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After being subjected to literally years of hype, recognition and reverence, we finally had our opportunity to eat at what some consider to be The Culinary Mecca of the Americas, and many place it in a special tier reserved for the top restaurants in the world.

Before I continue on this subject, I’d like to amend my take on relating a dining experience, and by extension, the evaluation of the meal.

By adopting the same method that others use to ‘judge’ a restaurant, I realized I was approaching this all wrong. Ranking, judging and comparing restaurants is as pointless as the Oscars, or Guitar Player Magazine’s Guitar Player Of the Year. The unfortunate result of making a competition about something inherently subjective and unquantifiable as skill and talent, is that we start to take these things seriously. Was Eddie Van Halen really better than Randy Rhodes? Did Crash really deliver a script and story better than the performances in Capote? Do we really believe Olympic judges don’t favor their own country’s competitors?

By applying judgment and competition to art, we limit ourselves in the ability to appreciate it. Just because a Van Gough fetches $82 million for a fingerpaint he drew as a kid, doesn’t mean other artists out there are any less talented or innovative. It just means they don’t have the history or exposure. And yes, Randy Rhodes should have beat Eddie Van Halen in 1981.

The same applies to haute cuisine. I am retracting my faint praise of Robuchon, and compartmentalizing it from any other experience. Upon reflection, he deserved more than to be lumped in with everyone else, as every chef deserves. I approached The French Laundry in the same way…but not until I was halfway through meal did that decision benefit me.

I was already on the fence about this, because I’ve given serious consideration about the whole notion since writing my last post. I was already spoiling for a fight. Goddamnit, if this isn’t the best meal I’ve ever had, I’m going to dangle Keller off the balcony like Vanilla Ice.

I decided I wasn’t going to judge The French Laundry like all the other Kulinary Klownz (aka foodies) who have a chalkboard in their kitchen where they move rankings of restaurants around like handicapping a horse race. Kulinary Klownz also tend to base their ranking of the food on how much they paid for it.

I was going to enjoy this experience and relay it based on its own merits, without applying false comparison to other chefs, nor base whether I was having the greatest meal of my life based on the price. I wouldn’t even ask myself if was the greatest meal I’ve ever had.

What earns top chef’s recognition is their approach to unique ways of preparing flavors that fit together in a unified dish. We were having a pretty lengthy discussion about the differences between Robuchon and Keller, and it dawned on me that the comparison couldn’t be made. I had some mild criticism of The Mansion, and much of it was based on ‘for the price, I expected this.’ But, to ding the guy because he has a particular artistic approach and flair, wasn’t fair, and robbed me of fully enjoying the experience.

Instead of enjoying the moment, I was evaluating the meal in comparison of every other meal I had eaten. Other experiences that had history and sentimentality and meaning to me, which a new one couldn’t possibly stand up to.

It’s important for you to understand that, because in no part of my narrative will I say this was the best meal I’ve ever had, or that it blew me away because of x, y, and z. Everybody knows The French Laundry, everybody already has full knowledge of Keller’s reputation and meticulous preparation and avant garde flavors, and that is exactly what I expected. It is exactly what he delivered.

So, I was glad to have made that decision before sitting down in this intimate cottage in Yountsville. We all piled out of the SUV looking like we were showing up to the prom, Nayan, our good friends Brian and Oksana, and I rolled in there ready to be fed. Camera in hand, I looked like a complete tool wearing a suit because jackets are required, and I have no sports jacket. I work for an internet company, so I was dressed in my interview suit. Brian even threw on a tie for posterity.

We left the Hotel Carlson after their complimentary wine service in the lobby and shot out at 7:30 because we wanted to beat any traffic snarls and security slowdowns that might occur because Dubya was staying in St. Helena down the street.

We got there early, to discover they don’t have a bar, but a quaint waiting room adorned with a couch, few chairs and some flowers. We were the only ones foolish enough to arrive early hoping for a freak vacant table. Seeing as how we were the only ones monkeying around in the foyer, this wasn’t a common occurrence.



A quiet procession of people paraded by us for about a half hour, yet I didn’t find myself overwhelmed with anticipation like when I went to see Return of the King. We spent our time reading over the menu, deciding which of the optional items we would get and taking pictures.

One thing that perturbed me, and I wasn’t sure if I would even talk about this, was the foie gras course was an additional $30. Now, this is already quite an expensive meal, so I was wondering why they hadn’t factored in something as ubiquitous as foie gras into the price. In time, however, I didn’t really think about it, since I knew I was going to get it…but really…



The staff was cordial and accommodating without being overbearing and in your face. I really enjoyed that. When are table was ready, we were escorted upstairs to a small room with five tables in it.

At first it seemed a little cramped, but it really wasn’t. The French Laundry is a very intimate space, with enough quiet conversation so as not to be intrusive. Each napkin was bound with a complimentary French Laundry clothespin, suitable for…hanging clothes. I had fun with this as a lapel ornament and suggested Brian use his for a tie clip.



