Simply, if you look up this wine and find this page, we just want to add our voice to say “go for it, it’s good!”. We had this at Saint and Second in Los Angeles (good restaurant, btw)

A little about this wine…

This 2019 Narcisse Pinot Noir comes from Soliste, a tiny Sonoma Coast producer run by ex-sommelier Katy Wilson. She named it after the narcissus flower, which feels right for such a delicate wine.

The Sonoma Coast is Pinot heaven – all that fog and cool ocean air keeps the grapes happy. 2019 was a stellar year out there, and it shows. This has that classic Sonoma Coast vibe: silky, bright, with layers of fruit that aren’t overdone. Wilson doesn’t mess around with heavy-handed winemaking – she just lets good fruit from great sites speak for itself.

It’s exactly the kind of balanced, elegant Pinot that made Sonoma Coast famous.

John and I have been threatening for years to go to Thomas Keller’s French Laundry up in Napa. Way back when, you had to phone at midnight 30 days before the day you wanted for your dining experience, or be an Amex black card holder, or know someone important, or join a wait list. And we did get in via the wait list. That was when it was about $200 a person for the multi-course prix fixe menu and we were bringing our then-5-year-old. We did not go. The schedule just didn’t work. Always tough during the summer because of our Paris tour business.

For John’s birthday this year, it was past time to try the place. Nowadays you just choose a date in their calendar, put yourself on the list, and wait to be notified that a place opened up. It’s $440 a person now without drinks. I signed up for Memorial Day. Got in. Late May, got in. June 25, 27, 28. Got in. Pro tip. You are going to get in. Thomas Keller does not cook there anymore, and we were starting to feel like bridge-and-tunnel kids who got into the club after the beautiful people had long ago moved on to the Amsterdam deejay in That Basement You Had to Know About.

We have had amazing food in Manhattan (Balthazar in its prime), a random Alain Ducasse private meal in a clubby upstairs room with just ten tables in Paris back in 2010 or so, a multi-course meal at the nicest hotel in Champagne. The latter two were for business. I had meanwhile started researching where ex Thomas Keller chefs had ended up. Let’s be there ahead for once instead of behind! Keep in mind we are Top Chef watchers (I love it, John tolerates it.). He hated Padma, now misses her. Complicated guy.

I found Bell’s in Los Alamos, which is not in New Mexico, but 20 minutes north of Los Olivos in Santa Barbara County. 90 minutes north of us with no traffic. I looked at the website, learned about Daisy and Greg Ryan’s history at Keller’s Per Se in New York, and decided we had to try it. I picked a time on John’s actual birthday weekend and got right in. Was that good or bad?

You know the pressure of a birthday dinner. It can be laughably bad and make a funny story, it can be adequate (the worst), or amazing (oh so rare). John decided his birthday weekend, part of the general birthday week philosophy we have around here, would involve adding to our Santa Barbara County wine collection, and not by going to Total Wine. We slugged through Saturday noon traffic, exchanging “we should have left earlier” barbs. Coupledom.

You pass through strawberry fields, avocado groves, the towns of Oxnard, Ventura, Carpinteria, take a winding road inland, skip Ojai (yes, we love Ojai), skip Solvang (Danish adorableness and pastries), skip Buellton (pea soup fame, for some reason) Chumash Casino (not our thing) and get to the very cute little western town where you can taste and buy lots of great wines and everyone stops serving at 5. It is not a party town. And anyway, dinner was to be at 5.

We found parking (it is not hard) on the “new” side of town and commenced visiting favorites like Dragonette, Donnachadh, Storm and Holus Bolus.

We worked on a puzzle in one tasting room, and, at another spot, petted a winemaker’s puggle as he discussed his grapes, harvesting, and his eminent wife, one of only 300 Masters of Wine on the planet. Her pet project wine is called Wine Slut. We bought two bottles of this fun and tasty red. Of course.

