They're making minty chocolates today, the scent of menthol puffing out of a vent somewhere. I can usually smell the day's work when I drive by every morning and you can imagine, for me, how amazing this opportunity is. I probably eat See's Candies twice a year but the yummy smells on La Cienega make dodging LAX-bound taxis every day infinitely less annoying.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Smells Candies
On La Cienega Boulevard, just south of Jefferson, a large white building houses the See's Candies factory/plant/calorie cloud from heaven. I assume this building also serves as a distribution center, watering the West Coast malls and airport stands with their milk and dark chocolate bits.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Epilogue
Today, I write from a gardening workshop in Little Tokyo. Not knowing that the workshop would be conducted almost entirely in Japanese, I'm quietly typing away as the room of Japanese speakers takes notes on handouts. I've heard a few words I know; "soil", "loam", "mulching", "tomato"; but without the context of their usage, they are just gardening basics that will be Wikipedia'ed later.
Yesterday afternoon, behind a bowl of leftover ramen with its slices of fatty pork, I sat down to watch "Food, Inc.", lent to me by a co-worker. We both love food and gardens and we both work for a grocery store. At the end of the film, this last similarity would affect a sentiment in me that would not have existed 6 months ago.
I own "The Omnivore's Dilemma" and I haven't read it. Most of my "big food" information is gleaned from Chef Dong Choi's nighttime rants about corn or diabetes or from the fan postings on the grocery store's Facebook fan page wall. It's interesting that supposed fans wander by their own free will onto the pages of companies of which they clearly are not fans. It's so un-American (read broadly: socialist).
The film's chapters take you through the costs, secrets, consequences and coersions of the food industry. Nevermind the visuals of chickens who can't walk, their swiftly fattened bodies outpacing the maturity of their bones. Forget the image of a cow with a rubber stent into one of its stomachs and the scientist happily digging around to test the E. Coli it the ruminant (the verb of and after which this blog is named). Forget the shock value. The most disconcerting statistic I learned is that 4-5 companies in the United States produce about 80% of its beef. And the largest customer of beef (and potatoes) here is the McDonald's corporation.
It's nothing we haven't heard piecemeal or assumed. The scope of this continuity of supply and demand makes me lose my appetite. I don't eat a lot of meat and now, I can't look at the steaks and chops and thighs at the grocery store, at my place of employment, in the same, salivating way. I was lucky that I had already finished my ramen.
In an act of precognition, the producers of the film evaded the sense of helplessness pervading the bulk of the film and included a literal epilogue. In it, reminders and suggestions were typed onto the screen. Shop at farmer's markets...plant a garden...change the world with every bite. Stop working for a grocery store that sells questionably raised meat was not among them.
While I didn't understand the lecture, like any good student, I'm still taking my homework seriously. I'm about to pay for thyme, basil and tomato seedlings that will hopefully flourish in the indirect sunlight that finds the top of my air conditioning unit. In size and distance, it's far from a field but it holds my dreams of being a honorable and informed food enthusiast. Delicious.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
A Birthday
When you're 13, you don't know to be modest. You might be shy or bashful but you won't deflect flattery whether justified or convenient with a gracious smile. When you're 13, your birthday means your wishes come true with your pimpled friends, a cake and pizza.
The day I turned 33, I was modest. I hadn't planned a party or a fancy dinner or a masquerade ball in the French Quarter with doormen and coat check girls like I've always dreamed. My plan was to hang out afterhours at McCall's Meat & Fish Co. and maybe eat a hamburger. No cake.
Instead, at the last minute, one of my closest (in proximity) friends got tickets to see David Sedaris speak at UCLA and he invited me to go. David Sedaris is one of my favorite writers; his calm, resigned observations bring giggles up from my belly like bubbles in ginger ale. This friend and I once sat at my kitchen table, me with David and he with a script for a pilot TV show. I sporadically laughed so hard that I had no choice but to read passages aloud. One passage was about Halloween candy in a chapter from "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim". My friend knew how much I loved Mr. Sedaris and I was grateful that he remembered.
On the evening of May 5, since my friend had already had a snack, my birthday dinner was eaten from its plastic wrapper in the car on the way to UCLA. I had a leftover fresh&easy Italian Sub Sandwich with spicy, salty sliced meats, provolone cheese hugging slowly drying ciabatta bread. Pepperoncinis were pretty much for decoration as they packed a tepid but helpful punch. I was so hungry that the sandwich was delicious.
What might have followed as a cake monstrosity in previous years was replaced by kind and witty company and a writer who was funny, inspiring and shared with an auditorium full of people. For he's a jolly, good fellow and I was satisfied by just being there. The gift of presence was more than enough.
The day I turned 33, I was modest. I hadn't planned a party or a fancy dinner or a masquerade ball in the French Quarter with doormen and coat check girls like I've always dreamed. My plan was to hang out afterhours at McCall's Meat & Fish Co. and maybe eat a hamburger. No cake.
