Les Paul.
1915-2009
From the New York Times:
“They were touring in 1948 when Mr. Paul’s car skidded off an icy bridge. Among his many injuries, his right elbow was shattered; once set, it would be immovable. Mr. Paul had it set at an angle, slightly less than 90 degrees, so that he could continue to play guitar.
In another testament to the sense of escapasim that we feel when we unabashedly sink into art, Tom Shone, former critic of The Sunday Times and author of “In The Rooms,” which focuses on alcohol/drug recover, writes about some of our favorite tormented authors. He posits that these individuals were able to approach the frontiers of their imagination, insidiousness, confidence, and neuroses primarily by relinquishing themselves to the bottle. And on the flip side, he explores what has happened to art — especially literature — since recovery, detox centers, Alcoholics Anonymous, etc. have become a more common and less taboo part of people’s lives.
Not too much of this article is exactly surprising (like how I should be thanking Hemingway not only for graceful dialog in literature, but also for helping to popularlize the delightful combination of absinthe and champagne). Artists are best when they allow themselves to be crazy. But especially as I have been paying more attention to the types of artists and creativity that fills Los Angeles’ cultural world, it provides a nother shade of thought to individual’s inspiration, or their method of allowing inspiration into their lives.
And it also does speak to the strength and stability sober and lucid artistry demands–the ability of an artist to reach and then surpass the standard parameters of normalcy, control and functionality for the sake of their work, and then return to a relatively stable, functioning lifestyle to thrive outside their artistic realm. It is a tough balance, to be sure, and one that I do not see too many of my peers execute successfully (the barista at one of my favorite coffee shops just gruffed in teasing frustration that her buddies with sunglasses on at the bar were up too late the night before on ruffies to be able to sit up straight; meanwhile, someone outside is yammering on about something unintellible, completely drunk off of his own artistic mojo. )
What can I surmise from the fact that I take the time and energy some mornings to ride my bike from one coffee shop to another and another and another to find a conducive place to work — entering the doors, scoping out the clientele more closely than I do the cleanliness of the pastry case, weighing the cost of a coup of joe against the art on the walls and the overall vibe of my surroundings — and ultimately, at the end of my 45-minute excursion around the east side, settle into an uncomfortable chair next to a tickle-happy vine along busy and noisy Sunset Boulevard for a cup of mellow iced coffee that toes the tongue with hints of blueberry, and shift uncomfortably for an hour while at least attempting to do some work?
a.) I have too much time and energy on my hands
b.) I am neurotic
c.) I should really just grow the diligence to write in my own apartment
d.) the Eastside of LA is sorely suffering from an inexcusable paucity of good coffee shops that fully serve their purpose (comfort, baristas that leave their douchey half at home, wireless internet, some food options, open space, and good coffee that isn’t priced like a crappy glass of wine.)
e.) all of the above.
ANSWER: e, of course
I’m from Orange County. Admitting to this never fails to make me wince slighly inside. Similar to one’s answer to the question “what was the first concert you ever went to,” a person’s hometown carries with it a measuremnt of cool-cred, despite the fact that you have little control or where you grew up, nor the foresight and perspective to choose your first concert carefully. Digress…
OC has LA beat in this area, if in few others. I can name two different places just within a few miles of my parents’ house (Gypsy Den in Santa Ana and The Lost Bean in Tustin) that I’d prefer any day over the options here.
Am I wrong for having such high standards? Am I just another spoiled OC girl? Or is it fair to expect a neighborhood such as ours, one which houses an impressive number of artists and freelancers and young adults who would rather pay for coffee and conversation than create it in their own apartments, to open up a really good coffee shop?
Answer? Likely, all of the above.
A friend of my recently lent me a collection of E.B. White essays that were initially published in the News and Comments and Talk of the Town sections of New Yorker, beginning in 1927 at the onset of White’s career, through the 1970s. As most individuals, my first interaction with White’s writing was through Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little. But as I flipped through the pages of the collection, I wondered how I could have passed over his essay writings so disinterestedly as I began to write more myself, and then longed nostalgically for an era that I never even experienced to begin with.
Recent editions of the magazine feature a Talk of the Town chalk-full with sly, smart commentary on happenings in the political, financial, environmental, social, and cultural worlds, and everything in between. All useful information indeed. And they all are – or at the least try their darndest to be – introspective, eloquent, terribly intelligent and witty, as are White’s from almost a century ago.
But White’s pieces are also, among other things, shorter. As such, they are forced to discuss lighter topics, are structurally free-formed, and evolve unconstrained by the pressure to honor a clear and appropriate introduction, a well-paced and well-supported argument, or a conclusion stated with clinching finality (a pressure that even some timid bloggers feel a need to do, apparently.)
