La Super Rica – Redux

Posted on April 21, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

We woke up Sunday morning to a breakfast of leftover steak and freshly-laid eggs, courtesy of Johnny. Actually, the eggs were courtesy of the hens, Original Recipe and Extra Crispy. After breakfast, Johnny went outside to the BBQ and started cursing, “Oh no! I burnt the goat! I wanted to surprise you!” So, no cabrito for breakfast. I’m game to try goat, but I’m not sure if breakfast is the meal for that.

We hit the San Luis Obispo swap meet, where I bought:

Soul on Ice by Eldridge Cleaver

The Man who Shorted out the Electric Chair

Aretha Franklin: This Girl’s in Love with You

and

Milt Jackson: Bag’s Bag

Then we headed down the coast, with plans to meet friends for lunch in Ventura. But as we neared Santa Barbara, the siren song of La Super Rica was calling. The other Roguefooders had mentioned they were stopping there for lunch, but I assumed they would be long gone by then. Still, I could not resist the memory of the Tacos de Hongo. We pulled up to La Super Rica, and this time there was definitely a line. While I waited, Bob went to snag us a table.

I was saddened to discover that Tacos de Hongo are only available on Friday. Curses! Why can’t it be Friday every day? I comforted myself with their Sunday special – posole. As I brought the drinks over to Bob, who did I see, but Patti! Jeff! Ed! What timing! We all ended up at the same place. Ed encouraged me to try his chorizo tacos, which really opened my eyes to the wonders of chorizo. I had not been a big fan before, but this was really good. Good enough for me to order next time. Beneath the garnishes in the posole lay huge chunks of pork and hominy in a rich, spicy broth.


Bob had ordered the #4 marinated pork tacos again, and once again they did not disappoint.

I had also ordered another daily special for us to split – shredded beef tacos in a chile cream sauce. They were almost like upscale taquitos. The corn tortillas were lightly fried, and the cream sauce was like a richer version of guacamole.

We stopped off at Taqueria Vallarta in Ventura on the way home as planned to meet up with our friends. But we were too full for anything but their refreshing watermelon drinks. They just fill a blender with perfectly ripe watermelon, a little sugar, and blend away. It is one of the most refreshing drinks in the world. Even though they have a menu full of other fruits, the watermelon is the one that always makes us come back. Unfortunately, we will no longer be back to Taquerita Vallarta for lunch. From now on I will happily drive that extra hour to get to La Super Rica, especially on a Friday.

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The Magical Land of Nipomo

Posted on April 21, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

Here are a few more pictures from the trip that I really liked:

 

 

 

 

 

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The First Thing You Learn is You Always Gotta Wait

Posted on April 21, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

Jocko’s, a Nipomo institution since the 50s, is nestled between a picturesque chapel and a building that looks so much like a little red schoolhouse that I felt like we were wandering around in a model train village. Even with a reservation, the wait for a table averages between an hour to two hours on weekends. The best way to handle this is by hanging out in their historic bar. The building is reputed to have been a saloon in the 1890s. A long, sparkling clean mirror runs the length of the bar, and hunting trophies line the walls. Order appetizers right away and pretend that you have just come to hang out in the bar with your friends. If you think too much about when your name will finally be called, you will drive yourself insane. My brother, Johnny, who is a local, warns that Albert makes extremely strong drinks. It is so common for people to get unexpectedly wasted while waiting for a table, they call it “getting Albertized”. Jocko’s will also throw you out if you ask for A-1 steak sauce. I asked Johnny if he had andy more tips, and he said, “Yeah. Watch out for Albert.”

Albert was not working last Saturday night when we met up with the Roguefood crew for dinner, so we were safe. It didn’t occur to me to order appetizers until we had been there for awhile, so everyone was getting a little restless. You have to stand at the ready to grab a table or barstool the minute it is vacated. It can get pretty cut-throat.

Not a moment too soon, our table was ready. We were all charmed by Jocko’s mascot which adorned the placemats and stickers – a cow with a naughty little secret. What kind of secret could this cow be hiding? Just as we were settling in, our appetizers arrived. The jalapeno poppers and fried mushrooms were standard bar fare, but the linguisa, barbecued to juicy perfection, was a thing of beauty. There was a nice relish tray on the table. The salads were your basic steakhouse salads. But they were just stalling for time. We were ready for some of the meat we had been eying on that giant grill.

 


The specialty of the house is the Spencer steak, which is a ribeye. Almost everyone at our table ordered that. Ed ordered the lamb shanks, and Rene, who was still feeling peckish, ordered ravioli from the Italian section of the menu. When the steaks arrived, everyone ooh-ed and aah-ed over their plates. The meats are all cooked over red oak on a Santa Maria BBQ grill, which Jocko’s only fires up at dinnertime. Ed’s lamb was expertly cooked, and delicious, but definitely had that lamb-y gaminess. All of the steaks are perfectly juicy, and nicely charred with just a hint of smoke. Central California has a number of cattle ranches, so I assume Jocko’s must have a good relationship with a one to get such quality meats. My filet mignon was insane – about 4 to 5 inches thick, and one of the most tender filets I have ever had. Landmark 77 in Ventura may have to give up the title of “greatest steak in the world”. I’ll admit my picture of the filet is a little CSI, but really, look how thick it is.


I had to try Rene’s ravioli, and was pleasantly surprised. Amazed even. You would expect something like that to be an afterthought, something thrown on the menu for the vegetarians, kids, and picky eaters. But it was better than in the finest Italian restaurant. The light pillows of cheese were flavorful, not lazily stuffed with plain ricotta, and the sauce was meaty and intensely seasoned. I encouraged everyone at the table to try some. They all reacted the same way, “Are you crazy? I should mess up my tastebuds with ravioli when I am dining on the greatest steak in the entire world?” But I insisted, and they were all amazed and delighted by the fantastic ravioli.


I barely put a dent in my steak, and asked for a doggie bag. I excused myself to powder my nose, and when I returned everyone had a little dish of ice cream in front of them, which came with the meal. I was surprised by the variety…chocolate, pistachio, spumoni…I asked the table, “How many flavors do they have?” To which they replied in unison, “All of them.” I picked up my spoon, and everyone asked, “Aren’t you going to take a picture?” Come on, it was just a dish of ice cream. But I gave in. OK, somehow photographing the food had become de rigeur and I could not eat anything until it had been properly documented. I had made my bed of crazy, and now I had to lie in it. I snapped a pic, and ate a few half-hearted spoonfuls of the melting chocolate ice cream.

Jocko’s 125 North Thompson Avenue, Nipomo CA 93444 (805) 929-3565 Reservations required!

 

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Never Eat Anything Bigger Than Your Head

Posted on April 19, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

Saturday morning I woke up around 6am and went to the Nipomo swap meet with Johnny and Rene. In addition to scoring a set of fantastic 1970s beefcake playing cards and an album of creepy, turn-of-the-century photographs, I was able to check out some really cool installation art.

The swap meet land is owned by a doctor who has made a hobby out of decorating the place with scrap metal art and setting up a giant model train village. Rene wanted to show me the outer space installation that runs Star Wars movies on a little television screen in the wall. As we tripped on the milk crate “stairs” Johnny admitted, “It probably doesn’t meet OSHA standards.” We had Pastor tacos for breakfast from one of the many vendors. I order mine “con todo”, in which “everything” usually means salsa, onions, and copious amounts of cilantro. The swap meet even had a truck selling Filipino food. I was sad that we were going to miss what promised to be a very surreal puppet show beside the Filipino lunch wagon, but we had a group of people waiting for us.

