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You've seen those EnoMatics, right? It's basically an Automat, but for wine, and you use a debit card instead of coins because this is the 21st century and like coins could buy you anything. I've always liked their gee-whiz value (press button! get wine! whee!) but found there was an inverse relation to its charm and the number of times you punched the button. Automat wine means no waiter; no waiter means you are getting exactly one ounce of wine (and who wants that?), context free; there's no one and nothing to tell you why the owners liked this wine or why it might be worth $4.65 per ounce.
Stephen Abramson's Pourtal has solved at least part of the problem: His schtick is to group the wines by style (three-grape blends; whites; Pinot Noirs), order them by three- or four-bottle flights and, best of all, have Peter Birmingham as a secret weapon. LA knows him best as the sommelier of the late, lamented Norman's, but he's possibly the most passionate, pan-alcohol geek I've ever met. (Wine, beer, gin -- he loves and knows it all.) And on those nights he's not guiding tours at Pourtal, there's handy little printouts to tell you what you're drinking, with a little why thrown in.
Also: Fancy-wine appropriate bar snacks with a heavy emphasis on Andrew's Cheese Shop, including a warm crostini topped with Grevenbroecker blue cheese and heirloom chocovivo chocolate. Sounds insane, but it was perfect with a Atalayas de Golban Temperanillo. Also: They have a selection of wines sold by the full glass and sell all the wines retail, which is great news because Peter's knowledge runs far and wide; you'd have a hell of a time finding many of these anywhere else. 104 Santa Monica Blvd., 90401; (310) 393-7693.
I can't help it: Every time I walk into a restaurant, my first thought isn't about the menu, the wait time at the hostess stand, the decor or the music. It's, "Will this place survive?"
Pure reflex. Has nothing to do with appearances or reputations or Deathwatching or anything beyond this is what it's like to live in 2009. Blame my late father (he won't mind; he'd be proud that I absorbed his lessons so well), but restaurants are a vulnerable construct at best (80% die off in the first five years, yadda yadda) and in the current marketplace, everything feels fragile.
However, like it says in the brass-embedded polished concrete at Ammo's doorstep, "est 1996." It's already beaten the odds. And still, they're as worried as everyone else. They have a new publicist, they're flogging homemade ice cream sundaes, they're doing farm-to-table evenings and artisanal tequila tastings and inviting people like me to have dinner.
Oh, Ammo. To quote another 1996 establishment, you're so money and you don't even know it.
Part of Ammo's charm is it's long been an industry standard for lunch (started out by doing a lot of set catering, it's close to casting offices and it's halfway between the valley and Beverly Hills) and now that "stock options" have become a fancy way of saying "sucker!", it now looks like an especially clever choice for dinner (and judging by the crowd on a Tuesday night, Hollywood's already gotten the memo).
Handsome but not ostentatious (and a great playlist!), fair prices for reasonable portions, Ammo also has the gimlet eye of GM Benedikt Bohm, who walks the room like a panther looking for invitations to pounce. (If there's anything this economy may be good for, it may act as the long-needed vaccine for the tragic Lazy Eye syndrome that afflicts so many LA servers. "I don't see you, I'm not looking, I can't see you...")
What we ate: A plate of a dozen vegetables, each pickled in its own seasoned brine. Risotto with asparagus and peas, creamy and light. Thin-crust pizza showered with baby leeks and bacon. Kampachi with avocado and blood orange. Crisped pork belly with tiny white beans. Hanger steak with root vegetables, lamb tenderloin on a mound of minted peas and lemony yogurt sauce. And the aforementioned ice cream sundaes.
Delicious. Especially the pickled vegetables, those minted peas, the kampachi with a bite of blood orange. Especially when it was a chaser for the rich and crispy pork.
And the ice cream sundaes? It was the only bit that felt a little desperate. The ice creams and sorbets are homemade and impressive, but flavors like parsnip and popcorn feel like they're trying too hard -- although they taste better than they sound, especially when drizzled with blood-orange caramel. (The blood orange can do no wrong.) But really, I'd have been just happy with that tiny scoop of vanilla.