Instead, at the last minute, one of my closest (in proximity) friends got tickets to see David Sedaris speak at UCLA and he invited me to go. David Sedaris is one of my favorite writers; his calm, resigned observations bring giggles up from my belly like bubbles in ginger ale. This friend and I once sat at my kitchen table, me with David and he with a script for a pilot TV show. I sporadically laughed so hard that I had no choice but to read passages aloud. One passage was about Halloween candy in a chapter from "Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim". My friend knew how much I loved Mr. Sedaris and I was grateful that he remembered.
On the evening of May 5, since my friend had already had a snack, my birthday dinner was eaten from its plastic wrapper in the car on the way to UCLA. I had a leftover fresh&easy Italian Sub Sandwich with spicy, salty sliced meats, provolone cheese hugging slowly drying ciabatta bread. Pepperoncinis were pretty much for decoration as they packed a tepid but helpful punch. I was so hungry that the sandwich was delicious.
What might have followed as a cake monstrosity in previous years was replaced by kind and witty company and a writer who was funny, inspiring and shared with an auditorium full of people. For he's a jolly, good fellow and I was satisfied by just being there. The gift of presence was more than enough.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
links
My friend Karen and I have shared a lot of great memories. I've known her since we were just freshly graduated from college and since those youthful days, we've lived together in New York, gone to Hawaii for her wedding and among other silly girl miscellany I can now tell our children one day that their mother and I stuffed ground pork with fennel and orange zest into pig intestines called hanks. We made sausages by hand.
Karen and her husband Nathan have opened a butcher shop on Hillhurst Ave. in Los Feliz. If you are a discerning carnivore, you must stop by to marvel at all kinds of meaty madness, carved and curated by two professional chefs who love food. When Nathan cuts a steak, he thinks of the final dish as he guides his knife. How many butchers do you know that can say they've worked in three Michelin star restaurants? It's like your school nurse telling you she was a neurosurgeon at the Mayo Clinic before she came to hand out band-aids and condoms.
Every morning, before I even begin to have weird dreams about orange blue cheese (true story), Nathan is headed downtown to the fish market. By 6:30am, he's given a humble nod to Mr. Nozawa, yes, of Sushi Nozawa, an unofficial mentor and a McCall's customer. Traffic isn't even an issue this early as he heads back with incredibly fresh seafood that's in season. Salmon, tuna, oysters, scallops, mussels...they're all sitting in the case early everyday, shiny and briny and begging to be devoured. The array changes every day so if you're on Twitter, you can follow them to know what's wriggling. I follow them. And Lady Gaga.
I bought a tiny bit of Alaskan black cod the other night and poached it. I concocted a simple sauce of soy, mirin, rice vinegar and sesame oil in which the black cod was dipped. After the first white flake of fish met my taste buds, I immediately wished that I had bought a pound of it. All for me. The texture was silky with a slight bounce. It possessed a hint of fishiness, mainly from the skin, that was beautiful with the acidity of the rice vinegar.
On dry land, they're sourcing cuts from purveyors that only sell to restaurants. So when you wonder why you're such a bad cook because you can't seem to get things to taste like what they serve at your favorite restaurant, know that not all ingredients are created nor available equally. A flimsy Vons pork chop isn't a Berkshire pork chop. One night before they opened, we were all chatting when they told me that they could find super-foodie ingredients like white truffles and foie gras...things that you can't normally get at the market. My mind started to wander into the land of things I can shave white truffles onto. It was an endless landscape dotted with pretty much anything edible.
If farms were strip clubs, Nathan and Karen would be bouncers who can get you into the champagne room while discreetly slipping you your $100 bill back in ones. I've now discovered my new food love: the very hard-to-find natural certified angus beef prime dry aged short loin (where you get a T-bone from). Nathan had fried up a tiny bit to test and the flavor was complex with notes of Parmesan. As I chewed and let the juice seep out from the sinews, I knew that some people won't ever get to experience a steak like that. You know, an extra lap dance from the hottest stripper at the strip club type of steak.
And not to go on and on even though I am, I just have to tell you about the eggs. I haven't had them personally but the chickens and the eggs are apparently the most incredible tasting chickens and eggs that both of them have ever tasted. Kendor Farms is in Van Nuys so the which came firsts are local. But the best tidbit is that they mix a little olive oil into the chicken feed. Uh, I'd be pretty delicious if I ate olive oil every day. I'd be fat-astic.
And of course...the sausage. As a bonus for randomly being there the night sausages needed to be stuffed and helping Karen while Nathan butchered some fish, they gave me a sausage I had "made." Nathan's mixture of pork butt, orange and fennel was amazing. A little salt, a little love and into the pig intestine it went. I fried it up at home one night along with a little bit of extra, unformed stuffing and I had to stop myself from eating the entire pound of seasoned juicyness in one sitting. The fennel is potent and the orange comes in towards the end and the fattiness of the pork just made me want to hug someone.
