The misFortune upSeller

Cleo ***/*****

1717 Vine St
Los Angeles, CA 90028

Ah yes, the holidays — where I actually do nothing, except eat, drink and be merry… which also means taking advantage of each and every party that I was invited to this season. Case in point:

Post Little Joy Cocktail Lounge Holiday Party (Thanks for the invite Mary!) and yes, that is my living room floor. And that is Steph Russ in my loving arms.

At some of these soirees, I looked a little more coherent than in others — even spiritual:

Praying for my Secret Satan to bring me everything I want this year (and he did!) (Instagram by @Pearfect)

But for most of the Jesus break, I was back home in NC, reuniting with family, catching up with friends and going to an intensely insane alien-themed XXXMAS party thrown by Kat St. Kat and her girl, Sass…

My besties. And we is Extra-terrestrially Exquisite. (photo by Sarah Sassafrass)

I’m also going to start wearing graduation robes as regular clothing. (Photo by Sarah Sassafrass)

Staring at the stars, or maybe taking a break, but either way an unflatteringly fat photo of yours truly. (Photo via @Droolianna’s Instagram)

… but not before getting filmed for Ghoulianna’s own ultra-short feature, “Alexander ConeHead Rose does Christmas”:

Even after all the holiday cheer-factor (which basically means countless empty bottles of cheap chardonnay from the gas station down the street from my parent’s house), I was itching to get back to the sunny side of the country. Mainly because at the inviting, but nevertheless exclusive, paradiso that is the Danzavoort, Katie Danza (official Seaworld hater and lover of all things whale) was going to let me and the rest of her friends ring in 2014 like it would never go out of style (and the way we did it, it never, ever will).

Rex Hennessy + Megan

So as a group of youthful twenty-somethings grinded into the new year to Gaga’s Do What U Want (“it’s a call to prayer” says one fiery L.A. socialite whose last name rhymes with Gernstein), I stood by the hors d’oeuvres table doing what I wanted with my body and inspecting the dozens of finger foods available.

Legs.

From classic prosciutto and fig jam, to assorted cheeses and candied bacon plus bacon wrapped dates (and to whoever brought these you’ve clogged my arteries and I applaud you). Nibbling at each luscious tray of food, I locked eyes with a pair of gleaming orbs across the room — it was one of my darlings, Megan Mitchell.

Hi, Megan! SCHA-WING-A-DING.

You might recognize her as the host of Yahoo’s GRILL NEXT DOOR series that first aired this past summer.

The show with its punny title, provides serious (and incomparable) dishes via her culinary expertise. While a lot of her fare is intricate and nuanced, that doesn’t mean you can’t do them at home. Step-by-step instructions are accessible online via her finely manicured website:

http://chefmeganmitchell.com/

The fabulous and tasty recipes are labeled as “doable” so I guess that means you can take them to bed with you.

I mean… If you died and went to chef heaven, this is what awaits you.

With a perfect set of gleamy white teeth, legs from here to there, and enough goofiness for a whole improv troupe, Megan is always a welcome addition to any kitchen, living room, backyard, pool party, nightclub, taxi cab confession, etc. The point is she’s awesome, so we caught up:

“where have you been?!?” She asked.

“oh you know… around… doing nothing.”

“I looked for your blogpost about our dinner but I didn’t find it.”

Oops. the truth is, the lovely lady and I had taken our friendship one step further when she sacrificed a Friday night to scarf down food with me at CLEO, the restaurant within the Redbury Hotel in Hollywood. I just hadn’t had the time to write it up. Yes, SHOCKER, these “little reviews” actually takes hours to compose. I’m amazing, I know. No need to say anything.

But as I popped a few of those fat covered dates into my mouth, I recalled our time together at the chic, black+white tiled restaurant with ostentatious velvet drapes encircling the dining floor — presenting the ignis fatuus of a magical dining experience waiting in the wings. While the setting was comfortable and spellbinding, the real trickery was far more nefarious.

On that November evening, while I was dressed as if I had just come from work (and yes, I had just come from work), Megan was clad in mostly all black and a floppy hat. So here we were, me looking kinda dumpy (and maybe smelly idk), and tall girl with a nice outfit. Clearly, anyone seating us, must have been thinking, “well this schlubby straight dude really lucked out with his date” or “awwww this schlubby gay dude has a BEAUTIFUL friend.” Either way we were seated at a wobbly table that was quickly adjusted with a sneaky sleight of hand by our server — channeling George Clooney mixed with Michael Vartan (and yes, I really went for it on that description).

Immediately, we were both enchanted with our server’s sparkle and confidence. When ordering beverages, we asked our smooth waiter his preferences. Opting for a Bourbon cocktail (as I like bourbon), I was pointed to the “The Old Hollywood”. I should have known fig almond syrup was cause for alarm, because the $14 drink was far too sweet.

Vinebury in hand.

So I sent it back, choosing “The Vinebury” this time around which was a concoction of vodka, St. Germain, cucumber, lemon, and basil (and at Megan’s suggestion). It was crisp, tangy, and strong, and nice way to start slurring the night away.

As we divulged war stories on the dating scene of yesteryear, my new sexual prospects (*crickets*) and Megan’s current sweetypie, we barely looked over the menu before it was time to order. After selecting their “deconstructed” brussel sprouts, naan-like bread with a feta yogurt dip, samosas, chicken tagine, and a lamb shawarma, we thought we did a damn fine job at plucking the best of the best. But our sultry waiter said “it’s not enough food” and we were like… “oh.” because it sure as hell seemed like a lot… Not wanting to be underfed, we added a seasonal  mushroom flatbread pizza as well as ravioli with brown butter and an egg on top.

Once devouring every bit of the dip, samosas, and sprouts — my baby shawarma arrived as well as the tagine.

idk there was something wrong with my camera but there’s Megan’s middle finger and the brussel sprouts

While they didn’t look large, the dishes packed a gut punch because we were straight out laid UP after that and I still had TWO WHOLE ENTREES COMING OUT. As the minutes wore on, we prayed that they had forgotten about these two dishes. But of course they hadn’t, and my rich, creamy ravioli, and cheesy flatbread arrived. Cheezus Christ.

Now, IDK about y’all, but when you’re already feeling kinda obese, there isn’t anything worse than two steaming piles of carbs arriving in front of you, and not being able to eat them (without exploding like that dude at the beginning of David Fincher’s SE7EN). And I didn’t eat them, because this is L.A. and I WILL NOT cry when I eat. So I took it to go.

There’s a theme here.

Not surprisingly, our bill split, exceeded 80 dollars a piece. This Houdini of a waiter had scammed us. WE’D BEEN HAD. SWINDLED. ROBBED. In what world does someone order two entrees? It’s the world where the SERVER TELLS YOU TO because APPARENTLY you didn’t get enough shit to stuff into your face. Do I look like I can eat that much??? I know Megan sure as hell can’t***.

