The BeSuFaDo Experiment

Millions of Milkshakes

2009-11-04T14:57:00.000-08:00

(Image credit: millionsofmilkshakes.com)

8910 Santa Monica Blvd. (at San Vicente), (310) 652-1118, millionsofmilkshakes.com

Okay. So... wait. Don't leave. I know that's a picture of Lohan up there. I know the website looks like your niece's MySpace page circa 2005, except less subtle. I know the place is practically owned and operated by TMZ, and is always courting sub-Z-level "celebrities" to come in and create milkshakes to be named after them. I know that its popularity among young Hollywood is likely due to the high level of compatibility between milkshakes and bulimia. I know any number of other reasons why the place is basically an affront to humanity and should be burned to the ground so its ashes can be snorted at a Teen Choice Awards afterparty.

But. Nonethefreakingless. They make some excellent milkshakes. Remember when Pulp Fiction came out and Mia Wallace ordered the Five Dollar Shake at Jackrabbit Slim's, and Vincent Vega (along with all of us watching) was like "That costs five dollars?!" but it turned out to be a pretty fuckin' good milkshake? This is that milkshake. The one you've been hoping every milkshake would taste like since you saw that movie for the first time. But unlike Vince, you will not equivocate over whether it's worth the five dollars.

The nice people behind the counter will happily throw together a shake with any combination of ice cream (or froyo, or soy cream) and toppings you desire, but I always go with one of the pre-designed options -- specifically, the Miley Shake. (Yes, as in Miley Cyrus. And if you're embarrassed to order it after walking into a bright pink store blasting tween pop, I really can't help you.) As a bonus, they stick a Kit-Kat into the top of the cup before they hand it to you. Hey, it's a lot tastier than a tongue depressor! (Or so Lindsay tells me.)

The Belmont

2009-10-31T09:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I got home from one long, demanding, depressing stint at work. I had spent the day working very hard to take care of a very nice person (with a lovely family) who was dying of AIDS. Meanwhile, my own adored sister waited for me at home, having trekked out from the desert for a rare visit wherein just the two of us were to spend a few days together. It was time to get the weekend festivities into swing. I was in a mood that could be described as equal parts melancholy, appreciative of my vitality and relationships, ready to party, and ravenously hungry.

Ashley didn't have any particular leanings, so I chose the Belmont--walking distance and festive. Nick and I had been there once for drinks only, and its impressive bar had met our standards of strong drinks made well. I thought I'd remembered a decent-looking food menu with some veggie options. Feeling that the world was the oyster of two young sisters taking on the town, I chose this as the place we would start our night.

We were seated right away, and they did deliver on some near-perfect gimlets. But that's where anything positive about the experience ends. After we saw that there was nothing vegetarian on the menu (what bar had I confused it with?), we should have just finished our first round and moved along. But I hate to be that high-maintenance vegetarian, and I didn't really care that much about what I ate, as long as it was food. So I picked the heartiest salad on the menu. Ashley ordered the truffle chicken.

Before I go any further, let me set up a background. I've had bad service in my lifetime. I've been to La Boheme. I've been to Fraiche in Culver City. Hell, I've been to Paris as a non-French-speaking American during the France-US war discord of 2003. It all pales in comparison to my visit to The Belmont.

This was, unequivocally, the WORST service of my life.

The food took an hour. Obviously, this is marginally acceptable for the simplicity of our order no matter what--had we been apologized to, had we been offered a chance to order an appetizer to sate us while we waited, had someone come to take our request for our much-coveted second round. But none of this occurred. Nobody came for that whole time. Not even a busboy to give us some water. I began to wonder if there was some repellent magnetic forcefield around our table. In fact, maybe it was some kind of blindingly bright nuclear forcefield, because our server deliberately avoided even brief eye contact with us. Finally we both stood up, indicating our readiness to stoop to the low of dropping a twenty on the table and walking out. This made the food show up. Even after that, we had to stand up to flag someone down to get our server to come over to take our order for more drinks. We had to repeat the third-party-flagging when my salad left me totally un-full and I needed some auxiliary fries. We had to pretend to be leaving to get the check. Meanwhile, the table next to us got served a three-course meal with drink refills. Ashley and I both pride ourselves on being great tippers--I'm a twenty percent minimum kind of girl--but let's just say that both of us saw fit to use the tipping process as a means of making a statement here.

