I’ve seen so few movies this year it’s embarrassing, but tonight, Eric scored some tix to see BALLAST, a much talked about and much lauded American indie that won a few awards at Sundance this year. I’d heard that it bore resemblance to the filmmaking of the Dardennes and Charles Burnett, which of course, made me automatically very skeptical of all the hoo-ha it’s received the past few months because, let’s face it folks, when your stuff is compared to that of masters, you know you’re bound to disappoint. Having said that, I did go into the movie with high expectations mostly cause I was really hoping to see something that’d somewhat restore my faith in American independent cinema, a faith that’s been slowly disintegrating each passing year. (Probably the last really really great quasi-independent American movie I saw was JUNEBUG but even that had the dude from THE O.C. in it.)
Unfortunately, BALLAST is a too studied approximation of the everyday poetry of Burnett, the lived-in regional authenticity of the Dardennes, and even the austere weirdness — in acting style and cutting rhythm — of Bruno Dumont. It seems necessary to name drop here because the director Lance Hammer is clearly drawing from these filmmakers in such a way that makes you wish you’d seen L’ENFANT or KILLER OF SHEEP a second or third time instead of his decent, but not invigorating first effort.
Much has been written of late regarding the ethics of architecture vis a vis opportunities promulgated by autocratic regimes. Consider Rem Koolhaas’ CCTV building.
Facts:
1) CCTV is a state-run media outlet.
2) China is a fairly free market yet illiberal nation.
3) Aesthetics and politics are inextricably intertwined.
4) Architects want to build real things with real materials, not paper.
Knowing these things, where does one draw the line? When do the costs outweigh the benefits? Do we actually believe that art has the ability to change the way things are?
Sunday Morning. I awoke around 11am, showered and started packing up my shizz. Our flight back to L.A. didn’t leave until 7, so we had most of a day to wander around a little more.
Self-portrait before leaving the hotel room. Sunday was quiet in the city because so many people were at the racetrack. Paul and I walked north to Beauty’s, a luncheonette that serves breakfast all day, pretty much everything involved in the Sunday Night dinners I ate growing up.
This is the standard serving of bagels and smoked salmon for one person. Paul and I shared.
Montreal is known for its bagels, some people going so far as to say they’re the best in the world. Yes, better than NYC. Better than H&H? Well, Sunday was all about answering this question. The bagels at Beauty’s are good examples of Montreal’s bagels, sesame-seeded small varieties with a unique crustiness from being wood baked, and a sweetness from the honey added to their pre-baking poaching water. The nova itself was mild in flavor and not-oily; I think Russ & Daughter’s Wild Atlantic would be the closest comparison.
Latke Latke Latke.
Buttered Challah Toast looks like Texas Toast. Not as eggy as American Challah, this was great. Soft and pillowy within, lightly toasted with salted butter. Note the sesame seeds.
Beauty’s made the greatest blintzes I’ve had in my life. I knew that immediately to be true with the first bite. Crisp crepe wrapped around airy luscious sweet filling. Gossamer, yo. I can’t wait to return.
Only open Monday-Friday, Wilensky Light Lunch is a well-known Montreal luncheonette, known for one sandwich in particular, the Willensky’s special, a pressed salami&bologna sandwich. People seem to love the place for the grumpy service, the dated décor; a major crossroads for the Jewish population that used to inhabit this neighborhood. Paul and I walked over to Fairmount Bagel, home to what many consider the greatest bagel in Montreal. Sesame is apparently the traditional flavor to get.
Fairmount’s bagel is not sweet in the way H&H is sweet. It’s a thinner bagel than you’ll find in the states. And the crust is the thing here, the thing that makes the bagel. After Fairmount, we walked a couple blocks over towards the competitor to the throne, St. Viateur.
The only photographic evidence of my sesame bagel at St. Viateur, a bagel similar to Fairmount in texture, but a sweeter bagel, more akin to H&H in flavor than Fairmount. For me, H&H on 80th and Broadway in Manhattan is still the king of the heap. (Don’t mention H&H East to me.). A softer-doughier bagel that achieves its greatness in the toaster, H&H makes the bagels I was lucky enough to grow up eating. While I’m biased and will always be, Montreal Bagels are some of the best in the known Universe.
I can’t wait to return to Montreal again. Like NYC, LA, and TOKYO, it’s a city with a strong food culture; people are proud of their restaurants and their heritage. What struck me about Montreal is that so much of the food has a history there. (As opposed to Los Angeles, where the strong landscape of ethnic cuisine is about food from other places.) Quebec has a cuisine distinctly its own, sure influenced by French, but altered because of the specific ingredients available in North America and more importantly the cold weather. Eating many of the dishes at Au Pied De Cochon, I knew that these were high-calorie dishes perfect for hungry foodies on below-freezing nights. When you’d meet people in bars or restaurants, they always wanted to talk about restaurants and local foodstuffs, and easily grumpy about how cold it gets there. But in the summer, the world is warm and alive… And Montreal is a great city to walk around; discoveries to be made, adventures to be had, everywhere you go…
Take care, Eric
P.S. When my mom heard about the trip and the huge amount of eating that took place (especially of foie gras), she said, “Now you know how the goose feels.” Indeed, I do, Mom. Indeed.
