The Food and Music Club

Pigs & Pinot

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Thu, 29 Oct 2009 00:00:40 PDT

On Sunday, Miguelito and I hustled down to South Coast Plaza in Costa Mesa, Calif., to celebrate the birthday of a friend who turned 66. A momentous occasion called for an extraordinary meal. So we pulled into the high-end shopping center's parking lot in front of Charlie Palmer at Bloomingdale's. It also helped that the birthday boy is a good buddy of Palmer's.

The personal connection with the cooking maestro earned me a mini tour of the kitchen, where executive chef Amar Santana let me peep at one of the two -- count 'em, two -- suckling pigs that he prepared for our extravagant feast.

In tribute to Palmer's famed seminar, Pigs & Pinot, where participants spend a weekend in Healdsburg, Calif., learning how to make the most of the other white meat, Santana paired a Pinot noir with our dinner. (Our appetizer of seared foie gras with pears and apples was complemented by a Riesling.) Santana used every piggy part for our dinner. From left to right in the photo, my plate was filled with lentils, pork belly, crackling skin, polenta, sweet potatoes and shallots, Brussels sprouts roasted with bacon, mushrooms and a rillette of pig's ear stuffed inside pork belly.

DineLA Restaurant Week Ends Soon

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 19:55:12 PDT

This is the last weekend when you can take advantage of the prix-fixe deals offered at a number of pricey restaurants as part of DineLA Restaurant Week. Miguelito and I are heading to Ciudad on Friday to try the $34 three-course dinner. Half-glass pours of wine cost only $5. Ole!

Blogging Ethics

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Thu, 08 Oct 2009 12:50:16 PDT

The Federal Trade Commission devised a new batch of rules this week mandating that, starting Dec. 1, bloggers must reveal all the freebies, payments and perks they receive from advertisers. This makes sense. Still, the need to disclose isn't completely new to me as I've been following the Food Blog Code of Ethics as well as the rules of righteousness that I use in my day job. And on the few occasions that my night hobby poses a conflict of interest with my day job, I choose the latter. That's why I recently had to turn down a blogger boondoggle that packaged a night at a four-star hotel, meals with chefs brandishing shiny knives (not to mention marquee brands) and monetary incentives for tweets and prompt posts on my blog. Oh, how I missed out! But it only takes 30 seconds of bad judgment to ruin a career that was built over 11 years.

Baking at 3 in the Morning

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 14:24:45 PDT

Because Phammy works New York hours, she had to wake up at 3 a.m. in Seattle to bake her award-winning pie. That's the mark of a true foodie. Phammy shared the recipe for her 3 a.m. black strap rum peach pie so that everyone else can sleep in and bake at their leisure.

Black Strap Rum Peach Pie

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Tue, 29 Sep 2009 12:11:40 PDT

Photo from Queen Anne View

My friend Phammy is a Viet chick, journalist, mother of two and hostess of a Thanksgiving dinner that I always try to attend in Seattle. The reason I leave the mild fall in Southern California for the chilly wetness of the Pacific Northwest is because Phammy spends at least three days cooking a scarily ambitious but always yummy meal for no fewer than a dozen people. The rolls, pies, stuffing and whiskey cocktails are all made from scratch. No cheating, substitutions and shortcuts are allowed. All her efforts to be the perfect American housewife paid off Thursday night when she garnered the top prize at her neighborhood farmer's market's 1st Annual Blue Ribbon Pie Contest. Her son, Geddy, was on hand to help her celebrate. I hope the duo relives their special moment -- and recreates the award-winning pie -- for this November's gathering.

Living Large at Rivera

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Sat, 05 Sep 2009 19:19:20 PDT

I recently married a Latino. Miguelito is only a quarter Latino, diluted with Norwegian genes via Minnesota. But nonetheless, he's got the Diaz surname through his dad's side. My friend Isabel also recently married a Latino. For a get-together to dish on our first months of married life, Isabel and I decided to go to the most recently opened notable Latino restaurant in Los Angeles: Rivera. The restaurant's fancy facade was a giant aesthetic leap from the taco trucks that I'm used to frequenting.

I had never tasted the delectables that chef John Rivera Sedlar cooked when he worked at L'Ermitage, Bikini and Abiquiu. So I didn't know what to expect. I certainly didn't anticipate the bartender to light a drink on fire.

The beakers enhanced the mad scientist feel at the laboratory-like bar. The only thing missing was a white lab coat for the bartender to don.

The bar menu included a $14 bespoke cocktail. You tell the bartender what's your favorite liquor, and he'll whip up a special cocktail for you. I requested something with champagne, and I received a concoction called Death in the Afternoon: champagne mixed with absinthe and lemon juice.

The bar's coasters were quite utilitarian. Made out of paper, they were printed with recipes for Rivera's signature drinks, like the Barbacoa.

