Something for everyone
09/30/2009
I know Cheesecake is the resto that goes by the motto "something for everyone," but Milk sort of follows the same creed.  It's not just a sweet spot for those in search of a sugar coma, it's also a viable lunch/dinner place with a lofty menu of salads and pressed sandwiches like the much-heralded media noche.  Of course, seeing as I am more inclined to visit Milk for the aforementioned sugar coma, I tend to avoid the savories in favor of the sweet offerings.  

The "something for everyone" creed applies to this side of the Milk menu as well.  The dainty folks who claim they "just want a bite" can satisfy their strict trainers/pilates instructors with a mini red velvet cupcake or a bite-sized ice cream bon bon dubbed a "milkie."  The folks who want to consume a day's worth of calories in a single sitting can opt for a big fatty sundae loaded with the works (choco syrup, nuts, whipped cream, etc.), or one of the milk shakes that boasts an astounding number of ice cream scoops (I think I counted 4 the last time I was there).  And for folks like me, who, on most occasion, want to walk the middle ground between restrained and over-the-top, there are the appropriately-sized ooey gooey cookies and scoops of ice cream, like my favorite flavor, banana dulce de leche.  

Milk does everybody's body good.  (Except maybe the vegans.)

Recommended Dishes:
Milkies, Ooey Gooey Chocolate Chip Cookie, Banana Dulce de Leche ice cream

Cru: An Inspirational Experience
07/28/2009
I pretended to be excited when my group of TALF (totally awesome lady friends) decided they wanted to go to Cru, a raw food restaurant in Silver Lake, for our next TA (totally awesome) dinner.

I said something that involved the word “love” (as in “I’d love to go there!”), but I was secretly thinking, “I’d love to go eat a bloody steak instead.”

My first experience dining at a raw food restaurant (Juliano's Raw in Santa Monica) had soured me on the genre. I was taken to the Promenade adjacent restaurant on a first date three years prior. There was no alcohol involved -- only raw food, still water and bland conversation.

When I arrived home that night, I immediately devoured two pieces of (cooked) peanut butter and jelly toast and said a firm and fond farewell to both dating sober health nuts and eating at raw food restaurants. Real men eat burgers – not faux pesto pizza.

As the date of my TA dinner approached, I was still a little apprehensive about the evening, but was somewhat comforted by the positive reviews on Yelp and the encouraging “tweets” from E*starLA about Cru’s curry quinoa dish. It also helped when I discovered that Cru has two menus – one containing raw food, and another containing cooked dishes (like the aforementioned curry).

And, if all else failed, there would at least be (BYOB) wine this time – if I chose to break my pledge to not drink alcohol until Blogger Prom.

I arrived at the restaurant last Wednesday night uncharacteristically late. With no valet in sight, and a challenging street parking situation (ie. I had to parallel park), I was more than a little frazzled (and sweaty) by the time I barreled my gangly frame through the door to the slightly cramped quarters of the one-room restaurant. I apologized profusely for my tardiness and promptly forgot about my sobriety pledge. Wine (and masochistic exercising) are the only salves for such moments of neurotic overload.

I settled into my chair and concentrated all my nervous energies on happy thoughts. Rainbows. Anthropologie. The mysterious guy at my church who provides me with excellent eye candy between “Amens.” Through the power of positive thinking, I convinced myself that everything would be fine. With good company, two bottles of wine and a menu with fully cooked items, my Cru experience would be far different from the sad sober situation at Juliano's nearly three years prior.

The evening began auspiciously with an order of the caponata bruschetta – flax seed crackers spread with cashew cheese and topped with plump raisins, succulent chunks of tomato and zucchini and shreds of fragrant basil ($9). While the combination sounded slightly like an awkward junior high school dance, the flavors and textures were surprisingly well-suited for one another. To continue the suspect dance metaphor, it was like a tango in my mouth.

I was similarly pleased with the (cooked) chickpea fritters served with a tangy yogurt sauce ($8) that I may have licked from the serving container at the encouragement of my TALFs. (Photograph of the indecent act has been withheld to preserve the integrity of my innocent Christian girl image.)