The food was fine--Ashley said her chicken was good and well-appropriated with truffle. My salad was decent, although someone needs to tell these people for what uses balsamic reduction is intended, because it's not to water it down into a vinaigrette--hence the "reduction" process. I guess I can also give the place a point or two for the intriguing oddity of playing a collection of music comprised solely of the original recordings of Rock Band and Guitar Hero songs.

I fear that my fair sister and I were the victims of some meatist ideology here. It's happened to me a few times. Meatism is the phenomenon of being treated as a second-class citizen at a restaurant when you order vegetarian. They assume you're being cheap, when in fact, many of us veggies would be willing to drop some cash if the place would just put one interesting-sounding herbivorous entree on the menu. This is Los Angeles, people. I know there are plenty of flexitarians, pseudo-vegans, and anorexitarians, all of whom will eat meat in a "when in Rome" kind of setting. But there are a lot of us who really believe in sticking to it, too, and don't expect that it offends restauranteurs in such a manner as to provoke maltreatment. This discriminatory policy might work in some place in the middle of America, but I have a hard time seeing its viability in WeHo. It's Bush-era chic to not offer meatless options at a bar and then treat people like shit for not ordering filet mignon. FSM bless Obama.

It's not like you have it all going on, Belmont. The crowd was decidedly thinning by the time we left at 11:00. You remember that girl in junior high that acted really snobby, but she wore stirrup leggings and had a Hello Kitty backpack and didn't really brush her hair and had no idea that it wasn't cool? You wouldn't have been caught dead going to her birthday, but you might pretend she was all right momentarily if she had a pack of Bubblicious she was willing to share. The Belmont is like that. This establishment is having an identity crisis. It wants to be all snooty-hot, but it's full of douches and staffed by the same. It's right around the corner, so I'm not saying I'll never show up there for a drink again, but I'll come with cash in hand and already fed.

I have to work in a little PSA: you only die of AIDS if you stop taking your meds. So get tested often, and if you have HIV, stick with your treatment plan.

The Roger Room

2009-10-24T23:00:00.000-07:00

How do I know that the $1795 a month I shell out for rent is worth it? Be-cau-au-ause there's A SPEAKEASY IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD! Obviously, I live in the coolest place that exists where an aspiring nurse practitioner and an aspiring screenwriter have (at least theoretically) viable job options.

The Roger Room is nestled in between Largo and...I don't even know what's next to it. Doesn't matter. You're not going there, you're going to the Roger Room. Which, as fate would have it, is labeled as a psychic shop. I'm reticent to have told you even that much, because I'm certain that at least a small part of my EXTREMELY favorable impression of the place is that Nick and I sauntered in only slightly before full-swing hour one Saturday night and sat right down at the bar--next to each other, no less, which you can appreciate for the true rarity it is if you ever try to drink alcohol anywhere in L.A. but your house.

The vibe is swanky-sexy-sultry, a la vintage Hollywood. The interior is done up to the nines in an art deco motif that is not completely unaware of its post-millennium incarnation. It's hot without making you feel like you don't belong, and you might also see someone really high profile. Our visit delivered on both: the bartender introduced himself and remembered our names all night, and we saw a lot of people who looked like other people who are famous. As far as the menu goes...show up thirsty, with an artsy appreciation for inventive, well-executed cocktails, and bring a lot of cash if you actually want to be drunk. (Hey, it's the same guy that owns Bar Lubitsch. I think we can all agree that the drinks are delicious, but a far cry from lethal.) The place's real selling point is the entertainment encapsulated in the creation of the drinks themselves. The bartenders' flashy showmanship in assembling complex cocktails with surgical precision at an impressive clip is...exciting, actually. I ordered another just for that. Pair your visit with a show at Largo for a real value pack of displays of high-quality talent.