Isabel and I get along very well. That's partly because we're the products of immigrant families. While we're used to working hard, we also like to play hard and eat well. Foie gras, champagne and caviar top the list of our favorite foods. When Isabel saw that one of the appetizers on the menu paired potato chips with a habanero cream sauce and caviar, she felt vindicated. Her husband makes fun of her when she eats caviar with potato chips at home.

We also tried the tortillas pressed with edible flowers and avocado.

I smeared the habanero cream sauce with the guacamole on my tortilla.

We moved on to seared scallops with mango salsa.

I liked how the chef's trips to Macchu Pichu, Rio de Janiero and other parts of Central and South America influenced not only how he cooked his food but also presented it. He dusted what tasted like all spice in the silhouette of an Aztec mask. The seared black cod was so flaky and the serrano ham crisp provided a pleasant crunch. But the jicama strips were just too big and bland. It looked as if the cod was floating down a murky green river on a white raft.

The grilled quail was so crunchy. I felt like King Kong sucking on the little bones. But the black beans reminded me of azuki beans, smashed into a sweet paste for a Japanese mochi dessert. While I could understand the contrast between sweet mush and charred crispiness, the beans were just too sugary for me in this entree.

This is the most gourmet tamale I've ever eaten. Filled with braised pork short ribs, it was topped with hedgehog mushrooms.

The ceviche of ahi tuna, avocado, serrano peppers and lime juice was so refreshing.

Isabel and I ended our shared meal with Kurobuta pork chops and black carrots in a mole sauce. I had never had pork chops in mole before. I also never had Frida Kahlo's eyes stare at me during dinner. The cayenne pepper in the seductive garnish could serve as a metaphor for life as a newlywed: When things get a little heavy, sprinkle on some spice to re-open your eyes and put a zing into your step.

An Open Door to World Cuisines

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Tue, 25 Aug 2009 22:22:14 PDT

Open Door is an Asian fusion restaurant that isn't afraid to mix up genres, ingredients and common sense. Set in the heart of Monterey Park, Calif., home to many dim-sum and noodle restaurants, its walls are painted like giant ukiyo-e screens and the tree sitting in the middle of the 28-seat room is lit with electric candles.

But like any good izakaya, Open Door serves tasty food that goes well with sake and beer. You don't have to look any further than the mural on the back wall for a recommendation on what to eat and drink.

I had never seen this beer in Japan or the U.S. before.

If you didn't know that you were in the middle of a restaurant, you'd think that you were on a spaceship because of the way the sake bar is illuminated. The tanuki statue to the left, along with the Japanese subway station sign hung under the ledge, reminds you that you are here to eat Japanese cuisine.

But it wasn't traditional Japanese cuisine. Melted truffle butter was drizzled on the edamame for an earthy but crunchy start to the meal.

Tonight's whitefish sashimi was halibut. Basted in a ponzu sauce with tiny crowns of chopped scallions, the dish was my favorite of the night.

When I mentioned earlier that Open Door mixes common sense, I was referring specifically to the truffle tater tots served with ketchup and mayonnaise. Though some online critics raved about the tots, I couldn't quite get into them. There were too many memories of elementary school lunches.

The seared salmon tasted as if it was torched ever so gently with a blowtorch, just as the wagyu beef in the Philly cheesesteaks at Jose Andres' Bazaar were.

The tomato and onion salad was my second least favorite dish. The caramelized onions weren't mushy or sweet enough to my liking, and the tomato slices were too cold and hard. I would have preferred the whole dish to be roasted, with only the crunchy bonito flakes dancing frenetically on the tongue.

The black cod was cooked perfectly with a sweet sauce. The presentation, however, was rather odd. Was it supposed to resemble a boat, with the shrimp crackers resembling sails and the banana leaf serving as the steer?

The beef carpaccio arrived so late in the meal that the 15 of us at the table were trying to dump it onto the other person. I would have eaten more if the beef had been sliced paper-thin.

This was one of the best examples of Asian fusion cooking: Korean-style kalbi ribs with fried potatoes.

This was another favorite of the night: steak tartare topped with a raw quail egg.

This was the surprise hit of the night: potatoes with a dollop of cream and fish roe.

We tossed all the ingredients together in a hot cast iron pot with a wood spoon. I liked this so much that I am determined to improve my knife skills just so that I can julienne the potatoes and make this dish at home.

Open Door managed to fuse French, Japanese and Korean culinary traditions in its menu. It added another country -- Mexico -- with the cinnamon-dusted churros. The pastry's sweet crunchiness complemented the earthiness from the edamame and truffle butter that kicked off the three-hour meal. The fried flutes were like exclamation points ending a long, fun evening.

Guide to Food Trucks

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Fri, 21 Aug 2009 13:33:31 PDT

This handy guide to some of L.A.'s yummiest food trucks comes courtesy of Daily Candy. I love how Twitter has become a standard operating procedure for these mobile eateries, as indicated by the trucks' tweetability.