The tension was building, and also, we wanted to avoid being too tipsy. It was time to eat. We passed through a pretty valley of vines and found easy parking in Los Alamos. Stopped in a tumbledown tasting room with a crotchety server. Not the fun kind of crotchety. The crotchety kind of crotchety. Gladly moved on to Bell’s, which was right next door. Greeted like family, given the best table and presented with menus that said “Happy Birthday”. Aaaah. They thought it was The Day. John cutely changed the date.

It’s $110 a person. Drinks additional. No cocktails, beer and wine only. We let our server choose a crisp white for me and an interesting red for John. The waiter was a food nerd in his 40’s who had gone to culinary school and worked kitchens in Austin. He had lived in and around Houston. We discussed this. “That’s real life. This is not real life.” I knew what he meant, and I knew he meant it as a compliment. As if he was pinching himself he worked here.

Our opener of caviar and sea urchin came. Server said “cut in half, don’t just down it.” Good advice. Amazing. On to bread, cultured butter (the Romans loved cultured butter – it verges on sour, not for everyone) and local lettuce. Too simple? Not a chance. It was great.

Then we picked two of three choices of all the courses so we could spread our bets. Anchovy and peaches? It more than works. Shrimp on a garbanzo bean pillow? So great. John proclaimed the tortellini the best he had ever had. Our waiter said with his slight twang, “well Daisy does love vegetables.” We discussed how blue the steak should be and John got persuaded off blue and into rare. The steak was perfect. Desserts had a house signature of sweet, salt and spice – a pimento cracker, for example, with sweet plums.

The meal finished with a slice of vanilla cake with a candle. John made a wish. A nearby mom sang in a whisper to her 30ish son who did not want a loud Happy Birthday – we counted three birthdays at least. It’s that kind of restaurant. Friendly but for special times.

John’s assessment “best restaurant meal I have had in America. ” Me: “they are true perfectionists, but friendly about it – thankfully”. Bell’s has lunch from 11 to 3 and dinner from 5 to 8:30. Dinner is only prix fixe, with choices that can please meat people and veggie people. Lunch is a la carte. Food is French-California fusion, designed for wine pairing.

Highly recommend.

Address: 406 Bell Street, Los Alamos, CA 93440

Website: www.bellsrestaurant.com

Well it’s mysterious.

I somehow suggested Ojai for a little day trip before being home for New Year’s eve, like most suburbanites tend to do.

John and I had been to Ojai a few times before, approaching via the 101 freeway exit near Santa Barbara. When you do that you have to will yourself away from the ocean, over the mountain range and consciously forego Sant Barbara’s bustling State Street’s big pedestrian area. It ain’t easy. Within an hour of where we live, we can go to Old Town Pasadena, Carpinteria (but our favorite restaurant there is long-shuttered and the beer tasting pub has no decent food), or Solvang, the cute Danish pastry/Christmas destination, or Los Olivos for wine tasting.

We are already on the same side of the mountains that parallel the California coast from Mexico to Oregon as Ojai. John hit the map function on his phone, finding a back road, taking us the pretty, farmland way. Avocado groves, avocado groves, lemon groves, orange groves, avocado groves, lemons, lemons, lemons. Steady sunshine and irrigation has made this citrus heaven since the 1920’s. Not a lot of guacamole demand back in the 20’s so avocadoes are quietly taking over. I would not be surprised if the dry creek bed scenes in “Chinatown” were shot out Ojai way.

Once you get through the switchbacks of Balcom Canyon (our own mini road to Hana) you are practically there. Halfway through Balcom, we got to see our own nature documentary as two coyotes, in broad daylight, went after a lagging cow. Don’t worry the bull came a runnin’ and the coyotes literally high-tailed it.

“Just seeing that made my day,” sez I. “”That’s it? Fine, let’s head home.” Ok smart ass.

Passed through our local farm towns of Fillmore and Santa Paula, both rough around the edges. Suddenly we are in the gateway of the very lovely Ojai Valley. Ojai is a Chumash Indian word meaning either “the nest” or “valley of the moon”. That’s a pretty big variance in translation. How about “really pretty”? Passed an honor stand where we bought the lone orange/giant tangerine for a quarter (have not eaten it yet.)