We had no problem ordering quickly, since we had plenty of time to read over the night’s offerings, all of which sounded exceedingly delicious. As per the usual, three ordered wine, I ordered beer. The waiter was smart enough not to roll his eyes like all the other snobs I encountered in Napa Valley who showed an absolute disdain for any drink that is not wine…but that is another discussion.



The amuse bouches were some of the best I have had, and that’s saying something. First out of the kitchen was a delicate puff pastry the size of a quarter, filled with melted gruyere and béchamel. It had an exquisite warm burst of creamy, nutty cheese that elevated the flavor of the pastry to unbelievable heights. Very supple.



That was swiftly followed by a salmon tartare ‘ice cream’ cone. A delicate ball of salmon puree and chive was delicately perched on top of a crisp cone filled with chive crème fraiche. This quirky play on a salmon pinwheel had that extra dimension of the kate moss-thin cone for texture interest.



The meal was a good, steady clip, never going more then a few minutes before the arrival of a new dish, many dotted between actual menu items.

Speaking of menu item, the first one bounded in with a deliberate presence, his famous Oysters and Pearls. A couple of beau soleil oysters and quenelle of sevruga caviar in a bath of pearl tapioca sabayon. This perennial head-turner was a perfect balance of cream and round textures to caress the tongue. A hearty saltiness from the caviar lent a brash presence to the sabayon, but not to the point of competition. As lucky as I am, my wife doesn’t like caviar.



We got a short break to share our thoughts about the various tastes, and along came the first bread sample. I have to admit, The French Laundry de-emphasizes bread to a palate cleanser more than a lingering course. Overall, they balance the portion size masterfully, so you feel full, but not gorged, when you leave. Thank their bread portion control for that.



The bread came accompanied by two cups of butter. The first was a salted butter from Vermont, hand churned by Diane Sinclair, and flavored with fleur de sel. The other was unsalted butter was from the Strauss family in France. I prefer salted.



The bun tasted honestly like a cross between a Pillsbury crescent roll and a soft pretzel, and that kicks ass. Crusted on top with salt, it had a nice bite to the tongue, and deep richness that definitely reminded me of home cooked meals. Maybe this was his way of bringing the palate back in before hitting me with another round of flavors.



And here it was. Usually the highlight of my meal, the foie gras is always the most anticipated plate put before me. What a sleek and elegant presentation.



The moulard duck terrine of foie gras was crowned with a delicate forest of pickled ramp-hayden mango relish, frisee and accompanied by tapered dots of balsamic vinegar reduction. It was accompanied by a thick brioche. A small ring of crushed black pepper sat alone in another corner.



It was also accompanied by three types of salt, all of which I discovered were unnecessary. There was a pink clay salt from Hawaii, a fine Jurassic salt from Montana, and a gray course Brittany salt. I loved tasting the salt alone, but the dish didn’t need it at all.



I took so long taking pictures that the waitress came back by and swapped my brioche with a new, warm, set. Was I being chastised? No, this is SOP, they always swap out the brioche after five minutes, and I appreciate that.



The dish itself was very clean and fresh, the delicate flavors of the frisee and ramps dancing off the creamy subtlety of the foie gras. The vinegar added an extra sweet note that obviated the need for the salt or pepper. A fine pairing, with a delicate presentation.

The rest of the table ordered the salad, which was judiciously portioned with Hawaiian hearts of peach palm, French Laundry garden radishes (mandolined translucent thin), all mamboing with some mizuna leaves in a foodfight of avocado puree (formerly known as guacamole). I had a taste and it was clean and fresh like it was picked 10 minutes ago, and who knows, maybe it was…but probably not. Have to say for all it’s freshness, I preferred my foie gras, my good man.



Following this was a small fillet of cobia balanced on a ragout of baby artichokes (and they were very cute), san marzano tomato marmalade and globe artichoke mustard emulsion. This was a whimsical take on ketsup and mustard, and I saw where he was going with it. The cobia was perfectly spiced and sautéed, playing a nice counterpoint to the artichoke’s sensual cleanliness. The ketsup/mustard combo worked better with the fish alone, so I ate the hearts separately and used the condiment to enhance the flavor of the fish.



Oksana ordered the octopus instead of the cobia. It came with marble potatoes, piquillo peppers, transparent almonds, cilantro shoots and enveloped by a Spanish caper vinaigrette. She said it had a delicate texture and hearty flavor, as opposed to the rubbery tire tread we are accustomed to in sushi bars. She also remarked how nice and different the transparent almonds were. By her description, I could definitely have gone for that.



Ok, down to some serious eating. Our next course turned out to be the crowning jewel of the evening, as we looked back and savored the memories.



This was sweet butter poached Maine lobster mitts balanced on a puree of celeriac, accompanied by navel orange confeit, shaved celery branch, aigre-doux a l’orange and celery seed melba. All that celery and you’d think I’d puke. I hate celery as a rule, but this was not like celery I was used to.