At any rate, I'm always excited to pop-in to their tiny, maroon shop on Hillhurst. Where my best friend Karen wraps up protein jewels in brown paper and sends me home with little projects. I gave them an old book I found at a used book store simply titled Meat. I hadn't paid much attention to the author but upon presenting them with it, we took it as a sign that it had in fact been written by the Lobels of the eponymous butcher shop in Manhattan; the shop that sold them the steak that inspired them to do what they did. I'm fortunate to have them be my culinary guides but we're all lucky that they've put the entirety of their time and energy from the past year into an endeavor that I hope will change the way people shop for meat and fish...and eggs...oh my.
Karen and her husband Nathan have opened a butcher shop on Hillhurst Ave. in Los Feliz. If you are a discerning carnivore, you must stop by to marvel at all kinds of meaty madness, carved and curated by two professional chefs who love food. When Nathan cuts a steak, he thinks of the final dish as he guides his knife. How many butchers do you know that can say they've worked in three Michelin star restaurants? It's like your school nurse telling you she was a neurosurgeon at the Mayo Clinic before she came to hand out band-aids and condoms.
Every morning, before I even begin to have weird dreams about orange blue cheese (true story), Nathan is headed downtown to the fish market. By 6:30am, he's given a humble nod to Mr. Nozawa, yes, of Sushi Nozawa, an unofficial mentor and a McCall's customer. Traffic isn't even an issue this early as he heads back with incredibly fresh seafood that's in season. Salmon, tuna, oysters, scallops, mussels...they're all sitting in the case early everyday, shiny and briny and begging to be devoured. The array changes every day so if you're on Twitter, you can follow them to know what's wriggling. I follow them. And Lady Gaga.
I bought a tiny bit of Alaskan black cod the other night and poached it. I concocted a simple sauce of soy, mirin, rice vinegar and sesame oil in which the black cod was dipped. After the first white flake of fish met my taste buds, I immediately wished that I had bought a pound of it. All for me. The texture was silky with a slight bounce. It possessed a hint of fishiness, mainly from the skin, that was beautiful with the acidity of the rice vinegar.
On dry land, they're sourcing cuts from purveyors that only sell to restaurants. So when you wonder why you're such a bad cook because you can't seem to get things to taste like what they serve at your favorite restaurant, know that not all ingredients are created nor available equally. A flimsy Vons pork chop isn't a Berkshire pork chop. One night before they opened, we were all chatting when they told me that they could find super-foodie ingredients like white truffles and foie gras...things that you can't normally get at the market. My mind started to wander into the land of things I can shave white truffles onto. It was an endless landscape dotted with pretty much anything edible.
If farms were strip clubs, Nathan and Karen would be bouncers who can get you into the champagne room while discreetly slipping you your $100 bill back in ones. I've now discovered my new food love: the very hard-to-find natural certified angus beef prime dry aged short loin (where you get a T-bone from). Nathan had fried up a tiny bit to test and the flavor was complex with notes of Parmesan. As I chewed and let the juice seep out from the sinews, I knew that some people won't ever get to experience a steak like that. You know, an extra lap dance from the hottest stripper at the strip club type of steak.
And not to go on and on even though I am, I just have to tell you about the eggs. I haven't had them personally but the chickens and the eggs are apparently the most incredible tasting chickens and eggs that both of them have ever tasted. Kendor Farms is in Van Nuys so the which came firsts are local. But the best tidbit is that they mix a little olive oil into the chicken feed. Uh, I'd be pretty delicious if I ate olive oil every day. I'd be fat-astic.
And of course...the sausage. As a bonus for randomly being there the night sausages needed to be stuffed and helping Karen while Nathan butchered some fish, they gave me a sausage I had "made." Nathan's mixture of pork butt, orange and fennel was amazing. A little salt, a little love and into the pig intestine it went. I fried it up at home one night along with a little bit of extra, unformed stuffing and I had to stop myself from eating the entire pound of seasoned juicyness in one sitting. The fennel is potent and the orange comes in towards the end and the fattiness of the pork just made me want to hug someone.