I slept in fits and starts. Woke up on Saturday around 11am, a tad worse for wear from Friday’s whiskey. Outside was blue sky, puffy clouds, 80 degrees or so. Paul got a text from his friend Phil, who invited us to meet him at McKiernan, a small luncheonette/wine bar, next door to Joe Beef, under the same ownership, but with its own tiny little kitchen, for a late brunch. During the day at McKiernan, you can sit on the same terrace/patio that Joe Beef patrons get to enjoy at night. So outside we sat, a breeze gently blowing against the grass and trees beyond the driveway. Phil showed us the garden shared by the restaurants, where they produce some of the produce that shows up in the dishes.
This is the Joe Beef/Liverpool House/McKiernan smoker, in a corner of the garden.
The garden viewed through a fence. Like Joe Beef, McKiernan has their menu on a chalkboard.
I ordered a hearty dish of poached eggs, bacon, potatoes, and bone marrow, served with a long piece of buttered, toasted baguette. Everything sat in rich brown juices.
Spread out on toast, my egg and marrow breakfast, along with the coffee, felt like a miracle cure to my pounding headache. Delightful stuff.
The 3 of us split the smorgasboard plate. A prawn, a poached egg, 2 crawfish, 2 small whelks, sliced cucumber and radishes, dressed small shrimp, cured salmon, and a large piece of what tasted like herring, all set atop toast. Gorgeous to look at. Yeah yeah yeah!
Phil’s baked eggs with salami and a tomato sauce. Again, toasted baguette.
Paul ordered the breakfast sandwich. Egg. Bacon. Ham. Sausage. Cheese. Tomato. On a soft roll. Reminded me of Square One.
Oh, did I mention they make their own super raspberry jam?
Well… they do. We met one of the Joe Beef chefs, who was stopping in, before she went out to go to the fish market, and made me excited hearing her talk about what she was hoping to get at the market that afternoon for that night.
McKiernan is a superb joint. Walking out, seeing the tiny corner one person kitchen, I was amazed. What an astounding array of dishes to prep and cook in a spot smaller than most office cubicles. Charles McKiernan, fyi, was the real name of Joe Beef, a Montreal legend - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Beef
After lunch, Paul and I said our goodbyes to Phil and some of his friends, and headed to Atwater Market. Outside: A lot of flowers and produce. Inside were butchers, bakeries, and cheese shops, mostly. Also, a nice wine store.
We had to look in the cheese shop. I don’t know if you can see it here, but there were quite a few unpasteurized choices.
After the market, we went on a walk along the canal towards Old Montreal. And ended up at Marche de La Villette. What a surprise, huh? Paul and I ordered a couple bottles of bitburgers.
The terrine de maison sandwich (rabbit).
This is the rillettes de canard sandwich. Delicious duck. While both sandwiches were similar, I preferred the smootheness of the duck to the coarse bits of rabbit. Cornichons lined the inside, along with mustard, greens, grated mild white cheese, sharp/stinging French mustard, and I think some mayonnaise. On crusty bread. I would go to Montreal just to eat sandwiches like these again.
Paul wanted to introduce me to Dragon’s Beard Candy as we walked through Chinatown on our way to our next sandwich of the day.
Dragon’s Beard Candy is likely an acquired taste that I don’t yet understand. Loose powdery sugar threads wrapped around nuts. Um, well I tried it.
Couche-Tard, the convenience store seemingly on every corner of Canada.
Schwartz’s is known for their smoked meat sandwiches, which are similar in taste and texture to pastrami. From their website: “Unlike other smoked-meat purveyors, who add chemicals to their briskets, Schwartz’s prepares smoked meat the old-fashioned way using a secret blend of fine herbs and spices marinated for 10 days. Our smoked meat is smoked daily and contains no preservatives.” I was nervous. Was this place going to knock Katz’s (NYC) and Langer’s (LA) out of the water?
The smoked briskets rest in the window.
For $5.20 Canadian, you get this, Schwartz’s smoked meat sandwich which comes with their house-brand yellow mustard, which Paul and I split. Very similar to Langer’s in texture for half the price. But the seasoning of the meat is something else, more aggressive and peppery than Langer’s, almost spicy. Because of this discrepancy, the flavors of Langer’s and Schwartz’s are different and it’s hard to compare. If you love how Langer’s pastrami approaches the greatness of Texas BBQ (think Lockheart), you’ll clearly be a fan of Schwartz’s.
French fries.
Um, yeah, there’s still dinner ahead. Oh boy. This is a big day.
