I call Shotgun! Part 4: My High School Friend’s Wedding in Carmel

The outdoor ceremony was mercifully brief, since the bride wore a short cotton spaghetti strap dress on a misty 60 degree afternoon and was shivering. At least she said she was shivering, and not shaking with nerves, but I suspect a bit of both. Even I was shaking with nerves for her, though I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s the shock of seeing the first wedding of one of my friends from highschool – it was surreal. I’ve known this girl since we were 14, and now, ten years later, I’m seeing her make vows to someone on a cliff overlooking the freezing, gray Pacific ocean. They rented a private home with an incredible view, and the house itself was large and cabin-like, with an outdoor fire pit around which we sat, joked and talked until night.

We toasted the couple over a delicious dinner her mother made –there were only fourteen of us total—and toasted marshmallows, between the men adding heaping towers of logs to the already blazing fire. Men really like fire pits, and burning the hair on their knuckles trying to add logs while making highly theatrical faces of pain became the macho sport of the evening. In times like this I am especially proud to be with my boyfriend, who succumbed to the temptation to thrust his hands into the inferno only once, and when he found that the fire was indeed hot, returned his attention to his beer. Yes, I have truly found a gem.
Around 9:30pm, we were exhausted from socializing, as much fun as it was to visit with my friend and her family. She led the way down the steep and very dark stone staircase to the parking lot, and I followed. But the stairs were uneven and I was in heels, which caused me to misstep and topple onto the bride.

Thank goodness I caught myself before landing my full weight on her or she would have been a pancake. My left shoe felt a bit slippery, but fortunately the darkness hid the extent of my wound. I brushed it off as a chipped toenail, said a quick goodbye, and got into the car to investigate the damage. One half of my big toenail still lies somewhere on that staircase. I’ll skip over the blood gushing parts and say that I held it together extremely well. Charles whipped out his first aid kit and found a band-aid that would work until we made it to the nearest drug store (thank goodness he brought his GPS), and then he bought enough bandages and Bactine to dress a severed leg. Thus ended Sunday.

I wrapped up my toe, went to bed, and woke up every time I wanted to roll over, afraid lest even a sheet brush against my injury. In the morning, I put off wearing shoes as long as possible. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that bad, and I managed to wear the heels of the night before (they were open toe, and tennis shoes were my only other option). I hobbled up and down Ocean Avenue, leaning on Charles’ arm, determined to see the town.

I call Shotgun! Part 3: Santa Cruz, In which LV smells pot and buys her weight in vinyl

My friend’s wedding was Sunday afternoon, but with the morning free, my boyfriend and I decided to visit one of his old college haunts, Logos Bookstore in Santa Cruz.
Upon driving into the parking garage on Church St. and Commerce Ln., this was our conversation:

Charles: Ah the smell of pot. [to self] Welcome back Charles, welcome back.
Me: *sniff* Really?
Charles: [Definitively] Yeah.
Me: Really????????
Charles: Yeah.
Me: Wow, I suck.
Charles: Yeah, you do.

See, I cannot, to this day, remember what pot smells like enough to be able to identify it. I’ve had the smell pointed out to me many times, but for some reason my memory can’t quite latch onto it. But, within our first five minutes of entering Santa Cruz, pot smoke was decidedly wafting in the breeze.

While the pot-smoking habits of Santa Cruz residents have evidently not changed, the shops and political climate of Pacific Avenue have altered drastically. Several years ago, when my boyfriend attended the University of Santa Cruz, the extremely liberal hippy student population went ballistic over a Borders Bookstore trying to rent space in the shopping center. They petitioned the city to not allow Borders to rent, which the company circumvented by buying an entire building. I believe in supporting small businesses, but Borders wins points with me for standing up to the mad hippy mob. Now, six years later, the one-time battleground of Pacific Avenue is lined with corporate stores like Urban Outfitters and GAP. Small independent stores co-exist peaceably with their larger neighbors, and I enjoyed all the options. So many pretty dresses in the shop windows, but I restrained myself and only bought an Indian scarf for $10 at a place called Bunny’s Too. I would have liked to have spent more time running my hand over the soft cottons of the dresses…sigh…but with the wedding in a few hours, we had to go for what we came for.