It being an odd Tuesday we wondered would it be jammed or what? We found an easy parking spot off the main drag and passed the very adorable Three Birds breakfast cafe. John was tempted. He loves, I mean loves, breakfast. I was holding out for different, or at least not the first place we saw. Two doors down was the very adorable, yes I already said that, but this place was…. very adorable. Pixies General Store had two chatting moms behind the counter and Christmas ornaments 40 percent off. I said hi and started wandering. One mom calls out “Christmas is 50 percent off.”

“Better than the sign,” I said.

“I like you,” she said.

How to make a sale! Bought two ornaments and some locally made chutney. The mom ringing me up was not named Pixie. Pixies are the local, much-loved, multi-seeded, very sweet tangerines that land around March.

Parked for ten minutes and already carrying something. We stopped into a fancy olive oil store which was clean as a science lab, but the aproned staff very friendly, like everyone in town, it seems. Little tasting cups were parked by dozens of flavored oils and vinegars. “Taste as much as you want”. How to make a sale, part two! You can get your eventual choices in small, medium, regular and probably giant, bottles. We went for the below three. The nice clerk gleefully closed our bottles with her heat sealer. “It’s fun every time, ” she said. John has been reading up on the messy, fraud-filled olive oil business, and the two of them talked about how the oil is local and vetted.

Now we were carrying even more. We poked along the main drag and what should happen by but a very adorable trolley. Yes I KNOW, I keep saying that. It was very adorable!

It was not even a stop but the affable driver pulled over and invited us on. He was a middle-aged surfer type. “Dollar-fifty a piece.” Cash? I dug in my purse and found a five and two singles.

“Two bucks is fine, put it in the cash box.” I handed it to John who put it in the box. It’s one of those couples things.

“Where ya from?”

John: “Thousand Oaks, not far. Perfect weather today.”

“Yeah we go down to TO. Nice mall. Where ya headed?”

“We’ll ride for a while.” Somehow the subject of the Ojai Valley Inn came up and we figured out it’s a couple blocks ahead, so let’s go there. Yeah, we do travel for a living but when we do stuff on our own we avoid research, maps and plans. When it comes to amazing hotels in the area, we’d done San Ysidro Ranch, El Encanto and the Four Seasons in Montecito. All stunning experiences.

As we rode, another middle-aged surfer type local gets on, did not pay as far as I can see, and soon was chatting with the driver. He vividly recalled seeing a surfer movie starring local surf sensations the McClintock brothers many years ago and how he was so enthralled with the movie he kept reaching into the popcorn of the stranger next to him. Unlike over the mountains in fancier Santa Barbara, or over toward the Chumash casino and Solvang, Ojai has that old California feel, more hippy than techie. The driver was nodding along amiably to the local’s story, but sharply pulled over.

“Ojai Valley Inn right over there.”

We got off with Happy New Years all around. We walked down a lovely lane, passing tennis courts and a few private homes, mature trees. Slight breeze, 75 degrees. California perfect. In summer Ojai is notoriously hot – too far from the ocean. Not today.

We passed a family of hotel guests dressed for a walk and they asked us the way to town. It happens in Paris, it happens in Ojai. We gave directions.

If the grounds were any indication, the hotel would be spectacular. We passed the gate guard who helpfully pointed out a path to the central compound. This is a rambling property and, as we neared the mission-style central area, we saw the placard “Historic Hotel of the World.” Lunch it will be! The on-site pub or the fancy place? Fancy place had the view. We ate, therefore, at The Oak. John got drinks in go cups from the pub in case there was a wait. We sat right down, rather miraculously. The place was jammed. Hotel had to be sold out. Kids and families everywhere.

I noticed an older son with his very elderly parents, meticulously dressed in head to toe Ralph Lauren shades of resort yellow and gold. The dad was wearing beautifully polished saddle shoes. Grateful we generally leave the house dressed slightly upscale unless it is as 100 degrees. The lunch menu was spa-ish, with quinoa and kale, not too many sandwiches, a lone burger and, as the fries passed by to another table, decent portions.