Food52

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 19:11:47 PDT

I recently joined an online community that is all about cooking. Founded by former New York Times food writer Amanda Hesser and her Le Cordon Bleu-trained co-author Merrill Stubbs, Food52 curates recipes submitted by members in a database and dispenses tips, videos and chatter all pertaining to cooking. Though I've already filled out my profile -- i.e., What is the strangest food you have ever eaten? (Balut eggs) Your ideal meal? (Anything shared with my husband) -- I've yet to post my recipes and submit a video tour of my kitchen. It should be interesting!

In the Know

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Tue, 18 Aug 2009 11:03:04 PDT

Los Angeles is home to a plethora of ethnic eats. But if you don't hail from a particular ethnicity, then it can be damn intimidating to figure out which spot is the best and most authentic. At a recent dinner organized by my foodie fashion friend, Johnny, I met the Rameniac (right in photo, next to the easily excitable Johnny). The Rameniac totes his ravenous stomach around the world in the quest of a piping hot bowl of ramen. After professing my love for Daikokuya, Rameniac said his favorite ramen joint in Southern California is Ramen California in Torrance, an industrial city lying about 30 miles south of L.A. "All the best Japanese restaurants are in Torrance," a tablemate noted. Why? That's because Torrance serves as the U.S. headquarters for many Japanese conglomerations, ranging from car makers Honda and Toyota to Tecmo, the video game company behind the “Dead or Alive” series. The reason the Rameniac highly endorses Ramen California is because the noodle shop's chef is one of Japan's best exports. From his Torrance post, this savory sensei has an artisanal touch with his noodles and broth, adding an unconventional flair (Heirloom tomato ramen, anyone?) to warm your soul and rejuvenate your palate.

Our conversation quickly shifted to another Japanese delicacy: Kobe beef. Johnny and the Rameniac said The Steak House, also located in Torrance, is the best chop house serving marbled beef cut from pampered, beer-fed steer.

As half of the people at dinner hailed from Korea, we had to determine which is the best Hangol haven in Los Angeles. For Korean-style BBQ, Andrew recommended Chung Ki Wa, in the heart of K-Town (that's K for Korean) on Olympic Boulevard at Wilton Place. As for a late-night stop, where you can sop up the Crown Royal & 7 swishing around your tummy with some kimchee, Andrew and his cohorts recommended a place that they nicknamed Big Mama, after the restaurant's plump proprietress. The only geographic markers we rustled from our Korean pals' hazy memory were that Big Mama is in K-Town next to the 7-11 on the east side of Sixth Street, south of Alexandria Street. Needless to say, it's important to have not only a hungry appetite but also a sense of humor and adventurous spirit when exploring these ethnic enclaves.

Breakfast of Champions

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 00:14:56 PDT

I used to not like eating breakfast. Then I bought some cool widgets such as a crepe pan, madeleine tins and yogurt maker to help make breakfast more fun. For the slow-cooked oatmeal that I learned to make from Cook's Illustrated magazine, all I need is a heavy-bottom pot. Though the pros in the culinary lab recommend toasting the steel-cut oats in butter before cooking them in a blend of milk and water, I often skip this step. I also sometimes cheat and use quick-cooking oats. But that doesn't mean I curtail the cooking time. The longer the oats can soak up the liquid, the more puffy they get. Other key steps are maintaining a 1-to-4 ratio of oats to milk/water and adding the salt before the final five minutes of cooking. Cook's Illustrated claimed that if you add the salt any earlier in the cooking process, the oats will turn out clumpy. I sweeten the gruel with honey. To help balance the flavors -- and avoid any accusations of being overly healthy -- I also fry some Jimmy Dean sausage.

Another homey dish for breakfast is a French toast souffle. You make the same egg mixture in which you'd dip the stale pieces of bread. But you let the bread soak in the mixture in a baking pan overnight. The next morning, you dot the pieces of bread with some butter and bake until the eggs set. Recently, I used stale wheat bread for my souffle. Don't be scared to drown the souffle in maple syrup.

Another breakfast recipe that requires some advanced preparing the night before is that for home-made yogurt. I've always loved the European-style yogurt made in little glass jars. But they're often too pricey. So, for my wedding registry, I requested a Euro Cuisine yogurt maker that prepares seven jars of yogurt. All you need to do is boil milk, cool it down a little and add the culture and any flavoring that you desire. It takes nine hours to cook 2 percent low-fat milk, shorter for whole milk and longer for the skim version.

For my first batch of yogurt, I mixed in a bit of fancy orange marmalade. It's a treat worth waking up for in the morning.