***OR CAN SHE??

Regardless, It’s 2014 people, and while we may not yet have robots to make sweet, sweet love to us (or even genuine, sentient beings for that matter, and I apologize but I’ve just seen HER), can’t we at least expect HONESTY, from the FOOD SERVICE INDUSTRY? I guess that’s too much to ask, especially since I was everything that was wrong with food service when I waited tables (barely coherent? check.  Always just said no? check check. Bacon dropped on floor and still gave it to child? check check and check).

Needless to say, it’s ironic that the fortune teller Miss Cleo was exposed as the lying cheat that she was, taking advantage of the hapless folk that pleaded for her phony prophecies — and there I was, dining at a restaurant that shared her name and similarly getting ripped off.

Bravo, Cleo. Bravo. While your food was delightful, your service was nothing more than an illusion, lead by a swarthy, scruffy, siren-thief masquerading as a charming server.

SO we drew a dick on the table and left.

Spot the two penises and win my respect.

Abracadabra, bitches. And a Happy New Year.

P.S. if you were wondering about that fabulous song in that dumb video of me, look no further than below.

String Beans & Bacon Fat (For Doris)

Doris Gurley was my mom’s host-mother when she visited the United States for the first time in 1969. It was Eastern NC. Wayne County. Nahunta, North Carolina to be exact. Home to the Nahunta Pork Center, which still exists to this day (have you ever seen how a pig is slaughtered up close? I have. They do it with a rifle). It goes without saying, this part of the state wasn’t exactly the most exciting or forward thinking location. Or even now, really. It’s a myriad of farms, brushing up against one another, grassy pastures, cows, hogs and hog pens, endless fencing, and the open sky. Why my raven-haired mother (her name is Martha), at the time clad in knee-high boots and mini-skirts, was sent to this neck of the woods, is beyond my comprehension.

This is Real.

Mrs. Gurley (although, growing up we always mispronounced it ‘Garley’ because we sided with my mom’s accented manner of speaking) took in my mother, fed her, gave her a wonderful home, and even set her up on dates, against Martha’s wishes (at the time she had too many boyfriends as it was back in Bogotà or something). With a name like Gurley, and it being Eastern NC, you might assume a lack of intelligence. But Doris was a college graduate, with degrees in English literature and French. She loved language, and books, so she became a teacher. Additionally, she and her husband, Molton, owned a farm, where they specialized in dairy. Mrs. Gurley had chickens. She also had Dachsunds (which would kill and eat the chickens, much to Martha’s horror) and she remained a loyal and a close friend to my mother, even as time wore on. When my two older brothers and I were born, when it was too far for my Abuelita to travel from Colombia, Mrs Gurley was always there to help and take care of us. She provided the same love and care that she did with Martha.

Since I was old enough to remember, we’d take trips to visit Doris at the old farm (since sold off, her husband passed away long before I came into this world from a heart attack). We’d count the cow herds from Raleigh to Nahunta, and when the counts rose, we knew we were getting close. Since she lived off Gurley Dairy Road, I always thought she was famous. MOM! She has her own street named after her?! and as a young child, I marveled at the expansive property, and her little white house.

Her home in reality, was nothing spectacular. Aged, vinyl siding, a relic of early 20th century model home creation. A screened in porch, red wine carpet, one of those huge wooden TVs that sat on the floor and you had to change the channel by turning a hulking steel dial (she doesn’t have the batman channel! I’d complain). There were also pictures. Tons of sepia-toned photographs of relatives, ALL over the paneled walls. People I never recognized or would never know. I recall the way her house sounded. Rather, it was almost silent, except for the sound of clocks ticking.

We often went to Gurley’s to celebrate Christ’s Resurrection (which also meant not having to go to Mass, score!). There were so many Easter egg hunts she planned with my mother. It usually turned out the same. One of my older brothers would hold me back while the other found all the eggs and they’d split the loot. The hunts mostly ended with my tears.

More prominently, I can still taste her sumptuous Southern lunches. Her kitchen was always in the midst of baking, boiling, or simmering something. The mashed potatoes and gravy, her casseroles from asparagus to mac ‘n’ cheese, fried chicken, creamed corn, pecan pies (she had her own tree) and the best green beans I ever knew. It remains my first favorite vegetable and only Mrs. Gurley knew how to make them perfect. My mom, bless her heart, could never make them quite like Doris. At home, when I’d complain about it, she would snap back — “she cooks them with bacon fat!” while throwing her hands up in the air frustrated. Because of Mrs. Gurley, at a very young age, I appreciated and loved food. Loved the way a table was set, always simply, but pristine. And it’s imprinted in my memory, the way my entire family would grow quiet while eating her meals. It was too good to ever talk, really.

After our lunches, Doris would talk to me about literature because she knew I was the nerd alert of the family that loved to read. She knew I liked scary stuff (My 8 year old self always had some R.L Stine handy), but she gave me REAL literature. An aged copy of Edgar Allen Poe’s collection of stories. The Pit and The Pendulum, The Tell-Tale Heart, The Murders of the Rue Morgue — all gruesome, and I digested them as quickly as her food.

My mother told me yesterday, that last Friday, Mrs Gurley passed away at 95. I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. Thankfully, my mother was able to sit with her, during one of her last days, and express how grateful she was to have this wonderfully generous woman bring her in as if she was her own, and that she would miss her. Doris said she’d miss her too. Even as an elderly woman, without one of her eyes, and blind in the other, she continued to analyze poetry (her favorite) until her death, headed the gardening squad at her retirement home, and never missed asking about me and if I was still reading and writing. She always remembered… her memory, unlike her body, never aged.

When we’d leave the Gurley farm, whenever our visits with Doris had ended, our bellies full, and our spirits high, my mom would carefully back us out in our green Plymouth mini van. Mrs. Gurley would, without fail, stand at the end of the driveway, waving us off. As we rolled away, and as Doris got smaller in our wake, she never stopped waving. She always waved until I couldn’t see her anymore.

Me (left) with Doris and my brother Nick on his First Communion. I miss you Mrs. Gurley.

An Oldie But Still Not A Foodie

Terroni Downtown ****/*****

802 S Spring St
Los Angeles, CA 90015
Neighborhood: Downtown

A spike of fear hit me, piercing my chest, then clamping my genetically and ethically compromised heart — it pounded so heavily, I thought it might pop, or just give out. I was on the elliptical at my local gym. And I was struggling. It was a combination of sudden anxiety and lack of physical activity. It had only been a week since my last workout, thus countless dirty martinis and cigarettes later. So, ten minutes into my cardio, while Katy Perry sang through my earbuds about “Walking on Air”, I simply just needed some to breathe.

Stepping off the machine, I tried to set my mind straight. Panic had been seeping back into my life lately. It was November 2nd and my 26^th birthday was the next day, November 3rd. Yes. Yours truly, was getting old, and I wasn’t too thrilled about it. It was around this time of the year, that I began asking myself the tough questions.

What am I doing with my life? Do I know where I’m headed? Do I have the respect of those around me? Do I respect myself? Do I even like myself? And more worrisome, do I even know who I am?

I lay down on the gym mats, and instead of doing sit-ups, I stared at the ceiling and ruminated. I was fortunately still in my twenties, but I had become aware of  a few damning things.

A) Partying had now begun to take its toll. Case in point: I was in a gym. In retrospect, beer is never a good choice, especially when you can’t have less than four when you’re out for “just one”.