I call it country club menus. Middle of the road, something-for-everyone food. In high school, as I held out hope to be hired at our local mall (I got there), I was in the meantime a waitress at our neighborhood country club, thanks to my cousin being the catering manager. In Houston, there was the golf club where the oil company owners played, and the golf club where their employees played. This was the latter. I lasted three days thanks to the Sakowitz job coming through, but I still recall our manager’s mantra for getting tips.

“Heavy pour and plenty of fries.” Though members at the club signed for meals, they left modest tips under their plates. Our manager let us keep them. He was busy undercounting the frozen shrimp and steak deliveries and reconciling the numbers his own way.

I was considered a spy for upper management, and seemed to have taken somebody’s friend’s promised job. Just as well I left.

Meanwhile at The Oak, our waitress was a friendly single mom (and chatty, since that’s how we knew her story). She rounded up an off menu Chenin Blanc for me and another lavender vodka lemonade for John. We settled on tortilla soup (John) and roasted squash salad (me). They took forever and were pretty good. We ordered entrees.

A big quinoa kale salad for John and for me…..

Inner voice:
Don’t get the fish, not as many deliveries over the holidays.

Other Inner Voice:

This is a really nice hotel, top of their game.

Inner Voice:

Ask the waitress at least if it is local or what?

Other Inner Voice:

Mmm, Chenin Blanc.

“I’ll have the fish.”

I’ll spare you the sad photo of the sad fish. It did not make me sick at least. We were in a fun mood and did not feel like sending something back or complaining. Another time, maybe we would have.

We settled up and started the walk back through the grounds and to town. Visited the beautiful mission style hotel lobby for a last restroom stop. Exited the lobby to find one of the resort golf carts that ferry guests to their rooms pulling in.

“Let’s get a ride,.”

“Do you have at least 5 bucks for a tip?” John worked as a valet and gets it. I check – not only a five, but a ten.

The very nice driver took us to the edge of the property and pointed out a walking path that went right to town. Which we would never have seen otherwise. He got the ten and a Happy New Year.

We traded off schlepping the bag and made it back to Three Birds and the car. We got a tea and some shortbread for the road. Shortbread was delectable with a hint of tangerine.

Yes, that was the best place to eat. First place was best. Driving back we passed a lookout with a few cars. It’s near sunset and we have to get back for the pets, and for grandpa. Later we learn everyone at the look out was no doubt waiting to see the famous Pink Tinge as sun sets in the Valley.

Next time.

So, ordering food from the new food-market-Eately-wannabe, just a ten-minute drive away in Westlake Village, seemed appropriate. It’s filling the former space held by Asian-fusion Social Monk, as devised and owned by parent company Cheesecake Factory. A Mendocino Farms creator is part of the new venture, with outposts in Manhattan Beach and Pacific Palisades planned.

As a solution for families who can’t decide whether to go Italian, Asian, or salad-y, it’s hoping to be the place to go locally. Purveyors are Gaby’s, The Cheese Shop, Social Monk, The Flour Shop, and Mini Kabob, with off-the-shelf fresh pasta from Joan’s on Third in L.A. The small space has these few independent purveyors and a common kitchen, plus a small refrigerated case of meals to bring home and heat. Via the website, I ordered a taco salad, John ordered a deep-dish pepperoni pizza, Grandpa went for Kung Pao chicken, and Juliet got lemon ricotta pasta from The Cheese Shop. Plus, a giant side salad of arugula and parmesan for us all to share. No dessert and skipped the $5 cookies from The Flour Shop.

A traffic-less ride from our neighborhood to Neighborly took 7 minutes, so I actually had a wait. Greeters were crisply clad in aprons and very friendly. They had been open for five days. A chef stood outside the open kitchen with an army of sous chefs expediting orders. Very efficient. Let’s see!