Cafe La Boheme

2009-10-15T14:34:00.000-07:00

(Image credit: boheme.globaldiningca.com)

8400 Santa Monica Blvd. (at Kings Rd.), (323) 848-2360 or http://boheme.globaldiningca.com

You're killing us, La Boheme. You really are. You know us: we're always looking for a new restaurant to love and adore and have babies with and tell all our friends about. In general we're all about food, but we've also been known to swoon over superficial decor. (Yes, we went to Geisha House. And we even went back.) Your sexy lighting and Cicada-esque bi-level layout had us brimming with excitement the moment we walked in, but when we sat down and ordered drinks -- and they came up from the bar on a little mechanical elevator -- our draws dropped in the kind of un-ironic awe we didn't think was possible in the post-Twitter age.

Once we got over the incomparable coolness of dumbwaitered beverages, the food didn't disappoint either. Nice to see tofu as an actual entree, not a weird fringe-y "option," and it was prepared simply but sharply. Desserts were top-notch as well... pudding may be hard to screw up, but it's also hard to really nail, and your pastry chef deserves props for pulling off the latter.

So with all those components of awesomeness in place, the stage was pretty much set for an unmitigated success of an evening.

But then. We. WAITED.

Waited for a server to come and offer us drinks. Waited for those drinks to reach our table after arriving on the awesome hand-crank elevator thingy (barely ten feet away! I considered grabbing them myself but figured it'd be bad form). Waited for our salads to be replaced by entrees. And finally, at the end of the night (by which point Alexis had been up for roughly 92 hours), waited for-freaking-EVER for our credit card to be dashed away to the register in the magical land of getting-to-go-home-ness.

Were you understaffed? Is that it? Because, as rockin' as your decor may be, you were never more than half-full (and this was a Saturday night around 9:30 P.M., mind you). If you want more customers, you may just have to bite the bullet and hire enough people to serve them. Either that, or provide us with a comfy place to nap while we're waiting to eat and drink things and then pay for them.

(Another option: let us play with the dumbwaiter. It's the greatest thing since prompt service.)

Taste

2009-10-06T09:50:00.000-07:00

Image credit: ilovetaste.com

8454 Melrose Ave., (323) 852-6888, ilovetaste.com

Taste is definitely a Lesser Baldwin on the particular stretch of Melrose where it's situated, at least in terms of awareness. It's nestled among more famous spots like Lucques, Comme Ca, and Ago; it doesn't have a celebrity chef or owner; and its name is an easily pronounceable English word with nary a glyph or umlaut to be found. It's entirely possible that Alexis and I never would have tried it if we hadn't embarked upon this whole local-dining experiment in the first place.

No, I'm not gearing up to tell you that it's this incredible hidden gem, or that our lives would be hollow and meaningless if we hadn't discovered it. But that's okay. Not every restaurant has to be life-changing, even in a city where a lot of them are. Sometimes it's just nice to have a place you can go when you can't think of anything else, and Taste fills that role well. The food's good, the menu isn't huge but there's plenty of variety, they pour some interesting cocktails (I like the ginger-rita, which is pretty much what it sounds like), and if you flip to the back page there's a two- or three-course prix fixe for a great price if you like the options. The salads in particular are a standout, on par with the best in the area. You can waltz in at 9:00 on a Friday night and get seated right away without a reservation, but that doesn't mean the place is a ghost town -- far from it; it just doesn't attract quite the same numbers as its aforementioned neighbors.