My shitake mushroom and spinach quinoa risotto served with a fig reduction ($13) was equally lickable, but I opted to use my fork to scrape my plate instead. By this juncture in the evening, I’d become a little more aware of the presence of our attentive vegan server whose name (Kyler) may be bequeathed upon one of my future spawn. The risotto was actually so favorable to my palate that I concocted my own version this past Saturday evening. (I’ve made it twice more since.)

Our evening at Cru concluded with our overly ambitious (ie. wine-infused) orders of the chocolate ganache cake, the mint pistachio chocolate ganache cake (not pictured) and the chocolate brownie with cookies and cream ice cream (all $8). While the chocolate ganache cakes were a bit dense (I almost broke my fork attempting to cut into one), I loved the chocolate brownie with the cookies and cream ice cream. Mostly because brownie + ice cream brings back memories of my “fat-er” college days, but I’m fairly certain that I wasn’t eating it just because it was there and I had consumed two glasses of wine.

When I arrived home that night (after a brief and disastrous interlude at Pazzo Gelato), I did not beeline for the toaster oven that I still don’t know how to work. I was more than satisfied with my meal at Cru. The food is legitimately good, the prices are better suited for my income than most restaurants I frequent, and the experience proved to be inspirational – in both my kitchen and in my book of potential baby names.

Recommended Dishes:
Quinoa risotto, chickpea fritters, caponata bruschetta

Dining Fun with Ludo
07/06/2009
It isn't often that I have the opportunity to allow a fine dining establishment to charm my stomach twice before I write a review.  And it certainly isn't often that I get to try 22 dishes before writing a review either.  In fact, I'd hazhard to guess that these circumstances are not likely to happen again anytime soon.  Or, given the current state of my back account, ever.

Ludo Bites at BreadBar, a culinary tour de force manned by Chef Ludo Lefebvre and his lovely wife Kristine, offers its patrons the rare opportunity to break out of conventional dining with its menu of constantly changing, affordably priced small plates.  As such, it becomes completely acceptable (and even desirable) to try as many dishes as possible before they disappear - like the infamous chicken fried in duck fat that has suddenly vanished from the menu.  

During my first experience dining at the restaurant, total stomach annihilation was the goal.  Our group of five ordered two of almost every dish offered that night, and overwhelmed our senses with too many varying tastes and textures at once.  I didn't know up from down by the time we put down our dessert spoons, but I did know that I inequivocably loved the aforemention fried chicken, the creamy polenta with cantal cheese and oxtail, the sauteed diver scallops with curry yogurt emulsion and spinach, and felt kindly toward the poached egg 65 degrees that was a fine excuse to eat breakfast for dinner.  Some of the other dishes were a struggle for me to understand, particularly since I had never tasted foie gras or sweet breads before that evening.  I wasn't sure what Ludo was doing or why he was doing it, and I spent the next several day scratching my head over the Ludo Bites experience.  

Did I like this guerrilla-style of dining?  Did I like taking my palate on a roller coaster ride that could drop and spin and turn my tongue and expectations upside down?

I didn't know.  Or at least I didn't until I tried Ludo Bites for the second time at a Food Digger event that offered me and a handful of LA food bloggers an 11-course feast.  

This time I was ready -- my mind was open and my tongue was primed for bold new flavors and combinations.  Chef Ludo doesn't let his diners off easy, and as the dishes began coming out of the kitchen, my palate was prepared for the challenge.  

While not every dish was love at first bite, the evening as a whole was one of the best/most interesting dining experiences I've had to date.  Ludo played tricks on our senses with his deconstructed bloody Mary, and the chorizo, onion, cornichon puree.  He messed with our expectations with his tuna sashimi with sushi rice ice cream, shishimi togorashi and crispy onions.  And he wooed us into obedient dining soldiers with his commands for us to eat the shrimp with sweet and sour sauce, rosemary and lemon zest in "one bite," and to tackle the cube of king red salmon with smoked vinegar, watermelon, and mint, by eating the salmon first and the watermelon second.