He came for books.
I came for vinyl.

Records, that is. Real, round, grooved and groovy records. And Logos bookstore has two long aisles of them.

I don’t actually have a record player. Yet. But I have wanted one for years, since the new old-fashioned looking ones came out. I know that at some point I will buy one, and when I do, I will need records to play. And Logos has the biggest selection I have ever seen. Political speeches by Churchill and JFK; 1960s music from the Caribbean, Hawaii, and France; children’s audio stories and radio shows; and of course, the classics. Doris Day, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and bands like America. This is by no means the complete list of what I bought, and at around $3-$5 per record, they added up. I call it an investment – I’m seeing vintage themed parties in my near future, and puzzling over these relics with my children and their children in the far future, when even my “new” “old-fashioned” record player will be an antique.

Logos Bookstore
1117 Pacific Ave. Santa Cruz. http://www.logosbooksrecords.com/

I call Shotgun! Part 2: Carmel by the Sea and Passionfish

We reached Carmel late on Saturday afternoon with plenty of time to check in at the Wayside Inn (on 7th and Mission St.) before dinner. Researching accommodations flusters me—there are too many options—so my boyfriend gallantly found this place for us. Only a few steps from the shops along Ocean Avenue, the Wayside Inn is a small French country style Bed & Breakfast, and our room was extra Frenchified with chicken toile wallpaper, a fireplace, and balcony. It was also relatively affordable, especially for Memorial Day weekend. Having a complimentary continental breakfast delivered to our door every morning cut down on meal costs, which was almost unfortunate since the breakfast places in Carmel looked really good.

I had dinner reservations at Passionfish in nearby Pacific Grove, which was not only recommended by George, but had Yelp and Chowhound reviews like “this was the best dining experience I’ve ever had in my life.” There were around 25 equally ecstatic reviews, all of which I had read, that sent my expectations sky high.

How to put this delicately…it was ok. I know I’m damning it with faint praise, but when I think of my top five* dining experiences, Passionfish-with all of its good, earth-friendly intentions-doesn’t come close to them. The wine list was extensive and fairly priced, but not cheap. The portions were small, which for me was great since I’m on a diet until Kauai, but one crabcake is a meager appetizer even under those circumstances. It was a very fat and crabby cake, full of seafood and nicely done. I ordered the Moroccan spiced chickpea soup to start, which was an interesting concept, but the flavor quickly became monotonous and the slim film of oil was unappetizing enough for me to put down my spoon halfway through. However, my scallop entrée did have four perfectly cooked melt-in-your-mouth scallops. Understand- nothing was bad. But after having read pages of rapturous reviews, I was expecting fishy Fireworks. I would still recommend it to anyone in the area- the ambience was lovely and the service was impeccable. Passionfish’s location is another undeniable draw: it is surrounded by a charming community of Victorian homes and shops, and the nearby side streets invite evening walks.

Passionfish
701 Lighthouse Avenue, Pacific Grove

*If you’re curious, my top five dining experiences are: Ballard Inn in Ballard, Flemings Steak House in El Segundo, Epiphany in Santa Barbara, and The Summit House in Fullerton. Other contenders are Kemosabe in San Diego, George’s at the Cove and the Marine Room in La Jolla, and Rules restaurant in London.

I call Shotgun! Memorial Day Road Trip Part 1: Paso Robles

Last weekend my boyfriend Charles and I drove up the coast to attend the wedding of my high school friend in Carmel. We don’t get a chance to venture North of the “Hella Line” often, so we decided to investigate Paso Robles wines and explore the Monterey area also during the trip.

But, we didn’t just magically appear in NorCal – the trek began after work in Downtown L.A., continued with our road trip ritual of ordering two crispy steak tacos at Snapper Jack’s Taco Shack in Ventura, and ended for the night at my mom’s house North of Santa Barbara. On Saturday morning we took off early, around 11am (well, we were supposed to take off early anyways), so we could taste some Paso wine.

Saturday: The Wages of Zin

Having been raised in Santa Ynez, I have a heavy hometown bias when it comes to wine—could Paso Robles, a rocky little outpost subject to extreme temperatures and smelling of cows—produce wine as good as my lovely little valley? I had serious doubts. And I hadn’t heard much about Paso wines to make me doubt those doubts—in fact, all I had heard was that there were wines to be found there.