Please enjoy this Greg Laswell music video, "How The Day Sounds," which was shot in Galco's, the world's best soda shop. (And I'm not saying that just because it's in my neighborhood; if you find one finer, please tell me.)
While I happen to think it's a dandy little song, the video really captures the glory of Galco's with all those rows of glass containing candy-colored liquid. It's quite beautiful when you think about it (which the director obviously did) and the video also captures some of the forbidden bottled-soda charm of childhood -- only now it's not because you can probably have the means to buy as much of them as you want.
Anyway, I hope you like what I think is the best lo-fi music video since OK Go discovered treadmills. And then, you go to Galco's.
Also: Yes, that's Elijah Wood.
Full disclosure: I've wanted to write something about freebies for a long time. Because as a food blogger, even one as infrequent as me, I get them. And while I am offered many more than I accept, I go to restaurant and bar openings and to media dinners.
And I think the meaning of free is changing as restaurant writing increasingly becomes the domain of utterly unpaid, expense-account-free bloggers (a number among which I count myself. Variety hasn't been associated w/ The Knife for many months; the ads are a function of me not having remapped the URL).
Namely: Without the free, it's a lot more difficult to get the coverage these restaurants desperately need. Not because free means bribery; it means there's no other way for writers to afford it. Any writer.
In a world where newspapers are laying off staff, cutting salaries or folding altogether on a daily basis, I'll make a not-very-bold prediction: The world in which people are paid to eat and write about it is about to disappear. It's untenable. Forget about the blogging competition; supporting a restaurant critic, with all the multiple visits and dining companions, makes absolutely no financial sense. Newspapers have no ad model for it; if Zachys were to pull out of the New York Times' dining section, there would be... almost nothing. And that sucks, but the New York Times has even suckier problems, like being a junk bond. And taking financing from a dubious billionaire. And wondering if it could face bankruptcy anyway.
More about writing from the freebie POV later, but as a preamble I bring this from my partner in crime, D.R. Stewart, aka my husband and frequent beneficiary of The Knife's largesse.
Filed from the frontlines of culture-war-torn Silver Lake, CA -- They called it the Gravy Train when I was a kid. And if you’re lucky enough to hitch a ride, you will acknowledge it’s an aptly named locomotive. Due to a relationship I have, my passenger status has been validated for many years. So when the Gravy Train pulled up at the opening of Barbarella Tuesday night for free drinks and food, I was among the first to have my ticket punched.
Barbarella is a clean establishment on the hip-Hyperion highway that leads you into the Atwater Village for more hip adventures. Its food was serviceable; no wrong notes were hit, no popcorn shrimp went awry. The place is well-lit, open, with nooks & crannies to hide out and big spaces to dine in. I wish it well. The DJ was a dumbass, but that’s not his fault – that's really LA's DJ culture at fault. (Look at my cool set list that no one knows! Only bar mitzvah DJs would play songs normal people actually resonate with! Although I ride the Gravy Train, to paraphrase Joseph Walsh: “I shouldn’t complain, but sometimes I still do.” )
But my real complaint is not with a sad lil’ too-kool-for-school DJ – it's with the patrons at Barbarella that night. Who were all eating and drinking for free.
It’s simple, really: Tip the waiter. Tip the bartender. Tip them fucking well.
Why? Because you didn’t have to pay for a goddamned thing. Really. You sat there enjoying, even if it wasn’t perfect, a perfectly good meal and drinks for free. So throwing down a 20 spot to the waiter means you just had a night out in LA for 20 bucks. Poor you.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve been comped in this town, be it premies, parties or product launches, but I can tell you the ratio of wallets I see removed for gratuity is somewhere around 10%. I don’t get it – on your own, you'd have to pay a $100 tab and then tip, but when something is free you can’t give the bartender a fiver? At least?