Ludo's kitchen experiments make dining fun, but he also knows how to pull out some show stoppers that could win over even the pickiest of palates.  The foie gras tart on a maple crust served with lemon paste, raw button mushrooms, and four spices; and the panna cotta with caviar and caramel sauce (dessert course) are revelatory pieces of culinary art.  I enjoyed the halibut with spiced butter, fresh porcini mushrooms, tonnato sauce, and lettuce, and was content to demolish the perfectly seared scallop that evening, but the foie gras tart and panna cotta are the dishes that have haunted the foodie cortex of my brain since the Food Digger event.  I want more.

But not just more of my favorites.  I want more of everything.  I want another challenge.  I want another shock to my senses.  I want to feel the rush of biting into something totally unexpectedly delicious.  

This is what makes Ludo Bites different from any other dining experience in LA.  It's never the same.  And it's never boring.

Recommended Dishes:
Fried chicken in duck fat, Foie gras tart, Panna cotta caramel caviar

Huckleberry, will you be more than just my friend?
07/02/2009
I really shouldn't like Huckleberry.  Not only is it nearly impossible to find parking in the back lot or at one of the meters on Wilshire, but it's crowded, noisy and requires patrons to wait in a line that stretches all the way to the back door just to order.  It's over priced.  It's probably over rated.  And it certainly seems to attract one or two (or more) over inflated egos.

I should be annoyed by all the obstacles that stand between my mouth and Zoe Nathan's market fresh food and pristine baked goods, but strangely enough, I feel nothing but love for the latest "it" cafe on the Westside.  How can I not adore the place that introduced me to my first taste of the runny yolk via their signature green eggs & ham?  The dish, composed of a house made English muffin topped with succulent slices of prosciutto, tender fried eggs, pesto and Arugula, is so craveably delicious that I recently felt compelled to recreate it at home.  This, after, feeling compelled to recreate another of their dishes, the poached eggs over seasonal vegetables.  

But Huckleberry does not subsist on savory items alone.  Oh no, there is a whole other side to this Joan's on Third-esque eatery that effortlessly fuses New York sophistication with a dash of the go-with-the-flow SoCal 'tude.  Bacon maple biscuits are a brilliant incarnation of the savory/sweet combination, and the salted caramels are a revelation.  So good that I drove 10 miles out of my way one Sunday afternoon just to get one, and have been promoting them on Twitter with no agenda other than to share the deliciousness with my fellow LA Foodies.

I should hate Huckleberry for wrecking my diet, bank account and ability to call myself immune to "the hype."  But, just like the guy who will never see me as more than a friend, I can't hate Huckleberry.  Because I love it.  It completes me.  Or, more accurately, it completes my stomach.

Recommended Dishes:
Green eggs & ham, Salted caramel

Joan's on Third: A Bright Spot
06/30/2009
I enjoyed a number of perks when working in the entertainment industry.  I got to see all the television pilots before they aired, I got to gawk at celebrities who came into pitch projects, and I was able to partake in many free delicious meals courtesy of my boss' AMEX card and a little thing we called, "the working lunch" (basically involved scarfing a sandwich whilst filing, copying, reading a script, etc).

As much as I hated sitting chained to my cubicle for 10+ hours straight, ordering in from Joan's on Third was always a highlight in those seemingly endless days.  I didn't mind being an industry peon when it meant noshing on a robust maple rosemary chicken sandwich with caper mustard and a side of fresh fruit that contained more than just mealy melons.  Nor did I mind all the paper cuts I accumulated on my fingers if I had a tuna salad sandwich, flecked with shreds of carrots and green onions, in front of me.  And I certainly wasn't complaining at all the scripts I had to read when there was a perfectly tart/sweet lemon bar or magic bar within striking distance of my mouth.