E.B. White’s essays are little snipets into ordinary objects and thoughts and actions, approached with humor, creativity, and a broad aperture. Instead of focusing intently on a specific event that is happening around town as most current articles tend to do, White’s essays—and those by his fellow New Yorker writers in this early era—capture overarching themes that define our world just as much as do the fact-filled headlines in newspapers that inspire current articles in this section. As a result, White’s essays are just as valuable and informational as current New Yorker Talk of the Town pieces, and also manage to be absolutely and unfailingly delightful.
And it’s not that our current atmosphere does not allow for “mere” delight, porch-top witticisms. I suppose you just have to look elsewhere for them.
A great article from a top-tier shaman to foodies everywhere: “Out of the Kitchen, Onto the Couch.” The title says it all: Americans are spending more and more money on food, more and more time talking and reading about food, but less and less time actually in the kitchen. Some of it has to do with the change in woman’s role in the workforce; some of it has to do with television’s fluctuating market and sponsors; some of it can be traced to the development of our agricultural system.
It was an especially fascinating read for me since I’m currently working my way through Jeffrey Steingarten’s The Man Who Ate Everything, in which the lawyer-turned-Vogue-food-writer-and-Iron-Chef-America-judge considered this same topic and, despite the fact that he wrote this book in 1996, well before Rachel Ray earned her keep, before food blogs, and before the real explosion of foodie-mania, his predictions are spot-on.
Every other person I meet in Los Angeles is a self-proclaimed foodie, anxious to talk up the newest restaurant and their own kitchen inventions; to talk down the disappointment of a celebrity chef and the “true” merit of an uber hip and buzz-worthy eatery; and then to write or chat about all their insights as if they are experts. And I don’t shirk the blame either; my blog is proof that my hands are as dirty with truffle oil and goat cheese as the next person’s.
But I forget often, as I think many do, to not only talk the talk, and walk the map of a Los Angeles food aficionado, but also to slow down and really explore and appreciate this part of our culture for all its facets, impact, and possibilities.
This weekend, I had the opportunity to visit 55 Degree Wine in Atwater Village, which is housed in a small, brick-orange strip next to a Starbucks. The first floor is a narrow, rustic wine store displaying a small, careful, and economical selection of wines and spuds from throughout the world.
Then, in the back corner, down the dark stairwell and into the basement, is where the real appeal of 55 Degree emerges. Starting at 6pm on weekdays and 5pm on weekends, the store welcomes a young, casual and under-glorified crowd to their dim-lit underground den to try flights of wine, cheeses, and snacks (they also offer flights of beer on Sundays.) The back wall is made of a window looking in on the shallow but well-stocked storage area; and while the basement is a bit acoustically-challenged, it’s a perfectly cozy space for about twenty to thirty people to gather around barrels or wooden, rustic tables and unwind with a few decent, thoughtful drinks.
I took advantage of their special flight featuring three Portuguese wines that were decent, interesting and affordable. We also ordered a cheese plate to go along with the event. I’m not going to go into the wines mostly because, although everything was enjoyable, I didn’t try anything that really impressed me.
But going to 55 Degree reminded me that despite its reputation for being elitist and pretentious, wine tasting can actually play a crucial first step when someone begins to really understanding his or her palette. Working your way through a flight of very different wines, especially those that include both reds and whites, and genuinely taking the time to pay attention to and evaluate your experience with what you’re drinking, provides an amazing opportunity to learn how to satisfy and stimulate your taste buds with different flavors, textures, temperatures, etc.
Wine, even one-note, simple and playful wine like the glasses I had the other night, flirt with and awaken ribbons of sensations in your mouth. Beginning with the moment the drink firsts meets your tongue, as it coat the rest of your throat and then leaves its echo in your mouth after you swallowed, the taste continues to evolve and expand in different ways. And what you crave immediately afterward – something sweet, salty, crunchy, smooth, bready, crumbly, whatever—says worlds not just about the wine or about the food that you pair it with, but also about what is going on in your mouth throughout the experience.
We’ve got enough wine snobs and foodies in the hood. But there’s always room for folks who enjoy exploring the depth and complexity of our own palettes, who truly understand the appeal and possibilities of goat cheese and truffle oil and the tendency to put bacon on just about everything imaginable, and who can discern what’s merely a phase in current food crazes, and what is just downright good eating.
