Bite the Big Apple: Sunday Day

Posted on May 13, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

We were due to meet the Roadfooders at 11 am, and we somehow managed to pick the one taxi in all of Manhattan that wasn’t in any big hurry. He lazily meandered along, pointing out local points of interest as the clock ticked. We finally made it to Katz’s about 20 minutes late, still half asleep.

It was great to hang out with everybody – Ruby Rose is so much fun, Traveling Man, Wandering Jew and Lexi never stoppped laughing, and Aleswench, Alesrus and family were charming. I somnambulistically made small talk and ordered a half-pastrami, half-brisket. Our friend John, who lives upstairs and is addicted to the garlicky hot dogs, also came down to join us.

Our pastrami sandwich was on a very mild seedless rye, almost more of a wheat bread. The pastrami was made from thick slices of flaking brisket, none of the thin, chewy, overly peppered strips that pass themselves off as pastrami. It was like tasting it for the first time. The brisket was good, but I have to confess that I think my brisket is better.

Really, they might as well serve only pastrami. It’s just not fair – the other sandwiches might as well take their ball and go home. Aleswench asked me how it compared to Langers. Still lost in a playground metaphor, I told her, “Langer’s pastrami would go crying home to its mommy.” Katz’s has a light hand with the mayonnaise in the potato and macaroni salads, but the best side were the pickles. The uncooked “counter” pickles are always a special treat, but no match for the garlic dill.

For dessert, there was raspberry rugelach

Afterwards, Lexi led us down the street to Yonah Schimmel’s Bakery for knish, which was a real find. I picked up a mushroom, sweet potato, and blueberry to go. I couldn’t believe how heavy the bag was. Later, when I sampled them I discovered the dough was paper-thin, and although they would have been better warm, they were peerless. The blueberry knish was more like a hearty blintz and made me want more.

After we went our separate ways, John, Bob and I headed for Little Italy. I was in search of homemade mozzarella tied in little knots that I had seen once on TV. John kept insisting there was lots of cheese at the Whole Foods, hoping to get it out of the way so we could hit some art galleries. Bob finally said, “It’s not about the cheese. It’s about the journey.”

Our first stop was Alleva Dairy. Wheels of cheese as big as tires, arancini and giant salamis soon had John on board. I picked up prosciutto bread and homemade mozzarella, although alas, no little knots – only braids.

The gelato sign at Cafe Roma beckoned. The boys ordered pastries and I sampled a little pistachio gelato, which was good, but not fantastic. But the cannoli – heaven opened up and angels sang. Now THAT was cannoli!

Across the street I noticed a stand called “Vinnie’s Nut House”. Unfortunately, they did not have any nuts, “You see, we are new.” They did have buttons with the pope on them and giant slabs of toronne nougat candy. The nougat candy was rich with honey and roasted pistachios.

Next we hit up Caffe Palermo, home of Baby John, the cannoli king. “Baby” John Delutro had a very intense accent, enough to make my companions wonder if he was milking it. I have to say that their cannoli was no match for Cafe Roma’s cannoli. However, they did have one treat that Bob has been waxing rhapsodic about ever since I met him. In Italy he had once eaten profiterole filled with cream and buried in chocolate pudding. And he has never forgotten it. It was a little messy for street food, but so worth it.

We noticed cheese-topped garlic bread on one of the outdoor cafe tables and had to go inside and order a basket at Il Fornaio. John and I split the gnocchi, which was heavy and dull, and Bob had a caesar salad that he loved. The bread was delicious – I am a sucker for cheesy bread.

The crowds at Ferrara drew us over. The long, shiny cases held row after row of decadent treats. Miniature pastries and cookies were displayed in rows next to fruit tartlets glistening with berries. A man in front of us asked, “Don’t you have anything smaller?” Bob picked up miniature biscotti for his colleagues at work, and I picked up a veritable doll museum of teensy delights.

We started heading back towards Bleecker and passed a churchyard. I wondered if that was where the body of Mother Cabrini lay in a shrine. It wasn’t, but what is one of my trips without a photo of a cemetery?

We walked through The Grand Italian Market, but we were too stuffed to take advantage of their beautiful pizzas.

We passed DiPalo’s. By now I had given up on the little mozzarella knots, and as Bob said, it was about the journey. I wandered inside and was deterred by the long line. I wandered back outside, where John and Bob encouraged me to go ahead and wait. Louis DiPalo was giving cheese tastings and expounding on the merits of each cheese. The attention this store is famous for was nice, but a little frustrating when you are waiting in line and your feet are starting to hurt.

I have to say, this was the one place in all of New York that I experienced true comraderie amongst strangers. In other places, when a group of strangers is thrust into a similar situation, they start to chat – but not in New York. People stood silent and steely-eyed as elevators closed on strangers and refused to meet my eyes while waiting for the train. At DiPalo’s everyone opened up and commiserated about the line, “Oh, this is the best time to come. This is nothing.” One customer said his father insists on making DiPalo’s his first stop in the city and takes home and entire soprasetta in his suitcase.

I didn’t end up with Louis, but scored Sal instead. I asked, “Culatello isn’t what I THINK it is, is it?” That made Sal decide I must be a wise guy and he told me joke after cheesy joke.
“So this guy asks me to make him a cheese with no liquid in it – and I says ‘No whey!'”
“How do you kill a circus? Go for the juggler!” (The latter joke only works when told in a New York accent).

I picked up the recommended soprasetta, wine cheese, homemade mozzarella as well as some Piave Vecchio and homemade ricotta that I brought home in my suitcase. Although I was tired at the time, my visit to DiPalo’s is one of my fondest memories, a moment where I really felt connected to the city.

We wandered through Chinatown, where every other storefront advertised foot and back massage. I had started complaining about my feet, so I was ferried into the basement massage parlor. It was kind of strange that with 10 young girls there, the one middle-aged man took me. After we were behind the curtain and already started the massage, he asked, “You’re here for massage?” I wondered what else I would be there for. But Bob and John didn’t report anything unusual from their masseuses, so it must have been a language thing. At 30 bucks for 45 minutes, it was one hell of a deal.

Passing by a mission, I noticed a strange bible quote on the front of the Jesus van. As I walked over to take a picture I barely missed stepping on a hypodermic needle. Now this was the gritty New York I had expected. We headed over to Morrison Hotel, an art gallery in the space that formerly held CBGBs. There was a display of rock photography that was just amazing.

After a quick latte across the street, we bid John a fond adieu and went back to our room with arms full of goodies from Little Italy.

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Bite the Big Apple: Saturday

Posted on May 12, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

Saturday we moved hotels, since we had a good deal at the Westin Times Square – thanks to my brother’s awards points and generosity. Our room wasn’t ready yet, so we entrusted the front desk with our corned beef from Stage Deli and my medication, which they promised to refrigerate. Then we headed off on the Q train to Coney Island.