B) Trying to eat healthy at Chipotle is not impossible but incredibly boring. (However looking a Chipotle worker dead in the eye and ordering from the kid’s menu AKA getting the perfect amount of food for AN ADULT and eating it all, feeling fine, and only spending $6 is a completely rewarding experience).

Kid’s Menu @ Chipotle

C) Working generally sucks. So if I could be paid for just being me, and report to no one, that would be amazing.

D) I am getting dumber at a frightening pace(but is realizing my degeneration into idiocy a form of high-intelligence? hmmm)

E) You can always say “screw it” and just throw a rager for your birthday when you’re pretty much shit out of fucks to give.

Scorpio Empress

So yeah, I was having a party later that night, which would eventually roll over into my birthday, thus I was at the gym, trying to get my swole on, and look as studly as possible for a night that was all about me (and some girl named Shmophie, pictured here).

Even more special was a birthday dinner that I planned with some very close friends – after all, what’s another year closer to the Great Unknown without a decadent meal to celebrate? So, I made a reservation at the recently opened Terroni Downtown location.

Having had Terroni for the first time, almost exactly one-year prior, at their Beverly Boulevard location, I found it an ironically perfect choice to kick off my birthday weekend. Though, tbh, my excessive fun began the previous Saturday when the Halloween festivities commenced. I ended up in my finest costume yet: a fabulous rendition of Michael Douglas AS Liberace. For the most part, I wasn’t recognized as the closeted piano player, but rather “Gay Dracula”.

Regardless, I looked flawless, so un-pop-cultured douchebags everywhere can suck it.

Arriving at Terroni via Sidecar — chauffeured by the slowest, most talkative, former mall Santa — I gathered with my 8 other pals (making it a total of 9, my lucky number) and entered the establishment. The interior was that of an old bank (gargantuan arch-windows, patterned ceiling, white marble floors) which now had been re-purposed as a sprawling dining hall.

Met by the hostess, wearing a gold lamè trench, and an afro, channeling Foxxy Cleopatra, I came to the conclusion, that even though we all dressed impeccably, the service staff somehow outshined us.

Leading us across the restaurant, for what seemed like five whole minutes, and finally to our large, round corner booth, I was visibly upset that our waiter wasn’t the man-bunned, burly dude with the fitted, designer cargo pants. You can’t win them all.

The Chandelier above our table.

Our actual waiter, while not as sexy, was quite capable handling the nine of us, and my big mouth — that immediately ordered a dirty, gin martini. What seemed like an army of servers peppered a massive lazy susan at the center of our table with rustic bread and olive oil, and we all tore into it, gnashing our teeth, like hyenas. Funny, that even by now, we all hadn’t learned the valuable lessons of not gorging on too much bread prior to a hearty meal, or y’know, chewing before swallowing.

Dani looking radiant with her salad. Kalee looking bored.

There was even one low point where someone in my party asked about the possibility of Mac ‘N’ Cheese as an entrée while perusing the menu. “Don’t EMBARRASS ME.” I scowled, probably with my mouth full, and      breadcrumbs all over my face.

I lost some parmesan in my chest hair. I was dared to retrieve it.

After our rounds of drinks, rounds of starters hit the table – from fresh arugula  topped with mushrooms and sheathed in paper-thin slices of Parmesan, to raw calamari salads.

ARUGULA

Mary thought the Anchovy Pizza was TOO salty.

The whirlwind of dishes persisted: an anchovy pizza (deliciously salty), a few “capunti al Ragu d’Agnello” (a pasta with a slow-cooked lamb sauce), a simple but sublimely prepared linguine with clams, a couple dandelion and sausage rigatonis, and finally a quail stuffed ravioli special, which was by far, the best of the lot.

Quail Stuffed Ravioli

Even better, was the ample sharing involved at our table, feeding each other our different plates, comparing flavors, and of course, ordering up more booze.

Sophie is about pounce on Spencer’s pasta.

As dinner was coming to a close, a potted tiramisu (with candle) was escorted out of the kitchen, and into my mouth. I think there was possibly a sloppy, self-conscious rendition of “happy birthday” sung. But more importantly, as I peeked at the time on my iPhone, I realized we were late. To my own party. It was 10:15 – and I told people to arrive at 10:30. Oops.

Racing out of Terroni, we all high-tailed back to Silver Lake, just in time for the first guests arriving at my home for the celebration. I hurriedly lit the torches outside, put on my newly gifted John Maus vinyl, cranked up the volume, and cracked open a beer.

I wish I could tell you what happened throughout the night, but I can’t, honestly. After my front, jungle-esque patio transformed into a teeming milieu, filled with birthday well-wishers, some strangers, a Power Ranger, and even a bipedal bunny, I simply surrendered into the present moment. But here are some pictures to fill in the gaps:

Ego Bday Cake

It was THAT kind of party.

Shmophie and I

When the good-times winded down in the early morning, I found myself alone among the after-party debris. I lay down on my living room couch that I had placed outside earlier, amongst the over-hanging greenery. I was comforted by the silence. Thinking back, I recalled a friend who recently told me: “I believe people, on their birthdays, are particularly wise.”

So, I thought about my last few birthdays…

21 (I don’t have a clue)

22 (Funeral / Karaoke Birthday)

23 (Laurel Canyon 4Loko Party)

24. (Chola Dani on Drunk patrol)

25 (San Francisco)

And I couldn’t disagree more with that statement. Firstly, I knew no one on their birthdays that shared any wisdom. Unless we’re classifying “wisdom” as vomit and “sharing” as throwing up inside my car.

There was so much pressure, by this new age, to have some sort of answers to the way the world works, how I was supposed to fit into it, or meaningful revelations about my identity. Instead, what I really understood at the moment, as a 26-year-old was that I didn’t have any solutions to any problems, answers to any riddles, or conclusions to any stories regarding my life thus far — and that’s okay.

As I gazed at the messy remains of what 70+ people left behind on my rented property… there was ONE thing I KNEW…

… I’d be damned if I was going to deal with this mess later.

So I started to clean. At 5am. Fifty-six minutes I noted in my head. Fifty-six minutes until my mother, twenty-six years ago, had popped my ass out on the street known as life.

I re-arranged the overturned patio furniture, picked up the empty beer cans, bouncing them into recycling bins, nabbed up hundreds of cigarette butts stained with tar and lipstick, and delicately collected the shattered glass of what few cups and wine ware I had to my name… all as the sky brightened into day.

THE WAKING, BAKING DREAM

Tartine Bakery ***/*****

600 Guerrero St,

San Francisco, CA 94110

(415) 487-2600

If it was mid-September 2013, and if you were looking out for me in Los Angeles — up early/red-in-the-eyes/hunting for coffee/food/love/money/fame — well you’d have a tough time finding me, because actually, I was in San Francisco.