The celeriac was sweetened and prepared almost to a thin custard consistency. Pairing the overtones of vanilla and caramel with the butter poached lobster was decadence at its finest. The celery leaf added a nice, freshly bitter current to the sweetness of the celeriac. The waiter explained the sweetness of the lobster is enhanced by not ever touching it by water. They package it in butter similar to a cryovac, and poach it in more butter.



The armwrestle of the aigre doux was a perfectly balanced yin and yang of rich orange and the stealthy celery seed melba.

So here is where the party split among party lines. Everyone else got the all day braised Hobb’s Shore pork belly adorned with Dutch white phairly phallic asparagus, rich polenta and a black truffle coulis. They had pretty mixed reactions…good flavor but perhaps a texture issue with the fattiness of the pork belly. Neither Oksana nor Nayan enjoyed the truffle coulis, but we later realized why: each thought the smell was earthy and dungy, but it turns out the table next door got served their cheese plate. More on that in a minute.



I ordered the blood sausage with caramelized cabbage ball resting on a cushion of granny apple puree (The Artist Formerly Known As Applesauce). I really don’t like the thought of boudin noir, a sweet non-translation for blood sausage, but it was a rich puck of…well…blood…that possessed an enormous personality of umami. I would place it against any game dish I’ve eaten, and the hearty fruit puree is the perfect accompaniment.



We shift into a lower gear for a few minutes, reflecting on the rustic silverware and muted enjoyment of all around us. It was a serene circus of flavor that was mature enough not to yank our noses and shove our faces into the plate. There were a few experimental flavors, but not the glitzy crap I was expecting from all the kulinary klownz that demand a show and a fried onion sorbet of some sort.

At this intermission, we all agreed that the reputation and execution was Pulitzer Prize perfected. The service was exact and attentive, but not perceptible. If I needed some water or butter, it materialized in front of me without any pomp or choreography.



Keller and crew have earned a sublime reputation by offering unique combinations of intricate flavors without calling attention to their creations. He focuses entirely on the flavors of the food, not the acrobatics of serving or plating.

But, back to the food, since the inexorable trot of time is relentless, and so is the procession of dizzying flavors.



Hey, this course sucked! That’s right. It tasted like lamb bologna. It was a drunkard, off balance and staggering into disaster. They had to throw us a curve ball to show us how wacky food can get if left ungoverned by taste and restraint. Woo hoo! I read it to mean, ‘You paid me a neutron star’s weight in money, and I’m gonna fuck with your tastebuds!’



None of us could figure out the direction or intent of this dish, except to show you how bad food can get in the hands of some other hack. Oksana equivocated it to a short Russian parable, The Captain’s Bucket.

In the Russian Navy, when an Admiral visits the ship -which is impeccably clean- the crew leaves one bucket of crap lying somewhere on the ship. This gives the Admiral something to kick, and yell about to the Captain. The Lamb Dish was the Captain’s Bucket of The French Laundry. Let’s move on, we were getting full, so it didn’t matter that much.

That course was followed by the unfortunately malodorous cheese, vacherin fribourgeois. Like nouc mam, it had a rank diffusion of corpse, but a decent taste. The rule applies to both: don’t ever inhale it, just eat and appreciate it. Everyone else at the table inhaled it deeply, nearly retching on the table. The vacherin fribourgeois tasted sharp at first bite, then faded quickly into a nutty smoothness. No pleasant taste could stop the inevitable, and our table quickly knighted it “Ass Cheese.”



I’m all into rancid smelling cheese that has a pleasant taste, but in an enclosed dining room, stick to the cheese with the isolated rot that can be localized to the table or the plate. Four plates of this nostril assault was a bit much, even though I found the taste invigorating. It came accompanied by sweet caramelized cipollini onions, mache and a caraway vinaigrette.

They quickly whisked away three full plates of cheese and one empty plate, mine, preparing us for the dessert procession.

First, was the sorbet course that’s usually relegated to course 3.5, but this one came at the end. A rhubarb sorbet with rhubarb dusted vacherin, rhubarb preserve, coated with cardamom syrup. Yummy. The vacherin lent a crispy sweetness to the muted rhubarb, and the cardamom lent a regal taste, being the Queen of Spices. The flavors orchestrated masterfully.



Finally, the piece de resistance was the feuillentine au caramel, butterscotch boite, caramel mousse and milk chocolate praline feuillentine. Don’t ask me to pronounce any of this, but I think it translates to “Freaking awesome and opulent chocolate dessert.” Wow, this was truly a crowning achievement to round off a night of expansive flavors and textures. The overwhelming creaminess of the chocolate, offset by the crunchy base was balanced perfectly by a casing that was not overly-sweet. Everyone loved it.



So, with this long-winded article winding down, everyone’s impressions were exceedingly positive. What Keller delivered was sensible experimentation without ostentation. He clearly earned his reputation from satisfied gourmands and not the raving throngs of Kulinary Klownz that flock to The French Laundry and bow to his visage and kiss his ring.



Chef groupies have a way of distorting the true reputation of a master, and Keller wisely has not gotten caught up in the celebrity by shaking up wild concoctions or towering Rube Goldberg food contraptions that are visibly pleasing, yet tastefully disappointing.