Even though I no longer work in entertainment and can't really afford their high quality products, Joan's on Third is still one of my favorite lunch destinations in the city.  I don't even mind that finding parking on West Third Street is akin to finding love in a bar on Sunset.  The meter stress is worth it as soon as I spoon that first mouthful of luscious tomato basil soup into my mouth.  And certainly worth an affair with the freshly made salads and sandwiches, and the inevitable foray into their marketplace where I have been known to buy the bulk containers of sweet pickles from time to time.  

Or all the time.  

They are a very good thing.  Especially when I get to eat them while sitting at the table like a normal person -- without a script, without a paper cut, and without a care in my little neurotic working girl head except about how much of my allowance I just spent on food.

Recommended Dishes:
Tuna salad sandwich, lemon bar, magic bar

Animal Restaurant: A feast fit for a (lion) king
06/29/2009
"Can you do 6:30 tomorrow? I could get reservations for then or for 9:15."

I grimaced as I read my friend Erin's e-mail on Thursday afternoon. 6:30 for dinner? Really? I know I go to bed by 10 pm on most nights and am perfectly happy spending a Saturday evening with a cup of tea and a good book, but that doesn't mean I'm actually a senior citizen stuck in the body of a 25-year-old. I like to eat dinner at a normal hour -- ie. an hour that will potentially trigger heartburn and indigestion when I attempt to go to sleep too soon after I've finished.

Plus, this was Animal we were talking about. The hot new restaurant that I've been lusting over ever since it opened in my West Hollywood neighborhood in June 2008. It even made my 2009 food resolution list, for goodness sakes! I wanted to get the full feel of the restaurant during its peak hours -- when the crowd is hot and the kitchen is hotter. I wanted to wear a pretty dress. I wanted to see and be part of the scene. And I wanted the place to be happening! Not only half-happening.

I told my friend that it seemed "a little senior dinner special," but I could probably be home from work in time. Truthfully, I was on the verge of suggesting we go another night or choose the 9:15 time, but it was at this crucial juncture that the impatient side of my personality decided to take over. I didn't really want to wait until another day. And I knew my stomach certainly couldn't wait until 9:15 to eat dinner. 6:30 it was.

My "early bird special" fears were fully realized when we arrived a little after 6:30 pm on Friday to find the minimalistic space of the restaurant completely empty aside from one other table of four. My grimace returned, but I tried to make the best of things by rationalizing that at least my pictures would be well-lit from all the natural sunlight streaming in from the front window.

My three dining companions and I settled into our seats around a prime table near the bar, and despite the early hour and our lack of true animalistic hunger, immediately began salivating over everything on the menu. Our decision-making process was further complicated when our adorable server Jeff informed us that because the menu changes nearly every night, many of the items offered would not be available should we chose to return again.

"So, in other words, we should order everything." I said with a coy smile. I was half-kidding and half-serious now that my stomach had reached the full-growl stage.

Jeff gifted me with a mischievous grin and I had to restrain myself from reaching over to pinch his Hollywood perfect cheeks. (Note: The cheeks on his face.)

After much consultation, which mostly involved me telling my dining companions what the food blogs and Jonathan Gold said to order, we decided on three appetizers - the crispy hominy with lime ($5); the melted petit basque with chorizo and garlic bread ($12); and the pork belly with kimchi, peanuts, chili soy, and scallions ($12).

The hominy, which Jonathan Gold included on his list of favorite dishes of 2008, arrived at the table first. I barely had time to sprinkle the lime over the top before my friends were reaching in to sample the freshly fried, popcorn-sized pieces of grits. We started slowly -- politely plopping one piece into our mouths at a time, but we were soon moving full-speed ahead, grabbing up the heavily breaded suckers by the handful.

"They are strangely addicting," I observed as I chomped through another fistful.

Erin nodded in agreement and dove in to secure a few more before the entire bowl was gone.

By the time the petit basque and pork belly arrived, any modicum of mindful dining behavior had disappeared from the premises of our table. We were animals, scooping up the luscious basque cheese, chorizo sausage and greasy onions, and smearing it over our slices of garlic bread with the reckless abandon of individuals who aren't concerned with fitting into their skinny jeans the next day. Or any day.