If you’re interested in buzz-worthy and/or just buzzed-about restaurants in Los Angeles, check out my article on Celestino Drago’s newest restaurant in downtown LA, Drago Centro, published in the June edition of Food & Beverage Magazine.
In a way, getting fired from your job in this climate is a nerve wracking, humbling, achey-brakey, tender experience. In another way, it’s incredible. The event can unify you with one out of every ten other people around you in an age when society seems more fractured and isolated than ever before; it can shove you out of a role that, in many cases, you didn’t really enjoy to begin with, forcing you to rethink and reorganize your life like so few of us ever dare to do; it can make you more resourceful, and more respectful of the priorities you have set for yourself.
I was not “fired.” But alas, I find myself this Thursday morning gratefully lounging on my bed in jeans and a sweatshirt as my ill-fitting and dull corporate clothes hang sloppily in my closet, scouring job sites, feeling goofily connected with the world — and feeling like I just got my face slapped harder than I have in quite a while. And where does my gaze of ambitions fall when confronted with this opportunity for reinvention, risk, and courage?
Writing. It always comes back to writing, a passion that I have largely ignored over the past 8 months (unsurprisingly, that is also the length of time I was working at my previous job. Hmm…)
Jason Jones from the Daily Show has a thing or two to say about that:
http://www.thedailyshow.com/video/index.jhtml?videoId=230076&title=end-times
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Some time has passed since I last posted anything here. There are many reasons – ones both significant and silly – for why I turned away from this medium recently. But tonight of all nights, I am feeling full and warm and grateful for the many dining experiences I have had over the past several months. I will not go into them here. I will, however, take this fleeting moment of inspiration to do a quick review of the restaurants I’ve tried, regardless of the fact that most if not all of these spots have been written about elsewhere. Because it’s not just about the food, it’s about all that life-stuff that happens around a meal. And that’s worth documenting.
Lou’s on Vermont:
If you have any prejudice against wine bars for being stiff or intimidating or haughty, this place will discount them all. The décor is a motley and charming, with wood, chalk, and Asian accents throughout; the plates of food are like piñatas of flavor combinations exploding in your mouth; and a decently-priced flight of three wines can take you from a field of strawberries to your mom’s favorite perfume to a wet stone in a mute forest in a matter of minutes.
(Tried and recommend: farro, flights of wine, savory tart)
Edendale Grill:
We were looking for a light snack at the end of a long weekend; we ended up in this dark, tavern-lounge-like space where everyone seemed comfortably underdressed for the scene. Cocktails, butternut squash salad, and a not-so-light but absolutely scrumptious chicken pot pie ensued. It wasn’t what we wanted, but somehow it hit the spot. Good food and a rare type of vibe for Silver Lake.
(Tried and recommend: whiskey cocktail, chicken pot pie)
Caroussel:
Honestly, I don’t love this place. I have a problem with food that leaves me with a measureable pool of oil at the bottom of every bowl I’m served, no matter how “authentic” or tasty it may be. However, the babaghanoush and eggplant are fabulous, and the falafels are a perfect balance of crunch, seasoning, and flavor (and I don’t even really like falafels.) And the snooty service is a front, do not fear; if you just tease the waiter enough, he’ll break down eventually.
(tried and recommend: vegetarian plate with a little bit of everything)
The York:
I’m not an expert on the “best of” anything in LA; I simply haven’t been enough places to take this stance. But OHMYGOD does the York serve one damn good burger, with spicy harissa sauce that’ll start dripping down your fingers upon the first bite. Most of their gastropub menu seems worthy of a try as well, including toasted beets with burrata, fried garbanzo beans with olives and nuts, and truffled mac ‘n cheese. And of course they’ve got a respectable selection of beer and wine.
(tried and recommend: cheddar burger!)
Akasha:
I have a soft spot for this place because of its sustainability-minded ethos and its embrace of Indian fusion food. But biases aside, I maintain that Akasha serves some of the most reliable New American cuisine in LA. It’s a bit pricey, but refreshingly buzz-worthy. I’m also looking forward to the next time I can make it over to the West Side in time for their happy hour (1/2 priced small bites and their fantastic cocktails till 7pm.)
(tried and recommend: ginger cocktail, butternut squash gnocchi, Asian shortribs, salty caramel dessert)
Speranza:
I’ve always wanted a porch. One to read on late into the afternoon; to have a beer on while watching cars pass by; to host a meal with friends and bottles of wine. You will probably be more satisfied with a bowl of pre-packaged pasta and marinara sauce that you can pick up at Vons than with the food at Speranza. But for the time being this is the closest I can get to dining with buddies on someone’s front porch, and that’s worth a nod.