It was a cold and rainy day, so Coney Island was desolate. But we didn’t care, and neither did all of the kids on the train who completely lost their minds when the Cyclone came into view.

Our first stop, Nathan’s, was no trouble to find at all. I was surprised to discover a Kenny Rogers Roaster sandwiched between the hot dog and seafood counters. I went for a chili dog and a dog with peppers.

The mustard is so good in New York – this photo did not turn out well, but the mustard really makes NY dogs. Nathan’s was not the same as the Nathan’s you buy in the market. They were flavorful with a nice snap and an explosion of fat. I ate them both. Bob had a cheesesteak, but I was focused on my hot dogs. Did I mention the fries? I can see why the birds swarm this place.

I had also ordered frog’s legs and a lobster roll from the seafood counter, expecting to pick a little at everything. I sabotaged myself by wolfing down those two dogs. The frog’s legs weren’t nicely cut into drumettes as they had been in Paris, and the bright daylight didn’t hide the unappetizing black veins. They had also cooled already, so the frog’s legs just weren’t the same. Plus I couldn’t get the word “articulated” out of my head as I stared at them. The lobster roll was more like lobster-flavored mayonnaise, so we just picked at it.

We wandered through the rides, some of which are in Astroland and some of which aren’t. Astroland has been the subject of much debate as it is slated for demolition to make way for condos. Locals are up in arms about it, even though they promise to spare the historic Cyclone. Most of the rides are carnival rides that could easily be packed up and relocated, but it’s about tradition.

I loved the trippy artwork, especially the clowns. There were also a lot of devils. And dead rappers. It was a little like Thugland.

Bob went on the Cyclone first so I could take pictures and he could report back on its scariness. He said it wasn’t scary, but it was really painful.

I picked The Breakdancer as the next ride, since I love spinning and I had never been on that one before. It was dedicated to Ant, “Loved by Many, Hated by Few, Respected by All.” I can only hope when I’m gone I am hated by few. As the ride started, the MC started shouting, “This one is for you, Big A!” I realized, “Uh oh, this ride is in tribute to his dead friend. It is going to be one hell of a ride.” And it was.

After a few intense minutes of spinning, I decided to video the ride. It was really hard struggling against the G forces to get out my camera and I gripped it in my fists. After awhile, the ride switched to spin the other way. It seemed to go on forever. This ride was never, ever going to end. The hot dogs in my stomache considered relocating. The MC asked if anyone wanted off, but no way was I going to wimp out after not going on the Cyclone. So we started all over again. Spinning, spinning, spinning; it wouldn’t stop. I knew I was going to live out the rest of my life on that ride. I was going to die on that ride. Hated by few.

The video I took lasts for a full minute, and it was less than a third of one spin in one direction. So at the very least we rode for 9 full minutes. That is a conservative estimate. After the ride, we both had to sit down and we were not feeling so good. The hot dogs decided they had enough and started a fistfight.

We walked along unsteadily as the booths and rides started shutting down. I had hoped to go for pierogie while we were in a Russian neighborhood, but I knew if smelled cabbage I was going to hurl. So we jumped on the train back to Manhattan.

When we arrived at the hotel, we discovered they had lost my medication. After an hour of freaking out, it was finally found. Bob returned to the room triumphantly, and I asked, “Where’s the corned beef?” I will not even try to describe the look he gave me. Our room was fantastic, the view was spectacular, and I was sad that the experience of checking into a room like that had been marred with worry. I called the manager to get the name of the desk clerk who hadn’t been very nice about the whole thing. Instead he let me complain to him for about 5 minutes, then asked, “What can we do to make it up to you?”

“What are you offering?”

“Have you had dinner tonight?”

“No, we have been too busy freaking out.”

“May I offer dinner at Shula’s, our steakhouse?”

“Well, we were meeting a friend for dinner. Would dinner for three be pushing it?”

“It wouldn’t be pushing it at all.”

And so instead of heading down to SoHo as arranged, we ended up calling our friend John to come to Times Square for a free steak dinner.

The atmosphere was warm and cozy in the dim restaurant. The restaurant theme was the Dolphins’ 1972 winning season. Kind of a specific theme. In spite of that, the decor was tasteful and more reminiscent of a supper club than a sports bar. A bottle of champagne started at 130 dollars, and we decided to not completely take advantage of the hotel manager. John and I each had a 20-dollar glass of the champagne, but stopped at one and switched to beer. My mother always taught me to order from the middle of the menu when being treated, and we all chose steaks in the 40-dollar range, even though they had one for 80.

For starters, John had a bisque, which I didn’t sample since he had a cold. Bob had something that has completely slipped my mind and I ordered lobster cocktail. I didn’t know yet that in New York a lobster cocktail is comprised of one half a Maine lobster in its shell. So it was kind of a decadent meal after all. The lobster was thrillingly cold and sweet.

Our steaks were high quality and cooked to perfection. The sides turned out to be big enough for the whole table. I could have lived on leftovers for two days. The crab mac and cheese kicked total ass and I will be hunting down the Shula’s in LA for that specific dish. John’s twice-baked potato was rich with cream and cheese, and Bob’s lobster mashed potatoes were unexpectedly good.

The damage was around 360 bucks after tip, so the hotel still got off cheaper than if they had comped us a night. One hour of my worry is certainly pricy. While Bob waited for the leftovers, John and I hung around the landing where a lot of people wanted to know if they could help us.

We walked around Times Square to work off the heavy food, and hit Ripley’s Believe it or Not museum. I love visiting them when I travel because every museum has different stuff. John took exception with calling things “unbelievable” when they were just “unfamiliar”. “Can you believe people would be SO STUPID to think masks ward off evil spirits???” I have to concede that there is a really patronizing tone in a lot of the commentary. I will still happily pay 20 bucks to see the life of Christ in toast.

Usually each museum has one shrunken head – the Times Square museum had about 10, including one of a caucasion with a big walrus moustache. Later I would disturb passers-by on the street when I remarked, “I have never seen so many severed heads all in one place before!” I also discovered that when my head is in a jar I kind of look like Drew Barrymore. Maybe I will have a big jar made to wear around from now on.

Back on Times Square, things were jumping. I seemed to be the only person to notice that there was a huge fistfight taking over the corner across the street. When a bunch of the people fighting made a break for it and ran towards us, I grabbed Bob. When a huge phalanx of cops started across the street, I called out to John, and headed back towards the hotel. My cell phone rang, and it was John, “Where’d you go? You’re missing the riot!”

I said, “Whenever I see more than 5 cops coming my way, I go the other way.”

He said, “That’s a good rule. See you guys tomorrow?”

“Sounds good.”

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Bite the Big Apple: Friday continued

Posted on May 9, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

We met my friend Anne-Marie at MOMA for an afternoon of Starry Night and Mademoiselles du Avignon.

A lot of the modern pieces involved lights and film and made me kind of dizzy. The photography exhibit was a study of light I would have liked to check out more. But by this time the museum, which was free after 4pm, was crammed with so many people it became uncomfortable.

