Sweet Lady Jane

(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.

Real Food Daily

(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.

Urth Caffe

(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.