The New Bay Bridge

I had been invited to take part in wedding festivities for a lovely couple that had met in Pacific Heights, at a dog park (yes, with their dogs in tow), and I couldn’t possibly think of a better way to start a love story. It’s perfect, just like the Bay City. The place where the winds blow in that crisp, chilling fashion, from off the choppy cobalt saltwater, and the fog glides through the cityscape like a harmless, lost soul (or like me searching for my next burrito). SF is THE destination, and it knows. Its inhabitants know. You know. I know. We all know. San Francisco is better than all of us.  Every venture up North, out of the hot, rocky, dusty, hellishness that is SoCal, I’ve often wondered when I could call this place my home.

FAST-FORWARDKFNSF:KSFKSNJLGKXV>N:KVJLNMNEIONRLKNVMSVTO…

… A Sunday morning – post-wedding and nearing the end of my 4-day stint in the magical metropolis. It was an uncharacteristically hot and sunny start, and of course, I was wearing sweatpants and a jacket, soaking through both, and by all means a human sponge. I hobbled as best I could along Market Street towards the Mission neighborhood, set to meet with an old friend from L.A. that had since moved to Oregon. Randomly, through the powers of social media, we uncovered that we were both in the city on the same weekend.

The Wedding Day Look / It was all downhill from here.

The lovely gal pal I was reuniting with — Christine B (follow her twitter here: @tinewilltweet or her tumblr: tinewillfind) is the quintessential hot Asian hip girl with impeccable style, an art history degree (Lord, hear our prayers), motivation, confidence, and one of few Aquarians I’ll even tolerate without having homicidal thoughts. Trusting her fine taste in threads and culture, I didn’t hesitate when she suggested linking up at the famed TARTINE Bakery. Not only that, after briefly grazing the location’s Yelp page, I noted the numerous awards (they even put out cookbooks), and their solid fan-base with their gushing reviews – especially about their so called “morning buns”.

DELETED JOKE: About the kind of ‘morning buns’ that I’ve experienced. Cause for omission? Feared for reputation.

On my way, I had to deal with classic San Francisco obstacles like dodging hobos screaming while pissing acid, rabid zombie pigeons with gimpy wings, and my own personal hangover demons.

As always my ~lifestyle~ had gotten in the way of my punctuality.

 INSERT 8mm FLASHBACKS:

– TWO NIGHTS BEFORE – throwing back glass after glass of sauvignon blanc at a pre-wedding cocktail (the bartender just let me pour my own after the third).

Katrina (wedding date / bay area connoisseur) and I clearing house

– THAT SAME NIGHT: declaring to the wedding photographer that I also considered myself a “professional photographer”, and to see my “catalog” she could just check out my “Instagram”.

–  TWO HOURS LATER – Passing out in the hotel room after exclaiming I’d be heading out for a night on the town.

Solidly 9pm here.

–  THE NIGHT PRIOR — Me leading a rousing dance circle at the wedding party with an array of women, twisting and grinding to Daft Punk (apparently, they’re wedding DJ fodder now), meanwhile dousing my throat with champagne between every whiskey drink and Pacifico.

End Flashbacks

So, with all that still lingering, I was definitely feeling a whole lot less “Get Lucky” and way more “Get Pukey” — but I persevered.

Stepping around a mother and child who were letting the expletives fly amid “hella “ this and “hella” that, I finally reached the renowned bakery. I could barely see the polished black-painted, wooden exterior since there was a SWARM OF HUMANITY spewing out the entrance, along the side of the place, and then AROUND the corner. My heart stopped. I couldn’t dare stand in line with the rest of these San Francisco hipsters, who have always had a Pop-eye The Sailor Man aesthetic pre-Spinach. So, these men are not that exciting, but you could see the potential if they could ever graphically design their ass to a gym or something.

Amidst my panic, Christine poked her head out of the front door and waived with a big grin. I happily nodded at the mass indie masses, before slipping myself ahead of them in line.

Once inside, the intoxicating aroma of sweet, baked goods filled my nostrils, and sparkled my brain — display cases adorned with sinful cinnamon buns, crusty croissants, flagrantly flakey pastries cascaded in chocolate, chewy tarts swirled with cream and topped with shingles of cocoa. If you’re a dessert psycho, then this is your spot. For me though, choosing sweets have recently gone the way of the West African Rhino (dead and extinct forever).

As I reached the counter to order, a hot, dreaded white boy (a thing I have, I know it’s weird, and probably offensive to most of you) was impatiently waiting my decision. I ultimately went with a savory choice, the croquet-monsieur – a traditional cheesy, open faced sandwich with ham and the mother sauce, béchamel.

“WE ONLY GOT TURKEY.” He yelled to my face. I don’t know why he was yelling. And the turkey option wasn’t exactly thrilling, so maybe he was just as disappointed about it as I was. Flustered with all these menu items since they were in French (curse my lack of worldliness!), I gave up and went with turkey. And because I’ve no regard for my gut or butt, I ordered one Morning Bun – essentially a cinnamon bun, but with hint of orange. Oh, and a larged iced coffee (durrhurr). Upon being mischarged $37 for my three items, then recharged $20 (still steep), I joined Christine and her rather tall (6’7?) ginger boof outside on some lazy patio dining arrangement.

The Croque-Monsiuer, but this is with ham, UNLIKE mine.

I dug into my Croque. It was fine. Nothing special. A little creamy, and the béchamel was slightly bland. The bread was also TOO crisp, where the roof of your mouth gets cut the fuck up like you bit into some tainted razor blade apple on Halloween night. It didn’t matter though, because ‘Tine and I were wrapped in conversation, so much so that I didn’t touch my sweet bun. I boxed it to go. As we left the bakery, I looked back at the enormous line still feeding into the establishment – impressive set up and clientele, but overall, overrated. Maybe it was the turkey, and I was sure I’d need to give it another go, but as for now: TARTINE, you say? Well, I say, more like, FART-INE.

The Morning Bun Situation

As if fate was leading me to erase the sad meal I just had from my brain, we walked to their friends row house, where I was introduced to “the dab”. The dab is the ultimo way to make use of cannabis oil — by flaming a metal plate, stabbing the needle of oil into it, and inhaling the vapor. Considering there was a blowtorch involved, it was a little too complex (and crack-headish) for me (these Frisco techies and their weed devices tho). However, my Morning Bun trade-in for a couple dots was completely worth it. Besides, what’s the point of swaying around the Mission if you ain’t slightly strung-out? Everyone else damn sure is. Besides, I AM ON VACATION. And to celebrate that, I also bought a Harley Davidson tank at this well-curated vintage spot, Afterlife.

When I departed Christine, sharing hugs and farewells, I took my expanded worldview to Dolores Park, scaling the grassy hill, passing picnickers (cute), kids giggling and playing tag (awww), loving couples doing drugs together (sort of cute? idk), and found a dry patch to sit on. It over-looked the park, and San Francisco unfurled in the distance — the Transamerica Pyramid poking out of the cityscape.