If there's so much to like about it, why does it feel like I'm kind of damning it with faint praise? Perhaps it's because they over-salt the hell out of their mac & cheese? Well, there is that, but mostly it's because the service isn't great. We've been to Taste twice now and, while the second time was an improvement on the first, we still had a couple of minor but frustrating issues. It's nothing on the order of a place like Geisha House, where you feel privileged just to have your waitress cast a condescending eye in your direction; and certainly there are critically adored establishments that get away with much more egregious behavior; but nonetheless, it could be better. At least the guy filling the water glasses was always on top of things.

I'm glad we know about Taste. And given its proximity to our doorstep, I'm sure we'll be back there again on some Friday night when we're out of ideas.

Mexico Restaurante y Barra

2009-10-01T15:29:00.000-07:00

(Image credit: latimes.com)

8512 Santa Monica Blvd. (at La Cienega), (310) 289-0077, gogomexico.com

I'm a quarter Mexican, and Alexis is a native Angeleno; put us together and you have two very, very white people who love a good plate of enchiladas with a margarita. So it's a good thing we have Mexico, because we're sure as hell not going to Fiesta Cantina across the street. (Have you walked by that place? It could be Tuesday afternoon and it's like New Year's frickin' Eve in there. Mexico is festive too; it's just not Spring-Break-in-Cancun festive.)

The menu is small and focused. Where your El restaurants (Coyote and Torito, mainly) tend to have an entire novella devoted to tamale choices, Mexico fits its entrees, apps, drinks and desserts all on a single page. The limited selections were somewhat worrisome this time-- we took Divaker with us, and having eaten many a Mexican dinner with him over the years, I can attest to the fact that the man does not tolerate any so-called "vegetables" invading the sanctity of his cheese enchiladas. Fortunately, customizations are available upon request, so he was a satisfied customer. The plates echo the menu in their emphasis on quality over quantity; you can order the guacamole plate, dinner, and a slice of cake without fear of being carted away in a wheelbarrow. Speaking of which: the guac, served in a small dish inside an avocado shell, is chunky and delicious. Our go-to entrees as vegetarians are the vegetable enchiladas and chile relleno, both of which the restaurant pulls off with consistent panache.

Since the place is open late and has two levels of outdoor seating, it also makes a great choice for a late-evening drink. (Comes in handy if you've been underwhelmed by the booze at Spanish Kitchen.) The eclectic alcohol choices reflect Mexico's ownership (it was dreamt up by Larry Nicola of Nic's Martini Lounge) and include the tamarind-infused Cabo de Noche, the Mamasita Mojito (a sort of Brazilian-Cuban hybrid made with cachaca instead of rum), and about a zillion different margaritas. And you know what goes great with a midnight drink? No, not french fries. Well, yes, french fries, but I'm talking about dessert. The Mexican Chocolate Wedding Cake is my recommendation, at least in part because it tastes nothing like it sounds. The first time I ordered it I was expecting a huge, gooey, butter-cream-iced slab; and I got a modest (but filling) section of a lightly spiced, very subtly chocolate cake that reminded me most of German Christmas cookies from my youth in the snowy hills of Baden-Württemberg.*

*That sentence is 100% true except for the last six words.

The Hall at Palihouse

2009-09-22T16:34:00.000-07:00

(Image credit: palihouse.com)

8465 Holloway Dr. (at La Cienega), (323) 656-4020, thehallbrasserie.com

Someday, Alexis and I hope to be rich enough to move into one of the Palihouse's chic residential suites and lead the kind of substance-abusing, breakfast-at-5-PM existence of which we've long dreamed. Luckily, one need not have attained that level of wealth or rockstardom to dine at The Hall. The number of small- and micro-plates on the menu has diminished in recent months due to a change in chefage, but there are still enough sides, salads, and shareables to keep your snacking/boozing experience safely in the double digits. Cocktails hover in the $10 range, which isn't bad in our part of the world; the fact that they detail the ingredients and proportions of each one could be taken as either really useful or overly precious (I vote the former). My recommendation: The Holloway, a tall drink of gin and ginger that refreshes and kills brain cells in equal measure. It's $13, but you won't need a second one. Milieu is cool without being douchey; the lack of a DJ or celebrity chef keeps out the Hills extras, while the lack of PBR on tap keeps out the grimy hipsters.