 


We picked up Bob, and discovered that one of Johnny’s egg-laying Rhode Island Reds, Original Recipe, had gotten out. We had to wait for Johnny to catch it before we could meet the crew from Roguefood.com, one of the food forums in which I participate. We found Ed, Steve, Patti, and her husband Jeff waiting for us in the lobby of the Santa Maria Inn. I was pleased because I got to say, “Sorry we were late. One of the chickens got out.” A friend of the family once told Johnny, “You know how I can tell you’re a hillbilly? You have a chicken on the table and it’s not dead yet.”

Our plan for the day was to cruise along the main street, sampling BBQ from the many vendors that set up in parking lots on the weekends. Santa Maria’s local specialty is barbecued tri-tip, cooked over oak. The meat is grilled on huge, specially designed barbecue wagons that are towed behind trucks on trailer hitches. The large grills hang directly over the open flames. The grills can be raised and lowered by cranking a large wheel, which enables you to control the heat.


As we caravaned down the road, we noticed a strange lack of BBQ wagons. It was like a ghost town. Ed was completely baffled. There was no tri-tip anywhere. We thought it might be due to the overcast weather. Or maybe the rapture. So we headed over to the annual IFOPA fundraiser, which was set up in a grocery store parking lot. The case of the missing BBQ wagons was solved. Over thirty local vendors had volunteered their time and barbecue grills to raise money on behalf of a local charity. Hundreds of split chickens smoked and sizzled on dozens of barbecue grills. Plumes of smoke filled the air, making the parking lot look like a battlefield in an old war movie. One grill was dedicated to toasting up French bread, and we drooled as we watched one of the volunteers dunk the halved loaves in melted butter and garlic. Rene and I caught ourselves staring and realized we were watching him like he was a stripper, “Yeah, baby! Dunk it!”


Most of their business was drive-up, and traffic was disrupted around the block as volunteers hurriedly handed chickens through car windows. We sat down at one of the empty picnic tables, and shared lunches since they were so large. Steve went to pick up a drumstick and pulled out only a bone, which had slid right out of the chicken. He said, “You call that meat tender?” The chicken was moist, and smoked right through. There was a nice rub on it with plenty of flavor but no heat. Probably a lot of paprika and garlic salt. The garlic bread was alright, and the pink Santa-Maria style beans were bland, as they are supposed to be.

Since all of the rogue tri-tip experts in town were busy making chicken, we headed over to Johnny’s recommendation, Rancho Nipomo. It is conveniently attached to the Santa Maria Brewing Company, our next stop. Recently opened by husband and wife team, Richard and Brenda Cowell, Rancho Nipomo serves both barbecue and Mexican dishes. It advertises its special menu as “A taste of California”. It is known amongst locals for its pulled pork sandwiches. So all of us were looking for barbecue. But Richard is extremely proud of his chile dishes, made with his own home-grown chiles. When he started pushing the chile verde, I asked him if he had a combo plate. He said, “No. But I’ve been thinking about it. I tell you what I’m going to do for you.”
He lowered his voice, and we put our heads together conspiratorially.
He started describing his food in whispered detail, using subtle hand gestures like a French waiter, “OK, I’m going to make you a plate of the pork ribs and I recommend you get the small pork sandwich. Then I’m going to make you a little plate of chile colorado and chile verde, with our homemade flour tortillas. Then you know what I’d like to do? I’d like to give you my wife’s special potato salad.” He ended with a flourish, the spell was broken, and I stepped away from the counter.


Johnny and Bob returned from scouting out the brewery. They suggested we get our food to go and eat it on the patio. Although Rancho Nipomo had beer and a patio as well, it was not the Santa Maria Brewery’s home brews. I was perusing the variety of sodas in the drink cooler (They had Mexican coca-cola made with cane sugar!), and goofing around with Patti when I noticed Bob standing at the counter ordering. I called over, “I already ordered for you!” He looked so crestfallen, I just said, “Never mind.” So we ended up with a huge plate of ribs and two pulled pork sandwiches.

The owner, Richard, produced the sampler plate and we all gathered around, taking little bites. The pork chile verde was good, the tortilla was excellent, but the beef chile colorado kicked ass! There were layers of flavors, deep and complex, smoky and spicy…pure heaven.

By then, everyone’s food was ready and we walked next door to The Santa Maria Brewing Company’s patio where we found Ed worrying over Steve, who had just eaten the roasted jalapeno “garnish” on his plate and was in fits. Johnny immediately grabbed another jalapeno off of Steve’s plate and chomped on it (See: “boy’s pissing contests” in the previous post). Johnny agreed it was the hottest jalapeno he had ever tried, which was pretty impressive because Johnny grows prize-winning jalapenos. He also grows “ornamental” peppers that have almost put Bob in the emergency room.

The ribs were falling-off-the-bone tender and slathered in a sweet “16-spices” BBQ sauce. I was really interested in the pulled pork sandwich, topped with the traditional BBQ sauce and cole slaw. It was huge, and I was barely half-way through it before I remembered I had ordered the “Baby” sandwich. I asked Patti and Jeff about their sandwiches. Their full-sized sandwich filled an entire take-out carton. Instead of a hamburger bun, it was served on “teleta” bread, which is Spanish for “bigger than your head”. The moist tri-tip sandwich, which contains a mountain of meat, was also served on the football-sized teleta bread. The potato salad was indeed a special recipe. Large chunks of potato were accompanied by bits of black olive and chunks of real dill pickle. It was damn good.

Just off the junction of the 101 and the166, Rancho Nipomo would be a convenient lunch stop when traveling down the coast. I will definitely be back for that chile colorado, and to try the Baja street-style hot dog (“Grilled all-beef frank wrapped with bacon, garnished with mustard, pickle, and grilled onions”) and the tri-tip enchiladas.

The Santa Maria Brewing Company, which is in the same building as Rancho Nipomo, is owned and operated by Dan Hilker, a retired policeman. It is a labor of love. His hours are flexible, depending on his mood. These are the posted hours:
Wednesday and Thursday 4:00 PM till Approx. 9 PM, Friday 3:00 PM till about 10 PM Saturday and Sunday 12 PM – till about 8 PM
All of the beers are brewed by Dan himself. Don’t ask for a Budweiser if you don’t want to be kicked out on your ass. The decor is early Fred Sanford, a result of Dan trading beer to customers for random interesting items they bring in, ‘That’s worth about six beers. I’ll take it.” A bomb my brother brought in hangs from the ceiling. I have never asked Johnny if it is a real bomb, and it’s probably better that I don’t know. When we arrived with our take-out containers, the room was cool and dark, with just a few guys hanging out on the barstools. The back patio is bright and comfortable, but pretty dusty in the daylight. The only restroom I saw was a port-a-potty, so it may not be somewhere I want to do too much drinking. It’s definitely a man’s man’s place.

