertheless, they were segregated and sold in one of the large dining rooms flanking the pit. The exemplary side dishes included a vinegary German potato salad (which is to say, one not tainted by that culinary ejaculate, mayonnaise), a hot and zesty sauerkraut concoction, and satisfying baked beans.
Kreuz's brisket was the best of the trip. It had a great crust and smoky ring from the post-oak, and was tender, though not meltingly so. Both sets of ribs were delicious. Ironically, in the heart of beef country, the pork chop may have been the best thing of all. Of course, I didn’t have the clod so I can’t say with certainty. (Thanks, Gregg.) The pork chop stands out and was transcendently good with its deep smoky flavor and meaty texture. (OK, so “meaty texture” isn’t exactly the most evocative description, but dude, IT WAS MEAT AND ME LIKE MEAT.) It alone would warrant a return trip to the reddest of states. Kreuz forbids the use of forks, but this “rule” seemed more a physiological response than a normative obligation. Passing it around and eating it with our hands was totally apropos, and I was proud of any similarities to the opening scene in 2001: A Space Odyssey. The only drawback: Kreuz’s sausage, much like every other smokehouse’s (save Mueller’s), tasted like a greasy, unprocessed Dodger Dog.
We then moved on to Smitty’s, which is located in Kreuz’s original (and comparatively compact) location. We were somewhat nervous about going there because it had to follow Kreuz’s wild success. But Smitty’s aroma swept through its corner of tiny downtown Lockhart, its adjacent lot enticingly filled with rows upon rows of chopped post-oak. We entered directly into the hot, smoky pit, its exposed flames licking the air around the door. (There is no way this degree of danger would be tolerated in risk-averse California. I thought that it would be illegal in Texas, until I read that Texas does not even regulate its crane industry.) I could only imagine how many careless and drunken fools have fallen into the fire.
Despite its sterling pedigree and colorful setting, Smitty’s food was a disappointment. The brisket was exceedingly greasy and salty, as were the pork ribs and pork chop. The Sterns, writing in Gourmet, aptly described the sausage as “so succulent that if you plan to snap it into two pieces, you must treat it like a bottle of Champagne you are about to uncork.” However, this statement should not be construed as praise. The sausage tasted like liquefied fat. I could not swallow more than one bite. Incidentally, Smitty’s was the most racially integrated of any of the smokehouses that we visited on our trip. That was its only plus.
Our last smokehouse of the day was Black’s, a real oddity. Toward the end of the corridor where patrons enter was a pathetic salad bar of items that didn’t belong in a salad and looked like they could have prepared when Black’s opened, in 1932. My interest in eating was crushed by the salad bar's wan potato and macaroni salads and oleaginous agglomerations of beans. The interior wasn’t charmless, but after the Smitty’s fiasco and this “salad” bar, we didn’t want to stick around. So we confined ourselves to the outdoor picnic table and noshed on a pound of brisket. Seasoned only with salt and pepper, the brisket was pleasant, if somewhat greasy.
After these disappointments, T2P wisely demanded a return to Kreuz for one more pork chop. Naturally, we obliged, devoured the chop and then traveled to San Antonio for a dose of traditional tourism. We have vowed to return to Lockhart to correct Gregg’s error and try the shoulder clod.
Kreuz Market
619 N. Colorado St.
Lockhart
(512) 398-2361
www.kreuzmarket.com
Smitty’s Market
208 S. Commerce St.
Lockhart
(512) 398-9344
www.smittysmarket.com
Black’s Barbecue
215 N. Main St.
Lockhart
(512) 398-2712
www.blacksbbq.com
Monday, July 7, 2008
Le Pigeon
With the corporate expense account on its final gasp for life, AO and I hopped a plane to Portland on the flimsy pretext of transacting business. From Le Pigeon we expected a small, serene setting and a shrine to gastronomic excellence (or, at least, ambition). Instead, we found a tiny but boisterous bistro packed until midnight with a crowd of young foodies.
AO began with a nice rendition of foie gras accompanied by mashed, dried mission fig and pine on a superfluous triangular buttery pastry. The pine was the principal ingredient signifying unconventionality or “innovation,” and its mild flavor provided a soothing presence to the richer foie and sweeter fig. I loved my appetizer of warm lamb belly, which is “the meaty flap that surrounds the front ribs of the lamb” now in vogue with trailblazing chefs. It was served with a salad of asparagus, spring peas (as the meal actually took place in May), and a dab of a mint salsa verde catalyzed by pecorino. New York Times critic Merrill Stubbs is correct in arguing that lamb belly “offers a more nuanced mouthful than its porcine predecessor.”
I envied every bite of AO’s beef cheek bourguignon. Chef Gabriel Rucker’s take on the classic dish was modern but in perfect harmony with traditional recipes. The preparation consisted of succulent beef cheeks, a few carrots, and a robust sauce which deftly used salt to balance the red wine sauce. Plus, the beef cheeks were delicious.