A final volley of Tahitian vanilla creme brulee and custard topped off the last few inches of my stomach, almost an afterthought to the meal, although exceptional in its own right.



The flavors were correct and pronounced, and the food was respectful of the palate. No wild games, no flashy gimmicks, and above all else, a superlative time was had by all. As soon as I win the lottery, I will surely return. Until then, I have my pictures.

Simple, Elegant Dinner

In the next day or so, you will be innundated about my experience in San Francisco this last weekend, but let's take a small break and deep breath for this quick dinner I made last Wednesday before heading up north.



This is a simple buffalo steak cooked medium rare. It is blanketed in a rich demi glas. Accompanying that is a roasted half-artichoke with sauteed melange of mushrooms and melted gruyere. Mmm mmmm!



Finally, a side of garlic butter shrimp, lightly simmered in garlic butter and champagne.

Goch Is Best When Served Live

Saturday, April 22. San Francisco: I don't know what Keller is thinking with this quivering plate of gutty tendrils, but the French Laundry better re-evaluate its menu.



I'm kidding of course. This was at a miserable hole called Dragon Noodle, which had good food, but wholly qualified as a dump with no charm, but from the people inside it.

Because I'm bored with life, I ordered cold duck in special sauce and jellyfish.



I picked this dish because I knew it would disgust the rest of the table, and because I wasn't that hungry, so being a disaster would only result in me losing a few bucks, not my whole lunch experience. I really picked these dishes because, short of flying to Canton, San Francisco is the only city where I could get authentic Chinese, and not oversugared, caffienated, glazed, expertly plated, Americanized glop.

I also realized my palate was most likely going to reject this for those very same reasons, but I wanted to give it a shot.

The duck was a good finger food, but mostly fat. If I were indigenous, I would have eaten the whole fatty chunk and spit out the bone. But, because I'm Pale Face Round Eye, I dumbly gnawed my way around the shards to get to the breast meat. The special sauce is soy, but what else would you put on it? I was going to get all the purees and reductions later, I didn't need that fancy crap right then.

Then came the jellyfish. Anointed with a light coating of sesame oil and resting upon a cushion of pickled radish and sweetened carrot, it looked like it spilled out of the camel Han vivisected to keep Luke warm.

It was alright, nothing horrific. Sweet and sesame, it had a good flavor, but the texture of slimy calamari. Noodles that were rubbery like julienned esophagus. Pretty good, but nothing I could have more than a few nibbles of.



As you can see, it was a thorough epiphany.



There's actually a tradition of shouting just before you eat this. "Gezuntheit"



Hey, we're eating at the French Laundry later, why waste lunch on haute cuisine, this place was pretty good and real. Everyone else ordered normal plates like beef with black bean sauce, sizzling beef, and Mongolian beef. I had my share of nibbles off those, too.

Completely Off Subject

Not food related at all. I was just thinking about the fact that Google heartily boasts when you sign into your Gmail account, they have such limitless storage capacity, you'll never need to delete another email. Ever. They highlight that feature for their new chat client, too.

I found it particularly disturbing because only a few months ago, they were involved in a proceeding where the government requested they disclose search habits of their users.

This site is about food, and there are plenty of nutty theorists out there, but I had to raise an eyebrow at that one.

Caol Ila

Continuing my journey around the Isle of Islay, I stumbled on a bottle of Caol Ila. This lighter, sweeter sister of the other Islay single malts is a decent swig, but the taste is a bit different than the other island offerings.

Possessing a brighter tingle on the tongue than its peat-weighted neighbors, the 'smoky-peaty' flavor of Caol Ila merely acts as the hardwood for the sweet notes to dance upon. Caol is definitely a giddy drink, as opposed to the brooding Lagavulin.

I prefer the seriousness of the Islay malts, but this was a good taste. Honey copulated with heather and caramel in an orgy of rich, sweet exuberance. It would be a nice introduction to the beginner tourist to Islay.

Anybody Got Any Dirty Clothes They Need Washed?

We are going to the French Laundry this week, so if anyone needs something steam cleaned let me know. The world-famous French Laundry is a foodie mecca, which is what scares me. Not just because of the dumb phrase 'foodie mecca' (which completely undercuts its aura of a serious gastronomic sanctuary). But, because Keller does take chances, and creates sometimes bizzare flavors and textures to satisfy the tastes of culinary clowns with too much expendable income in their pockets.

After borrowing against our home equity loan, I have extremely high expectations, and yet, I've heard the phrase 'hit-or-miss' with the French Laundry, too. Amid it's spectacular renown, there have been occassional mutterings of misfired ideas, or at least, poorly executed ones. I've heard the presentation of the waitstaff can be tedious and over-orchestrated. Eh, we had the 'simultaneous plate placing performance' at Emeril's, it doesn't bother me.

It's the Pulp Fiction Effect. Once you've been subjected to years of hype about something being the absolute friggin' best motherf'ing something it inevitably cannot live up to the overhype. It is good at what it does, and it does it phenomenally, but it has been crippled with such a herculean reputation, that nothing could ever achieve it. That was Pulp Fiction, and it could be the French Laundry.