Before we hit the road, I asked my friends for any recommendations, and George – my editor at the Santa Barbara Independent – pointed us to his favorite Paso wineries. As a food editor, George is a very reliable source for foodie info--but then again, everyone has different tastes, especially when it comes to wine. So with few expectations, Charles and I went to our first stop: the George-approved Turley Wine Cellars.

We walked out with two bottles.

Turley’s small tasting room had knowledgeable people standing on both sides of the counter – these were not newbs. These were young couples and middle aged people bandying about wine lingo like “levels” and “chewiness” while deftly swirling their glasses. The very professional—yet friendly—pourers talked about the age of the vines that went into each bottle, a very popular theme in Paso it turns out. You don’t hear about vine age often in Santa Ynez, since most were planted A.S. (After Sideways).

My favorite was the 2006 Pesenti Vineyard Zinfandel ($40), from venerable 85yr old vines. Scents of dark chocolate and strawberry jam welled up above the lip of the glass, and the garnet liquid tasted of grape jelly and had a velvety mouth feel. Paso Zins seem to be all about texture—they’re rough, or suede, or velvet, and my own personal favorite descriptor: cat-tongue. I made that one up myself. My boyfriend’s pick was the 2006 “Juvenile” California Zin ($22), tasting like black cherries with a big fruity nose, rich and round. At this point, I was mentally composing my “Thank You” email to George.

Turley Wine Cellars

2900 Vineyard Dr.

Templeton, CA

$10 for 5 pours

Our next stop, Four Vines, was not on George’s list. I found it during my pre-trip research and thought it was a sure bet due to the many glowing recommendations on Yelp and TripAdvisor.

As soon as we stepped out of the car and I saw a man in an 18^th century white wig in period garb quickly disappear behind a fence. I blinked twice, turned to my boyfriend and asked, “Did you see what I saw?” Before I could fully form theories about ghosts and/or hallucinogenic mushrooms, we entered the tasting room and saw more costumes – the staff was dressed up for the release of the newest vintage of “Monarchy.” The world made sense again—too bad really.

The tasting room was packed with what appeared to be wine-limo tour groups. Tasters get to choose their glasses from a number of designs. I chose a glass with the anarchy symbol etched on one side; my boyfriend chose the more politically ambivalent four vines design. The attitude of the wine labels, décor and staff was uniformly fun, casual and irreverent; the attitude of the tasters was “let’s get drunk and ask really stupid questions.” Four Vines makes a lot of wines, and the tasting menu is chaotic. We couldn’t keep track of what we were tasting half the time, though I do have some notes that say “the stinky-manure award goes to the 2006 ‘Maverick’ Zin.” Nothing was terrible, but nothing was exciting either. Our fellow tipsy tasters didn’t seem to care what the wines were– but they did enjoy the numerous and generous pours.

One of the winemakers was giving free barrel tastings for the release event, so we joined the limo tour in a dimly lit room to learn about and taste the new vintages. This could have been really cool; it certainly had an entertaining aesthetic. The room was unnecessarily dark with a gothic crystal chandelier dangling in the center, and tall iron candelabras provided flickering light. Barrels formed a circle beneath walls draped with black cloth. It was like the Phantom of the Opera’s wine cellar. But the other tasters quickly sucked the mysterious goth atmosphere right out of the room. These middle aged, fairly respectable looking people weren’t there to educate their palettes or appreciate the art of wine-making. Their sole purpose appeared to be to have a fun, drunk day out—like, that’s what wine tasting means to them. I’m still a bit bewildered by this. Anyways, if you think that sounds like a fine and dandy goal, then Four Vines is for you.

Four Vines

3750 Hwy. 46 West. Templeton

$7 for a lot of pours – I lost count

After giving Four Vines every chance to produce an interesting wine, we left tipsy, even though we poured out most of the wine. There were just a lot of pours. We nixed the idea of trying to hit a third winery, sobered up on snacks, and drove North for 3 hours.

To be continued.

Limping in L.A.