Here's a pitch on a purely selfish level: Giving service workers money when you just ate for free is good for the soul. Honest. People wonder why others still give change to panhandlers even though they are “just going to use it for booze.” They do so because it’s a direct exchange between someone who is really grateful. Which your servers will be if you just tip them. Because at some point in the night, whirling around like hor dervishes, they’ve started to notice that all these well-dressed industry insiders aren’t tipping them – at all.
Let’s take a visit to the Hall of Shite Rationalizations:
Oh, their tip is built in.
Really? And you know this how? You don’t know this. And it’s not. Quick calls to several bartender/waitstaff providers assures me of what I’ve always been told by the folks in the trenches: Tips are based on the kindness of strangers.This is my one chance to save a little money.
Same logic could be provided to not tipping on food and drink you actually have to pay for. You already saved your money; you didn’t have to PAY for your night out.They signed up do to the event. They know the deal.
Um, they do, but they also know when they bartend at most places, people tip. Even private parties. And how about the situation where you are getting your meal comped in a place that is otherwise a working establishment that night? So all the other waiters get a little something-something, but the one lucky enough to get cheapskate eating the free meal does not.Finally, words of wisdom from Sir Anthony Bourdain – not only should you tip WELL when comped, you should do so in CASH. It keeps it outta Uncle Sammy’s hands for the most parts and those living the service-industry life desire the green infusion.
I hope the Gravy Train pulls into your town. And when it does, better ante up -- or I’ll send the porter after you.
Kevin Roderick at LA Observed and Anthony Bourdain of No Reservations took El Cholo to task for its supposed long-held claim of inventing nachos, one that got a fresh lease on life with the passing of longtime El Cholo waitress Carmen Rocha. From Mary Rourke's October 2008 obituary in the LA Times:
Carmen Rocha, a waitress at El Cholo Mexican restaurant in Los Angeles for many years who is credited with introducing the city to nachos, the now-ubiquitous appetizer of tortilla chips, cheese and jalapeño peppers, has died. She was 77.
She started working at the restaurant in 1959 and won a following with her warm, outgoing personality. “Carmen was wonderful, to me and to everybody,” actor Jack Nicholson, a longtime regular at El Cholo, said this week. “It’s a community loss,” he said of her death.
For a special treat Rocha sometimes went into the kitchen and made her customers an order of nachos, an item not included on the menu. She followed a recipe she learned in San Antonio, where she grew up, layering tortilla wedges, shredded cheddar cheese and slices of jalapeño pepper, warming the dish in the oven. Before long she had requests from all over the dining room and her nachos were added to the menu.
Yesterday, Roderick pointed out that Bourdain slammed Cholo's claim on his trip to the Mexican border town of Piedras Negras; supposedly, that's where it was invented by Ignacio "Nacho" Anaya in 1943. This annoyed El Cholo sufficiently to put out a nacho-defensive press release. Reports Roderick:
El Cholo says through its publicist that the claim regarding Carmen Rocha has always been that she introduced nachos to Los Angeles. "We never claimed Carmen ‘invented’ Nachos,” says owner and restaurateur Ron Salisbury in a release. “We have always stated that Carmen introduced them to the city as a special treat for her guests, and the recipe she used was based on an old family recipe she brought with her from her hometown in Texas.”
These arguments are silly, of course, because you're basically talking about a snacky dish created by the serendipity of stuff you have at hand and/or too much of at any given time. Every cuisine has them, thank God; they're often some of the best things they have to offer and take on rich lives of their own. (Indian chat, Spanish tapas, Italian antipasto, etc.) But for what it's worth, Cholo's argument holds out: Rocha was raised in San Antonio, which at 144 miles northwest is the first major city near the Piedras Negras border.
So Mrs. Rocha, rest in peace. Thanks for being LA's Christopher Columbus of cheesy tortilla chips and please know no one holds you responsible for the nuclear fluorescent goo that's often pumped onto stale rounds of deep-fried drywall.