 


I walked back inside to get a beer, and noticed all of the tap handles, which usually advertise the brand, had clay character’s heads on them, or just random figures. I asked, “What do you have on draft? Pilot? Baseball player? Girl in a bikini?” Dan looked at me, sizing me up the way cops do when they are trying to decide if you are carrying a loaded weapon or under the influence of angel dust. He asked about my beer preferences, and recommended the India pale ale if I wanted “something like nothing you have ever tried before”. I walked out back to the group on the patio with my Pilsner glass. Everyone else had pint glasses. Steve asked, “How come you got the cool glass?” (Because the bartender wanted to remember which one he spit in?)

The ale was interesting, with an undercurrent of indistinguishable spicy flavors. But the overall effect was not overwhelming. There is nothing worse than some weird novelty beer like pumpkin ale that only tastes like cinnamon. The spices were barely there, and the hops were strong enough to dominate. I also wanted to try the hefeweizen, and the blonde, but I had already gone on a political rant about the state of our social services after only one glass of ale, so I thought it was probably best to slow down. The rest of the crew headed off for wine tasting, and we returned to Johnny’s to take a nap before dinner.

Rancho Nipomo 108 Cuyama Lane Nipomo CA 93444 (805) 925-3500

Santa Maria Brewing Company 112 Cuyama Lane Nipomo, CA 93444

http://www.santamariatimes.com/articles/2006/11/03/lifestyle/life54.txt

Annual “Find a Cure” Chicken Fundraiser http://www.ifopa.org/

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Hey, Poke Way

Posted on April 18, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino


I don’t like sushi. I have always WANTED to like sushi. I have TRIED to like sushi. It is so sexy and glamorous. I feel like such a bumpkin when I have to admit to people that I don’t like sushi. I have no aversion to the concept; I love the aesthetic. I’ve just always been overly sensitive to “fishiness”. What other people call “briny” or “the taste of the sea” is overwhelmingly fishy to me. The “California Roll” does not solve my problem either, as I don’t like sticky rice or nori. I do not like it in a box. I do not like it with a fox. But I don’t mind going to sushi bars – they serve all kinds of other non-fish-related delicacies – tempura, gyoza, chicken, and if I’m lucky, some interesting noodles.

So Saturday night when my brother Johnny, and his wife Rene wanted to take us to their local sushi place in Nipomo, I was fine with it – it would make my husband very happy, and for me it meant tempura. We pulled into a strip mall and parked in front of a very unappealing-looking storefront with block letters simply spelling out SUSHI AND TERIYAKI. All of my bad restaurant warning bells were sounding. But Johnny is a fisherman, and knows fresh fish. My food obsession did not just occur in a vacuum – my entire family takes, shall we say, a “special” interest in food. Upon entering, the familiar interior design of the restaurant reassured me with lots of black wood and sparkling clean glass.

I was a little concerned when Johnny insisted on sitting at the sushi bar. I think it is impolite to sit at the sushi bar when I am not going to eat any sushi. Sure enough, after nibbling on my tempura and short ribs, I started to feel the pressure. Luckily, I have a few fall-back items – I know from experience that I can eat shrimp and unagi. I might not love them, but I will not have to spit them out. This particular restaurant also grated fresh wasabi for you at the table, and after eating a mouthful of that, the fish did not seem so daring. Of course, any time you get boys together around anything that is insanely spicy, high off the ground, or on fire, you are going to get a pissing contest. Here are the results of Bob and Johnny being in the same room with unlimited beer and wasabi:

 

This restaurant, a satellite of “California Sushi and Teriyaki” in Santa Maria, is known for its modern twists on traditional sushi. There were exciting things happening all around. Rene’s order appeared, a gorgeous rattlesnake roll – Krab, avocado and jalapenos wrapped in wontons and deep-fried. It piqued everyone’s interest and soon Rene was passing pieces over to complete strangers.

The sushi chef started in on some fantastical new creation, which he finished with a giant mountain of fried noodles. I said, “I don’t know what that is, but I want one.” I was pleased when he handed it over to Bob, and it turned out to be their “Cajun” something-or-other. By now I was freely, if not enthusiastically, eating bits of everyone’s sushi. Curiosity always gets the best of me. The cajun thing was a spicy white fish dish with a delicate texture and a complex variety of flavors. Emboldened, I tried the spicy scallops. I can only describe them as slimy and difficult to swallow. Thank God sushi places have those gigantic beers!

 


One of the sushi chefs handed us a small plate, a little gift, a “lagniappe” of sorts. It was a tuna poke. He smiled and stood there expectantly. I had to eat it. In spite of just being freaked out by the slithering scallops, I had no other choice. I prepared myself to not make a face. The slices of ahi tuna were marinated in sesame oil, and sprinkled with both black and white sesame seeds. It wasn’t bad, in fact it was – good. I liked it. I really liked it. I felt something pop between my teeth and peered into the little bowl – along with some chopped chives was a sprinkling of smelt roe. I hate smelt roe. I thought I hated smelt roe. But these things were great – I fished them out with my chopsticks, pop, pop, pop! I liked the tuna so much I thought maybe the poke was “cooked” with some citrus, like a ceviche.

I asked the chef, “Lemon?”
He said, “You guess WRONG.”
Me: “Orange?”
Chef: You guess WRONG.”
Me: Yuzu?”
Chef: You guess WRONG.”
Me: Really? No yuzu?”
Chef: You guess WRONG.”
Johnny: “What the f@%k is Yuzu?”

I noticed that one of the selections on the board was called “FOUND NEMO”. I asked the sushi chef if it was clown fish, and he laughed with dark humor. Nipomo is such a small town that Johnny was constantly running into people he knew just about everywhere we went. His boss happened into the restaurant, and as Johnny was making introductions, I noticed our sushi chef surreptitiously squeezing lemons and oranges into a bowl. He passed the bowl off to the other sushi chef and I tried to watch its trip around the kitchen like a game of 3-card Monty. I pretended to listen to Johnny’s boss, but I was going to find out whether there was citrus in that poke if it killed me. Kiki Maraschino, scourge of the strip mall sushi bar.

Things were winding down. We paid our bill and handed our sushi chef an extra tip. He motioned for us to stay put, and started twisting little bits of salmon into tiny roses. Johnny said, “He’s making your Nemo for you.” Another little lagniappe. Johnny whispered a menacing blow-by-blow in my ear, “Ewww, cream cheese…he’s slathering it all over…ohh, God, not that gross white sauce… I’m not eating those green things. No way.” By the time the chef proudly and generously handed me four perfect little rosettes of salmon with delicate daikon radish sprouts Johnny had managed to creep me out just like we were little kids again. There was no way I was eating that salmon. I had had one good sushi experience and I wasn’t going to ruin it now. As the chef watched, I fed one to Bob. I tried to fob one off on Rene. She said, “I’m not having a lot of luck with food right now.” I hissed, “He’s watching. Eat it. You don’t want to lose face.” She said, “I’m going to lose my dinner if I eat that.” When the chef was momentarily distracted, I leaned over Johnny and shoved another salmon rosette into Bob’s mouth. The sushi chef caught me and I guiltily pretended to be snuggling Bob. While leaning across Johnny’s lap. Did I mention that the beers there were really big? After much whispering and hissing between me and Johnny, we managed to distract the sushi chef long enough to shove the rest of the salmon into Bob before rushing off guiltily into the night.