"So basically it's like a pepporoni pizza." My friend Hank commented, as he masticated his piece of butter-laced cheesy bread.

I tried to respond, but at that point was too enraptured with the pork belly to verbalize my protestation at his slight dismissal of the definitively diet-unfriendly starter. The sweet/spicy combo of the caramelized chunks of fatty pork and accompanying kimchi with scallions and chili oil was a revelation. I didn't hesitate to go in for a second piece when my dining companions generously suggested I take another. My friend Suzanne didn't hesitate to scoop up the remaining peanuts either. Animals needn't be concerned with decorum when securing their share of the kill.

The interlude between our appetizers and entrees allowed us plenty of time to observe our fellow diners in the now nearly at capacity animal kingdom. Hank jokingly suggested one of us "go for" the pack of younger male specimens sharing plates of appetizers at a nearby table. I glared at him to make it clear that I am not a cougar on the prowl.

My gaze shifted away from its survey of the male parties occupying the majority of the tables in the space, to rest upon a mother and her cub who were feasting upon the poutine with oxtail gravy and cheddar. Despite my companions stimulating discussion about the recent Slate article about "30 Rock's" conservatism (an article which I hadn't read at the time), I couldn't tear my eyes away from Animal's version of chili cheese fries.

"I can't stop staring." I whispered to Erin (who also hadn't read the article and was similarly "out of the loop").

"Do you want me to ask them if you can try it?" She asked.

I paused. I kind of did.

"Oh no, no. Of course not!" I laughed nervously, and took another sip of my glass of Pinot Grigio ($12) to calm the roar in my belly.

Our entrees arrived shortly after -- two orders of the ling cod with king crab, gold rice succotash, and cipollini onions ($29.) for the ravenous lions at the table, and one order of the branzino with artichokes, leeks, ramps, and green garlic ($25) for the dainty lambs to share. While the branzino looked delicious, my vulturous eyes were completely fixated on my dish -- one of the better seafood entrees I've encountered at an LA restaurant. The golden crust on the buttery cod, the sweet cippollini onions, the savory crunch of the fava beans and corn, and the tender king crab all worked together to create an incredibly thoughtful plate. It was difficult for me to offer up a bite of the slain fish carcass, but I momentarily abandoned my animalistic mentality for a brief foray in altruism.

My altruistic behavior proved short-lived, ending as soon as the pound cake with strawberries and cream ($7), and blueberry rhubarb crisp with whipped cream ($8) hit the table. The two surprisingly light desserts were helpless against the attack of our four forks. We groaned over the fresh strawberries and delicate pound cake, beat our chests with appreciation for the crumbly cookie top and sensuous whipped cream over the blueberry and rhubarb crisp, and within minutes everything was gone. The feeding frenzy finished, my friends and I looked at each other in bewilderment.

What just happened? I wondered. I was shocked to discover that two hours had passed since we'd entered the now fully happening restaurant. My wish for a scene had been granted, but it wasn't the kind of scene I'd envisioned for the hot LA restaurant. The space is clearly at its best when filled with animals who posses bestial hunger -- not impeccably dressed humans with a social agenda. Meat-- bacon, oxtail, sausage, pork ribs, and foie gras -- reign in this kingdom, and, for the few moments that I allowed it to linger on my plate, the ling cod did as well.

It doesn't matter what time the feeding takes place at Animal -- it will be happening at 6 pm or 10

Recommended Dishes:
Pork belly with kimchi, Melted Petit Basque, Ling cod

Uncle Bill's Pancake House and the Wait/Yum Scale
06/28/2009
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the amount of time one must wait for a table for brunch must not exceed the quality of the food proffered on the "wait/yum" scale. If the wait exceeds twenty minutes, the deliciousness of the food must increase as well in order for it to be worth the diner's while. In turn, at eateries that do not require their patrons to digest the inner lining of their stomach prior to reaching a table, the expectations for greatness are vastly decreased. For example, the oatmeal I make myself every morning is all the more delectable because I do not have to battle a hungover, Juicy Couture-clad army of hungry waifs to get it.