Lollipops for Lushes

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 23:28:40 PDT

I write about the action sports industry, which means that I'm often surrounded by very loud, always raucous and often inebriated dudes. They're not known for being foodies. But last Saturday, while hanging out with the DC Shoes crew during the X Games, I discovered a new treat that could have been invented just for the extreme athletes: alcohol-infused lollipops by Lollyphile. The flavors included white Russian, absinthe and bourbon (the skaters skipped the maple bacon candies). You didn't even need a Monster Energy drink to chase the booze.

Random Recipes

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Wed, 05 Aug 2009 23:30:30 PDT

I recently got married, which means I'll be happily spending the rest of my life with Miguelito. It also means that I've been able to stock my kitchen with loads of new gadgets from my Williams-Sonoma registry (the boxes filled up my cubicle at work). Following our Hawaiian honeymoon, Miguelito and I have been nesting and cooking at home. Here are some of the recipes and Web sites that I've got on my list to try:

Nam Nam is the noise your mouth makes when you're sloppily chewing on a sumptuous morsel. It's also the online source of daring dishes such as foie coulant with liquid heart of raw red fig, doughnut ice cream in strawberry soup and pea hummus by a Spanish foodie whose identity I’ve yet to learn.

I want to be Anita Lo when I grow up. But I have an inability to chop finely because I'm afraid that I'll cut my fingers. So I'll have to settle with recreating the millefeuille of fresh strawberries and Ricotta from Lo's acclaimed New York restaurant, Annisa.

Amanda Hesser no longer writes for The New York Times. But she has launched a new food Web site, where she posts recipes, such as one for scrambled eggs with asparagus. Though Hesser doesn't follow Julia Child's tip of using a whole stick of butter to make a mound of soft, jiggly eggs, I like the way she adds zing to the dish with lemon zest.

If I had to choose a career in the food industry, it would be that of sommelier. A friend said I'd be good at it because I'm not a heavy drinker. One day, I'd have as much influence as this grape guru from Japan.

Boutique BBQ

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Sun, 05 Jul 2009 23:02:48 PDT

I used to get my barbecue from BBQ King on Cesar Chavez Avenue. Then, amidst the wave of gentrification sweeping the area surrounding downtown Los Angeles, BBQ King was razed to make way for luxury condos. Now I go to Boneyard Bistro in Sherman Oaks, Calif. If it weren't for a friend who's dating the chef, I would have never found it. Miguelito and I keep going back, partly because of the personal connection, mainly because of the finger-licking-good food. Plus, the beer menu -- categorized by alcoholic content, type and size -- is quite impressive. You could easily sample a saison, a bock and a Trappist ale in one sitting. Just don't expect a lemon with your Hefeweizen. For some reason, the chef, Aaron Robins, objects to serving any kind of garnish with the beer.

Dinner at Boneyard Bistro doesn't have to be all about carbs. On the evening we went with my sister, who was visiting from San Francisco, the evening's specials included a salad of heirloom tomatoes with a choice of blue or goat cheese. We opted for the more pungent blue, which was perfect to smear on the toast tinted with balsamic vinegar.

There are three ways to enjoy a BBQ combo: one meat, two meats or three meats. You can pick from chicken, three types of ribs (spare, baby back and St. Louis-style), sausages, brisket, tri tip, pulled pork and, as a concession to the vegetarians (and a big offense to this Southerner) portabello. Miguelito, my sister and I each tried the two-meat combo. While Miguelito ordered the baby back ribs with the tri tip, my sister had the brisket and St. Louis-style ribs. I got the same ribs as my sister did, with some chicken. The best-tasting variety was the brisket -- so tender and smoky. The chicken was perfectly cooked, as wel.. The St. Louis-style ribs, however, were too overcooked for my sister's preference. So the chef brought over a fresh plate of more tender slabs for her.

With each BBQ entree, we got our pick of two sides. We decided each of us would order the baked beans, collard greens and cole slaw enhanced with dill weed. But I had to have my own piece of fried mac 'n' cheese. The crispy triangle snapped apart easily to reveal a gooey center of soft elbow macaroni and cheese. It was a blatant violation of the bridal diet that I was all too happy to commit.

Trendy Taquerias

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 13:00:25 PDT

I'd challenge anyone to spend a day in Southern California without passing at least one taqueria. While there are the hipster-sanctified holes like Malo, there are also the primitive shacks such as the original Yuca's, set up in the middle of a parking lot across from a liquor store. On a recent Saturday, Miguelito and I cruised down Hollywood Boulevard to the newer, nicer, bigger addition of Loteria Grill, the Farmer's Market staple. We liked the clean, open space, where we could spy on the cooks as they whipped up the mole that has driven scores of hungry people to stake out a stool at the cramped stand that Loteria operates at the Farmer's Market. Still, we were a little apprehensive that the oversize cards would fall on us at the Hollywood location.