Posted in Central California, Nipomo | 1 Comment

Que Rica!

Posted on April 17, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

Last weekend Bob and I drove up the coast to spend the weekend in Nipomo, a small town just south of San Luis Obispo. We stopped for lunch at La Super Rica, a much-touted taqueria in Santa Barbara. It was reputedly a favorite of such food greats as Alice Waters and Julia Child. It has been featured in Sunset magazine and the New York Times. Most places would kill for the kind of press that Isador Gonzalez’s little family-run taco stand gets.

Just about a mile off of the 101, and a straight shot down Milpas Street from the offramp, La Super Rica is a convenient stop on the way to somewhere else. We missed the little turquoise building on the first pass and had to turn around. There is only a small sign in the window to identify it as La Super Rica. You can usually find it by the line snaking down the block. As we waited, everyone standing in the relatively short line Friday chatted away, recommending their favorites – the #4 seemed to be the most popular recommendation. After studying the menu on the wall, I dutifully ordered the #4 Tacos de Adobado “Strips of marinated pork” as well as the #16 Super-Rica Especial, “Roasted chile pasilla stuffed with cheese”. Two specials caught my eye…the Tamale de Verduras, which seems to be a permanent or seasonal special, as well as the Taco de Hongo, which is the special every Friday.

When eating a variety of foods tapas-style, I try to start with the mellowest dish and work my way up in ferocity. the pork was red with seasonings, and the chile special was clearly charred pasillas, so I turned first to the Taco de Hongo. Big mistake. This taco ruined me for all of the food to follow. This taco may have ruined me for all tacos for the rest of my life. Fresh crimini mushrooms were sauteed in a lot of butter, mixed with caramelized onions, and drowned in an epazote cream sauce. There was a faint flavor that I would probably identify as brandy if I had to place a bet. It was unlike any taco I have ever eaten. I could imagine these mushrooms served over pasta in the finest restaurant in town. I ate the mushrooms with a fork until the pile had been winnnowed down enough for me to fold the tiny taco-truck-sized tortillas into a taco. The cream sauce had started to permeate the homemade corn tortilla, and the resultant taco was a bizarre fusion food that confused, yet delighted my palate.

I could have stopped there and been happy, but that would have been unfair to the other little plates jockeying for my attention. Time to check out the tamale de verduras, also doused with a liberal amount of cream sauce. The masa was light and fluffy, probably made with a vegetable shortening. I normally like lots of manteca in my masa, but the lightness was kind of a refreshing change. There could have been a higher filling-to-masa ratio, with bits of chayote squash and corn tumbling out like rare little jewels.


The chile special was just a pasilla chile stuffed with cheese, but it was a perfectly charred chile, stuffed with a soft, ranchero-style cheese. It was not called a “taco”, but was served over two corn tortillas, and after eating about half of it, you could fold it into a reasonable facsimile of a taco. The Adobado was somewhat similar to pastor, highly seasoned yet not overwhelming. the chile verde was a good match for the pork without making it spicy enough to be uncomfortable. It was a damn fine taco, as good as any I have had before, yet it was the vegetarian selections that cause me to linger over the sensory memories.

I took advantage of a short lull in the to chat with the cashier. I gushed over the mushroom tacos, and asked, “Is there some region of Mexico I’m not familiar with that makes French cream sauces.” He looked around to ensure our privacy, then leaned towards me and shook his head conspiratorially. I asked, “You just felt like making a cream sauce?” He smiled and nodded. By then, a new slew of customers was already queueing up, so I retreated to clear my table and make way for the next wave.

La Super Rica 622 North Milpas Santa Barbara CA 93101 (805) 963-4940 Cash Only

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Mmmm Short Ribs

Posted on April 13, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino
There are few things more comforting on a cold, rainy evening than a big roasting pan of short ribs. Serve over polenta if you are feeling fancy, or over grits for a more homey touch.
BRAISED SHORT RIBS

2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
Salt and pepper to taste

6 pounds individual short ribs
1 large onion, finely chopped
12 garlic cloves, peeled
1 tablespoon Herbes de Provence
2 Tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary
1 Tablespoon fresh thyme
2 tablespoons all-purpose flour
2 cups Cabernet1 3/4 cups beef stock
1 (14 1/2-ounce) can diced tomatoes in juice, drained
1 bay leaf

Preheat oven to 300°F.

In a large (at least 6-quart) Dutch oven, heat the olive oil over medium-high heat.
Season the ribs with salt and pepper. Brown the short ribs in batches. Using tongs, transfer the ribs to a platter.
Pour off all but 2 tablespoons of the fat from the pot. Add the onion to the pot and reduce the heat. Cover and cook, stirring often, until the onions are softened, about 5 minutes.
Add the garlic, herbes de Provence, and flour to the pot and stir 1 minute. Stir in the wine and bring to a boil over high heat, deglazing the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon.
Add the broth, tomatoes, and bay leaf. Return the short ribs, and any juices, to the pot. Add cold water as needed to barely reach the top of the ribs and bring to a boil over high heat.
Cover tightly, transfer to the oven, and bake until the meat is falling-off-the-bone tender, about 3 hours.
(Adapted from Gourmet magazine)
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The Teacake Wars

Posted on April 8, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

This story begins with the graveyard shift. The Coral Cafe on Magnolia is the only place in Burbank that delivers at 3am. I have eaten their mediocre food on many a desperate occasion. And I always thought it was strange that amongst their boring menu items was one star – an amazing teacake. It isn’t like the southern teacakes I bake, which are giant, cake-like cookies. This one is a buttermilk sponge-cake with a glazed sugar icing, which resembles a little petit-four.
Then one day I was in Bob’s Big Boy, and hey, they had the exact same teacake. I asked their supplier, and they told me it was Martino’s. My friend Lisa had already recommended their location on Verdugo to me. And Lisa knows all of the best bakeries, in spite of being my skinniest friend. Luckily for me, a few months later a flower shop nearby on Victory became the new home to Martino’s.

Every once in a while I stop into their shiny, clean bakery for a box of teacakes on my way home. They are much better fresh, so moist and delicious. In addition to the buttermilk, they also have blueberry, cranberry, and bran. The blueberry teacakes have a layer of blueberry filling topped with a crumbly streusel, so they are almost like a little tiny cobbler.



When I started to write this blog, I thought I would do a quick internet search and get a little background info before swooning over the teacakes in annoying detail. Martino’s website turned out to be kind of confusing. It talks about how the bakery started in the Martinos’ garage back in 1926, then when Campbell’s Soup was going to close it down in 1994, the employees started a stock option to take over the company. Then it vaguely states, “Through all of its ups and downs it has been able to keep its recipes in tack (sic).” I’m not even going to start in on the “In tack” thing. It also mentions that Amerio Corradi is part owner.

In an article for the “Senior Bulldog News” (Of which I am sure you are all faithful readers), Herb Vincent trumpets the opening of the Martino’s on Victory in 2006. It says Amerio Corradi, an employee and school chum of the Martinos’ son, bought the bakery in 1948 with his partner, Vic. The business was sold to Campbells Soup’s Pepperidge Farm division in 1980. Then it clearly states, “Vic and Amerio both continued on with Campbell’s as a part of the sales agreement, Vic for one year and Amerio for almost five.” So that puts Amerio out the door in 1984.