Bob and I said goodbye to Anne-marie and wandered down the street to nosh along 54th. We happened upon London, and thought we would see what Gordon Ramsay has to be so cocky about. If the bar menu is any indication, he has every right to be a screaming bastard.

The lamb samosas were made with lamb confit rather than ground lamb. It was flavorful without being too gamey. I was unsure of how short ribs could be interpreted into bar food, but damn if they didn’t debone the ribs to make futuristic little squares topped with a rosette of mashed potato. Precious. They were also delicious and filling.

The ultramodern unisex bathrooms confused the British tourists, but they were clean and larger than our hotel bathroom.

As we enjoyed our drinks, I looked up and who was passing but Jean Baptiste. I called out, “Jean Phillipe!” Ramsay cleverly hires only men named Jean-something to keep things simple. We chatted about the upcoming opening of Gordon Ramsay in West Hollywood’s London Hotel. We could have happily dined on bar food all night, but we had seen a few other places that looked intriguing.

The Oyster Bar looked very Roadfood-y, but the overeagerness of the host and the resigned looks on the diner’s faces gave me cause for concern. We decided to have a beer and think about it.

The garlic bread was nicely seasoned, so we decided to order, but with restraint. I selected the cold seafood appetizer since it would be hard to muck up, and easier to tell if the seafood was off. The plate was a huge disappointment. The crab and lobster were overcooked and flavorless. The shrimp were just wrong. Bob tried one oyster and declared it bad. I worried, “Bad as in spoiled?” He said, “Bad as in not good.” The quality of the seafood was good, and the potato salad was delicious. It seemed like maybe once this place was loved a long time ago. Someone made sure the garlic bread and potato salad recipes were classic. But something happened – the place was sold, and now the restaurant is lonely and moribund.

We escaped the Oyster Bar and immediately spotted an Original Ray’s Famous.

I hear so much crap about California pizza from New Yorkers – how pineapple doesn’t belong on pizzas, blah, blah, blah. I was simultaneously disappointed and vindicated to see that the REAL New York slices had toppings like Buffallo wing, pineapple, BBQ chicken, and even broccoli. Broccoli! It’s a sin against God and man.

Our first slices in New York were nice and foldable, although my Margherita wasn’t nearly as good as Bob’s pepperoni and sausage.

We jaywalked across the street to the Stage Deli for rugelach, cheesecake, bagels and corned beef for breakfast. Checking out the standard celebrity Polaroids on the wall, I was amused to see instead of the usual pose, Sally Jesse Rafael was perched atop the counter hugging a giant jar of pickles.

I never understood the appeal of black and white cookies before. Stage Deli’s was a light, fresh and spongy cookie topped with soft royal icing. I think if a place becomes famous for something, it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. High turnover means fresh goods, and this is what their cookie had going for it. I don;t think I’d ever eaten a truly fresh black and white before.

The NY cheesecake was very familiar, not too sweet, and a little powdery. I have to admit I prefer creamy Philadelphia-style cheesecake. Although you have to give them points for the rugelach cheesecake, “Hey, you got cheesecake in my rugelach!” “No, you got rugelach in my cheesecake! Hey…”

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Bite the Big Apple: Friday at Nougatine

Posted on May 8, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

Friday we had reservations at Nougatine, the “casual” dining room of Jean-Georges. Of course, New York casual is not LA casual. Everyone was so stylish I could have snapped a photo in any direction and printed it in a magazine. I asked a man in a suit where the restroom was before I realized he didn’t work there. I was still coming off of working the graveyard shift and had not adapted to the time change. I had rolled out of bed and rushed to Nougatine on an empty stomach. So I was not interested in the prix fixe menu that had previously looked so appealing.

Bob ordered from the prix fixe, and I ordered an artichoke as well as a crab salad and ice cream/sorbet medley, and asked the server to let the chef decide the order in which the dishes should come out. Bob’s salmon confit was lovely, tasting very much like lox and served with toasts.

My artichoke arrived first. I was very pleased. They had cooked the hell out of it – exactly how it should be. At some point in the 80s, LA restaurants decided everything should be cooked al dente, especially vegetables. They have never quite recovered and continue to serve rock-hard artichokes. The homemade mustard mayonnaise was intense with lemon and horseradish. The horseradish began to sting about halfway through my artichoke, and I wondered why the chef had chosen such a strong dish as my starter.

When my crab salad arrived, I understood. The server poured the sauce over, which was made from lemon, horseradish, and reportedly melon, although it was lost in the horseradish. They really love horseradish. A lot. The peekytoe crab was sweet and cold, but the occasionally overwhelming bites of horseradish started to make my head swim. Halfway through the course, Bob and I switched plates. His chicken was moist with a crispy, salty, almost southern-fried skin. It was exacty what chicken should be. Bacon and olives are an unlikely duo, but were addictive and kept the chicken from being too mundane.

For dessert, Bob chose the chocolate biscuit with chantilly, which was like an upscale Devil Dog.

I went for the selection of ice creams and sorbets. Unlike Los Angeles, no one feels the need to tell you what is on your plate. There is a hesitation on their part to impose that can leave one feeling a little abandoned. I was also the only person in the entire restaurant drinking iced tea. In spite of the busboys waging a silent war on empty water glasses, it was hard to get refills for my tea.

Anyways, I am happy when they don’t tell me what is on my plate because then I get to guess. The first sorbet overshadowed everything else – it was a lime/mint bursting with flavor. The second sorbet was a mild cucumber, which was unusual and fun. There was vanilla malt ice cream and a strawberry sorbet. The final ice cream stumped me. The flavor was so mild, I could hardly taste it after that crazy lime/mint. I knew it was a fruit because it made my sour recepters twinge. I finally gave up and asked. The server had to check with the kitchen, which surprised me. I guess nobody ever asks. It was rhubarb. Although 4 out of 5 ain’t bad, I felt like I had lost the game.

(Thanks for the tip, JG!)

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Bite the Big Apple: Thursday

Posted on May 8, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

By the time we arrived in our comfortable, yacht-like room at the Essex House, Bob and I were too tired to go wandering the streets in search of slices. It was raining cats and dogs, and the street along the park looked desolate. I called down and asked if the hotel restaurant had available tables.

“Is it casual or formal?”
“Casual”
“Really casual?”
“Really casual”
“Levis casual?”
“Of course”

I had not taken the time to research our hotel very thoroughly. I was too busy debating delis and figuring out museum schedules. We stumbled into South Gate, Kerry Heffernan’s restaurant (and former location of Alain Ducasse). You might guess this place was not exactly what you would call casual.

I knew we were going to hit a lot of restaurants, so I asked if I could take the menu as a keepsake. The server raised an eyebrow, “Would you like a pen to take notes? Are you…?”
I said, “Oh no, but I have a friend who always asks me what I ate and I can never remember all of these gastriques and things.”
After the server left, Bob asked, “Are you pretending to be a rube?”
I was tempted to say, “With you in that shirt I don’t have to pretend” but I secretly enjoyed how comfortable Bob was in his Mike Watt plaid in such a swank restaurant. Especially since he was seated next to a man who was wearing a bowtie unironically.