Paul and I go back to the hotel to nap for an hour before dinner… at AU PIED DE COCHON. APC, as it’s abbreviated by foodies the internet over, is a mecca for those seeking overwhelmingly indulgent dinners. Although I’d read about it, there’s really no way to prepare for the onslaught of excessive at Martin Picard’s well-known restaurant. Paul’s aunt and uncle picked us up, and the 4 of us headed north, towards a meal unlike any other I can recall.
Au Pied De Cochon doesn’t seem to have a sign. Let me preface this meal with a note on foie gras: the way foie gras is produced isn’t pretty. There’s good reasons why people are upset by it. Um, in the meal ahead, I’m going to eat more foie gras than I have in 2005, 2006 and 2007 combined. (Norman Van Aken’s brioche French toast with seared foie gras and citrus caramel being one of the best uses of the ingredient I’ve experienced.)
Half of the menu. The amount of seafood astonished me. (I also admired the taxonomic categorization). Upon entering, I saw the raw bar.
This is just one section of the raw bar. Clams. Oysters. Multiple types of crab. Small greenish sea urchin. Lobsters. Prawns. Crawfish. Whelks. Etc.
The wine list.
Bloody Comeau is a homemade Bloody Mary with lobster juice.
And it was superb! Refreshing as a Michelada after an exhausting day. With an Old-Bay like seafood seasoning around the edge of the rim.
Our first dish arrived. Can you guess?
Fried head cheese cubes which matched quite well with the sweetness of early summer shrimp. With a rich cream sauce. Rich is an adjective I will likely overuse in my descriptions of what lies ahead.
Codfish fritters with freshly made mayonnaise. Rough crust with a salty, chewy interior.
These 4 squares were set down on the table. We were told, “these are hot. Please wait a minute before eating them. Oh, eat them in one bite.” These are the cromesquis, fried foie gras terrine fritters; during the cooking, the foie gras liquefies, so that when you bite into it, your mouth is full of warmth, rich liquid, that very rich creaminess of foie gras concentrated into a buttery supernova.
Here’s the face I made as I bit into it. Amazed. Arcade Fire’s “Wake Up” began to play across the speakers at this very moment. ROCK.
The poutine with foie gras is otherworldly in its decadence. This as great as poutine gets, I imagine. Fries rumored to be prepared in duckfat or horsefat. Chunks of foie gras which slowly melt into the gravy. White airy cheese curds. But it’s that gravy: apparently foie gras, egg yolks, and cream added to traditional poutine sauce. I shudder at the thought of how enjoyable it was…
The “Plogue à Champlain” is beyond great. Breakfast with foie. It is a plate: Buckwheat pancakes, potato slices, cheddar cheese, smoked bacon and seared foie gras, which is then topped with dark maple syrup. Um, it’s a visceral assault of lucullan proportions.
A foie gras terrine served with thick toast and apricot jelly, drizzled with oil it appears from the photos. Thicker than the foie gras parfait from the night before, this, like the pancake plate before it, was a sumptuous match of sweet and savory.
The tomato tart, one of the few vegetarian friendly dishes of the meal, a thin crusted tart, topped with melted mild cheese and thinly sliced tomatoes, a collision of pizza and quiche.
In the center of the crispy salad was a large fried square containing pig foot meat and cartilage.
Paul’s bison ribs, served with french fries, and some vegetables including local fiddlehead ferns. A ridiculous bone.
I had first considered not ordering a main course. In retrospect, this would have been wise, as my dish was an enormous buttery tart, dressed with blood sausage. Oh, and that’s foie gras that’s melted on top of it. “Tarte de boudin et foie gras au sel”. You said it, man. I was slayed by this over the top dish. There was no way I could finish this dish or even eat half of it after what had come before. Rich doesn’t describe it.
Halibut was outstanding.
Duck In A Can. I know it sounds simple, but this dish is brilliant. Half a duck, foie gras, garlic, some vegetables, and balsamic demi-glace, boiled for 28 minutes in the can, and when ready, poured out atop toast and celery root (celeriac) puree. I realized that Martin Picard, the madman behind Au Pied De Cochon is making exemplary food unlike anything I’ve had anywhere. Yeah, it’s too much, a high-end meal all about excess. But that’s kinda the point. Skip to below if you want to see the video of the can being opened.
Pudding Du Chomeur (Poor Man’s Pudding) is apparently a classic Quebec dish, and with good reason. PDC’s Chromeur tastes like a mellifluous amalgam of bread pudding and maple syrup. One forgets how great maple syrup can be when it’s made by small producers.