Rucker has a reputation as an aficionado of tongue. I eschewed eating the organ until four years ago, when Babbo’s warm lamb’s tongue with a two-minute egg proved so revelatory. El Taurino/King Taco continually reinforces the Babbo experience with its brilliantly sapid taco de lengua, the best of its kind in my experience. Accordingly, I was eager to see what Rucker could do with tongue. I was concerned that the only beef tongue on the menu was mixed in with the spätzle that accompanied the flat iron steak; while I tend to enjoy spätzle, I generally do not like to order steak. Nevertheless, I put myself in Rucker's hands and, to my delight, the steak was excellent. Le Pigeon respected the cut of meat and served it rare, allowing the steak to retain its flavor. Moreover, the creamy, mustardy spätzle with the tongue was a luscious complement to the steak. It was no surprise to learn that Rucker, a native Californian, also enjoys tacos de lengua and cabeza.
My praise here is getting uncomfortably fulsome, and I admit that by the time the steak came around, AO and I were at the bottom of a second bottle of wine with one to go. But, even as we started plowing through a Vouvray Trie de Vendange—striking a minor blow against the dwindling balance sheet of my former employer—my sensory perception remained intact.
The desserts were not as successful as the savory portion of the meal, though they were good. Most enjoyable was the profiterole filled with foie gras cream and dressed with sea salt and caramel. It traversed the familiar terrain of the salty/sweet juxtaposition— and much like the bourguignon—the pendulum was set firmly, but not excessively on the salty. Less successful was the coffee pot de crème, served with crème brûlée. The pot de crème was boring, and the brûlée repeated the very same salty/sweet interplay that was in the profiterole. It was a better version of the basic, cloying American crème brûlée with its thick shell and incandescent yellow crème. The pastry chef’s inexperience here showed, and she should take a lesson in making the standard from Astier.
An exemplar of the new Portland dining scene, Le Pigeon is refreshing and exciting precisely because it is not a temple of refinement or elegance as found in New York or San Francisco. It is not even a finished product. But it exudes the freshness and exuberance that are lacking in larger cities with their Zagat scores, older clientele, and bourgeois posturing. At Le Pigeon, the artifice yields to a genuine and unpretentious desire for good and thoughtful food in the setting of a vibrant bistro.
Le Pigeon
738 E. Burnside St.
Portland
(503) 546-8796
http://www.lepigeon.com/
AO began with a nice rendition of foie gras accompanied by mashed, dried mission fig and pine on a superfluous triangular buttery pastry. The pine was the principal ingredient signifying unconventionality or “innovation,” and its mild flavor provided a soothing presence to the richer foie and sweeter fig. I loved my appetizer of warm lamb belly, which is “the meaty flap that surrounds the front ribs of the lamb” now in vogue with trailblazing chefs. It was served with a salad of asparagus, spring peas (as the meal actually took place in May), and a dab of a mint salsa verde catalyzed by pecorino. New York Times critic Merrill Stubbs is correct in arguing that lamb belly “offers a more nuanced mouthful than its porcine predecessor.”
I envied every bite of AO’s beef cheek bourguignon. Chef Gabriel Rucker’s take on the classic dish was modern but in perfect harmony with traditional recipes. The preparation consisted of succulent beef cheeks, a few carrots, and a robust sauce which deftly used salt to balance the red wine sauce. Plus, the beef cheeks were delicious.
Rucker has a reputation as an aficionado of tongue. I eschewed eating the organ until four years ago, when Babbo’s warm lamb’s tongue with a two-minute egg proved so revelatory. El Taurino/King Taco continually reinforces the Babbo experience with its brilliantly sapid taco de lengua, the best of its kind in my experience. Accordingly, I was eager to see what Rucker could do with tongue. I was concerned that the only beef tongue on the menu was mixed in with the spätzle that accompanied the flat iron steak; while I tend to enjoy spätzle, I generally do not like to order steak. Nevertheless, I put myself in Rucker's hands and, to my delight, the steak was excellent. Le Pigeon respected the cut of meat and served it rare, allowing the steak to retain its flavor. Moreover, the creamy, mustardy spätzle with the tongue was a luscious complement to the steak. It was no surprise to learn that Rucker, a native Californian, also enjoys tacos de lengua and cabeza.
My praise here is getting uncomfortably fulsome, and I admit that by the time the steak came around, AO and I were at the bottom of a second bottle of wine with one to go. But, even as we started plowing through a Vouvray Trie de Vendange—striking a minor blow against the dwindling balance sheet of my former employer—my sensory perception remained intact.
The desserts were not as successful as the savory portion of the meal, though they were good. Most enjoyable was the profiterole filled with foie gras cream and dressed with sea salt and caramel. It traversed the familiar terrain of the salty/sweet juxtaposition— and much like the bourguignon—the pendulum was set firmly, but not excessively on the salty. Less successful was the coffee pot de crème, served with crème brûlée. The pot de crème was boring, and the brûlée repeated the very same salty/sweet interplay that was in the profiterole. It was a better version of the basic, cloying American crème brûlée with its thick shell and incandescent yellow crème. The pastry chef’s inexperience here showed, and she should take a lesson in making the standard from Astier.
An exemplar of the new Portland dining scene, Le Pigeon is refreshing and exciting precisely because it is not a temple of refinement or elegance as found in New York or San Francisco. It is not even a finished product. But it exudes the freshness and exuberance that are lacking in larger cities with their Zagat scores, older clientele, and bourgeois posturing. At Le Pigeon, the artifice yields to a genuine and unpretentious desire for good and thoughtful food in the setting of a vibrant bistro.
Le Pigeon
738 E. Burnside St.
Portland
(503) 546-8796
http://www.lepigeon.com/
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