The reason we went to Loteria Grill was because I was craving huevos rancheros. Once I saw the huevos en sopes on the menu, I quickly forgot about the poached eggs served over tortillas. The fried circles of maize were so mushy, that it was a bit of a mess eating the sopes. But I liked that the yolk would run from the perfectly poached eggs and mix with the sopes, queso fresco and ranchera sauce. The side of potatoes that is de rigeur for many breakfast dishes served at American restaurants, no matter what culture you're in, was roasted with cactus at Loteria.

Miguelito ordered a trio of tacos: chicken mole, carnitas and potatoes. Satisfied with our Mexican brunch, we stepped out into the tourist traps on Hollywood Boulevard, only to be asked by some guy where the nearest McDonald was.

A few weeks later, Miguelito and I drove to Culver City for dinner at Wilson Food and Wine. At least, that's what we had planned. Founded by Michael Wilson, the gastronomically talented son of the late Dennis Wilson from The Beach Boys, the restaurant made its mark in Southern California with comfort food influenced by different world cultures. Think of French onion soup, racks of lamb and mean martinis. A couple of months ago, Wilson Food and Wine transformed to Anejo At Wilson, a tequila bar and taqueria. If Miguelito had known that, he wouldn't have filled up on tacos at King Taco earlier in the day. So he ordered the ceviche at the new Wilson.

I started the evening with pureed corn soup.

Then I indulged my fondness for offal with one of the evening's specials, a taco of sweetbreads in a rich red sauce. The complement was a taco of fried clams covered with crema mexicana and cabbage. The shellfish was a little much too gnaw on. I probably should have ordered the fried halibut taco instead. Still, our light, festive meal got us ready to jam in the Porta-Party at Royal/T.

Nothing Hokey About Honeycombs

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 13:23:21 PDT

Three years after I moved to Los Angeles from the San Francisco Bay Area, my respiratory system was nearly paralyzed by severe allergies. I couldn't figure out why my ability to breathe was so compromised. One person suggested that I eat some honey so that the pollen present in the sticky sweetness would fortify my immune system. I thought that theory was hokey. Until this past spring, when I not only consumed honey from California, Minnesota and wherever I could find it, but I also traded the breeze blowing through my open car windows for a sterile A/C system that circulated through my air-tight Prius. The precautions I took nullified the sniffles, sneezes and asthmatic wheezing that seized me in past seasons. Taking the next step closer to a holistic diet (I draw the line at wheat grass, however), I began eating raw honeycomb that a far more sophisticated foodie friend gave me as a gift.

I baked pre-made puff pastry, topped with a generous serving of freshly whipped cream, plump blueberries and a chunk of honeycomb. Miguelito said it was the best home-made dessert he ever had.

Sausages on Sunday

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 21:33:01 PDT

Miguelito and I had been hearing chatter about Wurstkuche for weeks. Though we're both on our respective wedding diets (not too much bourbon for him, lots of sit-ups for me), we rounded up our most gastronomically adventurous friends for some sausages last Sunday. Here's Wurstkuche's refrigerator packed with piles of home-made wieners.

Here's the coterie of condiments sitting on every corner of the long communal tables shrouded in brown paper.

If I remember correctly, there used to be a small, cramped, moodily lit restaurant on the same spot where Wurstkuche now stands. Walls were knocked down and the ceiling open for an airy, loft-like atmosphere that is de rigeur for architecture in downtown L.A. I don't think anyone has a ladder tall enough to reach the birthday balloon that floated away in Wurstkuche's dining room.

While our friend Johnny ordered two sausages for himself (he said he was eating on behalf of his absent girlfriend), Anita had the Filipino (a juicy pork sausage with spices) and Carol, a pescatarian, fit in with the confab of carnivores by picking a vegetarian sausage. Miguelito and I decided to split the difference between our foodie friends. We ordered three, that we could share for one and a half apiece. We had the duck bacon with jalapeno (topped with sweet peppers and caramelized onions), rabbit and veal (same topping as the duck bacon) and alligator (paired with hot peppers and caramelized onions). We skipped the sauerkraut, the other option in the quartet of toppings for the sausages, because it wouldn't fit well with the unusual wieners.

The restaurant actually messed up our order for the sauces to dip the Belgian fries. We had requested chipotle ketchup, but we ended up dipping our twice-fried taters in curry ketchup (more sweet than spicy) and bacon bits mixed with blue cheese.

This is a close-up of the duck bacon sausage. The black peppers and jalapeno masked the game flavor, which was unfortunate because I actually love the earthy taste of duck.

The rabbit and veal sausage was the most politically incorrect -- and unsurprisingly the yummiest of the three, in my opinion.

The alligator was perhaps the most exotic offering. It was also the one I liked the least among our triptych of treats. We were told that the casing for this roll was quite thick. That wasn't the problem. The alligator meat just wasn't that juicy. A bit of pork or other fatty meat would have injected some life into the dryness.