I have to say, I looked back over the restaurant, still packed at 11:00pm. I didn’t know what to expect but this place blew my mind. Paul and I made it back to the hotel, watched about 15 minutes of “Gentlemen Prefer Blondes” and soon after Jane Russell got knocked into the pool by the dancing Olympians, I fell into a deep sleep, a hibernation, not waking up until very late the next morning…
Last Friday at 5:30am Paul and I drove out with Alex to LAX. Alex was flying to NYC. Paul and I were headed to Montreal. I’ll admit, this was my first trip not just to Montreal, but to Canada itself. And what a trip it was, a journey into the heart of a city deservedly proud of its stellar food culture. We found ourselves somewhere between gourmand and glutton, seeking out greatness in every meal. New York Times recent article (not sure if this link will work) mentions a couple of the places we tried: http://events.nytimes.com/2008/04/06/travel/06choice.html
Here’s how it went down…
After walking around a bit, we headed with Paul’s aunt and uncle to Joe Beef, a cozy Gallic Canadian restaurant with an Alice Waters feel that I’ve been eager to try since reading about it months ago. http://www.joebeef.ca/ - The owners (Frédéric Morin, David McMillan, and Allison Cunningham) have 3 eateries (Joe Beef/Liverpool House/McKiernan), right next door to each other on Rue Notre Dame, right by the Atwater Market.
Joe Beef, here we come!
Paul looks at the chalk-written menu on the large wall, a system in place the next morning at McKiernan. Our server is quick to explain that the menu changes weekly and sometimes daily based on what ingredients are available. Who doesn’t like the sound of that? The menu is on the left third of the blackboard, the rest of it is devoted to wine. The amount of food choices is a tad overwhelming, especially for me when I travel, because you want to choose the right thing… And based on the meal we had, whatever we ordered would’ve been superb; nearly every dish a reson I’m tempted towards hyperbole in my words regarding Joe Beef. Here goes:
A dozen thick meaty oysters; half from Maine, the other half were Lucky Lime(?). Homemade cocktail sauce is thicker than what you’d be used to traditionally, more of a paste, worked perfectly as a tiny dollop was enough of an accent for these; They were also served with a mignonette. Similar in size, the 2 varieties varied wildly in flavor, one gentle and almost sweet, the other a briny barrage against the palate.
A tomato and blue cheese salad. Can’t comment as I forgot to try it…
3 types of Crab on this plate along with thick toast and wonderful small sweet radishes apparently grown in the backyard.
Grilled sardines and fried anchovies. Simple. Exquisite. Fresh anchovies and sardines were such a nice post-college discovery for someone like me, who growing up only knew them for their canned counterparts.
A long bone on an enormous plate arrived. Bone marrow and toasted brioche. I indulged, luxuriated in the sumptuous richness of this creamy decadent savory wonder.
In media res.
A hollowed bone.
Brioche made a return appearance as a supporting player to the foie gras parfait with stewed/cooked plums and a little salt and cracked pepper. Creamier and lighter than a terrine, this delicate dalliance with duck/goose liver was not to be our last of the weekend, but wait for my tales of Au Pied De Cochon for that…
Their most well known dish (one of 2 apparently always on the menu, the other being the lobster with spaghetti), the grosse cote de bouef for 2 is an enormous rustic dish, the probable love child of Pearl Oyster Bar and Peter Luger’s. A monster cut of steak on a bone, sliced into thick well-crusted portions, set on a plate in its rich juices with small yellow potatoes, topped with a disc of herb butter and some asparagus, seasoned towards the sublime. You encounter greatness so rarely in a meal that when you do, sometimes it gets a little emotional. One taste of this steak, and I was overcome with a sadness: When would I be able to eat something this superb, again? There isn’t a steak like this one in Los Angeles. Yes, I know there’s great steak in SoCal, but again, from my experiences thus far, not one like this.
I had braised meat in tomatoes, topped with greens and shredded cheese (pecorino, I believe that melted atop it). Growing up eating brisket at Passover Seders, I’ve always been a sucker for braised meat, the tenderness that results from the breakdown of connective tissue during that agonizingly slow cooking process, the rich flavor from the absorption of the cooking liquid. I discovered osso buco and bbq pork shoulder in college and was smitten. When I tasted this, I closed my eyes and the world went silent; I delighted in this, in taste, texture and smell. When I hear the term “comfort food”, this is what I think of.
I think this is Paul’s rabbit. I’ll see if I can get him to write in with his thoughts. I know I tried it and liked it, but have little recollection. I haven’t yet mentioned, but there were multiple bottles of wine. Amen, hallelujah.
After hearing the dessert options, I made a wise decision. I ordered a glass of milk. (No, this is not skim.)
Panna Cotta with Poached Apricots. Fresh small local strawberries with crème fraiche and cake. Vanilla ice cream atop a piece of pound cake with long rectangles of rhubarb. Um, every single one of these desserts is worthy of reverence. All 3 made for a charming subtle conclusion to a tour de force experience. Joe Beef, while a small restaurant that can get a little noisy, is hard not to fall in love with; it’s simply food that stirs the soul. Frédéric Morin and his kitchen turn out powerhouse dishes which celebrate the strengths of local meat and produce. Knocked my socks off.