Sweet Lady Jane

2009-09-09T14:36:00.001-07:00

(Image credit: sweetladyjane.com)

8360 Melrose Ave., 323-653-7145, sweetladyjane.com

The service at SLJ isn't particularly good. Most of the people working there are fairly weird in ways that range from "comical" to "in-patient." There was one story on LAist a while back from someone who dared run the wedding cake gantlet, which really must be read to be believed. Oh, and the French press coffee is mediocre at best, and don't even bother trying an espresso-based drink.

These are all valid concerns, I guess. But they're beside the point. Really beside the point. So far beside the point that if they had to commute to the point, they'd hear every minute of Morning Edition and All Things Considered en route.

And the point is this: Early every morning, under cover of locked doors and an army of deadly chinchillas (Editor's note: really? locked doors? pls verify), the bakers at Sweet Lady Jane churn out cakes that are good enough to make you re-evaluate the meaning of your existence. (In short: whatever it was before, it is now "to eat more cake.")

Some of our favorites include the chocolate fudge espresso, the chocolate strawberry shortcake, the white chocolate lemon, and -- if you think you might not have access to sugar for the next few years and really need to stock up -- the dulce de leche. You can try some of the more unconventional options if you want, like the oreo tiramisu, but I tend to favor sticking with cake. (Except the seven-layer chocolate, which is at least three-sevenths disappointing.)

Pro tip: Go right before they close (around 11:30 PM) and you can have your pick of the breads and breakfast pastries that they're getting rid of.

Even pro-er tip: If you want to sneak in after hours, the chinchillas respond well to Hot Pockets.

Bar Marmont

2009-09-02T20:01:00.000-07:00

(Image credit: chateaumarmont.com)

8221 Sunset Blvd., (323) 650-1040, chateaumarmont.com

There's a great scene near the end of (500) Days of Summer where we see a major event happen two different ways at the same time: one side of the split-screen is labeled "Expectation"; the other, "Reality."

I think our visit to Bar Marmont could be summed up in a similar way.

Expectation: Since the place is SO HOT, even on a Wednesday we'd need to get there right as it opened (6 PM) to snag a couple of bar stools.

Reality: The bar was not yet open, and we had to wait outside. Behind one other person. Who was there to apply for a job.

Expectation: Celebrities all over the place. Not sucky ones, either. Diablo Cody would probably invite us to sit with her and make snarky comments about the other patrons.

Reality: In the two hours we spent there, maybe three other parties got seated. We were more famous than any of them, since at least we've heard of us.

Reality footnote: A few nights later, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Warren Beatty and Alec Baldwin were spotted at a table together. Timing is a bitch.

Expectation: Great mojitos.

Reality: Great mojitos.

Expectation: We'd throw down $50-60 for some drinks and light snacks and a shot at bumping into Jon Hamm.

Reality: $120 with tip + $15 for valet; no Draper.

Moral of the story: Come back on a Friday night when we're rich and famous. Also, the cheese plate's not half-bad.

The Yogurt Stop

2009-09-02T14:25:00.000-07:00

(Image Credit: yogurtstop.net)

8803 Santa Monica Blvd., (310) 652-6830, yogurtstop.net

Bemoaning the fact that L.A. is being devoured by trendy froyo establishments? So 2007. You might as well throw your wooden shoes at the Edison building and call for a return to steam power. Yogurt is here; it's queer (in this case); get over it. Because once you do, you can appreciate the remarkable advances spurred on by years of active-culture wars. The frozen renaissance is upon us, and The Yogurt Stop is its paragon.