The article goes on to state that Amerio opened a small bakery on Verdugo near Olive…with no mention of the name of the bakery or the date. The last reference point we have is Campbell’s buying the place in 1980 and sending Amerio out the door just under five years later. In an article on the employee buyout from 1998, Amerio is quoted as an outside source. So when could he have gotten involved in the “new” Martinos? The next thing you know, the article is talking about the current location on Victory. And there is a photo of Amerio, smiling and posing out front on opening day.

The two stories were just the bakery’s own self-promotion and a local fluff piece, but even they couldn’t synch up? So I went over to Chowhound, where people have definite opinions, and certainly know their stuff. This is a direct quote from popular poster, UBERGEEK, “United Bakery on Flower St. in Burbank — remember Martino’s teacakes? Well, Martino’s reopened on Victory different ownership and the teacakes at the “new” Martino’s are disgusting — but United Bakery bought the original recipe and they’re true copies of the delicious original. Most unlikely place for a bakery in the history of history — north of Alameda, in a disgusting warehouse section of Burbank.”

Well, I don’t think the “new” Martino’s teacakes are “disgusting”, but maybe he uses the term loosely, because the warehouse section wasn’t that disgusting either. But he was definitely on to something. Here was the lead I’d been waiting for. So today I decided to head straight to the source. Keeping this blog is sure requiring a lot more investigative journalism than I had anticipated.

United Bakery is definitely in a deserted industrial area just off of the 5 freeway and Alameda, practically under a bridge. It seemed like a good place to dump a body. Other than the signs advertising pumpkin pie and a welcoming OPEN sign, I might have passed the plain building without a second glance.

It was clearly an industrial bakery with just a small front counter for walk-ins. It reminded me of the little back-alley bakeries of Chinatown. There were the infamous tea cakes – buttermilk only, pan dulces (elote conches only), hot cross buns and some pies. Definitely not the same overwhelming array of goods as in the shiny “new Martino’s”. What struck me the most were the faded old demo cakes lining the top edge of the walls, which took me back to the 70s when my mom used to decorate cakes.

I picked up some hot cross buns for Easter, and the tea cakes. I was marvelling at their striking similarity to the “other” teacakes. A guy passed by carrying a big tray and asked how I was doing. Walk-ins don’t seem to be a common sight and he was curious. I said, “I’m confused about the difference between this place and Martinos.” His voice grew tense. “Completely different.”

“So you both used to work for Martino’s and split to open different bakeries?”

“THEY never worked for Martino’s”

“I read on the internet that the employees bought Martino’s from Campbell’s”

“The employees bought it and ran it straight into the ground. Straight into bankruptcy.”

“So then you opened this place.”

“Yeah. They came to me looking for jobs, and we trained them. We trained them and (he makes a hand gesture that can mean “off they went” but seemed to mean “they just fucked off and betrayed us.)”

“So they never had any connection to Martino’s?”

“They just bought the name.”

“Wait. You trained them, and taught them your trade secrets, then they left, and bought the name Martino’s and opened up as Martino’s?”

“Yes.”

I had so many more questions, but he was seething by now. I had opened old wounds, freshened I’m sure by the shiny new bakery counter of the Martino’s on Victory. It was time to grab my baked goods and beat a hasty exit.

When I got home, I was able to dredge up an article online about the employees bankrupting the original Martino’s. But I still don’t get the connection with Amerio. Maybe he sold them the name and poses as part of the deal. Maybe he is an original owner and it really is his place and something weird went down with United bakery. I still don’t know who the guy is at United bakery. Though he intimated that he worked at the original Martino’s, it was never stated explicitly. And as I said, I wore out my welcome before I got to the introductions.


I tend to root for the underdog, and I really wanted United’s teacakes to blow Martino’s out of the water. But they were just like Martino’s, maybe just a little denser, just a little stickier. I’m not sure I have the full story here. I may need to buy some more teacakes. I may need to go deep undercover.

http://www.martinosbakery.com/index.html

http://www.wesclark.com/burbank/martinos.html

http://www.inc.com/magazine/19980901/991.html

United Bakery 727 South Flower St Burbank CA 91502

Martino’s Bakery 335 North Victory Burbank 91502

Posted in Bakeries, Burbank | 4 Comments

The Glory That is Burbank: Tony’s Bella Vista

Posted on April 6, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

Tony’s Bella Vista is Burbank’s go-to place for birthday parties, baseball teams, and teenage dates. In the same location since 1965, Tony’s has only changed hands once, in the 80s, and the original recipes were kept. Plus, the new owners were brothers named Angelo and Giovanni. What more could you want from a pizza place? The interior is a dimly-lit time-warp of red pleather seats, dark wood, and maps of Italy. Thank goodness there are candles on the table or you wouldn’t be able to see your plate. Tony’s doesn’t deliver, but much of their business is in to-go orders. The little waiting area can get pretty dang crowded on a Friday night.

The shrimp in the cocktail and salad are fresh and sweet, and the deep-fried appetizers never disappoint. The rest of the menu is hit and miss. The pasta and gnocchi are not as good as you might hope in such an old-school place. The Salsa Roja, in particular, is not the creamy pink sauce you would expect by the menu description of “cream tomato”, but is a bland chunky tomato sauce. The osso bucco and the chicken dishes receive much better treatment.

But the real story here is the pizza. Tony’s is famously voted “best pizza in Burbank” every year. To be fair, there is not much competition. The only other non-chain pizza joint in town with a following is Dino’s. Although I can’t say Tony’s is the BEST pizza I have ever had in my whole entire life, they do kick ass. The crust is thicker than New York-style, and thinner than Chicago style. It is very bread-y, but without the annoying sweetness of “California” pizza crust. It is slightly crispy, super chewy, and never greasy. There is a lot of it, and I often leave crusts on my plate in spite of the fact that I am a carb-addicted bread freak.

The toppings are pretty standard. The only notable points are that they use sliced sausage instead of ground sausage, offer the modern touch of sun-dried tomatoes, and the freakish horror of broccoli. Really, the Pizza Bianca is an abomination (Cheese, broccoli, onions and garlic). Was this pizza invented as a punishment for a losing little-league team? I must admit that I personally think broccoli is a sin against God and nature, so take it for what it’s worth. On the other end of the spectrum, the end where the “cool” kids hang out, is the “ham, artichoke, sliced tomato and basil” pizza. I had not seen what all the fuss was about with Tony’s until I had this pizza. It is an unparalleled topping combination.The room gets really quiet whenever this pizza makes an appearance.

Now, let me tell you the real, real, story of Tony’s…the big secret buried amongst the pizza toppings…the reason Tony’s will live in my heart forever – the calzone. Yes, the calzone. It is the calzone of the gods. As big as a large pizza, the giant sliced Calzone Imbottito is stuffed with cheese, cold cuts, pepperoni, sausage, and just possibly magic. Or crack.

Tony’s Bella Vista 3116 West Magnolia Burbank CA (818) 843-0164

Posted in Burbank | 1 Comment

I Can’t Feel My Face: Chung King

Posted on April 2, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

Sometimes, while out wandering in the bars and clubs of Los Angeles, you might hear rumors about a Chinese restaurant whose food makes your face go numb. You might eavesdrop on whispered conversations about a secret chicken dish that makes you hallucinate. In a certain area of Monterey Park, it is rumored, they cook with an illegal pepper that possesses drug-like qualities. My friends have all attested to the numbing and blissful effects of this chicken dish. Even my husband, Bob, has made the trek on the Monterey Park version of the Marrakesh Express. Last night I finally coerced our friend, Jason, into taking us out for hallucinogenic chicken.