But, even though I am lessening my expectations from Divine Intervention to Superhuman, the price will be the same, so I'm kind of screwed in that essence.

The Corner Place Korean BBQ

I was eating here, taking pictures and thumbing notes into my cell phone, when I realized Daily Gluttony already wrote up something about The Corner Place exactly one month ago to the day. Ahh, but it was the Cerritos location, and I'm eating at the OG, Old Skool, Real Killa Dilla Corner Chunk of Hole in Kizorea Tizown. K to da muthafukkin' T.



If you're not Korean, or haole like I am, you might be a tad lost in any of these joints. Everyone will make a painfully earnest effort to communicate, but don't be surprised if you accidentally order a clown hat full of candied eels instead of bulgogi. These kind of communication barriers inhibit unadulterated orders...and simultaneously build excitement in never knowing what you may get. Of course, I'm exaggerating...but only slightly.



I'm good about picking off what I know, and I have a vivid imagination of what the unidentifiable Korean appetizers could be. Kimchi, of course, bright red and fiery. Then there's pickled cucumber kimchi, which also has a nice heat on it. There are some candied jalapenos which really put the branding iron onto your tongue.



Now, I think the red strings are carrot peppers soaked with chipotle ginger marinade. Uh, the white vegetable floating in ice water is some kind of jicama. There were some white shredded shoestrings that were, I think pickled shoestrings. Oh, but the best condiment is the grassy knoll that accompanies the beef.



It's shredded and spiced green onion, cut into curly doodles. Awesome compliment to the beef. Now the last two dishes are fermented pinky toes that have blackeded from gangrene (oh, but they taste so sweet and pungent!) and marinaded sprouts. Of course, I know the pinky toes are soy beans, but I said I have a vivid imagination.



Again, one of the things I respect most of Asian food culture is the brutal honesty in which it is described and presented. Korean BBQ is a team sport, a primal exercise in community cooking and eating. The notion of paying someone to cook your own food is alien in almost all other restaurants, but look at the fun you're missing.

The pomp and circumstance of flames dancing in the middle of your table. The spectacle of carmelized beef smoking in a steep column up to the ventilator. The random risk of touching cooked meat with the same utensils that touch the raw meat (unless there's a trick I'm not aware of).

I'll tell you, when that plate of slaughtered animal arrives, I almost want to gnaw a raw piece right there.



But then, you'd miss the fun of cooking it.

Now, there's this matter of a secret cold noodle soup they make. More closely guarded than 7X, this soup has many odd and wild characteristics. Cold, sweet, sour and an undertone of musk, the noodles are firm and the broth is refreshing.



As I commented on Gluttony, I wouldn't kill my mother for a bowl of this soup. It's intriguing, but I'm not sure what all the fuss is about keeping the forumula secret or not allowing anybody to take any home. I do know she repeated a proffered theory they mix 7-Up in the base. Well, when I ordered a 7-Up, the lady said "Soup?" That could have been a dead giveaway.



It pairs nicely with 7-Up, and I could detect some distinct 7-Up currents, so she may be on to something.

Oh, they give you a tremendous amount of food, so if it just the two of you, don't make the mistake of ordering two meat dishes, you'll be carrying most of it home....except the soup, although I did get a pocketful of noodles.

The Emerging Fifth Taste: Umami

We are all familiar with the four basic tastes: salt, sweet, bitter and sour. There is a fifth basic taste that has been part of Asian cultures called Umami, and it is gaining acceptance to the Western palate. Umami is almost undefinable, since it has no actual taste qualities of its own. It has been described as 'richness' or 'wholeness' that is sometimes associated with meatiness, but not necessarily derived from meat.

Well, what is it then, and does it really exist if it is the black hole of taste sensations.

Umami does exist, and is the fifth taste sensation. So, why did the French name a taste sensation using an Asian word? Because this is the one food related idea that wasn't developed by the French. It was discovered in 1907 by Kikunae Ikeda, who was looking to isolate this particular sensation. Translated, Umami means 'delicious flavor' in Japanese. Ikeda noted that the taste of dashi, Japanese soup base, had a slightly differnt characteristic than other flavors, and sought out to chemically isolate the source of the sensation.

He found it, and you have tasted it. It is found in aged products such as soy sauce, fermented fish sauce, roquefort bleu cheese and mushrooms. Ikeda, through a process of isolation and refinement, even bottled it. It is Monosodium Glutamate, the flavor enhancer.

MSG has a spotty reputation, most notably with MSG intolerant people who can suffer a myriad of unpleasant reactions when injested. It has also been linked to some neurological disorders because high concentrations of MSG can cross the blood brain barrier in some people where it is either not fully developed (as in children), or weakened (as in elderly). It is therefore associated with undesirable additives.

But the foundation of MSG, free glutamate, is where umami is derived. This is most likely why most people are not strict vegeterians, as glutamate is found in protein-rich food, and associated with meaty qualities.