(Have tried and recommend: getting a good bottle of wine and filling up on their free olive tapenade at the start of the meal.)
Messob:
I have a feeling that running into Kelly from The Office and Marky Mark (at Babies R Us of all places) immediately before dining here only worked to enhance the flavors of a crisp beer and hearty, flavorful (but not in that attacking sort of way) assortment of vegetables. But I think a less star-studded trip back could stand on its own as well.
(tried and recommend: lentils, beer, fried appetizer samosa type thing)
Flore Cafe:
I was a bit disappointed the first time I came here, actually. After hearing some chatter about their bean burger, I was looking forward to trying a new, juicy take on an easily-butchered vegetarian classic. This menu item, for me, is definitely not worth the $10. However, their Tempeh Tu-No Melt with creamy cashew cheese was fabulous, and renewed my curiosity about the other tasty-sounding items on the menu.
(tried and recommend: tu-no melt, carrot and ginger soup)
Loteria:
On a late Saturday afternoon when there aren’t many people around and I am beginning to feel the work week slip away, an aptly-potent margarita and a couple vegetarian and/or cochinita pibil tacos with a side of guac from Loteria is probably the best thing I could ask for. On Friday night the space turns into a total douche-fest and loses all its charm. Time wisely and this place is a gem.
(have tried and recommend: cochinita pibil tacos, potato filling, vanilla ice cream)
Mendocino Farms:
Again, this is an eatery whose imperfections I forgive easily because of their business approach: they buy locally-grown produce and honor the food with imagination and friendliness. The sandwiches are big and spritely, the menu is expansive (and vegetarian and vegan friendly), and the soups and side salads are fantastic. A great option when I feel like paying $10 for lunch.
(tried and recommend: Drunken Goat, secret sandwich of the month (peanut butter + caramelized banana for March), most of the side salads)
Ciudad:
Like many Angelenos, I am skeptical of paying more than $6 total for a Mexican meal, especially on white linen table cloths and served by folks in dress shirts and ties. So although Ciudad’s tamales are not worth the $28 the restaurant asks, they are quite good, as is their famous tortilla soup. And the $5 margaritas and half-priced appetizers during happy hour are a great way to finish off long work days in the office.
(tried and recommend: ceviche, margaritas)
101 Coffee Shop:
I feel like diners are the best place to connect with friends: you order some fries, a shake, a messy salad, a bowl of chili, and settle into a conversation that becomes just as comfortable, tried, and true as the food you’re eating. Diners that serve food that actually has distinct flavors, respectable proportions of ingredients (ex. tangible and identifiable pieces of squash in the veggie lasagna) and a period-honoring décor is even better. It’s the “Take Off Your Sunglasses” of restaurants or something.
(tried and recommend: sweet potato fries, vegetarian lasagna special on Wednesday night, portabella sandwich, nut n’ honey shake)
Las Glorias del buen Corner:
A little shed-like space on Silver Lake Boulevard with cute, vinyl table cloths, fake meat options, and truly delicious tortas and vegetarian burritos. It ain’t no Ciudad, but maybe that’s why I like it.
(tried and recommend: vegetarian burrito, tortas, chicken mole anything)
Cook’s Tortas:
I didn’t leave Cook’s cavorting about in torta-love as many other folks seem to. These sandwiches don’t really taste like authentic tortas; thanks in part to the delicious, sourdough bread the owner bakes fresh every morning and the open-minded combination of ingredients, they’re more like artisan sandwiches with Mexican (and Italian and Mediterranean and Californian) influences. In that vein, however, they stand strong.
(tried and recommend: the Californian, Ahogada, red fries)
I could say much more about these places, and about a handful of others I’ve been lucky enough to try. But there are two things that are painfully obvious from the this list: I need to 1) find some Korean, Thai, and Japanese places that are actually worth writing about, and 2) get out of Hollywood and Hipster-East-LA in my dining adventures. When dining out gets a little more painless, I’ll tackle those goals. But anyway, that’s the cap for now. Happy eating y’all.
Here’s a chart that shows my coffee bias over the years.
For good measure I have added my bagel preferences over the same period. (1) Drip coffee, (2) Starbucks, (3) blueberry bagels, (4) sesame bagels, (5) poppy-seed bagels, (6) everything bagels
Please don’t hold my brief affair with blueberry bagels against me. I cured myself of this aberration.
Once, after a grueling all-day design conference at a university, I was invited to dinner on campus. To go with the various delicious pastas, salads and quiches, coffee was served.
When you are craving a beer, coffee is the most disgusting drink in the universe.