Everything here is self-service, which makes me feel like I'm on one of those Toys R Us shopping sprees that kids used to win on Double Dare. First, you decide which size cup you want; in a clever move on the store's part, the only sizes offered are big, giant, and Lipitor. Then you fill it with any combination of eight flavors of yogurt, which have names that Yogurt Stop calls "double entendres" but are really at most 1.5-entendres if not full-on single entendres ("Orange you a top? Orange you a bottom?" for example). Fair enough; when most of your foot traffic comes from the bustling man-caves that line the upper 8000's of Santa Monica Boulevard, subtlety isn't going to win you many points. But it's the flavor that counts, and Yogurt Stop doesn't disappoint, delivering such diverse offerings as cake batter, root beer, and acai, as well as the expected Original Tart and stick-girl-friendly sugarless options.

You can do all the taste-testing you want before you commit to your final lineup, since there are no employees to prod you (you won't see anyone in uniform until it's time to pay). The whole filling station area tends to resemble the merch booth at a Death Cab show as a result, but some polite tenacity will get you through (either situation) just fine.

And then... well, loosen that Hot Topic skull belt, because it's time to hit the topping bar.

I don't care where you've been before; you are not ready for this. Yogurtland? Please. That's the bush leagues. There is no rational explanation for the beyond-overwhelming cornucopia on display here. The person who was sent to shop for toppings must have freaked out and bought the whole store. Well, their temporary insanity is your gain. Sentences beginning with "I wish they had..." do not exist in this dojo. Keep looking; I assure you it's there. There's also stuff you never would have asked for but turns out to be a great idea, like crumbled red velvet cupcake (helpfully provided by local bakery Cake and Art). Pro tip: skip the chocolate and caramel syrup pumps; even though they're Ghirardelli, they just taste like mildly flavored HFCS.

How do you know when you've piled enough on? That's between you and your deity of choice, but I usually apply the principle that my friend Paula once shared with me in regard to clothes shopping: you're not done until it's too heavy to carry.

Outside, there's an ample supply of tables and chairs, which, if you come in the evening, will often provide for a fairly singular people-watching experience. There's also free wifi, presumably to facilitate the process of ordering insulin refills.

Flavor of India

2009-08-31T09:24:00.000-07:00

Image credit: flavorofindia.com

9045 Santa Monica Blvd., 310-274-1715, flavorofindia.com

Our move to this part of town brought with it the sad reality that we would no longer be in reasonable proximity to Samosa House, one of our favorite Indian spots and almost weekly supplier of takeout dinner during the chaos of my grad school days. Thus, finding "our new Indian place" ranked high on the list of priorities of post-relocation endeavors. Fortunately, we hit the nail on the head the first time with Flavor of India.

While I am of the opinion that Indian food is actually quite amenable to the American palate, I am also of the opinion that Americans are distrusting, over-cautious, un-adventurous eaters, and so it's always a bit of a gamble when you ask friends if they want to go out to Indian food with you...kind of on par with asking them if they'd like to share an escargot, blood pudding and grub platter with you. (Although, my friends/only readers can rest assured that I won't be proposing that, as that item sounds suspiciously un-vegetarian.) To avoid all this awkwardness, we asked our friend Divaker to come with us--a bona fide real-life Indian who has even BEEN to India.

Like any good Indian joint, there was a menu section that singled out non-vegetarian dishes, which, I will admit, colors my interpretation of the place heavily. Nick and I both ordered the vegetarian thali (combination plates), but with different vegetable items, and Divaker ordered something we don't eat. You know that thing that happens when you're super-white and you're with someone ethnic, and you find out that you're really way more ethnic than they are, and your white guilt is momentarily alleviated? That happened! First, the server noted to Divaker how good my pronunciation was. (I've gotta give that one to growing up a middle-class angelena--just like the rest of us, I've been doing yoga forever. The words aren't hard, they just have lots of extra H's.) Then this: The server "assumed" that Divaker would want his dish very spicy, to which Divaker gently pushed back, and ended up quite content with his nominally spicy dish. I, however, ordered medium spice and noted to myself during the meal that I definitely could have handled having it kicked up at least a notch, and mentally patted myself on the back. Not that it means anything. I mean, whatever. But stay tuned for my date to Gardens of Taxco with my 25% Mexican fiancé.