Once home, we unpacked it all and used our own forks, with their better-than-standard-takeout plating—no dishes please. The pasta was pretty good. Pizza was good, but there are better dedicated alternatives like Parma Pizzeria in town. Taco salad was basically flavorless—spring mix salad instead of romaine or little gem was a soggy choice (while doubtless cheaper), and at the very least, black beans should taste like cumin, not the can. No actual taco chips—just chip crumbles. The Chinese food was greatly enjoyed by Grandpa. His highest compliment came forth, “Not spicy!” Side dressing sent along for the salads was in ungenerous portions and not special. A menu edited by accounting would not be a first in the corporate restaurant world. Prices were the same (or a bit more) as dine-in at most of our local places, so at best you save on tip and changing out of pajamas. It was ok but not amazing.

Back to home cooking for dinner. . . but Juliet stopped by the market side the other day and brought home some amazing honey mustard pickles. As they work out the kinks, we may well try again.

Located In:
The Promenade at Westlake

Address:
4000 E Thousand Oaks Blvd, Spc C1
Westlake Village, CA 91362

Website:
Be Neighborly

John suggested a Sunday run to Helms Bakery in L.A. Not for bread. It’s a giant converted industrial space from the 1920’s, at the edge of Culver City. Culver Studios, the Sony lot, various small production companies and loft spaces all are nearby, plus the adorable Culver City Main Street bar and restaurant area. Helms Bakery is a design center with furniture shops, eclectic collectibles and no doubt celebrity clients. We began with a fancy cup of tea from a kiosk, overpaid for a vintage rock and roll trivia book and prepared to browse. The vintage book booth manager had no single use bags so John took the book back to the car rather than carry it around. In the meantime I chatted with the manager and a customer with a cute little terrier. Emotional support animals are everywhere in L.A.

“Ratter?” I asked. The terrier looked just like a dog park regular whose owner discovered just how good a hunter hers was. That dog proudly brought a rat to her as she sat in her hot tub one night. Gradually she became aware of little glinting eyes throughout the bougainvillea surrounding the hot tub. As her screams subsided, the terrier really got to work.

“Oh yes”, said the other customer. “I bring her everywhere and on a trip to New York, she got loose during a walk one night and came back with a big rat.” I told the bougainvillea story. John returned as we said our goodbyes.

Fancy a rare wood block the size of a small country? Mmmm. No. We moved on to the man cave shop with giant leather couches and cleverly made bookcases. Did you want a chair built into what amounts to a cockpit? They have one. Another large section featured specialty teak wood that reminded me quite a lot of my parents’ Danish modern, but I would rally if John really, really liked it. He did not. Dodged a bullet there. The back room clearance area of nicked marble tops and whorled wood shiny finishes was a possibility. Still at least $1000, meaning really $10,500, what with an all new living room to match the rare wood table.

No Deal – Off to Margot!

Let’s eat instead. Drinks and upscale food will feel cheap by comparison!

Right on site there is a Father’s Office (stalwart fancy burgers, comfort food and drinks), a pasta joint where you line up and pick your sauce as disinterested staff serve you a la Subway, and a new bakery/breakfast spot with a long, permanent line outside. Said our tea server, “Oh that’s the shortest I have ever seen the line.” We opted to leave the compound and walk to a place we used to like.

Since we liked it, it could very well be closed. Let’s see, shall we?

Margot is at Platform, the little mall by the newish commuter rail line that connects the beach cities to downtown and beyond. Downstairs at the mall are typical curated shops – the ones that display 8-15 things and the clothes hang with lots of space around them. As in a fine art gallery. As in $700 sweatshirts.

Well, the restaurant is still there, with great drinks, tapas, crudo and a huge wide open space plus a patio. We’d been dealing with winds, so indoors we went. Above you see their fingerling potatoes with a house made paprika aioli and grilled asparagus (our favorite) with a stunning lemon/garlic ricotta cream. Naturally we had to have oysters. They were chilly, briney, fresh grated horseradish on the side, all you want in an oyster order, to the point that we almost cracked and ordered more. A little decadent, so we instead went for their albondigas in their own charred pepper tomato sauce. These pork meatballs were tender and spicy. When we have share plates, we measure how good something is by who fights for the last bite. It was a draw.