I did a little research, and discovered that the magical Szechuan peppers (huajiao), are the dried berries of the Prickly Ash. They were banned because of a bacteria that could endanger California’s citrus crops, not because of any narcotic properties (the ban has since been lifted). Which is actually kind of disappointing. It is exciting to think that you are sampling something secret and forbidden. So if anyone hears about any opium-laced dumplings, give me a call.

There are a handful of restaurants along Garfield Avenue that cook with the huajiao pepper, and each one seems to have its devotees. Last night Jason took us to Heath and Gina’s fave, Chung King. With only 8 tables and minimal decor, the little restaurant looks deceptively like a greasy spoon. Chung King resembles one of the $1 Chinese Food places that populate America’s strip malls. But do not be fooled – this is not your local strip mall. just a few miles from home, you are deep within another culture. The menu has English translations, and although no one speaks English, everyone communicates with smiles and gestures. Still, there is an otherworldliness that made me glad to have Jason to rely upon. After quizzing us on our preferences, he ordered in long-winded Mandarin while we smiled stupidly.

Boiled in Hot Sauce (Fish and Beef)

He summarized our order for us in English:
Fried Chicken Cubes with Hot Pepper
Boiled in Hot sauce…Fish and Beef
Delicious Smelled Beef
Fried Chinese Bacon with Garlic Sprouts

Hmmm…Chicken, fish, beef and pork. All the same old stuff. The menu I read was filled with adventure…frog, eel, intestine, kidney, and tripe. I said, “You don’t have to order a wimpy menu for us. I’m willing to eat eel or intestine.” Jason said, “Oh, that’s NOT a wimpy menu. If you want to get weird, you do that at the cold buffet.” After placing your order, you head to the back of the restaurant to a glass deli counter full of exotic delights. I eyed the tripe, but nobody else seemed interested. I find I sometimes want to eat something daring just to test myself, and I actually have no interest in it at all. Each cold plate comes with three selections. Bob did not seem very decisive, so I ordered the pig ear, dried beef, and pickled long beans. Jason chose the peanuts with fish, seaweed and cucumbers.

Pig’s ear, Dried beef and Pickled long bean

The kitchen surprised us by having our hot order ready by the time we returned to our table, so we had plates crowding every inch of the table. Except for the bacon, the serving platters were heaped with a frightening amount of hot chiles. I now understood what Jason meant by “not wimpy.” I tried to start with the least spicy and numbing dishes so I wouldn’t overwhelm my palate. The bacon was the most disappointing dish. It was a sort of boiled English bacon mixed with leeks. The blandness might have been a welcome relief from the heat of the other dishes, but its chewiness made it more trouble than it was worth. Jason later complained to the owner that it wasn’t smoky enough, and she countered that he should have ordered the bacon with cabbage.

Next I looked over the cold plates. The boiled peanuts had little tiny dried fish mixed in with giant gaping mouths that disturbingly made it look like they were screaming. The peanuts were surprisingly not at all fishy. So next I went for the seaweed, commenting, “This is going to be really fishy.” Bob caught my eye and I asked, “Is it strange that I eagerly reach for food while saying, ‘Ooh, I’m going to HATE this!’?” He said, “I understand your curiosity.” But again, the seaweed was not fishy at all. Not at all like the Japanese seaweed I have tried.

Next I selected a slice of pig’s ear. It was very different than the pig’s ear I had eaten in France, which was a big, chewy mass of cartilege. This was thinly sliced, steaked with ribbons of fat, and lightly pickled in a combination of spices, including most recognizably star anise and hot chile. The fat melted deliciously on my tongue like gelatin, but then my mouth caught on fire. It was like napalm. The fat coated your mouth, trapping the hot chili with it, so it was impossible to douse the flames.

The dried beef was like thick strips of beef jerky, extremely salty, but one of the least spicy items on the menu. I should have noticed the crushed Szechuan peppers coating the sides. My lips started tingling, parasthenia was setting in. This combination of elements is known as Ma La, literally “numb heat”. My mouth had the strangest sensation of numbness, and then I felt my throat swell. I feared my throat would close up and I would be unable to breathe, so I pushed aside the cold platter.

Delicious Smelled Beef

The Delicious Smelled Beef was delicious, the meat so tender it seemed like it didn’t even have any “grain” to it at all. I really liked the grub-looking slices of bamboo shoot. But it was painfully hot, even with my mouth already numb.

The hot pot beef and fish was homey and comforting. The fish, which we guessed was some type of cod, was tender and perfectly cooked. But again, super-hot-spicy! The best dish on the menu was the chicken, fried to perfection without a trace of greasiness. But this was the dish famous for those peppers, and after one paranoid suffocating episode, I didn’t want to overdo it.

Fried Chicken Cubes with Hot Pepper

Everyone was really friendly, smiling and laughing. Jason said, “They are amused by you. They think it’s funny that you are taking pictures of your food.” So that seems to be a universal sentiment. At one point, when Jason had gone outside to answer a cell phone call, the owner, Grace, came over to proudly display a picture of herself with Huell Howser. So California’s Gold beat us here. We communicated in gestures, that she was the sole proprietress of the place. Later, Jason told me that most of the restaurants in Monterey Park are owned by women.

Our proprietress, Grace, with Heull Howser

He asked her to bring some of the peppers out for me to look at, and she returned with a scant few in a white bowl. To see how strong they were, I pretended like I was going to down them like a shot of whiskey. I could tell by the way everyone freaked out and grabbed for the bowl, then laughed, relieved, that they really were not fooling around. She waited for me to photograph them, then stood there until I handed them back, and whisked them back to the kitchen. So they are either very expensive and dear, or very dangerous. The waitress came up to expound on the wonder of the peppers. She and jason talked for awhile, then strangely, he started rubbing her forearm. He interpreted, “She said that Szechuan is cold and humid, so they have to eat this pepper to clean out all of the toxins. She said that is why girls from Szechuan province have the softest skin in the world, which is why I had to see for myself.”

There was much discussion between us as to whether or not the huajiao pepper was making us high. I definitely felt lightheaded and strange. That reaction could be attributed to the insane amount of hot chiles we had consumed, or even the culture shock of being in such a new environment. There was definitely an anaesthetic effect. It was compared to cocaine, and to narcotics, and psychedelics.


We stopped at the Boba shop to get slushies to cool off (red bean, green tea, and almond milk). They had a gumball machine selling little trinkets. Winnie the Pooh and friends were dressed up in a variety of costumes, including eachother. Tigger in a Pooh costume…Pooh in an Eeyore costume. It was a trip. I’ve always been strangely fascinated by animals dressed up as other animals. Then I saw this:



My mind was blown. I was obsessed with it. I could not rest or stop digging for quarters until I made it mine. Bob just stared at me, trying to figure out what was so amusing. It just seemed so obvious to me. I asked him intently, “Why would a BEAR dress up like a FISH?” The look he gave me made me admit that, OK, maybe the pepper did make me totally high. Chung King 206 South Garfield Avenue Monterey Park 91754 11am-10pm Cash Only.