A Cool Viet Chick's Food Party

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Sat, 06 Jun 2009 12:12:22 PDT

The New York Times published a story today about Brooklyn, N.Y.-based artist Thu Tran moving her Web show called "Food Party" to the IFC. The second after I finished reading the article, I asked Miguelito, "Do we get IFC?" Indeed, we do. And I'm going to be glued to the television every Tuesday night to catch what reminds me of Pee-Wee's Playhouse inhabited by hungry characters from my friend Emmie's Fomato Cards.

R.I.P. David Carradine

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 14:54:43 PDT

When I was in pre-school, I received a notice about a field trip that required students to bring a brown bag lunch. Having just arrived in the U.S. from Vietnam, my parents and aunts sat around a kitchen table in a frustrating attempt to translate the form. They didn't realize that, all over their newly adopted country, thousands of parents tossed a PBJ sandwich and apple in a brown paper bag and wrote their kid's name on the outside. My parents figured I had to eat on this school outing, so my dad went to the store and bought me a "Kung Fu" lunch box. We didn't write my name on it. As a result of our shortsightedness, I had to follow the teacher around the outdoor picnic tables on the day of the field trip, as she asked every single boy in the class if the lunch box belonged to him. I didn't speak enough English to yell, "Excuse me, Miss Teacher, but that is mine." Eventually she turned around and saw me shadowing her. My brother subsequently inherited the lunch box from me, and the first thing he did was smear his name in blue ink over Kwai Chang Caine's forehead. I have the metal container back now. It sits on a book shelf, next to a stuffed R2D2 and baby Buddha plushie. Proust may have had madeleines to remind him of his childhood, but I'll always have this lunch box.

Le Plus Petit Philippe

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Fri, 29 May 2009 20:16:40 PDT

A couple of weeks ago, on the afternoon Miguelito returned to Los Angeles from Minneapolis, the first thing he did was grab lunch at Philippe with Maximus. Located a block or two away from Union Station, this 101-year-old restaurant is legendary for its French dipped sandwiches. I'm one of the few Angelenos who don't like French dipped sandwiches. It's not because I'm on an anti-carb, low-fat bridal diet. (One of the first things I want to do after I get married is to eat an overflowing plate of ribs.) I just want my meat to be already juicy. I don't want to dunk it in extra jus. But Miguelito loves Philippe. The tender feelings were reciprocated on his last visit, when he saw a tiny nub of bread that was baked attached to a bigger loaf. A waitress thought the offshoot would make one of the world's tiniest sandwiches, as seen here.

LAT's Review of Reservoir

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Thu, 28 May 2009 14:51:58 PDT

Axel Koester/The Los Angeles Times

The Los Angeles Times' restaurant critic, S. Irene Virbila, didn't like the food at Reservoir as much as Miguelito and I did. She also chided Reservoir for relying on a local crowd. Truth is, the menu is too expensive for several of us in this Eastside neighborhood to eat there more than once a month. So we're OK with the menu staying the same as we try a different dish on each visit. And the service, given only two months to get its bearings right, runs much more smoothly and quickly than what you get at Canelé in its third year of operation across the Los Angeles River in Atwater Village. Now that Miguelito and I have been photographed on Reservoir's patio, we should claim that table as our regular roost.

Racing to Reservoir

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Thu, 28 May 2009 12:46:20 PDT

On Friday night, Miguelito and I rode our bikes around Silver Lake Reservoir for an early dinner at Reservoir, the two-month-old eatery that opened in the spot previously occupied by Netty's. I had never joined the artists, politicos and other Eastside denizens who had filled Netty's tables while it was in business for more than 20 years. Because it took so long for Reservoir to be renovated, it was able to secure a liquor license by the time it opened its doors on March 5. (It took an additional few weeks to receive a separate permit for using heat lamps on the patio.) For tonight's dinner, Miguelito and I clinked glasses of d'Albarino and Pinot Noir to celebrate his snaring a Web-based flash game in the Batman franchise for his Australian animation clients. Our festive night, not to mention our bike helmet hair, was captured by a photographer who was snapping pictures for an upcoming restaurant review to run in The Los Angeles Times.

We passed on the evening's special salad of heirloom tomatoes with Burrata cheese. Instead, we wanted to warm ourselves up on the chilly patio with the sauteed wild mushrooms tossed over greens with shavings of Parmesan.

Our advantageous location on the patio let us people-watch. This hipster was slouching his way across the street, perhaps to Domenico Ristorante, which transplanted Michelangelo's (now on Rowena Avenue) as the neighborhood Italian joint.

Reservoir's schtick is that its menu lists featured dishes (a.k.a. entrees) along with setups (appetizers in regular food argot). If you order one of the featured dishes, then you can pick any one of the five setups to be paired with your meal. Our waitress told us that the setups were devised to complement any entree, whether it be the black cod or the pan-seared marinated tofu or the $32 14-ounce rib eye. After determining that the scallops were seared in olive oil, I opted for the accompaniment of roasted baby carrots, brown-butter-cauliflower puree, braised leeks and black garlic.