Paul’s friend Phil sent over a digestif. Merci, Phil. Merci. We split off from Paul’s aunt and uncle and set out for drinks. On our way to Benelux, a bar/microbrewery, we passed by the Holiday Inn. This past weekend was the Canadian Gran Prix, so there were a lot of sports cars. Made for a great couple of Holiday Inn photos:
We drank and wandered through the city.
In Old Montreal, we stumbled upon Marche de La Villette, a small luncheonette that was closed, that it turns out serves great sandwiches (Alex had told me about this place). We turned a corner, and there was a bouncer up some stairs by a door. We figured we should be brave and go into what looked like a hole in the wall place. The bouncer explained we had to pay a ten dollar cover once we got downstairs. Intrigued by the loud thumping euroclub trance bologna emanating from behind the door, Paul and I looked at each other for a second. We figured we should see it, find out what was going on with this place. Dance Club or what? I followed Paul down some dark steps. At the base of the stairs, a woman was selling entrance tickets, which we then handed over to a ticket taker, who stamped our hands and let us into a relatively empty, pretty dark room, lit in pink and purple, solely populated by men. Men who looked just like me and Paul, clueless about what they walked into, waiting around for something to happen. Bored after our whiskey, we headed over to a small boutique hotel to see if we could grab a drink. I ordered a jack and coke. Which I like to think is a fairly standard drink. The dude at the counter asked nicely, “You want me to pour coca cola and whiskey into gin and tonic?” I shook my head. I said “pour some coke in the glass. Now pour some whiskey. All done!” He apologized, “I’m sorry. I’ve never made this drink before.” Paul proceeded to help the guy open a bottle of wine. The guy was super nice, but clearly hadn’t bartended much. Wine and whiskey and then what? We jumped in a cab and headed to La Banquise, probably the best known poutine place in Montreal. We weren’t particularly hungry but it felt like a good way to end the night.
Um, I took a picture of Paul when we got out of the cab. I clearly shouldn’t have anything more to drink.
A crowd.
Poutine, simply, is French fries topped with gravy and cheese curds. I’m sure it’s an appropriate dish for the brutally cold Montreal winters, but on a warm night in June, it’s pretty ridiculous. Nontheless, good eats.
This is the standard. La Banquise makes a ton of varieties of poutine. They make you pay before you get your food, which makes plenty of sense for a place dealing with a post-bar crowd.
This is poutine with pulled chicken meat and bacon and onions. It is the “Dance Poutine”, hold the pepper sauce.
I drank a couple beers. And this hot dog showed up. I still have no idea what was on it, but Paul gave me the rock salute for trying it. At this point, the 2 girls with face piercings next to us ask where we’re from. We tell them Los Angeles. They ask what we do. We say we work in film. They say, “Oh cool. We work in Exotica.” We never find out what this means. They’re asking a lot of questions, and Paul wisely lies that we have to leave to catch a flight so I can get home for my birthday. (My birthday is a couple months away). We run out the door and jump into a cab. It gets pretty foggy after this. I went to a convenience store by our hotel to get some bottled water, and there across the street was a sizable crowd of people in black leather, full s&m gear. And being 3:30 in the morning, I apparently needed a photo to end the night. Here’s a shaky 3:30am photo of me and my new acquaintance, whose master (the girl who led him around on a leash) did all the talking for him. He only grunted, you see.
Friday Night: Wow. To be continued…
Last week was JMattyJ’s birthday celebration at St. Nick’s. So great to catch up with him. It had been way too long. At 10:45pm or so, it began winding down, and I headed up La Cienaga to grab a late dinner with Han Solo (aka myself) at Vito’s.
This is a solid piece of pizza, a very good reproduction of a NYC neighborhood slice place. Texturally and flavor-wise. Sure, I would’ve appreciated a saltier cheese flavor, akin to NYC’s Sal & Carmine’s or Joe’s even. Similar to reheated slices back East, the bottom is nearly brittle, but without having the entire crust go crunchy, still soft chewy bread inside… Nice.
I mean, I had to try the chicken parm, right? I only made it through half. Every element of this sandwich was delicious, but the bread was too soft for the chicken. But that’s always a possible issue with chicken parm sandwiches, that if you go with soft bread, the chicken cutlet will seem tough by comparison, but just by comparison. I prefer a crustier bread (think Bay Cities) for a chicken parm hero, when the meat is this firm. I think the eggplant parm and meatball parm might have been better match for this roll. That said, flavors were all right on.
Miss C and I drove out to the San Gabriel Valley for soup dumplings at Arcadia’s Din Tai Fung. I tend to badmouth this place for its lack of heart, the cold-blooded precision of their craft, but there’s a reason people label them the best. The lesson of the night: If you ask for ginger ale, they will misunderstand and bring you multiple extra plates of julienned ginger.