I can't find video of Bourdain's most-recent Piedras Negras foray, but here's a visit from last year where he ate nachos' street-smart cousin, the taco. God, they look good.
GENIUS. "It's five different flavors/of lemonade/it's dried bull penis/done up in a braid." Watch this commercial. It is charming, effective and utterly accurate. GENIUS.
Said commercial genius is the San Francisco-based Carl's Fine Films. I would like to get a comment from someone at Trader Joe's HQ, but I don't want to tempt fate and find out that everyone's groovy grocery store is actually willing to go all Disney on his ass.
Vicktory as in Michael Vick, disgraced football player. There's a series of 22 images "celebrating 22 of the dogs rescued from Michael Vick's property." And to be honest, I have my doubts about the wine; it's produced by Carivintas Winery, which describes itself as "your place to purchase premium wine and celebrate the unique bond we have with dogs.... No two of our wines will ever be the same."
More specifically:
we partner with some of the best established and up-and-coming winemakers in California. Through our Guest Winemaker Program we work with established award-winning winemakers on a rotating basis. Each winemaker is tasked with creating one or more wines for our collections. To date we have consulted with the likes of Stephan Bedford (Bedford Thompson Winery), Ethan Lindquist (Ethan Wines), David Dascomb (East Valley Vineyards), and Daniel Cederquist (Balletto Vineyards, Deloach Vineyards [9 times Winery of the Year], et al).
Well, OK... but what's in this bottle?
2006 Tempranillo, Santa Barbara County
Aromas of berryish fruit, herbaceousness, and an earthy-leathery minerality. This wine has a bold taste and strong mouth feel that lend well to very flavorful foods such as blackened steak, or cajun-spiced pasta or jambalaya. Try it with some grilled asparagus over a bed of steamed arugula, note how the herbaceous character of the wine blends perfectly with the dish. Enjoy now through 2010.
Which is, basically, the Wikipedia description for any Temperanillo. So if you buy this at $40 a pop, you're buying it for the bottle and the knowledge that part of the money goes to animal shelters. Intellectually, it's probably smarter to spend $20 on a wine you know and donate the other $20 yourself. Intellectually.
However, dogs aren't terribly intellectual. And that's a pretty nifty dog painting.
Bloody hell, that was good.
Quick backstory: A couple of weeks ago, I got a call from the PR people at Sugarfish, the restaurant owned by Kazunori Ozawa of Sushi Nozawa (who also, as it happens, is profiled today in a WSJ piece, "Sushi Bullies"). They were starting takeout service; would I like to receive a free lunch? Why, yes, I would. Over the years, I have (happily) spent thousands of dollars at his restaurant, where a request for takeout could get you kicked out. So, yeah, free Nozawa at my desk? Bring it on.
And then something odd happened: I completely forgot about it. In the last two weeks I have traveled to Texas, attended a conference and launched another blog. I haven't even thought about writing a Knife post; I haven't thought much about food. I have pages of Eater LA entries to catch up on.
Cut to today, about 30 minutes ago. I emerge from two back-to-back meetings with my blood sugar grazing the floor. And at my cubicle is a rectangular white cardboard box sealed with the Sugarfish logo. Inside are crab and toro cut rolls; tuna sashimi; salmon; albacore and halibut sushi. Edamame. Wasabi and pickled ginger. Soy sauce and ponzu.
Good God. Correction: Sushi delivered by the right hand of God.
Is it perfect? Well, no, not by Nozawaian standards. The seaweed on the sushi doesn't dissolve in your mouth and the rice isn't barely warm, of course; instead, the grains have a tendency to stick to the cardboard. Edamame looks a little wan, as it often does shortly after steaming.
But! Who cares? The beans inside the edamame pods are meaty and well seasoned. The rice is so delicious that I keep stopping between paragraphs to pick up the remaining grains with my fingers. It's a stroke of genius to include a tiny container of finely sliced scallions rather than dumping them in the ponzu, where its acidity would quickly render them limp.