At Uncle Bill's Pancake House, a sun-kissed seaside brunchery in Manhattan Beach, there is a battle of epic proportions for one of the patio or inside tables on the weekends. The time that my two friends and I spent hobnobbing it on the sidewalk this past Saturday morning approximated 20-30 minutes, thus placing Uncle Bill's in a perilous position. Quite simply, the food needed to pull off some serious David vs. Goliath-type bravado to compensate for the dire hunger pangs that were attacking my friends and me.

At first sight, the menu does seem worthy of the sunglasses wearing crowd cluttering the sidewalk outside. I always struggle to make the pivotal sweet or savory decision when going out to brunch, and miss the days when I lived in the Chicago area and omelets came with a side of potatoes and a side of pancakes. Since moving back to Southern California, I haven't found many breakfast/brunch places that allow diners to overload their bellies with such reckless abandon. I was giddy with all the different ways to get my sweet/savory fix -- like the French toast combo with two slices of French toast, bacon and scrambled eggs or the Belgium waffle combo, and even giddier at the exceedingly reasonable prices.

Because I was craving some extra roughage with my eggs (and was starving), I settled on an omelet with feta, spinach and tomatoes that came with a side of hash browns, and my choice of two pancakes (I selected the buttermilk with strawberries for a $1 extra). My companions also selected savory/sweet combos -- one going for an omelet with chocolate chip pancakes, and the other going for the aforementioned French toast combo. The food came out quickly (1 point can be subtracted from the "wait" side of the yum/wait scale), but I was dismayed to see that I had received the wrong omelet. It had spinach, but also a layer of unsightly onions and gross shreds of American cheese.

Not that there's anything wrong with American cheese. I just like my cheeses to be a little bit more ethnic. Like feta. Or goat. Or something I can't pronounce.

While I was tempted to just keep the omelet, my friends urged me to send it back, and our pleasant waitress was eager to accommodate my request (point for the "yum" side). She rushed the omelet back to the kitchen, and I attended to my pancakes whilst I waited.



Considering that the name of the restaurant is "Uncle Bill's Pancake House," I was suddenly faced with another scale. The "promotion/yum" scale. Because the pancakes were being promoted in the name, I was expecting them to be pretty darn smack-my-thigh tasty. Instead, they were a little meh. Maybe I've grown too accustomed to the sweet stacks at the Griddle and Cici's Cafe, but Uncle Bill's buttermilk babies were still a little too understated in the sugar department. The texture --fluffy and moist -- was on target, but there just wasn't enough flavor to give me the "I'm eating pancakes" sensation.

Fortunately, because Uncle Bill's believes in overfeeding its patrons, the pancakes' mediocrity was forgotten as soon as I tore into my well-done omelet. Rolled around a hefty amount of fresh spinach, tomatoes and feta cheese, it was a feast in itself, and I was perfectly content to satisfy my hunger pangs with the nicely executed egg portion of my breakfast. (And two-thirds of my pancakes for adequate sweet-savory balance.) My dining companions seemed equally pleased to devour their plates as well, and we all left the table with that hazy sensation that a food coma would soon be upon us.

Or at least I felt that way.

As for my conclusion about Uncle Bill's ability to overcome the wait time with its omelets, pancakes and other breakfast fare? I'm sort of on the fence.

Of course, it doesn't really much matter since the restaurant is too far from my West Hollywood apartment for me to go to it on a regular basis anyway. Who wants to drive 40 minutes for breakfast? I think I'd need to create a whole new scale for that one...

Caioti Cafe: Where everyone will know my name
06/27/2009
We arrived without reservations (they don't take them), with a bottle of our own wine, and sporting jeans rather than trendy statement pieces. We came as we were, with no pretense, no agenda to see or be seen, and with no secret mission other than to enjoy the company and eat really good food in a comfortable setting. It was a successful venture. And a unique dining experience that I can see myself craving again and again in a city that is far too often defined by the scene rather than the food.