Thank You Everyone

As we continue to grow here at Playing With Fire (a wholly owned division of Gastrologica Media), I would like to extend a heartfelt thanks to everyone who has been patronizing Google Adsense.

He have had an enormous click-through rate, totaling many thousands of page impressions. In total, we have netted $0.46 for the last two months! Ya Hoooo! No, I mean Goog ole!

Thanks once again for enjoying this magazine and helping my son save for college.

Tapas Grudge Match

[Ed note: The crappy pictures from BaBa Reeba were taken by a cell phone camera because the idiot who wrote this left the camera in the car.]

In this corner, adorned with red poofy pantalones, is Ba Ba Reeba. [cheer]

And in this corner, wearing a red and gold glitter mask with a blue star over one eye, and a disquieting set of what looks to be periwinkle leotards, is Bar Celona. [cheer]
[bottle is hurled]

You are to be witness to a brutal, bare knuckled street brawl between two neophyte contendors in the ultra-contentious tapas scene. This is a notoriously unforgiving arena in which the heightened sense of Fu stands unified with the shrieking fury of it's doppelganger, Fu. They are goverened by the chaotic and fashionable houses of Shi and Shi.

Identified as the Hot Expensive Miniscule Food by Guitar Player magazine, look for Tapas Garage in a city near you in the not too distant future. In the meantime, however, trendy tapas bars are popping up faster than meth labs in the San Joaquin Valley.

Ba Ba Reeba, with it's sheep inspired varsity cheer of a name, is on the corner of the completely remodeled Fashion Mall in Las Vegas. It is a perfect addition to the matte nickel finish of the newly envigorated mall, which was floundering in recent years.

With a bridge giving direct access to the Wynn, it is a bustling new retail center, and a nice diversion from hours of zombified dice chucking. At least here you will get something in return for your money.



Ba Ba Reeba struck a hard first slam to the matt and scissor kick to neck with a cheese and meat platter, with some stunningly sharp tastes offset will mellower salty notes of thinly sliced meat. It came accompanied with two tomato puree soaked slices of toast. Why am I being so vague? We ate there three weeks ago. Meat and cheese is about all you're going to get out of my pathetic memory. I'm sure there was manchego.



OOOOOH, but Bar Celona fires back with a roundhouse kick to the teeth with a pureed gaspacho glimmering with bright and fresh spring notes. Tiny cubes of cucumber make a nice textural jumble on the tongue.

Ba Ba pickes herself up off the mat and swings two meaty forearms into Bar, clotheslining the poor bastard to the mat with anchovies and peppers resting on a bed of avocado puree.



Not for everyone, this dish had a nice biting vinegar taste mellowed by the avocado puree (known here in the US as guacamole). The anchovies were solid to the bite and also came accompanied with some pickled garlic. Pungent and sharp, it woke me up.



Oh NO! Bar Celona picked up a chair and fustigated Ba Ba on the skull. I can't watch anymore of this carnage as Bar Celona rolls out the mixed tapas platter, rich, garlicky shrimp, flaky beef empanada, sauteed mushrooms, and a dense frittata.



My favorite was the empanada, which had a delicately layered crust as opposed to most empanadas which imprison the contents behind a dense barrier of crust.

Amid this coronation of the empanada, one contendor seeks to dethrone the reigning champion with a sucker punch to the kidneys. Baba counters with its empanada.



Filling and buttery, it comes up a little shy against the onslaught of Bar Celona's empanada, but it is a worthy contendor. In this case, however, Bar Celona defends herself with honor, and attacks with her own table-leg clothesline that decapitates Ba Ba Reeba.

Both signal the resurgence of the tapas phenomena, as restauranteurs discover they can rook the public by charging exorbitant prices for tiny portions. I love tapas, and am willing to pay the vig for a variety of flavors in one sitting.

Cinco De Mayo

Why so early? It's a month away. Ahh, we just cut our Cinco De Mayo show, and it was an hour of immersion into Mexican culture, food, and plenty of tequila and Tecate. Living in LA gives us a unique perspective, as Latino culture is inseparable from our city.

We talked about ceviche, siete mares, Corozon, rotgut Zapopan, and it clearly reminded me that nobody should be wasting time at El Torito or any weak chain, when there are more Mexican holes in the wall than fire hydrants. In fact, and I don't care about your politics, the truth is that Mexican and American cultures are inexorably bound.

There are so many regions to explore, from Michoachan to Oxahaca, each exhibiting its unique flair and taste. I rattled off a quick negro mole, which had at least four different chiles and several nuts, spices and Mexican chocolate. This 'quick' preparation would take several days to cull, mix and mash together in the right balance to blend into the perfect mole.

My favorite food, hands down, is seafood, and Mexican seafood, veracruz style. Siete Mares is a fantastic Mexican bouillabaise without the pretentiousness. Ceviche, as I opined about, is a deceptively simple dish, and shouldn't scare off the squeamish. It is fresh, dietary, and bright.