It was a delight to learn that they offered the elusive malai kofta, a sumptuous veggie meatball-that-doesn't-pass-for-a-meatball, but rather, something way better. Samosa House had long tantalized us by serving us their crack-laced version once, only to never it offer again. Finding it as a regular offering here was really quite a victory. Score another point for "why moving to WeHo was a good idea and makes our lives immeasurably better." It's unclear who, exactly, is arguing against that one, but I feel compelled to compile an ever-expanding arsenal of propaganda opposing the ideals of that entity.

The paneer was flavorful and nicely textured, the saag was wonderfully garlicky, well-cooked, and vividly green. The began bhartha was...perfect, really. I actually think that, under certain circumstances, Nick, who has eschewed all eggplant other than that made by my stepfather, might even be talked into eating and liking it. Nick, in addition to the Kofta of Inspiration, got aloo gobi, being the potato-powered being that he is and needing to keep his reserves up. The naan and rice were respectable (I'm not sure how much inter-restaurant variance there is in these things), and the raita packed a memorably potent tang that was ideal gustatorially, regardless of its effects on a marginally lactose-intolerant digestive system. Dessert helped remedy that, though. Between us we ordered ginger kulfi (the Indian analog of ice cream, with this version being unusual and worth going out of your way for), kheer (creamy rice pudding with a delicate spice profile), and masala chai (judged to be well-above adequate, even if not completely authentic, by Divaker). All of this was superimposed on the canvas of quaint, unassuming, breezy, sherbety-colored ambiance. The waitstaff was helpful and endearing. (Although, not to knock them, but isn't that true at every Indian restaurant, really?)

Suffice it to say we liked it, we'll go back, we'll take our friends, and giggle while quietly but respectfully whispering to each other how cute it is. And, at the suggestion of our friend Michaela, we will try the makhni paneer.

Real Food Daily

2009-08-26T09:24:00.000-07:00

(Image credit: Real Food Daily)

414 N. La Cienega Blvd., (310) 289-9910, realfooddaily.com

A true mecca for seaweed-craving, gluten-avoiding, lactose intolerant, and otherwise dietarily finicky Angelenos of every variety, RFD is a bastion of all-vegan, mostly macro fare. For astute people-watchers, this La Cienega spot is ideal. Nestled in with a Ducati dealership and a deceptively never-open, dungeon-gated Sprinkles, it draws from these neighbors an array of vinyl-clad motocross pricks and bulimics who, foiled in their plans to binge on pastries, come in instead to share seven plates between two of them, eating only when the other one goes to the bathroom. Add to that the characters of the waitstaff, and you've got some real fodder for musings on the oddities of human nature. Two pillars of the cast include a mild-mannered, polished-punk-appearing guy who turns out to be my high school best friend's HJNTIY 9th grade crush (Hey Andrew! Good to see you.) and a voluptuous woman who unsneakily fixes her eyes on my waist before syrupy-sweetly suggesting that I add gravy AND dessert to my order. Every. Single. Time. Despite her catty motivations, I agree that it's not a bad idea, and oblige her about half the time.

Ah, but the food. The menu fairly distributes its offerings among well-executed vegan versions of typically omni dishes (salisbury seitan with savory gravy, Mexico City-style tacos) and ultra-macro items (combos of beans, unheard-of grains, pressed salad, and sea vegetables that really might turn you seaweed-craving if you give it the chance). While the joint has topped our list of options for takeout for some time, I think Nick and I would both agree that the place endeared itself to us completely when it proved that it could dish out hangover food with the big dogs. Read closely here: after a night of partying, GET THE NACHOS. Add taco meat. And get the spicy cheese. Alternatively, if you're me, get your fiance to order them. There'll be plenty. And if you're still in need of a little hair of the dog, they serve booze--organic, of course.