An amuse bouche arrived, and I said, “Oh! An amuse bouche!” I’ve experimented with different pronunciations, but no matter how I say it, servers always seem pleased and never correct me. Maybe it’s because I get so excited, like a child pointing at a zebra and yelling, “Horsie!” The salmon tartare with olive tapenade was delicious, which surprised me because I am no great fan of raw fish. In spite of that, I was pleased too see there were also cheese gougere.

Bob started with the smoked char. The presentation was almost too precious. It was cold smoked, like lox – it was interesting to try fresh savory.

My foie gras was ingenious. Nicely charred and custardy, the meat sat in a sauce of rhubarb (sorry, that’s rhubarb coulis – I don’t want you to think I’m a rube). Fresh rhubarb was carefully cooked to match the consistency of the foie gras. As the daughter of Canadian farmers, I have cooked more than my share of rhubarb, and it is no mean feat to get rhubarb to that point without it breaking down. The dish included tarragon-preserved kumquats. Although the taraggon flavor was lost, kumquat was a perfect match for the foie gras. A crisp coated with pistachios jutted out jauntily – but it was not a crisp. It was like a flatbread, but wasn’t a flatbread. When the chef came around to greet the tables, I asked him about it and after a little “who’s on first” confusion about my crisp not being crisp, he explained that it was a Middle-Eastern crepe. And something about eggs. I had no idea what he was talking about. There was a time when if I read all of my cooking magazines and FOOD sections, I could keep up. You could not stump me. But now I sometimes watch Top Chef and I don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. Maybe it’s time for me to up my game. Or maybe it’s a good thing to not know everything; perhaps it makes me slightly less insufferable.

There are a few drawbacks to my uber-sensitive palate. I balk at gamey, fishy and bitter flavors. Bob revels in these things. And so he loved the oven roasted lamb loin that I found too lamb-y. The spring vegetable and lamb cassoulet accompaniment fell flat with a watery sauce, no sausage, and edamame in place of beans. I don’t normally order hangar steak because of its toughness, but I was seduced by the short rib ravioli. I was right – the hangar steak was a little too tough, and the ravioli were sheer heaven. Angel’s breath in a sheet of pasta that was light as air. I wished I had an entire plate of just the ravioli. The chianti vinegar reduction and onion soubise were lovely.

For dessert, I angelically ordered the cheese plate. When they set the table, they arranged the silver with the tines of the fork pointing towards me. I’m sure that is proper for the cheese course, but it still felt vaguely threatening (“In my country, that means you are marked for death.”) Then my best intentions fell by the wayside as I ate the drunken goat, triple creme and camembert with slice after slice of rustic bread. Bob ordered the mille feulle, which I immediately deconstructed. Sometimes I just can’t help myself. The chocolate sheets were of high quality, but unremarkable. The chocolate quenelle was kind of bland, but the banana layers were spectacular. I wished there was more of the banana cream, and the bottom layer was simply fresh bananas topped with broken bits of bruleed sugar. Eaten altogether, the layers worked together perfectly. Oh, there was also a nice banana ice cream quenelle and banana powder. I wondered what it would be like to snort banana powder, and decided it was time for me to turn in.

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Krust: Kranky, Kantankerous and Krude

Posted on April 9, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

Written with Lindsay Williams-Ross

We consider our restaurant reviews to be recommendations, not critiques. We only slam a place when our hand is forced. There are just some people who should not go into any industry where dealing with the public is a chief priority.

It truly pains us to do this. We so wanted to love Krust. We so wanted to write a glowing review and turn you on to this hidden bakery-cafe in Burbank. It fills a real culinary void in the neighborhood. The menu is not exactly complex or cutting-edge. Anyone who can plug in a hairdryer without electrocuting themselves can operate a panini press, and the paninis seem to be the center of their lunch menu. We can’t speak for breakfast items, since we haven’t had the constitution to get up and be insulted first thing in the morning. Still, the food is simple, clean, tasty, and well-presented – exactly what you want for a nice, relaxing girls’ lunch. But time and time again, no matter how many times we visit, we have yet to enjoy that pleasant lunch

It could have been so nice…

The interior borders on perfection – decorative carvings, comfortable seating, and a beautiful array of baked goods. However, the layout is a little off-balance. The menus are on a stand by the door, off to the side, and completely hidden if anyone stands near it. The first bakery case used to be filled with tempting goodies, but it now sits empty. The large bakery case to the right is filled with – jewelry. Yes, jewelry. For sale. It makes the room seem like one of the hobby/careers of rich wives (Ooh, let’s start a party planning company! I took a jewelry making class once – you make such good cupcakes; you should start a bakery! ).

The only case that actually contains baked goods lies inconveniently below the register. If you want to make a selection, you have to crouch down, and sometimes ask other patrons to move out of the way (or peek between their legs).

The set-up at the counter is also awkward. If you are waiting for a to-go order, there is nowhere to stand that isn’t blocking the bakery case, the servers, and the other patrons’ egress. There are signs everywhere telling you what they don’t have, and a huge sign on the countertop that begs you to review them on YELP, which reeks a little of desperation.

One of the co-owners, who we believe is named Kaylene, runs a tight ship–Captain Bligh tight. When you reach the counter, there is no smile, no greeting. The confusing layout sends mixed messages and every move you make is open to chastisement (why didn’t you see the menu before you came up to the register?). You’d better know what you want before you get to the front of the line–you certainly aren’t going to get any friendly suggestions of what to order, and your inquiry about a dish is her inconvenience. In any service industry, explanations to innocent questions (delivered by a smiling and upbeat customer) ought to err on the side of the customer being right–or at least give the impression that the customer is important.

Your order is taken in a snippy and perfunctory way, then coolly tapped into the register. The requisite questions (“coleslaw or salad?”) are delivered in the same tone as a surgical nurse offering you your choice of injection via the arm or the rear end. She is so reticient to speak, she skips over important points, like the fact that their iced tea is made with a fruity red herbal tea and not the usual black tea.

Once you find a place to sit, your food will come out without much delay (an upside, for certain), but it will be tossed down on your table as if by a surly teenager whose night it was to help Mom serve the tuna casserole. And, as you were warned via sign: If you order separately, the food will be delivered separately. If you ordered a hot item, it will arrive after the cold item. CAVEAT EMPTOR, folks.

Krust has “rules” about things–some are on signs and some are not–and the ways the management chooses to enforce them are blatantly unprofessional. We’ve been yelled at, sneered at, glared at, and lectured. We’ve been talked about in the kitchen by the whole staff, within earshot of the dining area. On one visit Kaylene attempted to ensnare one of us in someone else’s argument. If you dare break an unwritten rule, you are treated as if you just peed on the floor.