You don't need to associate Mexican with fattening and spicy troughs of dense food. The Mexican Rivera is host to great Gulf and Pacific seafood you should avail yourself.

Fried Fruit Stuffed Wedges of Walnut Dusted Camembert

What could be better than fried cheese? Fried cheese stuffed with raspberry jam, just like a monte cristo.



Get a wheel of fine brie, and chill it well, it will help you cut through it. Cut the diameter until you get several 1" wedges on the outside arc. Use a compass for accuracy.

Cut a small notch into the wedge parallel to the surface. Insert rasperry jelly, or any jelly. In a separate bowl whisk one egg and a teaspoon of milk together.

Prepare the crust in a separate bowl by grinding walnuts into a flour. You can use a mini food processor or coffee grinder. Mix about a fistful with breadcrumbs.

Dunk the wedge in the egg wash first, then roll in the flour. Fry Fry Fry! I deep fried mine, but you can fry in pan oil and finish in the oven.

This is a rich and satisfying bite, and you will only be able to go through one or two wedges. The sweetness of the coulis or jelly pairs remarkably with the creamy-nutty envelope of camembert.

Playing With Fire

As you can clearly see, we are doing some transitional work on Gastrologica. The new name of the magazine will be Playing With Fire, and most likely the podcast will follow. Gastrologica Media is now the governing publishing company, pursuant to things and stuff.

Many of you know Chef Dan from the podcast, he is the Executive Chef of Calabasas Country Club and an old friend. If it wasn't for his expertise, I would sound like a fool and probably give all the listeners dysentery. He will be an ongoing contributor, time permitting, to Playing With Fire.

Our Episode of Sell This House

***UPDATE*** New Date

People, I will issue this tentative announcement that I received word that our episode of Sell This House will air Sunday, April 23, at 6pm on A&E. Set your Tivos. I say tentatively, because in this business, people lie, cheat and sell their own mother. Although the production company said this is the schedule, I see no indication on A&E's website confirming that.

However, at the risk of missing an opportunity, I decided to lend it a tiny amount of veracity and make the official announcement. If it turns out to be an episode of Sell This Igloo, don't blame me.

Sell This House
Episode #77
6pm A&E
Sunday, April 23rd

Strawberry Fields...Forever?

This was the scene in the Oxnard Strawberry fields two days ago.



Don't know if this will affect the prices of strawberries nationwide, but the rains wreaked havoc on the crops. Snatch them up now before collusion sets in!

Show Notes for Gastro #11

Gastrologica #11 has just dropped, if you haven't treated yourself yet, jump on da bandwagon!

First, I would like to commend my alma mater, George Mason University, for holding up a valiant effort against Florida. While our defeat was disappointing, I was envigorated to see ucla performed even worse against them.

It was a great feeling to see all the demoralized ucla fans and their deflated egos, since I have had to endure eight years of obnoxious self importance to the degree that ucla fans expect to win every title, in every sport, universally.

So, this week's show offers a diatribe against hand dish scrubbers, and their complete failure to deliver on the promise of an all-in-one system to scrub and dispense detergent automatically.

Dan and I mull over Johnnie Walker Green label vs. Laphroaig without getting into a fistfight.

Finally, we discuss Easter and Passover foods, and our conclusion was that both were relatively inappropriate for each respective holidy.

All that, plus mystery sound of the week, a judicious infusion of anger, and a political commentary by Dan on Calabasas' new smoking ban.

To Live and Die in LA

There is no seafood more sincere, lowbrow and unapologetic than at the Fisherman’s Outlet. Occupying a sun bleached, shabbily built brick hut in a terrible part of town, the fetid stench of failure, drug abuse and palpable sociopathy makes you wonder if the food is that good, now that you’re standing in a Soviet-style line, clutching your purse in fear. That might be the feeling you first have, now that you -let’s face it- stumbled upon it accidentally because you would never be found in this part of town unless to score some street quality heroin.

Between frantically snapping your neck to piece together flashes of Thomas Guide pages, and cursing silently the baffling circumstances that brought you to this harrowing part of skid row, you registered that, amid the run-down edifice with its outcrop of listless cement picnic tables, there was a loooooong line stretching from two different entrances, and seemed it would be easier to secure a table at Rao’s during a Gambino wedding reception than a cement block at this place. After establishing it wasn’t a soup kitchen, you swung back around and parked right next to a whorehouse, evidenced by a brightly wrapped hooker wearing chipper red patent leather knee-high boots, vacantly finishing off the last embers of filter from a now disintegrated Virginia Slim Menthol 120. You checked the locks on the car twice.

So now you’re standing in line, suspicious and guarded, and a line cook hands you a menu. The line looks long, but the menu is equally as long. No nonsense items like fried combos, oysters, ceviche, lobster bisque and clam cowder. Grilled items like halibut, trout, salmon, seabass are prepared one of three ways: straight up, cajun spiced, or garlic butter. Alright, this reminds you of back East, where the greatest food is usually found in the forgotten and labyrinthine alleys hiding a hole-in-the-wall that only trusted locals whisper about in the frozen vegetable aisle.