As I stared off at the congregation of shirtless, gay men sunning themselves nearby, a cooling breeze swirled by, rattling me. It reminded me I had to leave soon, to go back to the real world, back to L.A. But I wasn’t disappointed, rather I was relieved. For some reason, at this moment, I decided San Francisco wasn’t a tangible place for me. At least, not at that very instant, and not in the near future. It was a paradise, for sure, but like paradise, only a dream. The essence of SF sticks with you, much like when you’ve just woken from that deep sleep, trying to remember the images that flashed across your mind’s eye during the slumber. Yet all you’ve held onto is an indescribable feeling. A literal je nai sais quoi. It’s never real enough to grasp — much like the fog itself that stretches through and consumes the city — so thick, seemingly solid, but ultimately, unable to be embraced.

And much like Tartine and that croque-of-shit-monsieur… to me San Francisco just looked better than it actually tasted.

H(EAT) WAVE

Gee-wiz.

After acting out a thrilling (or incredibly annoying, depending on who you are) concept, dropping seven pounds, and 6 de-friendings on Facebook, my journey recording my daily food intake ended at 12:00am midnight on Sunday, September 15, 2013. What was only a week-long experiment, seemed more like an arduous journey across the Khyber Pass (it’s history folks. Look it up). And It wasn’t until three days into my self-imposed public gastrointestinal announcements that I thought out loud “well, gaw-lee I jes’ think this might be a dang blogpost!”

The fruition of most ideas is a brief flash. While this spark cannot be taught or even explained, I will allow you a glimpse into my mindset (and into my alleged madness) during this moment, that also foreshadowed the harrowing week that followed. Equally affecting was the actual process of eating (or not eating) during the week and recording it. And of course, what turned out to be more eye-opening was the reaction I received from the social media world (internet douche-turds) at large.

Oh yeah, and I learned a couple things too about my body and my nutrition or whatever.

It was a Saturday. September 7, 2013. Some time on or slightly before 12:31am.

It’s hard to imagine myself sitting at my computer, sweating in only my underpants, and attempting to adjust to the stifling heat gripping Los Angeles. Even through the night, the heaviness of the hot day gone-by persisted. Of course, I have this antiquated notion that air conditioning is for pussies. Hey, if my grand pappy could manage during the dead of summer in the Sand Hills of 1920s North Carolina, why can’t I do the same in 2013 SoCal?

I glared at the unpowered AC unit lodged in my room, while sipping my perspiring beer, and abandoned my panicked brainstorm session about what I should focus on next with my blog.

Suddenly, the window unit whispered to me, its voice cool and vacant, much like the recirculated air it could drench me with: “turn me on. You should turn me on, Alexander. Turn. Me. On. You know you want to.”

That frightening woman from Die Antwoord lives in my A/C unit. #nbd

Closing my eyes, I shook the voice from my head. I switched over to Facebook. It was a weekend night, so whomever was posting anything, I just assumed had a waste of a life much like my own (and I wanted nothing to do with them). Not that I wanted to be out and about–spending money on empty calories and having emptier conversations with Silver Lake yuppies. Yet, sitting at home in what had turned into a massive, stucco version of an easy-bake oven, wasn’t that amusing either.

I’m not sure if it was my fifth beer or the suffocating heat, or the lack of anything remotely interesting on the Internet, but I suddenly was struck by a notion: to report my ingestions.

“Like oh my GAWD, why not, right?”

I barely had been giving FB the attention so many others seemed to. Yes, I’m more of a “twitter guy” (follow me @omgalex). As unfulfilling as I find Zuckerberg’s platform to be, it’s where I could reach the most people. In my heatbox of a bedroom, it was decided. A social media performance was born, birthed from my brain also known as my “idea vagina”.

Where it all started.

Now, those of you reading, probably think that I’m giving myself too much credit, and if I was you, I probably would too. But each day reporting my intake–from seemingly endless cold brew coffees, candy, random ass big sandwiches, pasta, seafood, alcohol, and much much more–I was able to delve into what my body takes in, and what it was taking in, in fact, was not very much. So of no surprise to any of you, I don’t have a balanced diet.

Kate Moss was my spirit guide during this whole thing, actually.

Another confession — I don’t think I’m the best physical version of myself (SHOCKER), but it’s hard when I live my life like I like my men, fast and incoherent (hmmmm, wait a second…). But in all seriousness, my wildly unpredictable diet could be because my current state of affairs doesn’t allow for such a thing.

I wake up at 8am, I get home about 7:30 or 8pm. Breakfast is almost a foreign concept to me during the workweek unless its a coffee. Lunch is the only meal that seems logical (I’m awake AND hungry), but sometimes I don’t even have time for that. When dinnertime comes around, it’s either gorge at an unhealthy hour (Cooking at 8:30pm and then eating by 9:30pm???) or inhaling an entirely unhealthy but quick meal (pizza? A rotisserie chicken? A BURRITO?). How many people my age that work similar grueling job hours have a great, nutritional lifestyle? Anyone? i have a hard time patterning my life through meal times. Although I probably should, yet I’ve proudly reached my self-conscious “LA lifestyle” where working out at 9pm seems like a much better option than filling my tummy.

Eventually, posting what it was that I had just consumed became a fun game to play, but through my endeavors I further understood the insipidity of Facebook.  Admittedly, I found use in the site as a great way to promote my blog, but before that I barely had even used it much at all. It was mostly a place to upload some instas, get a few ‘likes’ to boost my self-esteem, message a hot dude, bully my friends by barraging their profiles with wall-posts, and stalk people I had slept with and then hypothesize why they never called me back based on their online activity… (Aha! He got a new job! So that’s why he didn’t respond to my nude selfie…). Truthfully, I’m a celibate monk.

Anyway, what surprised me was how negatively some people reacted as if my status updates were some sort of imposition (ummmm hey, we’re “friends” remember?) And it’s also funny how my entire reasoning for carrying out this idea was somewhat personal but also potentially far-reaching: everybody eats, and I don’t know anyone that has great nutrition.

As for commentary on my statuses, I got a little bit of everything–

from the aggravated: 

“I’m taking you off my newsfeed now.”- FB friend

“this is starting to get on my nerves” – Actual IRL best friend

“alex this is one of your more annoying social media endeavors” – Another actual IRL best friend

“Ok, you can stop now” – immediate family member.

to people enjoying it: 

“This is amazing!” – Friend

“Never stop!” – Best friend

“I’M GETTING YOUR STATUS UPDATES DIRECTLY TO MY PHONE” – Another best friend/borderline stalker

to people who I haven’t spoken to since High School messaging me: 

“Alex. It’s been years. I just want you to know this food thing is hilarious. You have my full support”

to concern:

“As an eating disorder psychologist, I’m starting to become concerned.” – an eating disorder psychologist.

To take a slight detour, I messaged my friend, the psychologist, to insist that I did not in fact have an eating disorder (although I had considered it, because I mean, how am I supposed to know? I wasn’t really consuming much during the day except caffeine and the occasional nut). However, my main defense was, if I was actually anorexic, would I be public about it? She agreed that no, most eating disorders, especially with cases involving bulimia, are rarely publicized.

Though, it turns outthere are some weird online communities for anorexics that actually support each other AND their disorders.

Check it out here: http://www.myproana.com

I was also just straight-up DE-FRIENDED. Wait, what? Yep. De-fucking-friended.