Miguelito went with the black cod plated with the braised Tuscan kale, fingerling potatoes, baby yams and roasted heirloom tomatoes.

The two little black dots on my plate were the black garlic cloves. I had never seen those before. Soft, mushy and perfectly spreadable, the garlic tasted as if it had been steeped for days in Balsamic vinegar.

The dessert menu enticed us with its chocolate lava cake and Guinness ice cream, and warm tarte tatin and horchata ice cream, among other sweets. Even though Miguelito and I could have easily burned off the calories from dessert on our bike ride home, we remembered that we had a red velvet cupcake from Auntie Em's waiting for us in our refrigerator. To celebrate a new cartoon job, you need a cartoon dessert.

Minnesota Day

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Fri, 29 May 2009 18:17:42 PDT

Miguelito declared May 19 as Minnesota Day. That's the day following his return from this year's fishing trip to the state with 10,000 lakes. I told him that if I'm going to be a fishing widow every May from now on, and if we're going to celebrate Minnesota Day on the nineteenth of the fifth month every year from now on, then he needs to bring home walleye every year from now on.

This year, he and a baker's dozen of fishermen caught their limit on Leech Lake: four fish, or 8 fillets, each. We saved four of the fillets for a future dinner with Miguelito's grandma. The remainder constituted my first walleye meal ever.

The secret ingredient for our fish fry was Ritz crackers.

Our ghetto-gourmet way of cooking entailed Miguelito pounding two mini packs of crackers in a Ziploc bag. For the first batch, we used plain crackers to coat the 4-inch fillets seasoned with sea salt and freshly cracked pepper, later dredged in an egg batter. For the subsequent batch, I spiked the cracker dust with some yellow curry powder to give the white fish a bit of kick. I suppose this culinary experimentation could represent a metaphor for the coupling of a Norwegian-Mexican Minnesotan and a Vietnamese-American who grew up in South Carolina and Virginia.

The second key ingredient was lots of butter. It would have been much healthier to cook the walleye in olive oil, or even to poach it. But the butter enhanced the comforting flavor of the Ritz cracker coating. I did add some olive oil to reduce the burn threshold of the butter.

The key was not to crowd the pan with the fish.

We fried the suckers up to a golden brown.

We served the fried walleye atop couscous mixed with currants and chili flakes, a spinach salad and roasted sweet peppers. After one bite of the light, flaky, sweet fish, I decided that I can deal with being a fishing widow. I mean, I could taste the cold lake's freshness on my tongue. It was that good. We could have amplified the homey vibe by playing some Captain & Tennille on vinyl. Instead, we watched Kobe Bryant have a temper tantrum in the L.A. Lakers' victory over the Denver Nuggets. What a diva! The pro baller's definitely not down-to-earth enough to be from Minnesota.

Miguelito threatened to quiz me on the names of Minnesota's sports teams. At least I already know what the state bird is. It isn't the loon, which he has in plushy and wooden forms. No, it's the mosquito.

A Common Saturday Night

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Tue, 19 May 2009 20:55:05 PDT

Two Saturdays ago, I started my second tour as a fishing widow. For a week every May, for the rest of our lives, Miguelito will leave L.A. to go fishing on one of Minnesota's 10,000 lakes. Rather than feeling abandoned, I remembered that axiom: While the cat's away, the mouse will play. I called my friend Carol to be my plus-one for Diesel's party celebrating the launch of its new fragrance, Only The Brave. The featured performer of the evening was Common, who also doubles as the face for the fragrance ads.

The Brooklyn, N.Y.-based DJ provided the beats and samples pulled from Biz Markie and other hip-hop impresarios for Common to rhyme over.

I thought Common's shoes were Vans, but the slip-ons are actually by Surface to Air.

This voluptuous vixen let Common tap her "where the sun don't shine." As her reward, she was serenaded by him on the stage built in the middle of the store.

Common is a buff guy. I couldn't figure out why he was so fit but then I realized that he also has an emerging career starring in action flicks. He's got a part in "Terminator Salvation," due out May 21. In "Date Night," which he's currently filming with Tina Fey and Steve Carell, he plays a dirty cop.

Like Common, the two keyboard players from Philadelphia also have a penchant for cool kicks: black high-tops by Y-3 and Jack Purcell.

Carol and I moved to the second row after we saw Common flirting with the ladies in the front.

Common was on a roll with a freestyle rap, touching eclectic topics ranging from Los Angeles Lakers star Kobe Bryant and the Black Panthers to Pres. Barack Obama and shopping on Melrose Place, where Diesel's store is located. He was doing so well that he took his performance to the sidewalk in front of the shop and also in the middle of the energized crowd, which included actresses Samaire Armstrong and Vanessa Hudgens.