A boon to their credentials is that they are the only vegan place I know of that consistently does dessert well. Besides my kitchen, that is...but that's not open for business until I become at least three times as frustrated as I am now about finding a job as a nurse practitioner. So keep your eyes peeled. All in all, the place has something for everyone, and I feel confident in saying that, as long as nobody orders the reuben, it'll be a crowd-pleaser in the company of visiting Midwestern relatives and raw-food-enthusiasts alike.

The Spanish Kitchen

2009-08-19T14:33:00.000-07:00

(Image credit: The Spanish Kitchen)

826 N. La Cienega Blvd., (310) 659-4794, thespanishkitchen.com

Alexis had her birthday party here a couple years ago, and we brought in a giant cake from Sweet Lady Jane, and the kitchen apparently kept most of it. But we won't judge it based on that incident. Actually, TSK (not to be confused with STK just across the street, which we are unlikely to visit) really defies expectations, just not in a completely good way. Given the club/bar milieu of the stretch of La Cienega on which it's situated, it would be natural to assume that this would be a place with killer drinks but barely-okay food. So it's a bit surprising that the food is really quite good but the margaritas are... well, mostly water with a little lime flavoring and no discernible tequila. The insistence of the waitstaff on upselling you to a more expensive tequila isn't exactly endearing, either. (In my view, the house margarita is the standard by which a place should be judged. If it isn't good, you shouldn't be serving it.) On the plus side, TSK is perfectly good for either lunch or a booze-free dinner, and they do accommodate large parties easily (just keep an eye on your cake).

Urth Caffe

2009-07-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

(Image credit: WENN)

8565 Melrose Avenue (other locs in SM, BH, and DTLA), (310) 659-0628, urthcaffe.com

This seems as good a place as any to start, since the proximity of our new apartment to its front door was one of the main reasons we signed the lease. We love the freakishly perfect coffee (just the fuel I need to finish the Saturday crossword), we love the sandwiches and salads, we love most of the desserts. All in all there isn't much we can tell the L.A. food blog community about Urth that they don't already know, except perhaps this: Don't order the veggie lasagna. Ever. One of the restaurant's infrequent missteps, its similarity to a box of Lean Cuisine is so uncanny that it would be worth investigating if we had the time to do that sort of thing. The smart thing would be to remove it from the menu; but since the bill of fare hasn't changed noticeably in the several years I've been going there, I have a feeling that the lasagna (along with the rotating cast of bluetooth-implanted douchebags and vaguely Hiltonesque ultra-entitled squeakvoices) is there to stay.

Introduction

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The experiment is exactly what the logo says. We're drawing a little box on the map, bounded by Beverly on the south, Sunset on the North, Fairfax on the east, and Doheny on the west.

Beverly/Sunset/Fairfax/Doheny. BeSuFaDo. Kind of sounds like a cross between a Spanish tapas bar and a New York City "micro-neighborhood."

Like so:

(Here's the link to the custom Google Map we made to illustrate it.)

From now until next year, whenever Alexis and I go out, we're going to stay within the lines.

Why? Because we want to explore our new neighborhood. Our apartment is right in the middle of the box, and there's a lot of places nearby that deserve a look. Fancy places, cheap places, hip places, dives, coffee joints, yogurt places, yogurt places, yogurt places, etc. A lot of them are walking distance. (The most distant points on the box are less than two miles away from us.) Walking means no designated driver, no gas, no valet.

We'll check out as many places as we can and report back on our experiences here. (We'll also be adding snappy, Zagat-style blurbs to the Google Map, which will serve as a visual chronicle of our findings.)

Comments? Suggestions? Lucrative offers from wealthy deposed Nigerian princes? Feel free to leave them.