These are the sticky-rice’d pork shiomai. I imagine that if the Ewoks ate Chinese food, this would be one of their fav dishes. It looks like the forest, and tastes like the kind of food you should eat before a long adventure or hibernation. Dense autumnal dumpling.
Shanghai Rice Cakes. While softer in flavor than the same dish at other Shanghaiese eateries, a more than pleasing rendition.
The main event. Xiao Long Bao are soup dumplings. Steamed paper thin dumplings with gentle pork broth and meat. There’s a lot of great ways in Los Angeles to burn the roof of your mouth. This is in the top 3.
Miss C demonstrates swell technique.
We then went to 7 Grand for bourbon and rye. Soup dumplings and A.H. Hirsch on the same night? Anytime, friend. Anytime.
This past Sunday, A Ross and I headed to My Taco in Highland Park for some barbacoa. But they’d run out. Sure, we could’ve admitted defeat and left, but we forged on, and brought back our findings.
Pastor and Carne Asada Tacos. Note the delicious avocado sauce (much thinner than guacamole).
These are the legendary carne asada fries J Gold speaks of. The poutine of Highland Park, these are fries with melted cheese, carne asada, a dollop of guacamole, and cream. It’s way too filling but it’s one of those simple dishes, where the plain ingredients, when put together, form a greater whole; Think Voltron.
If you happen to order a burrito, go for a small or medium. This is half of the large. And it was huuuuge. All that said, the barbacoa’s the thing, so we’ll be heading back in the next couple of weeks….
My ridiculous life has only gotten more ridiculous with Henry being in town the past few months. He took me to game 2 of the Western Conference Finals last Friday. Primo seats.
See if you can find Rambo and Jackie Collins
This is, according to one rabid Lakers fan, the love child of John Updike and Philip Roth
The only time I’ve ever gotten an A+ was in Roma’s Photo III class
First half spent watching the game; second half spent spotting celebrities
Dear Diary,
Eric here. With a long entry. My love affair with Chinese Food has no end in sight:
On May 4th, Schlebs and I met up late for some early afternoon Dim Sum. Because Elite was already closed, we headed over to the Kitchen. Neglected to photograph some of the dishes. Apologies.
Cubes of turnip cake in XO sauce with sprouts. Good and all, but I was longing for traditional squares of turnip cake.
Bao as white as snow.
Fried salt and pepper tofu. Simple. Lovely. Note the bits of garlic which yield a welcomed bitter note atop the delicate flavor of the tofu.
The fried dumplings are really the most exciting thing at The Kitchen for me. Sure, everything’s good there, but it’s the texture of the crust of their deep fried dumplings that thrills me most. It’s a crisp yet chewy crystalline crust that sticks to your molars. Wowzers.
After dim sum, I drove Schlebs even further east into the San Gabriel Valley to Noodle House on Las Tunas, home of another unique dumpling. These fried buns have doughy angel-food cake consistency with a fried crisped bottom (now on top as they flipped them out of the pan, where they’d been arranged in a ring). The filling is ground pork and corsely chopped onions. These dumplings are, like takoyaki, texturally enlightening. And they absorb the souped-up soy sauce like true winners. Jonathan Gold described them in his review: “It is never too early at Noodle House for the delicious fried bao, fluffy, steamed pork buns sizzled until their bottoms crisp up like eggs fried in oil and the jellied juices of the pork heat and melt until they are pressurized enough to rocket across the table the moment that your teeth breach the substance of the dough. The buns, a lucky eight of them, are served browned-side up, arranged into a bao fairy ring connected by a gauzy scrim of batter. You detach a bun and dunk it into a bowl of spicy garlic-infused soy sauce. The sauce-saturated pastry assumes a soft, mousseline texture; the soy mingles with hot porky essence; the buns seem to hop into your mouth one after another as if propelled by an alien force.” Anyway, the good news is they were delicious. The bad news: Noodle House is changing ownership in early June, and it’s unclear if the menu is going to stay the same. So gather ye bao while ye may, dumplings are still a-fryin’.
On Sunday, May 11th, I picked up T-Haste for a micro-tour of some of my SGV Chinese favorites. Just west of New on Valley, sits one of my favorite dishes in all of Los Angeles: THE BEEF ROLL
The beef roll is served at a couple places now in the SGV that I know of (Mandarin Deli and Noodle House both serve it). The best iteration is the one prepared at 101 Noodle Express. Sure, Jonathan Gold describes it perfectly - http://www.laweekly.com/eat+drink/counter-intelligence/lets-roll/12775/ - but let me explain. This thing is a giant delicious beast of a dish. If one could call it a sandwich, it’d be one of the top 5 sandwiches in the L.A. metropolitan area, no questions asked. The beef roll is: 1. thick pieces of tender dry beef (it has the consistency of steak-ums, but the flavor is exquisite), 2. sliced scallions and cilantro, 3. a liberal brushing of hoisin-esque paste, and 4. all of it wrapped within a pita-thick homemade pancake (imagine the texture of the greatest Shanghaiese scallion pancake you know). Anyway, it’s great. Sublime. Transcendent. Worthy of 3 or 4 heavenward fist pumps in exaltation of its greatness. Call me, and I’ll take you there. Anytime you want.