For example, on our most recent visit, we quietly took a few pictures of the baked goods on display and the food our own plates. We have been doing this kind of thing for a long time, and choose to be very subtle about it so as not to disturb the other diners. We use a teensy camera, no flash, and take it quick. We are polite; we never take pictures of people, whether patrons or servers, without permission.

If something is on our plates and we have paid for it, it seems like we should be able to do with it as we wish, within the boundaries of public decency. If a bakery item is clearly on display, it is begging to be photographed. We will ask permission if anyone is around. But if someone is already barking at us and ignoring our attempts to make nice, it’s not exactly an environment that encourages questions. We might have asked for permission, had she ever given either of us so much as a “hello” even once during the many months we have been patronizing the cafe.

So, minutes after a subtle and quick shot, after the camera was already put away, Kaylene came flying across the room at us like a banshee. “You can’t take pictures here!”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Maybe you should put up a sign by the door.”

“Lots of people come here to review us and THEY ASK FIRST.”

We were a little surprised by her statement since the first rule of restaurant reviewing is not to tell the restaurant that you are reviewing it. We were also surprised at how personal she was making the whole incident.

We didn’t say any of these things out loud. We just nodded apologetically while she ranted, willingly accepting our punishment for breaking the unwritten law. She stormed back across the restaurant, and then she turned to us from behind the counter and sniped, “…And I don’t appreciate it!”

That was the final straw.

When did we get married? Did we marry and divorce this woman without remembering it? Why was she suddenly acting like a furious ex-wife? A restaurant professional walks quietly over to your table, says, “I’m sorry. We don’t allow pictures.” and gracefully walks away. Instead, this had become an MTV’s Real World drama.

We were so upset, we couldn’t stay to eat. Lindsay walked up to the counter to request to-go containers for our untouched food. As she approached the kitchen, she could hear the owner still ranting to the staff. Then she told Lindsay that she didn’t like the fact that we were sneaky.

The Burbank-NoHo-Toluca Lake area has long needed a great bakery-cafe serving breakfast and lunch options without the scenester vibe of Studio City’s Aroma. It sounds great in theory, but on every one of our visits to Krust our experiences have been consistent. Consistently uncomfortable, disappointing, and negative. It’s too bad, because we wanted to love Krust. We’d have settled for like. We were taking those pictures so we could write a wonderful review. But now all we can do is warn you to stay away. The harpy behind the counter has driven us off one too many times.

It is hard to understand how someone can pay such minute, Martha Stewart-ish attention to detail in their decor and food, and then not give a tinker’s dam about customer service. Perhaps it is all about control. The perfection of the icing swirls and the just-so placement of every jar might not be the result of her aesthetic, but of having to make every little thing perfect or die trying. And what is the X factor? What is the one thing the owner can’t control? The patrons. We have to wonder if she wishes we would all just go away and let her finish perfecting her rosettes.

Krust
1723 W Verdugo Ave
Burbank, CA 91506
(818) 842-7696

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Edelweiss Chocolates

Posted on March 25, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

Remember that episode of I Love Lucy where Lucy and Ethel get a job in a chocolate factory? Of course you do! Along with the grape-stomping scene, it is one of the classics of physical humor. The conveyor belt in the Edelweiss Chocolate Factory, located right in the center of downtown Beverly Hills, was the inspiration for that scene.

Edelweiss has a huge selection of chocolate-dipped fruit, including some unusual selections like mango and pineapple. The arancini orange peel bark is an acquired taste, but once it is acquired, it stays, and nothing else will satisfy that craving. But the one treat that draws me back is the chocolate-dipped cherries, which you can order with or without brandy. Another huge draw is the fresh marshmallows. My favorite are the milk chocolate-dipped marshmallows with caramel.

They cater to diabetics with some delicious sugar-free selections, particularly the English toffee, whose buttery richness makes sugar unneccesary.

Another popular feature is Edelweiss’ novelty chocolates, shaped like various pieces of sports equipment, toys, and what-have-you. They can be on the pricy side; I would rather get the equivalent weight in marshmallows than give someone a giant chocolate golf ball.

If the I Love Lucy connection is not enough of a Hollywood pedigree for you, Edelwiss was a favorite of Katherine Hepburn and Frank Sinatra. Previous owners include Marty Engels and Shirley Jones.

Current owner Madlen Zahir is happy to give a tour of the little factory in back to anyone who asks. On the afternoon I finally got up the nerve to ask for a tour, she encouraged me to return in the morning to watch the conveyor belt in action.

Make mine chocolate-covered cherries. With brandy.

Edelweiss Chocolates
444 N. Canon Dr,
Beverly Hills, CA
310-275-0341

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Marshmallows!

Posted on March 25, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

Fresh, pillowy marshmallows are a refreshing change from the usual chocolate, and surprisingly addictive. My nephew’s girlfriend, Julianna, whipped up a batch of these last Christmas and people are still talking about them. Check out The Brownie Points Blog where Julianna found the recipe. It is also reprinted here after the jump for your convenience.

Marshmallows will keep for several weeks at room temperature in an air-tight container. Try them in your Hotta Chocolata or Hot Chocki.

BASIC VANILLA MARSHMALLOWS

4 gelatin envelopes
¾ cup water
1 Tbsp. vanilla extract
3 cups sugar
¾ cup water
1 ¼ cups corn syrup
½ tsp salt
Rice flour
Confectioners sugar

Line a 9” x 13” (8” x 8”) pan and a loaf pan with parchment paper. Coat the paper with vegetable oil or non-stick spray.

Fit a stand mixer with the whisk attachment. In the mixer bowl, combine the ¾ cup of water (¼ c plus 2 Tbs) with vanilla extract. Sprinkle the gelatin over the liquid to bloom (soften).

Add the sugar, salt, corn syrup, and remaining ¾ cup water (¼ c plus 2 Tbs) to a heavy saucepan. Bring to a boil with the lid on and without stirring. When this mixture is at a boil, remove the lid and continue to cook without stirring until it reaches the soft-ball stage (234-240 F).

With the mixer at medium speed, pour all of the hot syrup slowly down the side of the bowl into the awaiting gelatin mixture. Be careful as the hot syrup is very liquid and hot at this point and some may splash out of the bowl – use a splashguard if you have one. When all of the syrup is added, bring the mixer up to full speed. Whip until the mixture is very fluffy and stiff, about 8-10 minutes.

Pour marshmallow into the parchment-lined pans and smooth with an oiled offset spatula if necessary. Allow the mixture to sit, uncovered at room temp for 10 to 12 hours.

Mix equal parts rice flour and confectioners sugar and sift generously over the rested marshmallow slab. Turn the slab out onto a cutting board, peel off paper and dust with more sugar/starch mixture. Slice with a pizza cutter into desired shapes. Dip all cut edges in sugar/starch mixture and shake off excess
powder.

Recipe reprinted with permission.