Caioti Pizza Cafe on Tujunga Avenue in Studio City is a bit of an anomaly in Los Angeles. Besides being among a short list of BYOB Italian eateries, it is the type of restaurant that future patrons stumble upon rather than hear about on EaterLA.com. My dining companion admitted that he discovered the restaurant by default. He and a friend planned to grab dinner at Aroma Coffee and Tea down the street, and decided to try Caioti instead. He introduced the restaurant to me last Wednesday, and in the few days since, I have already spread the word to my circle of friends. This is a restaurant that inspires whispers rather than shouts, and as such, attracts a different sort of crowd than many Italian eateries offering similar plates around town.

In short, it attracts regulars.

Despite the charm of its no frills attitude, Caioti is most revered by its patrons because of the food. This isn't just the typical corner pizza place with processed Parmesan shakers on each sticky table. The Parmesan on the (clean) tables is real Parmesan -- the kind that might be found in the specialty cheese store across the street. Bread is not an afterthought like at so many casual Italian eateries that dole out underwhelming, cold slices that need a butter bath to be palatable. Mere moments after settling into their chairs, diners are romanced with fresh, piping hot garlic knots that seem almost worthy of the "amuse-bouche" descriptor.

Salads are similarly alluring. Traditionalists can opt for a standard house salad with the requisite shredded carrots, red cabbage, grape tomatoes and Italian Vinaigrette, but the menu also offers a taste of something more exotic. The grilled beet salad with candy spiced pecans and seared goat cheese over arugula and field greens is an affair to remember -- the type of salad that is attacked with a fork and craved after the last bite is consumed. It is not overshadowed by the cafe's namesake offering in the least. If anything, the pizza is playing second fiddle to this particular plate of robust greens.

The pizza is available in three varieties - Old World, described as "light and thin crusted," New World with "rich contemporary flavors on a medium framed crust," and New York style, in the "classic Neapolitan American tradition." Each category boasts a substantial roster of pizzas, each one owning to a certain personality and/or distinct "vision." The cafe is famous for their barbecue chicken pizza from the New World menu, but the house favorite is the Salsiccia with Italian sausage, mushrooms, Gorgonzola, mozzarella latter, fresh basil and pine nuts from the Old World menu. On the particular night of my visit, we opt for the Con Funghi Sugo (Old World menu) that marries Porcini mushrooms, roasted garlic, fresh arugula, Pecorino Romano and mozzarella latte together. With the addition of truffle oil, the pizza is transformed from simple and rustic to sensuous and refined. While not the best example of what the cafe's wood-burning oven has to offer, it is far better than most of the pies I've encountered in the city, and seems to improve with each bite I take.

The dinner menu also offers patrons heartier entrees like lobster ravioli with shrimp, avocado and tomato in a spicy cilantro cream, and pressed crispy chicken that is grilled and sprinkled with truffle oil. The descriptions read like poetry to a foodie, and provide ample reason for regulars at the humble cafe to keep coming back. I'm already hungering for my return visit and for the point where I too can be a part of the cafe's scenery. Not because of what I'm wearing, but because I, like the others who frequent the restaurant, am part of the fabric that makes the eatery what it is -- a place where everyone wants to know everyone's name.

A "Taste" of Home
06/27/2009
Given my visceral opposition to dining at any establishment that defiles my taste buds with mediocrity, I should be loathe to enjoy an evening or afternoon spent at the slightly underwhelming Taste on Melrose Ave. in West Hollywood. Of course because I also enjoy the past-time of defying expectations, it shouldn't be particularly surprising that I am in complete agreement with the domain name on Taste's website: "I Love Taste."