I mean it’s fine. There are probably 500 people I could erase off my list, anyway. I can understand how these updates seemed self-centered and narcissistic (yet… aren’t everyone else’s?), but isn’t nutrition important? Even if it’s just my own?

But to everyone annoyed, my response is this: what the hell. How many boring things do people post in my newsfeed daily? UH, probably 95% and this includes people getting married, people and their dogs, and even people and their babies (SORRY, infants don’t get a free pass). So, I’m not married, I don’t have a pet, and I sure as hell don’t have a baby, which is why before this, I stopped ever posting anything at all. And I can’t openly suggest on Facebook that my friend maybe shouldn’t have married that loser in that dress, or how that pet someone bought for way too much money (instead of adopting one for free) is butt ugly, or how in God’s name that couple is even raising a child with little to no resources or an education whatsoever. But I’m a nice guy.

And as much as I’d like to say I’m bulletproof, some of these adverse reactions started to affect me.

Also, at what point did some of my “friends” assume that I had gone off the deep-end? I already had confidants texting me asking me if I was “okay” — not regarding my food intake, but rather my “mental state”. I guess you can reach a facebook status update, critical, mass overload, and once that happens, the internet community — without really having an informed opinion — will feel some sort of concern, yet simultaneously ridicule you publicly. Hey Y’ALL IM LIKE AMANDA BYNES . But I doubt she’s ever thought about what she’s eaten in years.

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. That’s what I reminded myself.

Because nothing on Facebook is more important than what’s out in the real world anyway, so it’s odd to me when anyone would be “annoyed” or “inconvenienced” at me detailing my fleeting daily food intake (with no crass attitude, mind you). Especially, when they’re checking in on the 8 billionth, trite Buzzfeed list, or a “twerking gone wrong” video or reposting one of thousands of those clever stickers that have been around since 2007.

What it really boils down to is this: you’re irrelevant. I’m irrelevant. We’re all irrelevant. So next time you’re like “ooooh man I’m just tired of these status updates by this dude”, you should probably stand up, look around, get a life, and start living it. Because complaining about my public yet ephemeral virtual food diary, is just as annoying as actually deciding to start a public, yet ephemeral virtual food diary, and definitely not as proactive.

But let me know when you start changing the world, and then you can post something about it.

(I’ll actually have a  restaurant review next time)

Tune in next week when I attempt to drink all the white wine in San Francisco!!!

SON OF A (PUN)

SON OF A GUN (re-reviewed) —  */5
8370 W 3rd St
Los Angeles, CA 90048

Hiya folks, I hope everyone enjoyed the Sunday of months aka August. Honestly, I just don’t care for it.  It’s blazing hot, summer is drawing to a close (sad face), and Leos are questionable people. August is also not a great time to feel motivated. Although I have created a blog, started another writing project w/ Kat. St. Kat, and found a new job — I’ve been overcome with a late summer malaise. Maybe I’m just turnin’ into a grumpy ol’ fogey. After all, my 26th birthday is in less than three months, so what’s the point of living anyway?

Therefore, instead of trying to put myself on the positive track, I felt the need to be nostalgic (thank God for my generation, am I right?) Logging into Yelp and sifting through my old reviews brought back memories… Akin to when you’re going through your things in your childhood bedroom, sorting through the loads meaningful crap. Like stories you’d written, art projects, and trophies (granted, I never won anything sport related. All my awards are labeled “consolation”). But none of that actually matters, because my mom converted my bedroom into her office when I went to college. I half imagine her bursting into tears after dropping me off at school, then it mutating into evil laughter while rolling into Home Depot to buy buckets of paint.

Back to the topic at hand, I chose my VERY FIRST Yelp review which was when I dined at Son of A Gun with my friend Lenore (future TV executive, and ball-busting Korean woman). At the time, we had an incredible experience.

See below: Initially posted on YELP on 11/8/2012:

Son of a Gun — how I’ve longed to be inside you. Well, about a month ago I was, and I Haven’t been back! Mainly because to get a table, you have to walk in and wait, or make a reservation far in advance. Luckily for me, I blackmailed an assistant at a big agency for a reservation,ANYWAY — let’s start with location: IN THE HEART OF WEST HOLLYWOOD, ON 3rd. a teensy little place, tucked away, right by Joan’s on Third. Parking was really easy and I didn’t have to valet; and i HATE to valet. I think it’s a waste of everything*. Moving on, when you enter, you’re greeted with fabulous mariner/sailing/seaworthy memorabilia which gave it this campy/Red Lobster vibe that I could not help but enjoy. The hostess was friendly and I immediately went to the bar to order a Pennicillin (a whiskey drink on their menu) which was about 10-12 bucks.Seating me and my blackmailed agency friend, we were immediately greeted by a sunny waitress that seemed plucked from the Northeast. The menu is pretty expensive and extensive so we decided to just order a bunch of things, in hopes of stuffing our faces, and then ordering more if weren’t completely full.Homecut Potato Chips w/ Pimento Cheese — being from the south, i ordered these and ate every bite. Amazing.Shrimp Toast Sandwich — Another amazing dish, really small, but so rich that it doesn’t even matter. It was dripping, sweet AND salty, crunchy, and everything.Lobster Roll — Also super tiny, but super good, buttery, creamy, like almost everything else on their menu.The chicken sandwich — MORE CARBS. As much as i thought this was delicious, and as much as people have said it’s better than a ChickFila sandwich (it isn’t) I was slightly disappointed. But since I can’t go to chickfila anymore due to political reasons, it’s a very nice substitute **. Another dish i forgot about was THE SHISHITO peppers with this garlic mayo thing. SO GOOD. Juicy, hot, and decadent. After all this we were really full and grumpy and needed to leave. I’d go back when i have 100 bucks to blow on myself. Our bill came to 70, we split it, and we walked away happy, into the night.

*I still consider this to be true.

**I recently walked into a Chick-fila (drunk) forgetting my equality ideals, and ate two sandwiches, a carton of fries, and slurped down a sweet tea. Afterwards, I felt I had betrayed myself, far more than the time in college, when I declared I was a vegetarian. This only happened because of pamphlets PETA would hand out on the quad. They were so gruesome — depicting abused pigs, neglected cows, geese strangulation. Needless to say, I’m a sucker when it comes to propaganda. I went as long as month before (again, drunk) I accidentally scarfed down a beef hotdog at a football game. My friend Kate couldn’t help but point out, “hey, aren’t you a vegetarian?” and I responded by dry-heaving into a nearby trashcan. Hey, I tried.

But as you can see, about this time last year, based on that review, I was far less self-absorbed, and exponentially more boring. While these gastro-spectives have taken a sharp turn for the amazing, I cannot say the same for my next visit to Son of A Gun. This time around, I went with my other future TV executive BUT Filipino friend, Pia ( I guess I have a thing for Asian women?) whom yet had a chance to try the yumminess that SOG had to offer. We arrived only a few minutes late for our reservation, and were quickly seated along a back, booth-lined wall. It was the perfect table for two. We were excited. What could possibly go wrong?