The more you look over the menu, the more it resembles the menu you would find in any highbrow seafood restaurant…the Water Grill, Lobster, even Reel Inn and Malibu Inn. The venue may stink and the menu printed on cheap paper, but the smell and look is about the same. The counter guy comes back by. You shout your order to him with the passive confidence that the order will come out right, somehow.

As you slowly creep your way to the front, you begin to understand what is going on. There is a well choreographed cluster fuck churning behind the counter. What looks like a soccer riot about to break down into complete Armageddon soon reveals itself to be a Byzantine display of liquid motion, symmetry and teamwork. Amid the molten crocks of bisque and the searing Hell of a back grill, about 700 people are ducking, hopping, whipping around, tossing trayfulls of charred colossal shrimp through the air to serve you your food just as you make it to the register and the guy asks “Drink?”

When I say colossal shrimp I’m being conservative. For $14.00, which seems like a lot, you get six massive garlic butter soaked Leviathans on a bed of rice. The taste is deep and rife with guilt. You are certain nobody should be eating this without a permit.

So, what’s the story? Why here? How so good? Who knows about this place? I really don’t have any inside information or substantive back story. This forgotten netherworld of downtown Los Angeles is home to several Asian fish markets, canneries, commercial fishing warehouses so the close proximity spawned a few of these outlets. I have not eaten at Fisherman’s Outlet’s rival, wrong-side-of-the-street Catch 21, but I can tell you I have never seen a single living human eating there. I don’t know how most people find this place, since it is too far south of J-Town to be easily accessible, but there are a few revitalized loft communities popping up in the dilapidated carcasses of gutted buildings.

I found out because I worked for PriceWaterhouseCoopers downtown about six years ago. Therefore, we discovered all the dirty holes in the unwashed East Side of Bunker Hill. This place was the one true find. I have been going there off and on since then, because I usually don’t have occasion to be procuring Mexican heroin from my local purveyor of difficult to find and specialty drugs. There are only a few legitimate reasons to be downtown on Saturday (they are closed Sunday). One, you woke up in the Midnight Mission after 48 hours of gonzo restaurant hopping. Two, you are trolling Santee Alley for knockoff Louis Vuittons and bootlegs of How High Pt II: How Much Higher. Three, you are a supplier of bacon-wrapped hot-dogs. Four, you’re in Chinatown waiting for a dead-drop of powdered tiger penis.

Be prepared for a wait, but the line moves swiftly and the tables turn over regularly. The area isn’t scenic enough for people to camp there all day. Prices are reasonable, but don’t be afraid to strike out and pay more for grilled items, they are just as savory and fulfilling as any overpriced seafood restaurant. I am partial to the mojo de ajo, garlic butter, as my preference for grilled items.

The fried platters are delicious, but the breading is nothing spectacular. I am only saying this having compared seafood on both coasts, and a unique batter or breading distinguishes one essentially identical tiger shrimp from another. They aren’t like humans, they’re pretty much all the same. I like the batter, but it does remind me starkly of Gordon’s or Van de Kamps.

I’m revealing myself to be a total hunyack, but I really like the lobster bisque at Hamburger Hamlet. Go ahead, laugh, but it is pretty good. The lobster bisque here is probably the best I’ve had in this city. It is creamy, chunky, sweet, buttery with that bright aftertaste that lingers like a tenant who won’t pay his rent.

This weekend I got a fried combo of catfish strips, shrimp and a crabcake. I am issuing a full on thumbs up endorsement of their crabcake. It was all crab, fresh, sweet and dense. It was delicately seasoned and it was left up to me how to eat it: with tarter or with cocktail sauce. There are no other choices. That’s it, in your face, uncompromising condiments. No chipotle remuloude, mango salsa, or avocado and lychee reduction. The only two tangents they offer are catsup for the fries and Tapa Tio.

The slaw is perfectly balanced between sweet and tart, and embellished with dill for an added dimension. You can get sodas and they offer a couple choices for beer, which is nice to drink on the patio, if you ignore the surroundings.

What is the best way to minimize exposure to this caustic neighborhood? I’ve found cutting down 1st st through J-town, hanging a right on Central brings you right there. It’s quick, and you stay in good parts of town. You can make your way around to the 5 and cut back on one of the industrial bridges to cut you back to Central. If you have to take the normal way through downtown because you went to the wholesalers, just take 5th all the way to Central and hang a left. Although I don’t advocate civil disobedience, if there are no cops I will run the red lights. For four solid blocks skid row spills into the streets infected with howling psychopaths, tweaking crack fiends and fractured hookers loudly theorizing with apparitions.

Dollar for dollar, Fisherman’s Outlet surpasses any other seafood restaurant in the city. Unappealing surroundings and no-frill eating keeps the cost down and that is a benefit to anyone willing to make the excursion. Do yourself a favor, next time you’re spending an afternoon at MOCA or the Japanese-American Museum, forgo the café food and overpriced niblets of sushi and head over to the real deal.