A solo waiter and one bartender were working the whole multi table space as no rush was expected before lunch on Sunday. We were patient, he was nice. I usually do a white wine without oak, butter or the grapefruit tang of a New Zealand sauvignon blanc. That’s surprisingly hard to find. In this case a dry Loire Muscadet was considered. The waiter brought a taste of Moroccan rose (thin, pass). The French Provencal rose was perfect. John did a vodka-based cucumber/mint cocktail called the Santorini, with a touch of something called mastiha. Turns out that is a resin-based Greek liqueur that gives a piney finish to drinks. He did not detect any Christmas candle flavor. Balanced was the report. And that was that for day drinking.

A really good food Sunday. We found it incredibly cute that each plate style was different. Homey plating with elevated food.

And no coffee table. Not even a $700 sweatshirt. But we have to go back to the west side, because IB Hospitality Group, which owns Margot, opened Juliet (our daughter’s name), a casual French fusion restaurant a few doors down. They also have Norah in West Hollywood. The mastermind of IB, I have since learned, is from Mumbai. How nice. L.A. gets the benefit of a world traveler who likes our weather and wants to feed us amazing food.

I admit I kinda like the table above…but how would the couch look with white Husky hair all over it?? And where do you put the remote and the tv for that matter??

Margot is at 8820 West Washington Boulevard Suite 301. Skip the Mexican and Italian joints downstairs and take the elevator up.

Bound for Wally’s, we passed our beloved high-end Mexican place that had closed. This was, what, maybe the fifth really nice restaurant we especially liked that had given up. Don’t invite us to your new joint—it won’t last. Our lamented spot had craft margaritas, house-made slow-roasted salsas with unique flavors like habanero and vanilla, and specialty tortillas. Sigh.

The empty space was now filled. Had a happy hour menu which we we were surprised by, given it was called Negroni Caffe (a coffee bar?) and Bistro (but had sushi, according to the menu). Now we had to go in.

We could choose a salad and entrée, menu seeming to lean vegan. I had a cauliflower concoction, roasted florets in a kind of soup, sauce, and purée—tasted good. John opted for a Mexican salad and a sushi course, while I chose an Italian chopped salad, hold the garbanzos. Since Negroni started in Argentina, spread to Paraguay, and has an outpost in Miami, of course they had sushi and chopped salad. Nope, I don’t understand it either. But we were enjoying it.

I had a glass of my standby Pinot Grigio, while John opted for an actual cocktail, since that is really their passion. He picked a Cacao Old Fashioned, fat-washed with organic cocoa butter. Say what? Fat-washing is a slow filtration process that imbues the liquor with flavor via the fat, explained the bar manager, who stopped by for a chat since the place wasn’t busy yet. Okay! I needed some fat-wash experience. John ordered me the Porn Star Martini, basically to be a wise guy—Tito’s vodka fat-washed with vanilla yogurt, blended with passion fruit, and finished with prosecco you pour in at will. It was delicious, and I was grateful not to be driving.

Time for one more eclectic dish to share: truffle carpaccio! Duh! That’s how they roll in Argentina via Miami. Forget the cheapo truffle-oil-on-meat vision you have in your head. This was actual, numerous, generous, thin-shaved truffle slices atop beef. The creamy component came from aerated aioli molecular gastronomy globes atop the beef, with parmesan shreds and chives to finish.

We loved it.

We’ll be back to get our world food and fat-wash fix again, thanks to Argentinian founder, restaurateur, and bar innovator Pablo Sartori’s latest foray.

For one thing, we never ordered a Negroni.

One of the more delicious things we make here around the house is ricotta pound cake.

It is our house, so you know, we can crisp the edges. Would never “over cook” this for sale, but at home? Scrumptious.

Goes great with a glass of cold milk so I’m told (I don’t touch the stuff without coffee).