Like last time, a variety of colorful plates were ordered:

Their daily (mutating) dinner menu

-The hamachi (a Japanese Amberjack fish), with a galbi vinaigrette, gala apple, and radish sprout. (light, tart, and a refreshing starter)

-TWO lobster rolls (duh), topped with aioli, lemon, celery, and a hand-cut potato chip

-The linguine and clams, tossed with uni aglio-olio, chili, and breadcrumbs (the smell was intoxicating, and the dish almost too decadent and rich)

-The fried chicken sandwich (So I can’t stay away from fried chicken. Secret’s out, folks)

-A basket of their Kennebec hand-cut french fries — which is paired with a malt vinegar aioli that I would have eaten with a spoon had there been no one around.

-And last but not least, the soft shell crab tempura, with generous helpings of crispy pork, and a ginger-soy drizzle. It’s pretty clear that neither of us were trying to be remotely healthy.

So you must be thinking “WOW, everything seems great!” and we are sitting there, thinking the exact same. About half-way through our meal, the table next to us is cleared and prepped for the next batch of customers — two hetero couples on what was so clearly a double date (awww, so cute). What was less cute was moments later, after they had settled, one of the women SHRIEKS and the table SCATTERS. At first, I thought she had sat on a fork or something, but in fact, a COCKROACH crawls out from the booth and up the wall.

I was enjoying the famed lobster roll before the incident.

Now my friend and I, our mouths crammed with crispy pork and crab, we’re now finding it slightly hard to swallow our food. While no one really noticed the scene besides us and the shaken table of four, the hostess comes over, quickly swats the roach dead, and discretely clears it away, like she was the Argentine government in the 1980s. It’s as if nothing had happened. Pia and I looked at each other, and determined not to let this ruin our meal, shrugged, then choked down some fettuccine. Whatever the hostess whispered to the two couples, they sat back down, nervously giggling about what had transpired.

“Hahaha, I can’t believe that.” “Wow! Gross!” “Oh well, it’s not the worst the thing that could — EAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!”

MORE SCREAMING. The couples JET from the corner table, AS ANOTHER COCKROACH CLIMBS DOWN FROM THE CEILING, right by one of the dude’s heads (it was probably like 3 inches long). The two women are WAILING, the men are hopelessly using their napkins as whips (c’mon guys…) and I can’t do anything but chug my whiskey, hoping that the alcohol would curb my disgust. This was all perfect timing too as more of our food came out, and my appetite was all but shot to hell.

Pia tried to kid herself by telling me, “I’m from the Philippines. I’ve seen worse…” to which I remarked, “oh, so in the Philippines, are the cockroaches EATING the people instead?”

As the second roach was squashed (and yet somehow, the rest of the restaurant is still completely unaware of this debacle), the hostess says something to the table about free drinks and some appetizers. I mean I guess, that’s fine except A THIRD MOTHERFUCKING COCKROACH SCUTTLES ONTO THEIR TABLE … and my appetite was completely and utterly crushed, just like the first two bugs. They even had to bring out MUSCLE FROM THE KITCHEN– two hulking hispanic men — with like, a beach towel to take care of the third roach. I’m pretty sure they had to drown this one in the back it was so big. At this point, I expected Jeff Goldblum’s character from THE FLY to crash through the storefront window, and start puking on everyone’s faces.

So after all this, the hostess, the owner, the head chefs came out and apologized profusely for this whole scenario. To the two couples and to our table. I graciously accepted their offer to comp a few of our plates since we were right there witnessing this entire spectacle and not one bit hungry anymore– no, no, no, wait a minute. That never happened. We didn’t get an apology. From anyone.  HELL, we didn’t even get acknowledgment that those cockroaches even EXISTED by our waitress. My friend and I were speaking-distance to the horrified couples, and we were still left with a bill exceeding 60 dollars a piece, and don’t you know it? THEY EVEN CHARGED US FOR THE TAP WATER WE REQUESTED. Thanks Son of a (Bitch). Thank you so much.

Now, maybe I’m making a big deal about all this. If you know me, I could have complained (and complained very well, mind you), but I didn’t want to. I don’t like having those types of conversations. But to not even receive a, “hey sorry about the whole bug infestation a foot south of you” is kind of tasteless (which is how I felt about the food after seeing the Moe, Larry, and Curly of the roach world murdered in front of me eyes). I’ve even been to a restaurant where i found SARAN WRAP in my COOKED burger, and my friends suggested not saying anything because it’s awkward… UH, WAT (I did not complain per their wishes, and I paid 16 bucks for a plastic sandwich). It’s just like that time my dad and my five-year-old self were at the mall Christmas shopping, and he found a BAND-AID BAKED INTO HIS SBARRO PIZZA (I mean it’s Sbarro, and a mall food court) BUT WHAT THE FUCK. A BAND-AID??

The moral of this story is this: to SPEAK UP. You are a paying customer. This does not mean being a dick. But if there are roaches cart-wheeling around, band-aids camouflaged in pizza, plastic inserted into ground beef, hair sprinkled on your Panda Express, or scabs, or WHATEVER … you have a right to have your voice heard. WE SHALL NOT BE SILENCED.

So there. There’s my disgusting review. Who knew that Son of Gun took the place of Joe’s Apartment. Screw you, Son of A Gun, and you too, Jerry O’Connell. Screw you all!

QIRL, It’s Called SQIRL!

SQIRL — ****/5

720 N Virgil Ave #4
Los Angeles CA 90029

http://sqirlla.com/

On a sunny, Saturday or Sunday morning, when I’m off  work and I can go about my own business, you can catch me stumbling around Silver Lake, picking up coffee from Café Organico, then off to the weekly flea market, or maybe grocery shopping, or swiping my clothes from the dry cleaners… and during these moments, this is normally my theme song. You might even see me on the street and be like, “oh, there’s that swarthy, mixed-race zombie, of which races I do not know, but boy, does he looks hungry,” (I’m ethnically inscrutable AND perpetually peckish). And if you had the gall to start a conversation with me, I’d probably end up bumbling my words like Juliette Lewis in the Other Sister (which still makes me cry every time I watch that movie. Mentally challenged people in love is probably the cutest thing in the entire world. MOVE OVER CATS!).

Wait… This is a restaurant blog, and a review… and I had a point. So, where was I… Oh, yes: on one particular Saturday morning, I was doing the exact opposite of what I mentioned above: I was lying on my couch, with the lights off, the curtains drawn and hoping not to speak to anyone. I was unfortunate enough to leave my front door wide open, through which my roommate’s Sagittarius girlfriend arrived unannounced (and if you know any Sags they can talk for AGES, God bless ’em). She gabs to me about something called “Squirrel”. Of course I’m a third paying attention, a third trying to catch up on the 6^th season of Mad Men, and the last third wondering why I woke up that morning cradling a jug of 7-Eleven water. So whatever, mostly I ignored her, but this “Squirrel” business stuck with me. They make their own jams, I recalled her saying, one day as I was just sitting and staring at a wall. They make their own jams… her voice still ringing in my ears.

CUT TO: me waking up in a pristine bed that is not my own, but that of a talented graphic designer with a penchant for triangles, red wine, and clocks with gargantuan numbers. We discussed breakfast and this “Squirrel” came up again. Since I was emotionally unavailable at this point in time (and I had errands to run) I jettisoned my ass out his apartment.