Despite discovering a few "taste" violations over the course of the four occasions I have dined at Taste, including the artichoke starter aberration, I can't help but feel drawn back to the quaint, dimly lit restaurant again and again. Occupying a house-like space on the quieter, upscale end of Melrose Ave., Taste is craveable for its charming unpretentious ambiance and unassuming clientele. It's the type of place I want to bring my mom for brunch when she is up visiting from the OC. It's the type of place I want to go to sip a reasonably priced glass of Sauvignon Blanc while catching up with dear friends after a long work week. And it's the type of place I want to call an extension of my home.

This past Friday night, the two ladies who introduced me to Taste and I enjoyed a delightful hour and a half dinner in what has become a regular spot in our dining rotation. We dug into a standard, but properly executed calamari appetizer, smeared globs of the delectable pesto hummus on slices of warm bread, and devoured the chicken paillard, chicken curry and pork chop entrees with gusto. Though the only thing that really riddled my tongue with desire was the truffle oil mac 'n cheese served alongside my somewhat overcooked pork chop, I don't feel particularly inclined to complain. It was fine as it was, and in a way, the imperfections made the whole experience more authentically like a meal I would have at home. Or it would if my mom stocked truffle oil or fried her own calamari.

I could spend the rest of this entry writing pretentious paragraphs about the food I have encountered over the course of my four visits to Taste -- describing the various textures and layers of flavers (or lack thereof) -- but somehow that seems completely unnecessary. I don't go to Taste to be blown away with epicurean genius. I go to Taste to be comforted. I go to Taste to get a solid, reliable meal. And I go to Taste because it offers a "taste" of home.

Recommended Dishes:
Truffle mac n cheese, calamari

Why Pizzeria Mozza is my favorite restaurant in LA
06/27/2009
Since my first bite of the Coach farm goat cheese, leeks, scallions, and bacon pizza nearly three years ago, Pizzeria Mozza has reigned at the top of my list of favorite Los Angeles restaurants.  Over the course of my seven visits to the chic eatery that oozes New York City sophistication, I have discovered many reasons to adore the Mozza -- many of them completely unrelated to the truly spectacular food.

I love ordering a quartino of fine Italian wine -- one glass is never enough, but two will put me to sleep (or compromise my ability to walk gracefully in my gold heels).  At Mozza I can get a quarter bottle of a spicy Barbera for $15. It's the perfect amount to last through the entire meal.

I love deciding at 5:15 pm on a Friday night that I want the clams, garlic, oregano, parmigiano, and pecorino pizza, and be devouring the luminously topped pie that very evening.  Most of the finer restaurants in town aren't as gracious to reservationless diners, but at Pizzeria Mozza, I have always been treated with the same respect proffered to the parties who had the foresight to secure their tables four weeks in advance. On two occasions, I have even been offered one of those precious tables.  For a restaurant that exudes exclusivity, this is practically revolutionary.

I love the warm club-like atmosphere that sparks with foodie intensity.  There is something special going on in that room and everyone there knows it.

I love the finely managed marriage of fabulous food and fabulous scene.  It's a party there every night of the week -- a statement that my stomach will boldly reinforce after sampling several of the pizzas and starters on their menu, including, but limited to the crispy goat cheese with lentils, fried squash blossoms with ricotta, Nancy's Chopped Salad, pizza bianca w/ fennel sausage, and the Rramps, pancetta, English peas & panna pie.  It's not typical to find a restaurant where the scene and food are equal partners.  I can't say that I have flipped for everything that I've eaten within the brick-colored walls, but I can say that I have always left with a smile on my face.

Finally, I love that dessert is not to be missed.  The now infamous Buttorscotch Budino is a nutritionist's worst nightmare, but there is something seriously buzz-worthy going on in that glass cup.  At the moment however, my heart belongs to their homemade gelati and seasonally inspired gelato pies.  

For me, Mozza's appeal extends far beyond the pizzas that make my mouth water with desire on many a Friday afternoon.  The beauty of Mozza is that it is accessible to the everyday foodie with prices that allow for a memorable evening without being particularly memorable on the back account.  For a gal who is currently foregoing her pedicures to pay for her gas bills, that's something that's truly remarkable.