The gentle-flavored pork and pumpkin dumplings sort of faded into the background, being in the shadow of the almighty BEEF ROLL. T-Haste and I jumped in the car and headed to Mei Long Village. And I forgot to take pictures of their wonderful Xiao Long Bao (soup dumplings).
Shanghai Rice Cakes always makes for a good dish. But at Mei Long Village, excellent. In my opinion, the best in town. The rice discs themselves are chewy like al-dente pasta; drenched in a full pork and soy flavor. Some greens, bits of cabbage and pork.
We saw a Volvo T-5R in the parking lot. In yellow. The same car I drove in my teens. Awesome to think this car is over ten years old. Has that much time gone by? Yep. For dessert, we headed over to Chung King.
We had the tai an water boiled fish and the fried chicken with pepper. But alas, no photographic evidence.
On Sunday May 18th, JLebs and I headed out to Alhambra in the SGV, to try a Shanghaiese place apparently named WOK & NOODLE. This restaurant doesn’t have an English name on its sign/door/menu. But we found it.
http://www.yelp.com/biz/wok-and-noodle-alhambra
Shanghai Rice Cakes. The rice cakes themselves were more tender than the ones at Mei Long Village or Din Tai Fung. While not as firm in texture, the wonderful savory Maillardian flavor quite similar to Mei Long’s. The crisp cabbage provided the textural contrast, although it also gave a hint of bitterness to the dish. Lovely, a more delicate rendition of a fav.
Sauteed Eel. I’ve been recommended this dish a couple of times in Shanghaiese restaurants and always find it a little lacking, the starchy full-flavored sauce’s salinity overtaking the rest of the dish. The slivers of ginger were a nice touch.
Wuxi spareribs. Deep fried chunks of spareribs, bathed in a red sauce, and dotted with sesame seeds. These were a little sweeter than I’m used to, but the sauce unsurprisingly coupled so perfectly with the pork. There’s a reason people like pork and pineapple together, yo. Or don’t mind the pancake syrup runneth’ing over onto the bacon.
This is what Xiao Long Bao are supposed to look and taste like. Handmade dumpling skins. These were exquisite. Broth within was a vibrant stage for the delicate flavors of the pork filling.
Everyone else seemed to be getting the spring rolls. We learned why. They’re what I always imagined a spring roll to be, but never had actually found. Search is over.
Fried and Steamed bread. Very distinct in their texture. The fried bread was like a beignet, just crisp on the outside, and pillowy enough within to sop up sauce. The steamed bread was pretty mild in flavor.
A look inside the fried bread.
Call them fried dumpings. Call them potstickers. Call them anything you want. I’ve been eating fried dumplings since I was a kid, and have always loved them, especially the tripartite nexus of the crisp bottom coupled with the chewy top, and the rich filling within.
Wok & Noodle is cheaper than most other Shanghaiese restaurants in the SGV. And I’ll definitely be going back soon to try some of the great-looking noodle dishes. What Wok & Noodle lacks in decor, it makes up for in great service and even greater dumplings.
Where will I eat this weekend? Time will tell. Much much love, Eric
The Kitchen
203 W Valley Blvd
Alhambra, CA 91804
(626) 289-4828
Noodle House
46 W. Las Tunas Dr.
Arcadia
(626) 821-2088
Open Tues.–Sun. 7 a.m.–9 p.m. Cash only.
101 Noodle Express
1408 E Valley Blvd
Alhambra, CA 91801
(626) 300-8654
Mei Long Village
Category: Chinese
301 W Valley Blvd Ste 112
San Gabriel, CA 91776
(626) 284-4769
Chung King
1000 S San Gabriel Blvd
San Gabriel, CA 91776
(626) 286-0298
Wok and Noodle
Alhambra
828 W Valley Blvd
Alhambra, CA 91803
(626) 588-2284
I was home for Passover. Awesome. At 4am, on Monday 4/21, I get to the JetBlue Terminal (JFK) in NYC for my trip back to Los Angeles, only to find out that I’ve made a HUGE MISTAKE. I am not on the 6am flight to Burbank. I have a ticket for the 6pm flight. I’ve never made this dumb mistake before in my life. I fly JetBlue quite often (4-8 times a year), and find it to be a convenient airline, especially to avoid the Clusterfuck of LAX. Pardon the language, children… I get in line to talk to the person at the ticket counter. After 10 minutes in line, I step up to the counter. The woman explains that I can only fly standby for the flight directly before mine (3:50pm). Ugh. Okay, well, how much to be on the 6am flight to Burbank? It’s full. Okay, how much for the flight to Long Beach? $437 plus a change fee (which I think is 50 dollars but I could be wrong). $437? I’ve already paid for a ticket. How can they charge me this much on top of it, for a seat that likely will go unoccupied? $100? Fine. $200? Steep, but do-able. But I’m not about to spend $500 to fly into the wrong airport. I ask the woman, is there any other option, I’m a regular Jet Blue Customer- “Next!” she interrupts. I wasn’t finished talking. I realize it’s 4 in the morning, but this struck me as pretty f’ing rude. She could care less about my predicament. You know, for a company that claims to be pretty proud of how it treats its customers, JetBlue’s policies about changing flights have continually struck me as pretty awful. Especially with their AwardsFlights. Great, I fly JetBlue 6 times or whatever to earn a free flight. But then finding a flight where there are Awards seats available proves incredibly problematic. And then, if you book at a weird time, and try to change it, they’ll tell you, you can only change an Award flight the day of the flight itself. Sorry to rant about the rude inexcusable counter service, because regardless of it all the answer seemed to be in line with how JetBlue works. If you’re curious why I’m going to give Virgin America a try, it’s because of my experience April 21st. Anyone else have JetBlue issues?
