July 21st, 2007
All the dish: California suite—an L.A. story, starring six meals in 48 hours - Food Column - Restaurant Review
In a town like L.A., where restaurant experiences tend to be remembered more far who ate the meal (and with whom) than for such details as what was eaten, it Is easy to forget that the city is home to plenty of establishments worthy of ink in their own right. Just consider Michael’s, the Santa Monica restaurant credited with the birth of California cuisine, and one that is still, 23 years after opening its doors, giving countless happy diners the chance to experience the culinary equivalent of that famous Southern California sunshine each day, on both sides of the country (the restaurant opened a New York City satellite in 1989). With that in mind, I spent 48 hours in L.A., sampling the cooking at six carefully selected establishments., and ignoring the distractions presented by the not-so-occasional celebrity sighting, all in the name of coming up with a handful of breakout meal moments.
“Let’s start with something old Hollywood,” I suggested to my partner as we began our two-day culinary tour. I didn’t need to say more-within minutes we were pulling up before the red-carpeted portico of the Beverly Hills Hotel. Longtime fans of the establishment may still bemoan management’s decision to refurbish the place seven years ago but even these quibblers seem to be in agreement that for Mildred Pierce-era glamour nothing beats the hotel’s Fountain Coffee Shop. On the morning of our visit the tiny space was already packed, but we spied two open seats at the kidney-shaped counter and lunged. Maybe it was a Pavlovian response to the sight of the room’s conic banana leaf wallpaper, or maybe it was the smell of waffles in the air, but I was suddenly ravenous. in true Hollywood tradition, everything in the Fountain room is cinematic in its perfection–the bowls of berries behind the counter are plump and vivid, the pink linens set out before us perfectly pressed–and it’s a camera-ready quality that exten ds to the cooking as well. No sad, brownish omelettes here–ours (mine flecked with chunks of smoked salmon, Alfredo’s with steamed vegetables) were sunny yellow mounds sparkling with just the right amount of butter. Similarly, bacon was lean, crisp and flat as collar stays, while hash browns, awaiting their turn alongside the griddle, were impeccable, browned-to-golden-perfection patties. But breakfasts greatest moment came at the end of the meal, in the form of the restaurant’s famous pecan waffle-an airy confection dotted with ground pecans and accompanied by small jars of warm maple syrup. Suddenly, L.A. was the capital of breakfast.
1:45 P.M., LUNCH: JOAN’S ON THIRD
8350 W. Third St., 323-655-2285
When an L.A.-based friend (and gourmand of longstanding) tipped me that he often orders lunch from a tiny place that reminded him of the early years of that NYC uber-market Dean & DeLuca, it was all I needed to hear. What he didn’t tell me is that, with just a small number of marble-topped cafe tables inside (and a handful out), anything but takeout during the busy lunchtime crunch requires as much negotiation as driving down Sunset on a Saturday night. Being New Yorkers, this proved less daunting than choosing what to eat–there’s a lot to tempt you here. Offerings at Joan’s change daily, with sandwiches listed on a blackboard in the center of the room, and salads and baked goods announced by their presence in the cases or atop the long marble counter. I chose a sandwich of Venetian coppa, provolone and olive paste, piled with greens on crunchy French bread. Along with a small side serving of curried chickpea salad, it was everything my friend had promised. After hemming and hawing, Alfredo opted for a Chine se chicken salad, somewhat less waistline-conscious (read tastier) thanks to the presence of fried chicken slices and crunchy Chinese noodles. After, there was the temptation presented by mountains of homemade desserts; but still feeling the effects of the morning’s earlier excess, we opted for a small bag of Joan’s own perfect peanut brittle and called it a day. . . until dinner.
10:30 P.M., DINNER: MASTRO’S STEAKHOUSE
246 N. Canon Dr., 310-888-8782
In this time of raw food fascination, word that one of L.A.’s hottest new restaurants was a steakhouse from the old school was something I had to check out for myself. After a short drive and a few wrong turns we pulled up in front of Mastro’s glass awning, handed our car keys over to the valet and walked inside. Given the buildup, anything less than Russell Crowe sitting at the bar would have been a disappointment. I was disappointed. A quick scan of the front room revealed a fairly unimpressive-looking crowd. What’s more, the power-generated sounds of live music from the upstairs dining room and a decor that had all the allure of a Maurice Valency showroom hardly matched my image of where young Hollywood was spending its Friday nights. At Alfredo’s urging we were shown to a table at the quieter downstairs dining room, ready to chalk the evening up to a mistake. My roomy and upholstered seat was promising, however, as were the oversized menus–details that seemed in keeping with the ‘fat cat’ tradition of Am erican steakhouses. The menu options sounded enticing, too; so enticing, in fact, that I turned to our waiter for help. “The Kansas City Strip,” he told me without hesitation. Our starters–the iceberg wedge with fresh creamy blue cheese dressing for Alfredo, a chopped salad dotted with pimento, radicchio and fresh hearts of palm for me–were impressive, as were the king crab legs Alfredo selected. And the steak? Our waiter had not steered me wrong–the generous cut (it could have fed two) was perfectly prepared, with a well-seasoned outer crust and cool, red center. Having found our rhythm, we stepped up to the plate for dessert, ordering slices of pecan and key lime pie, two giant servings that were confoundingly airy, despite ample amounts of butter and sugar. I loosened my belt a notch and congratulated myself on a job well done.