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Dine LA The other Side of the Story

Posted on March 25, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

We’ve spent the last two weeks critiquing the DineLA restaurants. Last week I just happened to run into a restauranteur who was participating in DineLA. Being the ever-prepared girl reporter that I am, I whipped out my digital recorder and did an on-the-spot interview. It seems only fair that the restaurants get the last word.

(Names of specific dishes have been omitted to help protect the innocent).

How has DineLA changed the type of patrons you’ve been getting?
I would definitely say it has probably brought in some people that would usually not come to our restaurant. Our prices usually run 75 – 80 dollars per person, even sometimes if you do wine or a bottle of wine it’s a lot more, so paying 34 dollars is good exposure for people, because our restaurant is more like where people come out on special occasions. But I don’t think these people are going to be coming on a regular…so…

So it’s not going to bring you return patronage?
Nah, …I’d probably say, probably like 5 or 10 percent. But it’s great exposure for people to come in. We’re looking for new regulars, and I don’t think it’s going to bring new regulars. It’s probably going to bring people only on special occasions once a year, for birthdays and anniversaries.

How did you select the Dinela menu or make it different than your normal menu?
Obviously we have a priceline we have to go by, we have cost, so we try to operate the best that we can. We cannot offer the most expensive steak or seafood items. But we did have a [expensive dish] so you can try the quality of our meat. We wanted to do it in a way where if you don’t eat red meat, you can have chicken or seafood, because we have a really good seafood selection. For the appetizers, we offer [expensive seafood dish], which for us is a very high-priced item, but it’s good because it brings people in. It’s one of the most popular items we have. As far as the dessert, we wanted to do something very traditional, that people would be looking for, but also something like the style of our restaurant.

Did the prix fixe menu disrupt service in the kitchen?
I’ll be honest with you, we definitely saw a huge slump in business after the holidays, but we’ve been actually tracking how much DineLA brought us. 50 to 60 per cent of our business in the last weeks was DineLA so it definitely helped us. The first couple days we were not the most prepared because we didn’t expect we were going to have that much. Like if we were doing 300 covers, 200 of that was DineLA. The first couple of days we ran out of a lot of stuff we didn’t have, because we did not expect we were going to get such a high turnout.

It seems like some restaurants have not been prepared for the amount of people that were going to come in. Did you have to call more servers in?
We had to call people in, we had to prep more in the kitchen. Like the first couple of days we thought we would probably do 30 or 40 of them. We did 240 of them the first night.

Did you recoup the fee that you had to pay?
Well, for us, we’re running a very high cost to be offering that price, but we think it’s worth it in the long-term. So even though we might not make new regulars, it will definitely bring people in and show the people that we have a good product.

Do you find that the DineLA patrons are more demanding, are the restauranteurs, like, “Oh no! Another DineLA person!”
Oh no, not at all. I’ll tell you from a restaurant point-of-view, the servers are not happy with it. Because obviously, a check averages anywhere from 75 to 80 bucks, and they make good money. And now it’s 30 and 40, so they’re making less in tips. But what’s cool about it for us, is an average diner is there for 2 1/2 to 3 hours with fine dining. But with DineLA they’re not demanding; they’ve usually already checked out the menu online. They know what they want so they’re in and out. We’re turning tables a lot faster – in an hour, an hour and a half, they eat and they’re gone. So sales are plateauing as opposed to if we were selling things at a regular price, they would cost more, but we are turning so many tables they are basically evening out

Are you getting something back on the liquor? Are they buying wine?
Initially, that’s what I did. I was pushing people to upsell, because people, you know, especially foodies, may think, “Oh my god! I’m only spending 34 dollars, I can splurge a little”. I can’t speak for anyone else, but at least in my restaurant, it hasn’t. You get the occasional wine table where a party of four orders one glass of wine, but they are not big drinkers

Would you do DineLA next year?
Yeah, I definitely would. Business has been down, and the way the economy is, we haven’t had the frequency of business that we were having. Since the end of the summer til now, business was definitely down. To bring this in, it helped us out, labor is better – we can give more hours because we do have more business. It definitely helped out.

You may be surprised by the repeat business. A few of the places I’ve been to are now going to be my regular places.
I think its a great concept. I know they do it in New York and Chicago. This is the first time in LA. It’s a good concept. Even if you don’t make regulars, it gives people the opportunity who don’t want to pay 200 dollars. It’s also great for new places that are just opening up. It’s great exposure. When I read about it, it was also for tourists. One thing we are doing is offering it to everyone. I don’t know if other restaurants are…

Most are putting out the two menus together
I know there are other restaurants that won’t tell you about it unless you ask about it. We didn’t want to upset anyone, like one person is paying one price for something, and another person is paying another, so we were offering it to anyone – especially with business – it being January and February, people have spent their money on the holidays – the timing is so crucial

That was the goal. They know this is restaurant slump time. They want this to become a destination week. People are coming here for Disneyland. I don’t know if people are coming here for DineLA week. But foodies might.
I went to Chicago for Taste of Chicago.

Yeah. Foodies are obsessive.

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Dine LA: Cobras y Matadors

Posted on March 18, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

Cobra Pork Sushi

cobras y matadors pork roll

The second location of Cobra & Matadors is a warm, inviting restaurant that invites lingering. Diners share small plates and feed each other delicious bites that are exotic, yet comfortingly familiar. It is hip enough for your most fashionable friends, but cozy enough that you always feel at home.

The DineLA menu provided a wealth of options that made it difiicult to choose. My companion decided to order from the main menu, and I could not resist adding a few more tidbits from the extensive list. To start, we shared the “Bacalao Salt Cod Cakes with Aioli” I will admit to ordering cod cakes only to please my guest. I was pleasantly surprised. Heavy on the potatoes and devoid of any fishiness, the cod cakes were one of the standouts of the evening.

The main course was a real Sophie’s choice. Paella, skirt steak or game hen with guava and apples in a port reduction…decisions, decisions. We finally chose paella, since it’s difficult to get a good paella in this town – and Cobras & Matadors is a Spanish restaurant after all. The seafood was delicious, and the spicing was spot on. Unfortunately the rice was gloppy, like a wet risotto.