Posted in Uncategorized | 62 Comments

Meet Me at 3rd and Fairfax: The Vendors

Posted on March 31, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

The Farmer’s market at 3rd and Fairfax is Los Angeles’ oldest outdoor market, open since 1934. Most people know it as a tourist attraction, or nowadays as part of the Grove megaplex. But Farmers market vendors pride themselves on the freshness of their products. Most of the prepared foods for sale are made right on the spot, often behind big plate glass windows so you can watch the candy being made and the ice cream churning.

As I mentioned in the last blog, I have a favorite route that I travel through the Farmer’s market. It starts at Gate 4, on the North side, which takes you straight into the food court. If it is early in the morning, you might start with french toast from Charlies. On a Saturday morning, the line for this place can take forever. But usually I hit the Farmer’s Market in the afternoon, in which case, go for the Gumbo Pot.

There are five “lanes” that run from East to West along the market. I like to walk up the second row, where you can find Marconda’s meat market. They have meats that are particular to New Orleans cooking, and an incredibly smart assed counter man. We have had this exchange more than once:

“Tasso please”
“What?”
“Tasso.”
“What did you call me???”

On my last visit, he discovered we both had the same credit card and used that to play an elaborate practical joke on me. If you are going to continue shopping, they will hold your purchase in the refrigerator for you. Oh, and they shape their sausage into little piggies. What more could you want?



Just next to the meat counter is the nicest produce in the market. But I usually save them for last, since fruit can get heavy, and I feel strange pushing around those green wooden shopping carts. Continue heading East between the two glass display counters of the Ultimate Nut and Candy. The candy counter on the right has very good sugar free candies, especially the English toffee. On your left is a counter for nuts and dried and candied fruit, which gets very busy during the holidays.

After passing a few trinket shops, you will see LittleJohn’s Toffee House on the right, where you can watch them making candy in the window. They sell homemade marshmallows, which also come dipped in caramel or coconut.

At the end of the old Farmer’s market you dead-end at the other food court. Tusquella’s Fish and Oyster Bar, Bennett’s Ice Cream and Patsy D’Amore’s Pizza are all supposed to be very good, although I am usually full by this point. But sometimes I have just enough room for Bob’s Coffee and Donuts, known for its cinnamon rolls and jelly donuts.

Then I head south. Huntingtons meat market, on the left, is not my favorite. But they do have freakishly huge and meaty ham hocks. You will never want to buy the ones at the grocery store ever again (Do you have pig’s feet? Where do you buy your shoes?).

Next to Huntingtons is Monsieur Marcel Imports, which has a French deli with a nice selection of charcuterie, cheeses and wines, etc. Across the lane is their little French bistro, but I have not made it there on an empty stomach yet. Maybe my new year’s resolution next year will be to enter the Farmer’s market at a different entrance.

At this point, turn and head West. On the left is Tusquella’s seafood. I have yet to buy their seafood, but they have New Orleans products there, so I always stock up on Creole mustard and fish fry.

On the right is Light My Fire, which stocks every kind of hot sauce and dried chili powder imaginable.

At the end of this lane, you dead-end at DuPars. Now is the time to wrestle with your conscience over whether or not to buy a pie. Then cross back just behind The Gumbo pot, which will bring you past Thee’s Continental Bakery in case you need any baked goods. Just to the right of The bakery is The French Crepe Company, where my friends often choose to line up while I am off getting my catfish fix.

Exiting through gate 3 takes you between two produce stands. The Fruit Company on the left has a fantastic fruit salad, which seems pricey, but is worth it. Across the aisle, Farm Fresh Produce has fresh fruits in season; I especially love the bing cherries and figs. Sorry I don’t have pictures of the gorgeous produce. Some guy had started a random conversation with me on this visit and was goading me into photographing the watermelon, which made me kind of nervous. In fact, lots of guys strike up random conversations with me at the Farmer’s market, so it’s probably a good place to troll if you are single.

Tips: There is a secret upstairs dining area on the north side if you can’t find a table…They are busiest on weekends and Thursday nights when they have live music, and it can be hard to find parking…The Grove’s parking lot does not accept validation from the Farmer’s Market shops, so pick up a latte or stop by Crate and Barrel for validation if you park in the structure.

Posted in Uncategorized | 55 Comments

Meet Me at 3rd and Fairfax: DuPars

Posted on March 30, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

DuPar’s has been a Farmer’s Market institution since 1938. The Naylor family, as in Tiny Naylor’s, reopened this location in December after what appear to be minor renovations, primarily the removal of the counter and the addition of an outdoor dining patio. Holding down the Southwest corner of the Farmer’s Market, DuPars can be accessed through a secret back alleyway from the food court.


DuPars is one of those places that has made being trapped in a time warp cool. The pies are the same, the menu is the almost the same, and the waitresses are still wearing the same trippy old-fashioned uniforms.


DuPar’s is known for their pancakes, but the real draw here is the pie. I have never had a real meal at this location. I have eaten at the Studio City location and wasn’t that impressed. It was all your basic grub, nothing wrong with it, but nothing spectacular. The pies ARE spectacular. Like most places that you frequent often, I have a “route” that I travel through the Farmer’s Market. It always starts with a catfish sandwich at the Gumbo Pot, and on special occasions, it ends at the outdoor to-go pie counter at DuPar’s. Pies glisten like jewels under the glass, and the splurge is often irresistible. Luckily they sell some cute little mini-pies so you don’t have to go whole-hog if you are guilty and indecisive. DuPars is willing to meet you half-way.

The other day I picked up a mini cherry cheesecake. The center is creamy and light; it is not a dense cheesecake. But it’s not a bunch of whipped fluff either. It is just right. Even though they are smaller in diameter, the little pies are the standard height, so it cut up nicely into four normal-sized slices. Although there was some bickering as to the evenness of those slices.

Posted in Uncategorized | 5 Comments

Pie ‘n Burger

Posted on March 27, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

I have been hearing about Pie ‘n Burger for some time now. In the same location since 1963, it often receives votes for the best burger in LA and is known for its strawberry pie. In fact, Pie ‘n Burger has been around so long that its diet plate of a burger patty, peach slices and cottage cheese has actually come into vogue again.

Today I finally had a meeting in Pasadena, not a quarter mile away from the place. Pie ‘n Burger appears to be an unassuming little box from the outside, but once inside, you are transported back in time to a little old-fashioned California coffee shop, circa Nick at Nite. When the friendly waitress asked me what I wanted, I said, “Well, I guess I better have a pie n burger.” She laughed gaily, as if I was the first person who had ever said such a thing. I was placing my order to go, but when she rattled off a list of about twenty-five different kinds of pie, my mind was blown. I thought, “Well, I’d better get a slice for my husband too”. And when I thought about a slice of blueberry pie, it seemed like a sin to have it un a la mode, which would not have traveled well. So I did what I tend to do when faced with a wide array of choices – I ordered one old standard – banana cream pie, plus something daring – butterscotch. Then I asked for a slice of blueberry pie, heated, a la mode, to eat while I waited for them to cook my burger.