It was fun to be treated to a free concert by an intelligent and socially conscious rapper like Common. His support for a peaceful, loving world was obvious on his T-shirt, which is part of his recently launched collaboration with tech giant Microsoft.

Rowdy with the Russians

noreply@blogger.com (Khanh) — Wed, 20 May 2009 12:05:56 PDT

Hellin is a friend, former co-worker and grown-up punk rocker who was born in Russia. Having moved on to a busy career as a freelance photographer and stylist, she is longer a regular presence in the office. So she masterminded a reunion with her former colleagues at a Russian restaurant called Traktir. Perched on the corner of Crescent Heights and Santa Monica Boulevard in West Hollywood, Traktir offers a pleasant patio where you can sip tea sweetened with homemade compote while watching a stream of bright car lights and waxed muscle boys make their way to the nearby bars. Inside, the stuffed boar's head, porcelain pitchers and wooden instruments make you feel as if you're eating in a cozy cottage in the Russian woods.

Traktir isn't as opulent as Maxim, the amber bubble of a banquet hall that is hidden from many non-Russians on Fairfax Avenue. Traktir's functional kitchen is located just behind the rows of liquor and stained glass tableaux depicting the greatness of the Russian Orthodox Church.

What good Russian restaurant wouldn't have a samovar on the shelf?

Truth be told, the samovar looked as if a layer of dust had settled on it. That's because most of the guests dipped into the vodka infused with horseradish and jalapeno peppers. On the other side, out of view, were big jars of raspberries, pineapples and cranberries steeping in the alcohol.

We were lucky to have Hellin guide us in the ritual of drinking horseradish vodka.

The vodka must be cool. You take a sip, followed by a bite of the pickle. Unlike the pickles offered at most delis, these pickles didn't impart much of a dill flavor. (The fresh dill was saved to garnish the food.) Instead, the firm chunks of cucumbers had a slightly sweet, very vinegary taste. It cleansed the palate after the horseradish vodka, which didn't burn the throat as much as the jalapeno vodka. Both the horseradish and jalapeno liqueur would be key ingredients in a killer Bloody Mary. As for the other fruit-flavored vodka, the cranberry was my least favorite; it tasted like the last dregs of a cranberry juice-vodka cocktail. The raspberry and pineapple vodka would be nice to drink at the end of a meal in lieu of dessert.

The trio of appetizers looked pretty bland and unappetizing at first. There was the marinated herring with pickled onions, boiled potatoes and chopped chicken salad. As dill is one of my favorite herbs (an omelet of eggs with tomatoes, onions and dill is such a simple and enjoyable meal) I tried to catch as many of the thin green strands in each scoop. The herring was barely cooked. I coined it ceviche from the Caucasus Mountains. It turned out to be another nice chaser for the vodka. While the potatoes were bland fillers to offset the strong flavors of the other dishes, the chopped chicken salad was a comforting mix of mashed eggs, cubed chicken and mayonnaise.

We couldn't get enough of the pickled cucumbers, so we ordered the pickled combination that included shredded cabbage and tomato quarters submerged in vinegar for days. They provided crunchy relief to the alcohol and heavy, creamy food.

The beet salad was also an unsightly mess. Traktir should really consider hiring Hellin to style its food before it leaves the kitchen. But all you had to do was close your eyes and appreciate the sweetness of the beets, potatoes and onions.

I'm not sure how many gallons of cream the restaurant goes through each week. The creamy white sauce hid the trio of dumplings. We couldn't tell which was the chicken, the cheese or the meat filling. We just had to spoon a bunch onto our plates and dig in.

The chicken blintz was a very long crepe stuffed with ground chicken and drenched in a porcini mushroom sauce. It was the epitome of comfort food; you had cream, cheese, soft veggies and a subtle mix of ground meat. It was also my favorite dish of the evening. The blintz was a bit thicker than a conventional crepe, which meant that, if it was left uneaten for a while, it'd start to harden.

I was so overwhelmed by the chicken blintz, that my taste buds basically ignored the stuffed cabbage. I was intrigued by the cup of sour cream that accompanied it, but not enough to go back for seconds.

Russia, or at least the former Soviet Union, spanned such a vast area that you marvel at its diversity. Our waiter resembled a Mongolian/Chinese mix who spoke perfect Russian. Never mind that he was a little slow, constantly leaving before we finished telling him all the dishes we wanted because he hadn't brought a pen and pad and couldn't remember everything. The country's diversity was represented in our last entree, the chicken shish kebabs, which wouldn't have seemed likely to come from the same kitchen that boiled the bland potatoes. The meat was grilled perfectly. Still, I thought the hodgepodge of spices that marinated the chicken leaned a little more toward the salty side than my preference would allow. But now I understand why a boiled potato has a purpose on the table.