Vobras y matadors spanish tortilla

The desserts did not seem that impressive at first – chocolate cake, churros or french toast. Ho hum. The chocolate cake turned out to be exactly the right choice. It was light, with a hint of cocoa and just sweet enough to satisfy. It was a relief from the cloyingly sweet desserts that have become so popular. The gentlemen at the next table were really enjoying the french toast, and after reading the food forums that seems to be a house specialty. Next visit perhaps.

cobras y matadors artichoke and goat cheese croquettes

The DineLA menu would not have been satisfying enough on its own, so we were lucky that we had ordered a number of other favorites. The sweet potato fries were delicious, if a little predictable. I enjoyed the Spanish tortilla, a potato-filled omelette that a Spanish room-mate got me hooked on years ago. The salmon was thinly sliced and had such a nice char it was almost crispy. The artichoke heart and goat cheese croquettes are probably one of the best things I have ever eaten. I never even imagined such a perfect dish could exist. An order of pork rolled with ham and cheese was pounded and fried like a cutlet, but served sliced like a dragon roll – it was an Atkins follower’s dream – pork sushi! For me, it was Creosote’s last mint – wafer thin – the final straw that made me practically explode. The food was so delicious I could have eaten myself to death like a goldfish.

cobras y matadors fish cake

The ambiance was lovely and the food was exquisite. Cobras & Matadors was like a dream. Unfortunately, it was also one of those dreams where you are invisible, and no one can see you. One of those dreams where you try shouting, but no one can hear you. The only thing that marred the near-perfect evening was the service.

I saw a lot of my waitress. She constantly passed by our table. And passed and passed, eyes straight forward. We were completely invisible. Never once did she glance at the table to see if we needed something. At one point she dropped a dish off and I asked, “What is this?” She mumbled “Lentils” as she whizzed off. We did not order lentils. It took me over five minutes to flag someone down to tell them they had brought the wrong dish. The music was so loud, and the acoustics were such that no one could hear me, including my dining partner across the table. This is tapas, the kind of restaurant where you are supposed to order as you go along, like sushi or dim sum. I don’t see that happening with this kind of service. Luckily we had ordered all at once. At one point I finally got her attention to fill my empty iced tea glass. She did not fill my companion’s glass, which was also iced tea. I don’t think I’m a needy patron; I don’t need coddling. But if there is a problem, I would like to be able to get somebody’s attention to rectify the situation – someone – anyone.

I will definitely return to Cobras & Matadors. That artichoke and goat cheese croquette is already calling my name. But I might try the original location on Beverly – or maybe Sgt. Recruiter.

cobras y matadors salmon

Cobras & Matadors (323) 669-3922
4655 Hollywood Blvd Hollywood, CA 90027

cobras y matadors chocolate cake

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DineLA: Ciudad

Posted on March 9, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

Last week I put on a fancy dress and hit Ciudad. Of all the DineLA restaurants so far, this was the highlight. The open expanse of the room seemed a little chilly and impersonal at first, but little touches like homestyle drinking glasses and retro 1950s accents warmed the room. This restaurant runs with Disneyland-like efficiency. You know those musicals with dancing waiters twirling through the room in perfectly choreographed symmetry? That is what the service at Ciudad brought to mind. Even a party of 20 next to us could not throw a wrench in this well-oiled machine.

In lieu of a traditional bread basket, crisp breads arrive with two dipping sauces – an olive tapenade and a hummus with hints of various spices dominated by cumin that made it taste very much like an Indian samosa.

The first course of tamales negro set the tone for the entire meal. “The 2 Hot Tamales” put their own spin on Mexican food in a way that makes perfect sense. They tweak it just enough to intrigue the palate and sometimes leave you guessing, but with complete respect for the original dish. The tiny, almost transluscent sweet shrimp that tumbled from the tamale were so delicious I could have eaten a plateful of them and gone home happy. The Aji Amarillo Chile Sauce left a slight afterburn, but not enough to mask the delicate flavor of the shrimp.

I wondered if the masa was tinted with squid ink or huitlacoche. Of course, the word “huitlacoche” does not roll easily off of my tongue, so I asked, “Is this corn fungus?” Instead of giving me the strange look most servers give me when I ask questions like that, the waiter responded easily, “Huitlacoche? No. It is just the tiniest bit of squid ink.”

My second course of carnitas was unembellished; they were simply killer carnitas. Why mess with perfection? Alongside a black bean puree and plantains, the yuca sat nestled in a cornhusk. I have never been a fan of yuca, but Ciudad made a believer out of me. The whipped yuca was soft and comforting, like mashed potatoes, and blanketed with cheese. Later when I asked what cheeses were so scrumptuous as to turn me on to yuca, I was surprised to learn that they were the usual Ranchero, Cotija and Fresca. I cook with those cheeses; you can find them in any grocery store. But Ciudad must have a farm-fresh supply – this was the difference between store-bought mozzarella and fresh buffallo-milk mozzarella.

The arctic char was offset with fresh fennel. The barest scent of licorice went surprisingly well with the flaky salmon-like fish. The fennel had been cooked in an herb-scented broth. Here they had me. My tastebuds were overwhelmed and beaten into submission by the exciting flavors. I have no idea what those spices were. Foiled!

The tres leche cake was unusually light and delicately flavored, plated with swirls of pomegranite and orange coulis. The coconut pound cake was solid, and the lemon curd made it seem like you were tasting with heightened senses

As I walked out amongst the downtown lights, I started walking towards the taxis. I was so relaxed and sated that I had forgotten for a moment that I wasn’t on vacation.

Ciudad The DineLA Menu (213) 486-5171
445 S. Figueroa Street (it’s on the left side of the northward traveling one-way street)
Los Angeles, CA 90071

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DineLA: Vermont

Posted on March 7, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

Vermont was my favorite neighborhood “upscale” joint when I lived in Los Feliz. Not only was the food outstanding, but the service was attentive to the point of obsequiousness. Once during a particularly romantic meal, a waiter casually dropped a large cloth napkin on my table and gave it a few pats, then continued on his way with great aplomb. I was confused by the intrusion until I realized that I had set the table on fire. Talk about sang-froid!

Sadly, that waiter seemed to have called out sick the other night, along with most of the staff. That can be the only explanation for the uncharacteristic gaps in dinner service. Once our first drink orders were filled and dinner orders taken, we did not see much of our waiter for the next two hours. Although the busboys were manically clearing and pouring, we were virtually abandoned.

Our appetites were kept at bay by the bread basket, which is one of the best in town, with fresh walnut bread and focaccia. I am not a big fan of their spinach-pesto dipping sauce, but the busboy brought me fresh, clean-tasting unsalted butter in record time upon request (I know, I know, how gauche am I?).

The first course arrived relatively quickly. Mixed greens with homemade chutney, walnuts and pear made a nice winter salad. The deep-fried goat cheese on top was cut in half, and the soft melted cheese that oozed out was delicious with the chutney, although the pears were somewhat flavorless. I hate to nit-pick, but really, half a cheese? It was a decent serving, but couldn’t they just have formed it into a smaller round? It gave me the impression that the “usual” salad came with a whole round of cheese and made me feel a little gypped.

Then we waited and we waited. Busboys removed our glasses when they had sat empty for too long, and no one asked if we would like more wine. I have heard the participation fee in DineLA is steep ($1000) and they could easily recoup that on liquor sales if they poured a little more aggressively – or at all. Finally the waiter returned and asked us if we had eaten our main courses yet. I realized they were treating this more like a wedding banquet than a tasting menu. Our waiter didn’t even know what was happening. My husband took the opportunity to order a second glass of wine, but the waiter didn’t ask if I would like another glass of champagne.