So there I was. At JFK airport. Hours to kill. I thought about heading back into the city, but I was already exhausted from waking up at 3am to get to the airport. I decided to go get a hotel room.
A pigeon.
Taxi line. No taxi’s to take me into Manhattan. This is when it struck me I should just get a hotel room and nap.
I took the Airtrain to Station C: Federal Circle. Where I’m going to meet the shuttle from the Courtyard Marriott.
An Airtrain in the night as I wait for the Hotel Shuttle. The shuttle comes and the driver is superfriendly. He takes me to a gas station, so I can buy some bottled water and aspirin.
Yes, Eric of alexandericinla.com fame has stayed in Room 405 at the JFK Marriott.
Forcing the smile.
6 hours later, I wake up. No smiles.
The view.
Dunno.
I went on a walk to a nearby park, sat on a bench, and did a few hours of work via cell phone and blackberry. And it wasn’t so bad at all. In fact, it was a beautiful day. And I found myself relaxed as I sipped my coffee, watching the birds.
I flew standby on the 3:50 flight, and got seated next to a foodie. We watched Andrew Zimmern together and then talked about L.A. sushi for an hour, which led to a talk about Sushi Daiwa, and then told her all about Mt. Ishiwari.
How does one, let alone a Christian, respond to the incredible suffering that’s going on in Myanmar and China? This has been on my mind of late, especially w/r/t the kingdom of God that I profess is here now and will come in fullness sometime soon. One of my favorite websites is Debunking Christianity. It’s run by former ministers who at some point stopped believing in this stuff (whether or not they were ever “true Christians” or merely “false converts” is a long theological discussion for some other time). In any case, a blogger linked to a much too brief email dialogue between Bart Ehrman and N.T. Wright. What I found particularly interesting was what Ehrman had to say about the kingdom of God in light of suffering in the world:
“But leave aside the question of whether it is sensible to think the kingdom really, actually, is ever going to come. How does one see it manifest in Jesus? In fact, it is not simply in his “obedience” (and suffering), as you intimate. I think you are reading the Gospels through the lens of Paul, rather than reading the narratives of the Gospels themselves. For the Synoptics, for example, the Kingdom is manifest in Jesus’ life and work: in the kingdom there will be no disease, no demons, and no death. Jesus manifests this kingdom in the meantime: he heals the sick, he casts out demons, and he raises the dead. This was not a message about some vague power of God breaking in at some period thousands of years hence. It was God breaking in now (in anticipation of its imminent appearance in power).
And is he? This I think is where we differ in a major way. In my view there is nothing to suggest that the Kingdom has arrived, even provisionally, in the coming of Jesus, in the way the Gospels themselves think (that in his coming the sick are healed, the demons cast out, and the dead raised). There are no fewer sick, demon-possessed, or dying now than before the appearance of Jesus (and his obedience and death). There are no fewer people born with horrible birth defects. There are no fewer lepers, blind, and lame. The multitudes are not being fed. The storms are not being stilled (think Katrina, for example).
Quite the contrary, the world goes on as it ever did. The writers of Matthew, Mark, and Luke did not expect this (nor did Paul). They saw the kingdom arriving with Jesus’ ministry, they saw his death and resurrection as the beginning of the end, and they expected the end to come in their lifetime – when God would overthrow the forces of evil and set up a kingdom in which there would be no more pain, misery, or suffering. Our actual history stands at odds with their expectation, our world of genocides, AIDs, malaria, unclean drinking water, leprosy, birth defects, hurricanes, Columbian mudslides that kill 30,000, Pakistan earthquakes that kill 50,000, Indian Ocean tsunamis that kill 300,000, and on and on and on.
I wish Jesus had brought the Kingdom. But the human race struggles along its not so merry way, with all its pain, misery, and suffering – biblically based hopefulness notwithstanding – world without end.”