This week I find myself unable to make my usual pilgrimages to the farmers markets, or even short forays into unexplored streets. The problem? I’m laid up with an injured toe. You might think that this would give me all the more time to write, since physical movement is limited, but it doesn’t. I have learned something about myself though: I am wimp when it comes to writing during even mild discomfort. If I’m hungry, I cannot write. If I’m tired, I cannot write. If I have a headache, I cannot write. Only when all physical needs are met can I sit down and focus on words. Interestingly, this rule does not apply to all-nighters performed on the eve of a due date. Thank God.

So the fact that half of my big toenail met its untimely end on a dark, rough and uneven stone staircase this weekend is both literally and literarily crippling.

Budget Cuts start in Los Angeles

You know the city is in financial trouble when...

Anglophile in Little Tokyo: Shojin

When you think about it, Britain and Japan have very similar cultures. Both are hell bent on good manners, are quiet and unobtrusive on the subway, and have a remarkable way of showing stern disapproval without saying a word. Well, at least my college roommate had that skill, and I have thereafter attributed it to all Japanese women. The silent enforcers of law, propriety and cleanliness. If anyone left anything out on the table, that unfortunate person would feel an unmistakable and powerful wrath. Ah, my dear roommate. I miss her. I hope she got the birthday present I sent…

Maybe it’s the season, and maybe it’s all the cherries at the farmers markets, but I am missing Japan. And when I miss a place, I start craving the indigenous cuisine. With England, it was meat pies, bangers and beer. For Japan, it’s Sushi, Okonomi-yaki (which I made the other night), and the Buddhist Vegan food at Shojin, right here in Little Tokyo.
When I went to Tokyo two summers ago, I didn’t have anything like vegan food. I had some very weird food, don’t get me wrong, but I didn’t come across Buddhist Vegan until I was in Downtown LA. Shojin restaurant was trying to spread the word of their recent opening by setting up a stall at the Little Tokyo Farmers Market at City Hall. And as always, I was very receptive to receiving that word—always eager to try things I haven’t seen before. The petite Asian girl manning the counter was trying to ascertain their client base and asked “are you vegan?” Nope. “Are you vegetarian?” Nah-ah. She looked perplexed. I asked her “What would you recommend?” “The Seitan balls [for beginners].” She didn’t say it, and was too polite to show it, but I knew what she was thinking. I was a meat-eating newb.
Every week after that I tried something else, and let me tell you—there are no bounds to what you can do with soy. Tofu is the tip of the Soy-berg. The truth is, I don’t know what the hell is in the food at Shojin. And normally, if I don’t know what’s in it, I stay A-W-A-Y. But the family who runs the restaurant is so earnest about their Buddhist Vegan ethos—a concept that requires some explanation, but for me, pares down to No Crap Added—that I trust them. Everything they make uses healthful oils, whole foods, all organic vegetables, and has no additives or chemicals. These are my kind of people. Even if I’m not vegan, or vegetarian, or Japanese, or Buddhist.

Last night I had dinner at Shojin with my boyfriend and one of our friends - none of us are Vegan/Vegetarian, but all of us are trying to lose weight. My trip to Kauai is coming up in a few weeks, so the deadline to look good in a bikini is looming. We figured Shojin would be a safe choice--and it was, even with delicious creamy curries, a savory fried pumpkin croquette, and barbequed seitan.
But then I had to go ruin it by buying a few cream puffs from Beard Papa's, which actually lived up to all the hype I've been hearing about them. Crisp, not too sweet pastry on the outside, whipped custard on the inside, and so much better than a donut. The best part? I still lost weight. Sweeeet. Shojin
333 S. Alameda St. Suite 310 (Little Tokyo Shopping Center 3F)
Los Angeles, CA 90013

Tel: 213-617-0305

Ghalia Organic Desserts

I am a veteran of many “organic” “healthy” “sugar free” “lowfat” cookies. And I can tell you, on authority, that they taste like prunes and applesauce: also known as Yucky. With a capital “Y”. So imagine my surprise when, mid-bite into a chocolate chip cookie sample, I hear the words “it’s sugar free” applied to my tasty morsel! Ok, it did taste a little different than Toll House, but in a more gourmet way – not like health food. I had to investigate what made this possible, and with a name like “Ghalia Organic Desserts,” I figured the secret was not aspartame.