At last our main dishes arrived. My oxtails were worth waiting for, or maybe worth half the wait. The sweet, rich meat fell off of the bones, and even mouthfuls of fat were delectible. It was paired with a generous helping of barely wilted baby spinach dotted with pine nuts and sultanas. When my husband Bob tried it, he commented on the sultanas, ‘I can see what they are trying to do – balancing out the sweetness of the meat” and I realized how many episodes of Top Chef I have forced him to watch. The plate was perfect for a low-carb lifestyle, but I did secretly crave polenta or some other soft, creamy carbohydrate.

The fettucini was in a bland, slightly watery cream sauce. It did not do the homemade noodles justice. But when I tried the heavily salted chicken it made sense. Only when eaten together did the seasoning for the chicken and pasta work. The chicken was properly cooked, with both crispy skin and moist breast meat.

The pastries at Vermont are always a highlight. Even when eating at another restaurant, we would often stop by Vermont for dessert. And once again, they did not disappoint. The light chocolate cake was delicious with homemade hazelnut ice cream, which was so light it was more like an ice milk. The praline cake was stellar, vying with the oxtails for the best plate of the meal. Paper-thin layers of fresh meringue alternated with a homemade hazelnut pastry cream. Bob protested the use of the word “praline” when no pecans were involved, but considering the things they call “Napoleons” I give restaurants a wide leeway in wording their menus.

All in all, including one glass of champagne, one carafe of sparkling water, two glasses of wine, two coffees and tip, the bill came out to $158. I guess I should be grateful that we were unable to order more wine. I look forward to returning to Vermont on a better night.

Vermont (323) 661-6163
1714 North Vermont LA 90027

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Leimert Park Eats: Mama’s House

Posted on March 2, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

I think I have found it. I have found The One. True, I have not eaten at every soul food restaurant in LA (yet), but if I had to pick the one to settle down with, Mama’s House would be it. Hidden away in an old-fashioned strip mall on Crenshaw Boulevard, Mama’s House has been quietly gaining fans for the last seven years. The room is comfortable, filled with family photos and bric-a-brac. It almost takes a minute for you to recognize the Japanese windows and realize you are sitting right in the middle of a sushi restaurant, sans sushi. Instead of raw tuna, the glass display case is now brimming with sweet potato pies. Not a bad trade, really.

When “Mama” Juanita Penland reached the age of 68, her kids decided to buy her the restaurant as a present. In the relatively short time since they opened their doors in August of 2000, they have won two prestigious Hoodie Awards as well as the heart of the community.

Mama’s house has a deft hand with meats, turning out succulent short ribs and smothered everything. The sides are also stellar, particularly the yams and the macaroni and cheese. The greens, grits, red beans and black-eyed peas do not disappoint. The banana pudding is the genuine article, made with evaporated milk the Southern way. It dominates the banana pudding playing field, which is not easy around here. To be able to compete with The Cobbler Lady a few doors down, you know their desserts have to be good.

Breakfast may be the most uneven of all meals. Mama’s chicken and waffles are impressive, with chicken wings that are so huge they look like deep-fried bats. The waffle is not quite Roscoe’s but you really can’t complain. The turkey links are also a standout, although on one visit they were cold.

The service is either shockingly fast, or noticeably relaxed; it is just kind of at random. Take-out orders are sometimes left sitting unless you remind them twice, and the friendliness factor can vary. Ride with it. The food is worth it. Especially the catfish.

The first time I ever ate their catfish, a feeling of tranquility and well-being settled upon me. As I realized there was no way I could finish the entire meal and leaned back in my chair, the waitress passed and asked, “How was everything?” I said. “I just found Jesus.”

Mama’s House (323) 290-0657
3864 Crenshaw Boulevard, LA

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The Gumbo Pot’s Red Beans and Rice

Posted on February 19, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

In Louisiana, red beans and rice are traditionally served on Mondays. Monday was wash day, and once all of the ingredients were thrown in, you could ignore the beans all day while you tended to the laundry. I am obsessed with red beans and rice. The only version I’ve eaten that beat my own recipe was made by Mike Anderson’s in New Orleans.

But I have to admit that The Gumbo Pot in the Farmers Market serves up some damn good red beans. They are chock full of ham hocks, without the slight funk or gaminess. Of course, The Gumbo Pot is situated down the lane from a meat market with the biggest, meatiest ham hocks I’ve ever seen. The beans have that special kind of creaminess that can only come from loads of pork fat. They are not overly spiced, but depending on the day, they sometimes they pack a wallop. They are served properly over Uncle Ben’s converted rice – the true rice of New Orleans.

Cajun and Creole food are controversial, and I’m sure everyone is ready to stand up for their favorite spot, extolling the wonders of The Creole Chef or Uncle Darrow’s. I will admit that there might be better gumbos out there, and there might be better jambalayas out there. But as a frequent traveler to New Orleans, I can attest that The Gumbo Pot serves a damn authentic red beans and rice. Well, maybe not so authentic – because I don’t know of any restaurant in New Orleans that is this generous with the ham hocks. Order the side salad with candied pecans and homemade pickles in a buttermilk dressing, split a po’boy with your friend and prepare to be transported down to the Crescent City.

The Gumbo Pot (323) 933-0358
6333 West Third Street # 312 Los Angeles 90036

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King’s Head Clam Chowder

Posted on February 12, 2008 by Kiki Maraschino

The King’s Head is arguably home to the best fish and chips in Los Angeles. Sadly, the fish and chips get so much attention that the clam chowder is not given its rightful due. Let me make up for that now. The King’s Head Pub in Santa Monica serves the chowder of the gods. All other chowders should bow down before it. Other chowders dare not speak its name.

I remember speaking to the chef the first time I ever tried the chowder, and the recipe was basically: Butter, flour, heavy cream, potatoes, and clams that have to be specially flown in. They are not commercially available. In other words, you will never be able to duplicate this chowder. You should just accept the fact that you will now be forced to drive to Santa Monica from the farthest reaches of the earth for the rest of your life.

The chowder is extremely rich and creamy. Sometimes it’s almost too much and I can only dip in bits of the roll, using the chowder instead of butter. The potatoes manage to stay at a perfect consistency without falling apart. They are never, ever too hard. The English learned long ago that you don’t fuck with an Irishman’s potato. The clams are deliciously toothsome, with just barely a hint of the sea. Most importantly, there is never a bit of grit. Not the tiniest bit. One usually has to approach clam chowder with caution, preparing oneself for the inevitable crunch. My dad use to tease me by telling me that it was the brains. Of course, now that I’ve seen a dissected clam in high school textbooks, the brains are the least of my worries. Oh, but I’m supposed to be making you want to eat this soup, not freaking you out. Never mind. This chowder makes me willing to put aside all of my squeamishness.

Let’s just say, The King’s Head clam chowder and fish and chips would be my last meal on death row. No question. With about ten pints of Bass.

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