And most of all, the fish. The fish, the fish, the fish. We've all had take-out sushi and some are good, most are OK and too many are awful. However, I've never had take-out sushi that was sweet and fresh and didn't have any hint of fishiness, even when it had been prepared only 20 minutes before. Which makes sense: You're not going to save your best stuff for the take-out crowd, which isn't looking for a dining experience; they just want to eat, for crissake, and quickly.
And that's the Nozawa advantage. He's been a fish snob for so long that he can build an empire around it. Yes, Sushi Nozawa is better than Sugarfish, but when the mothership is that good, you've got room for error. And so it goes with takeout. I'm sure that takeout Sugarfish is not as good as in-house Sugarfish, but it is better than any other takeout sushi you've ever had (and more than a few sushi restaurants).
That said, until Nozawa starts delivery, I probably won't have his sushi at my desk again; Marina Del Rey is just too much of a schlep. But the next time I fly out of LAX, everyone on my aisle is going to be very jealous.
late. It used to be Palate.
This year, I swore, was going to be different. I would write in exhaustive detail about the American Wine and Food Festival. Not only because I'm covering it (as much as you can cover a food festival after the fact) (and because, really, What Kind Of Food Blogger Do You Think You Are If You Can't Get A Good Blog Post Out Of This), but also because every year I re-remember how much I love this event, more than (it must be said) all the other food and wine hoo-hahs put together.
Not that other food fests aren't wonderful (they are), but beyond the sheer, bludgeoning scale of the AWFF, and the extraordinary amount of care and expense chefs put into their presence each year, what makes me wax goofy is the giddy (goofy is the new giddy!) of the evening. You run into friends and chefs and chef friends and you remember seeing them from the year before and you exult at how good the Pinot was and marvel at the weather and being on the world's most impressive studio backlot and feel lucky and happy to be alive.
Really. And even before the stock market made the worst kind of history, that feeling is hard to find and should be preserved at every opportunity.
So, I took notes. Sort of. I did my best to collect a card or other remembrance from every booth and stand I sampled. I already know I didn't succeed; worse, my dog literally ate some of my handiwork. (In addition to consuming half of the Palate Food + Wine business card, above, I am presuming he also ingested the napkin I snagged from Jasper White's Summer Shack. God only knows what else he got.)
Anyway, here we go:
Jasper White's Summer Shack. Fried clam bellies and a lobster roll were delicious, but the homemade pickled beets and the horseradish-spiked coleslaw were full-on knockouts.
Tea Forte. You'd think they're all about presentation -- the "unique handmade pyramid silken infusers" (sheesh), the business-card-as-flipbook -- but I'd be happy to buy their teas in unmarked baggies. The white ginger-pear iced tea leaves behind a delicious taste.
Malbec. A tasting of four Malbecs from VineConnections.com. All Argentina, all impressive.
Tantara. Pinot Noir winery from Santa Maria. Tasted a flight of them and the Lindsey's Vineyard was a knockout -- we'd leave, try others (including a really feh Pinot from the makers of Caymus) and come back to Tantara for more.
The Modern. Beautiful cauliflower custard topped with shiny black caviar. I love that combination, but have to say it tasted better than it looked looked better than it tasted; there was a bitter undertaste I didn't understand or like.
And now I'm getting concerned for Hambone's digestion because I know I had a thicker pile of cards than that. The rest will have to be from memory:
Corn vichyssoise with crab from Fearing's in Dallas. The amazing Kalin wines -- 1994 Pinot and Chardonnay. Bonny Doon's Albarino. (I feel for Bonny Doon -- they're still trying to reestablish the brand as a boutique now that they've turned all the lesser labels over to Trader Joe's. But TJ's is so ubiquitous that it's a bit of a deal with the devil.) An extraordinary hamachi ceviche on top of chilled lemongrass cream. A terrific selection of Austrian wines, including a dry Riesling that I want more of. (Can't remember the name, but Dan Fredman will; he repped them.)
And now if you'll excuse me, I may have to take my dog to the vet.
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