It’s not called pound cake because you gain pounds when you eat it. It’s because in the old days, the rule of thumb for the recipe was a pound of butter, pound of sugar, pound of flour, pound of eggs.  This is not quite that….

Ricotta Pound Cake Recipe

Combine 1 1/2 sticks of softened butter with 1 1/2 cups of sugar and 1 1/2 cups of ricotta.   Once mixed, add 3 eggs and 1 tsp vanilla. Mix in 1 1/2 cups of flour and 2 1/2 tsps of baking powder. Add 1 tsp of salt. Once this thick mixture is combined, place in butter-greased loaf pan, preferably glass or ceramic. Bake at 350 degrees for about 65 minutes. Very brown edges are correct!

I found the original recipe somewhere a long time ago – I have no idea where. I’ve modified it so much that it is kind of ours now. If I find the original I’ll post it as well.

Here is a link to another version we like Alexandra’s Lemon Pound Cake.

We showed up at 5:45 to find a bearded owner/chef outside (not sure whether it was Shook or Dotolo), quietly yelling at some teens along the lines of  “my roof and don’t get on it, of course I called the cops.” Some graffitiing kids had broken his gas line.  The restaurant would not be opening until it was fixed.  The gas company was working on it as we spoke.   I took the opportunity to shake his hand and said we were excited to eat there.   As dolled-up couples showed up for their reservations, the situation was explained over and over.  The hostess brought out some house wine for any takers.  Juliet was given a lemonade and some cookies.  The hostess also confided she had a cancellation, so a table was ours.   Still,  the wait dragged on and we arranged to come back.  We went to the car and played a tough game of Go Fish. Juliet cleaned my clock using her uncanny ability to get exactly the right cards from my hand just as I was ready to pounce.

We returned and were whisked to a table ahead of  a few others.  Juliet called out a hello to Ashley, the manager who gave her the treats.  I suppose we were seen as insiders.  Too funny.   I toyed with getting the rabbit loin spring roll, and certainly the liver pate on toast, but with a child, unless you are a mean adult, you order one course and that will do it for patience, hunger and tolerance for doing a boring grown up thing. Juliet ordered  the flat iron steak with fingerling potatoes and artichokes, finished with a parmesan truffle oil fondue.   I cannot, and did not, resist soft shell crab, over scrambled eggs, sandwiched with a pureed salsa.  I got a glass of a decent French rose and we staved off hunger with a side of garlicky grilled bread, finished with salt.

Our waiter eyed the presence of a child warily.  C’mon dude.  Two tables down featured some glamorous parents out with their 3 year old and a 6 month old in a carrier!   Ashley saw to it we got our food quite quickly.  Juliet was admired for eating a medium rare steak.  She loved it but found the sauce “a little cheesy.”  Fair enough.  My crab, appropriately, had the liver, so I got a nice burst of mustiness as I ate.  That’s what you pay for at Animal, and I got it.

Animal Restaurant Review – Final Thoughts

Restaurants usually get complacent after being open a while and endlessly popular.   Animal Restaurant seems in top form, while also maintaining a friendly and unflappable vibe.  It’s a neat trick to turn over tables all night while  not seeming to rush your customers.  Very much a plus is their inclusion of sides with your entree.  Too many chefs see every dish as a chance for another sale.  Also appreciated by lots of tables the night we were there was the BYOB policy with a $20 corkage fee.

Today I made Barley Pea Soup, and the house already smells amazing.    I sauteed half a chopped red onion, a handful of chopped flat leaf parsley and 5 whole garlic cloves in olive oil, then browned the ham hocks on both sides. Then I added a 16 ounce package of a mix of of yellow and green split peas, white rice, barley and pasta pearls.  8 cups of water went on top, with a healthy couple of tablespoons of good bouillon paste (not the dry stuff in the cubes).   I brought it all to a boil and gave it a stir.  This will simmer all afternoon (with a lid on) until the ham falls off the bone.   If it’s hot out and you want a cozy feeling while you eat the soup, turn the a.c. up.  That’s what we do.