But I remembered his advice: Get the porridge.

Porridge? I thought. Like Oliver Twist porridge? What century is this? Do they have gruel too? Imitation gruel? 

The next day, I realized I had booked a brunch for the upcoming weekend with a colleague from an agency, Mr. Greenbomb. So I looked up “Squirrel Silver Lake” on google. I came up with nothing.

Well that’s a little weird. I could have sworn they said it was right by me.

Of course, when you’re me, at this point, I already rationalized that I’d made up the entire place and the aforementioned scenarios, because I’m creative and have an un-diagnosed mental disorder. Though, in actuality, I was just SPELLING IT WRONG, because as we all know, anything hip is spelled wrong… And my reaction to that is this Lucille Bluth .gif

Anyway, so the eatery is spelled SQIRL. And it is located off Virgil Avenue. Virgil Avenue acts as a buffer between Silver Lake, East Hollywood, and Koreatown. I quickly informed my brunch partner of the plan, and we were set!

Arriving at SQIRL, you take in the surrounding area: dusty, barren, and chock-full of barred windows, cracked pavement, and not that many signs in English.  But Virgil is still a picturesque avenue with tons of culture that hasn’t been given a “facelift” via gentrification, so that’s refreshing. Regardless, suggesting such a location will receive sneers from those more accustomed to West side sterility. Or maybe that it’s just too damned far from West Hollywood and like, I dunno, TOAST, or something.

The restaurant itself is situated on a corner, with rickety aluminum tables scattered about outside (there was no indoor seating at the time). As soon as you walk in, there is a chalkboard: their wildly inventive, comfort-food laden menu. From thick cuts of brioche toast, slathered with everything from chocolate ganache to hazelnut butter, and of course their array of homemade jams. Oh and the porridge. Oddly enough, they also have a selection of different Rice Bowls to choose from for brunch. One caught my eye:  Kokuho Rose Brown Rice Bowl: sorrel pesto, preserved meyer lemon, Lacto, hot sauce, black radish, french sheep feta, and a poached egg. They also had a vegan option, call The Stella. Needless to say I was floored, but as tasty as it sounded, the thought of eating rice at 11:30am just didn’t jive with this turkey.

When it came time to order at the register (they give you a “card” and bring you your food), I opted for the open face brioche toast, kale, tomatillo puree, lacto fermented hot sauce, a fried egg, and I added the option of homemade sausage, because you know, I’m body-conscious. Mr. Greenbomb chose the Toast with chocolate.

While the portions don’t look that filling, by the end, when your plate is completely clean, you realize it was just the right amount. I also lost half a sausage because my Cro Magnon knife-cutting skills sent it sailing across the outdoor patio. Mr. Greenbomb suggested I was on drugs, and I suggested casting a fatal curse on him and his family. 

This was my lucky card.

My favorite aspect of the café is its “sustainable philosophy” and also their… STAINLESS STEEL DRINKING STRAWS (WTF). Which are quite possibly the coolest / most dangerous thing you could give your customers. I did almost chip a tooth with that thing. On the bright side, I guess we have another utensil to maim a bad date with (or an annoying friend!).

Furthermore, it’s always a good sign when I look over at what everyone else is eating, and envy surges into my blood stream! So I’ve been back. Which is when I went with the Quiche with Arugula, Feta & Herbs, and market greens (delightfully light and tasty). As of 8/15/2013, they’ve since renovated the space to include indoor seating!

I’m only keeping a star to myself because when I asked for silverware, one of the employees passing by said I could get it myself inside (like, what’s with the attitude you granola wench). Anyway… if you’re feeling daring, and craving an east side adventure, hit up Sqirl for an undoubtedly unique dining experience. And think of me when you’re sucking down your iced coffee between forkfuls of brioche 😉

-Impolitely yours,

Alex

Amuse Douche

Food-lovers, culinary adventurers, and of course, pretentious jerk-offs.

~*~*~*~Welcome~*~*~*~

After hearing so many people go ON and ON about my wildly entertaining restaurant reviews on Yelp.com (“Oh, Alex, you’re just so witty“, “Your reviews are all I ever wanted.” “Your body is all I’ve ever wanted” “You’re an example of human perfection!” — I don’t remember who said any of these things, but THANK YOU) I’ve decided to get this situation turnt up. While I’m not at all a modest person, and I acknowledge that my musings were nothing short of spectacular, it’s clear that Yelp was trying to hold me down through their depersonalizing website format. And as many of you know, my personality simply cannot be contained... But I will try and box it in as well as possible on here.

A little explanation on what this blog will BE:

This is a recorded, and perhaps exaggerated (for entertainment purposes) personal history of my gastrointestinal system — what’s gone in, what’s come out, and how I (and we) interact with food on a personal level. Friendships, sex, relationships, are all intertwined with our basic need to eat. It goes without saying that food and food-eating has evolved, and now it’s more than just for survival. To dine , for us lucky people, is a pastime. It’s a moment to connect with those you care about, or maybe even those you don’t. It’s where stories — real and imagined — are recounted and shared. Food/eating can also be a source of unhappiness, guilt, and remorse. The bottom line is, we can’t escape this ritual of eating and everything that goes with it. At the end of the day, this will be a diary of restaurant experiences : the location, the atmosphere, the service, my company (or lack thereof), and of course le grub (good or bad). But hopefully it will convey something familiar and fun regarding the tradition of “the meal”.

I think Los Angeles is a perfect place to explore this relationship between breakfast/lunch/dinner/late-night-carbo-loading and human. More often than not, even in a mega-city such as this one, routine conversation falls into several recurring topics: where you’re living, where you’re going, what you’re doing now… and what you’ve eaten recently. While that doesn’t make L.A. sound like the most fascinating place to live, all of us that call it home (or a place for now), embrace the next great taco truck, gastro-pub, cheeseburger, and variation of the french fry. We’re all constantly hungry. Hungry for more than just food too — a career, a loving relationship, and above all, a meaningful life. But maybe just for now, the only revelation we need is that intricately arranged tapa, or a finely wrapped burrito — a piece of comfort that we can chew, swallow, and feel temporarily complete by.*

I love you all and hope you enjoy — and if you know me, I plan on offending all of you, and I don’t really care.

Eat up, ya gluttons~

Sincerely yours,

Alex

*Or maybe we’re simply enslaved by capitalism — our brains dialed into mindless consumerism, and a part of that including incessant ingestion (which will also be discussed).

About the author: Alexander was born a Southern gentleman in Raleigh, North Carolina. Currently, he neither seems Southern, nor at all gentle. If anything he’s slightly loud, abrasive and kinda grabby (see: handsy). He graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill in 2010 with a Bachelor’s degree in God-Only-Knows-What. Soon thereafter, he set out across the United States, settling in Los Angeles, CA in order to pursue his goal of becoming a respected and famous screenwriter (with an eventual drinking problem). In 2048, he will die tragically, getting hit by a car, while trying to retrieve a twenty dollar bill from a busy intersection.

Just me in my natural habitat: tryna watch my stories and eat some Chipotle.