So, Nosy Parker that I am, I interviewed the owner--and not only discovered the secret of the sugar-free cookie, but learned how Ghalia came to be at my Farmers Markets in Downtown L.A.

The story begins with Khatija Dadabhoy, who had an abhorrence of crap, a yen for cooking, and then…had a daughter. Although she had worked as a school counselor for eleven years, she didn’t want to keep up an emotionally draining career and try to raise her kid at the same time. So, she decided to take the leap and leave her day job.

“I wanted to come up with something I could do for myself, and I was already doing a lot of cooking and making baby food. I didn’t want my daughter to eat all the junk that’s out there, and [the business] grew out of that. Then I got into baking and decided to do one thing and do it well.”

And her daughter’s name? Ghalia. “The business is named after my daughter; she was the reason for me wanting to do something like this. Her name means ‘precious’ which is what I feel about my business also.”

Ghalia Organic Desserts began as just organic versions of normal cookies, cakes and brownies. But Khatija was constantly looking for ways to make her treats more healthful, while maintaining the taste and feel of the original artery-clogging, teeth disintegrating, blood-sugar assaulting recipes. Even when the ingredient isn’t labeled organic, the decision to use it is based on whether it is truly the better alternative. For example, she uses non-organic Earthbalance instead of butter which has heart-healthy oils, including Omega 3s, and is vegan, but tastes and acts just like the “udder” butter. Many of Ghalia Organic desserts are sugar free, gluten free and vegan.

“We’ve done a lot of experimenting over the years to get our recipes just that much better. We use flax and tofu in our vegan brownies as an egg-replacer—we don’t tell people it’s vegan unless they ask. And when they taste them, they don’t care. They love it!”

Since Khatija doesn’t have a store front yet, she is using farmers markets to spread the word and as a way to meet her customers in person. She initially thought that she should keep the vegan/health-nut nature of her desserts on the downlow – “It’s funny, I thought we’d just have people who wanted dessert” – but vegans and other similar species of extremely picky eaters found her out. And now she gets fan mail.

The farmers markets get the word out, but what Khatija specializes in is custom orders. She has a web store and takes orders over the phone for cakes and gifts that are custom made to the client’s preferences. You want low-fat brownies? No problem. Sugar free? Got it right here. Sugar free, gluten free, vegan, and low fat cake? Well Happy Birthday to You, because she can do it. She wants customers to use her website as a jumping off point to create something unique. Prices for gifts start at $25.

And what is the secret to those addictive sugar-free Chocolate Chip Cookies?
Agave to add moisture; coconut/palm sugar to act like brown sugar; and the chocolate chips are sweetened with grain.

Mystery solved.

Ghalia Organic Desserts
Los Angeles, California
telephone: (310) 351.7870

Anglophile in Wien-derland

Every writer should have a coffee shop. One that’s mostly empty, plays music without lyrics, and has big tables over which to spread avalanching piles of notes. Ideally, this coffee shop is in a small country town, owned by people who greet patrons by name. It should have window panes that swirl and sag with age, and French doors through which warm breezes and daisy yellow light pours. Every writer should work in a place like that. No, not as a barista. None of those “Liberal arts major” jokes here.

In downtown L.A., Wien on Wilshire is the closest I’ve come to that ideal. At lunchtime in the middle of the week I am one of two people taking up one of its many large tables. Classical and Opera music drown out the sounds of traffic and the light that manages to blaze a trail through smog, tall buildings and tempered glass may not be honey-hued—but it’s not brown either. An improvement.


The untroubled atmosphere lulls me into a mood for reverie and helps me gain focus at the same time. Or maybe that’s the coffee and mango mousse clarifying my mind. Either way, Wien is an oasis of serenity. A world thinly peopled with Asians who sustain their slight figures on weird Korean/Viennese pastries, like the green pinwheel striped “pea pan” and sweet potato cake. Europe meets Korea meets Alice in Wonderland’s tea party – why does that seem so like Los Angeles?

Wien
1234 Wilshire Blvd. Los Angeles