They asked me how I wanted my burger cooked, which was refreshing in this age of “always-cook-the hell-out-of-it-to avoid-food-poisoning”. They grill their onions, so I asked for onions, ketchup and mayo. Burgers come standard with big leaves of iceberg lettuce, pickles, and thousand island dressing, so I went with it.




When my pie arrived, it could not have looked better tied with a giant bow. The flaky crust was fairly bursting with blueberries, and the entire pie was collapsing from the weight of two massive scoops of ice cream. The filling was especially sweet, and needed the balance of the cool vanilla ice cream. As I ate my pie, I chatted with the charming waitress. I liked the way her eyes shone when she talked about candy. Her slight Texas accent and wide-eyed charm, coupled with the old formica counter transported me back to a time and place when things were simpler. Not the actual, olden days when everything actually kind of sucked for most people, but an imaginary, romanticized “good old days” like you see on TV. As I dug into my purse for dollar bills to pay for the spontaneous added expense of three slices of pie, the waitress said, “That’s OK if you don’t have it.” I did, but talk about the halcyon days of yore!


When I got home, the burger had cooled, but that did not affect its deliciousness in the least. It was dripping with a delicious, messy mix of condiments, the patty was charred and juicy, and the crunchy lettuce and sweet pickle made me kind of nostalgic. I don’t remember the bun at all. I scarfed it down too fast to even notice. It wasn’t memorable, which is maybe what the bun should be – just a vehicle for getting all of the other stuff into your mouth.



The cream pies were the worse for wear from the trip home. About and hour and a half after leaving the restaurant, the butterscotch pie had started to melt into a pool of unappetizing syrup. The banana cream pie held up better, but was more sweet than flavorful. Plus, I’m not big on meringue on cream pies – just my personal preference. So I would say, go for the hamburgers, go for the fruit pies, and definitely go for the good service and ambiance. If I lived nearby, Pie ‘n Burger would probably be my home away from home.

They also serve breakfast. Oh, and as an added bonus, Pie n Burger has a wine shop in back. You can buy a bottle of wine or champagne and open it at your table to enjoy with your dinner. Might I suggest a nice Zinfandel to go with your chili size, and how about a Syrah for the rhubarb pie? Pie’n Burger 913 E. California Blvd. Cash and checks only. http://www.pienburger.com/index.htm

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Meet Me at 3rd and Fairfax: The Gumbo Pot

Posted on March 27, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

I was worried when they opened the monstrosity known as “The Grove” that my beloved Farmer’s Market would be contaminated by it and die a slow, whimpering death. The closure of Dupar’s for “renovation” did nothing to allay my fears. But now, well into the “Grove years” the Farmer’s Market still shines as a beacon of good food in the face of the franchised blanding of America.


There are certain cravings I get that just cannot be satified by anything else. The Gumbo Pot’s blackened catfish po’boy is one of the foods that often calls out to me with its siren song. So what if “blackening” is not a classic New Orleans dish, but is a technique invented by Paul Prudholme in the 80s! So what if it was EVERYWHERE in the 80s, like pesto in the 90s, and lemongrass recently. Blackened catfish ROCKS. And the Gumbo Pot is one of the few places in Los Angeles that actually has food that tastes anything at all like New Orleans. There is something about the bread – they say it’s in the water, like New York pizza dough. I hear rumors of a place where you can buy that bread in South Central, but I haven’t hunted it down yet.
The Gumbo Pot puts their own special twist on the catfish po’boy (I refuse to say they “kick it up a notch” no matter how appropos it is here), by sneaking in paper-thin slices of fresh lemon. Just writing this makes me want to eat one now. In fact, if you had one in your hand right now I would knock you down to get it without a second thought.



Their house salad is an ingenius balancing act of flavor…sweet candied pecans, vinegary homemade pickles, tart green apples, and a creamy buttermilk dressing over romaine. It is fucking amazing! You have to ask for the salad with apples. If you accidentally order the plain house salad, you cannot beg borrow or steal a green apple from them to save your life. I just about lost my mind once when the manager refused to let me buy green apple slices. But you know, that is how they do it in New Orleans. What you see is what you get. No substitutions. We are so spoiled in Los Angeles, with our orders like, “Ummm, geee, I can’t decide between the chicken and the fish…is that line caught or farmed? Is the chicken grilled? Is it free-range? Organic? Yeah, can you do the chicken without the skin, on a bun instead of bread, oh, and can you put some pesto mayo on it? Oh, that would be great, thanks! Oh, and and can I get fresh fruit on the side instead of fries? You’re a doll!” They don’t put up with that crap in New Orleans. Your exchange would go something like this:

“Ummm, geee, I can’t decide between the…”

“Y’all let me know when ya’ll decide what ya want” (walks off)

So, that’s kind of the gruff, take-no-shit attitude you can sometimes get at the Gumbo Pot (Actually, one of the guys is a sweetheart, and only one is super-gruff). But their food is so good it is worth it. They can treat me any way they want to, as long as they don’t cut me off.

Really, most of their food kicks ass. The gumbos are smoky and intense, and their fried catfish is also a thing of beauty, as is the shrimp po’boy. As much as it pains me to admit it, their red beans and rice are even better than mine. And I pride myself on my red beans and rice. In fact, I am the queen of red beans and rice. But I just handed my pinball crown to him…to him (How do you think he does it? I don’t know!).

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Let’s fry some catfish!

Posted on March 25, 2007 by Kiki Maraschino

CATFISH “FINGERS”

2 pounds fresh catfish filets
2 cups milk
2 eggs
10 dashes Tabasco sauce
1 Tablespoon yellow mustard
1 cup “fish fry” mix

½ cup cornmeal
½ cup flour
¾ cup cornstarch
2 Tablespoons Tony Chachere’s Cajun seasoning
½ teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon pepper
½ teaspoon garlic powder
Peanut oil
Slice catfish crosswise into 1-inch strips. The size and thickness of the strips will vary. That’s OK. In a large Pyrex pan, whisk together milk, eggs, Tabasco and yellow mustard. Add the catfish pieces, turning to coat thoroughly. Cover with plastic wrap and leave in the refrigerator for at least half an hour.

In a medium-sized baking dish or pie pan, mix together fish fry, cornmeal, flour, cornstarch and seasonings. Gently dredge catfish pieces in dry mix and set aside.

In a large cast-iron pan, heat 2 inches of peanut oil to 350 degrees. The temperature of the oil is where most people have problems with frying. I flick a little bit of water into the pan and I can tell by the sizzle when it is right. Every time you add a piece of catfish, the oil should bubble furiously around it. If not, you are adding too many pieces too quickly and the oil is cooling. You will need to constantly adjust the fire during the frying process. For the right temperature, I need to keep the dial between 4 and 6 on my stove, but that may vary. It is best to use a thermometer until you get the hang of it. I find the Chinese wire deep frying tool used for woks invaluable for deep-frying.




Fry catfish in batches, being careful not to crowd the pan or the oil will cool. Fry the less thick pieces for about 2 minutes, and the thicker pieces for about 4 minutes, turning the pieces frequently.

Drain on paper towels, and dab with additional paper towels to soak up any grease.

Dip in Tartar sauce, Remoulade, or even mayonnaise spiked with Tabasco. Or make yourself a Po’Boy! (I had a lot of help with this recipe from someone known as “Big Daddy” on a Louisiana cooking site).


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