At any rate, I'm always excited to pop-in to their tiny, maroon shop on Hillhurst. Where my best friend Karen wraps up protein jewels in brown paper and sends me home with little projects. I gave them an old book I found at a used book store simply titled Meat. I hadn't paid much attention to the author but upon presenting them with it, we took it as a sign that it had in fact been written by the Lobels of the eponymous butcher shop in Manhattan; the shop that sold them the steak that inspired them to do what they did. I'm fortunate to have them be my culinary guides but we're all lucky that they've put the entirety of their time and energy from the past year into an endeavor that I hope will change the way people shop for meat and fish...and eggs...oh my.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
The Worst Aversion
On Sunday night, around 9:15pm, I ate a slurp of stir fried chow fun noodles sliding under an egg drop sauce with slices of cod and green onion. My father's leftovers. For dessert, I finished what was left of a small square of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting and washed a bowl of Mexican blueberries I had purchased the day before at the farmer's market. I went to sleep happy and full until around 3:30am when I woke up feeling slightly strange. After playing a mental game of Battleship with my stomach, I had to surrender when my devilish dinner wanted OUT.
I know you're not supposed to blame the most recent thing you've eaten when food poisoning strikes, but after 9 hours of sweaty fits, troubled sleep and undignified bathroom behavior, I'm pretty sure I can't stand the sight of blueberries anymore. I caught a glimpse of some in a photograph today and I had to blink away my disgust. I suspect it was the blueberries since everything else I ate on Sunday had been shared with people who weren't sick at all. But worse than this reasonable deduction...am I really to believe that I won't love chocolate cake anymore? This cannot be.
Taste aversion is a well-studied topic amongst psychologists and behavioral scientists. I once read a report about wolves that happened to feed on strategically placed rabbits injected with a solution designed to induce vomiting. The result? Farmers had more bountiful hare crops that year.
But to take away one of my true loves? The food fairies have done me wrong. I'm hopeful that the passion for my favorite dessert will return because at the moment nothing sounds tempting to me, not chocolate cake, not the wonderful leftover bouillabaisse in my fridge, not pizza from Lamonica's. I can't hate ALL of these things forever, can I? Oh, this is a very sad day. Despite the fact that I lost 5 pounds overnight, if I can get my appetite back, I won't mind the return of the pudge. Seems like those two might go hand in chubby hand.
I know you're not supposed to blame the most recent thing you've eaten when food poisoning strikes, but after 9 hours of sweaty fits, troubled sleep and undignified bathroom behavior, I'm pretty sure I can't stand the sight of blueberries anymore. I caught a glimpse of some in a photograph today and I had to blink away my disgust. I suspect it was the blueberries since everything else I ate on Sunday had been shared with people who weren't sick at all. But worse than this reasonable deduction...am I really to believe that I won't love chocolate cake anymore? This cannot be.
Taste aversion is a well-studied topic amongst psychologists and behavioral scientists. I once read a report about wolves that happened to feed on strategically placed rabbits injected with a solution designed to induce vomiting. The result? Farmers had more bountiful hare crops that year.
But to take away one of my true loves? The food fairies have done me wrong. I'm hopeful that the passion for my favorite dessert will return because at the moment nothing sounds tempting to me, not chocolate cake, not the wonderful leftover bouillabaisse in my fridge, not pizza from Lamonica's. I can't hate ALL of these things forever, can I? Oh, this is a very sad day. Despite the fact that I lost 5 pounds overnight, if I can get my appetite back, I won't mind the return of the pudge. Seems like those two might go hand in chubby hand.
Friday, December 4, 2009
adam and eve
The last time I had BBQ ribs, it was at Baby Blues BBQ on Santa Monica, just a few blocks from my apartment. It was a disappointing though lively place and the ribs were tough and less than acceptable. I ate there with a friend from Atlanta and he said "You don't know BBQ until you've eaten BBQ in the South." Well, now I have.
I have often written about life changing foods. Delicious, paradigm-shifting dishes that have set my culinary trajectory one enormous degree closer to a lifetime of enjoyment. Over time, that one degree will have sent me to a place of flavors that I may have missed otherwise. Missed by a long shot.
At Fat Matt's, I ate my first bite of ribs. Surpassing all other bones protecting the hearts of pigs that I have tried, this first bite of soft, fatty, sweet, tangy pork and I will never be the same. I also had "Brunswick" Stew which is like pot roast with a little bit of tang blended into a chili-like consistency...with corn. It was delicious. I also had a bit of a pulled pork sandwich, a few forkful of coleslaw and some mac and cheese. You can see the menu exactly like I did here.
A white-haired man with a guitar sang silly country songs on the small stage. Men from Alabama in their Crimson Tide jackets jawed on cellphones. Black ladies on their lunch break waited for a table to open up and I, with my messy fingers and white sweater ("You wore the wrong color," said my friend Matthew) sat there, smiling next to a case of BBQ sauce for the trip home. A case.
If the bible-lovers here are right, I, my sisters, all women, nay, all people have descended from a man and his rib. And that's a great lineage I'd say.
I have often written about life changing foods. Delicious, paradigm-shifting dishes that have set my culinary trajectory one enormous degree closer to a lifetime of enjoyment. Over time, that one degree will have sent me to a place of flavors that I may have missed otherwise. Missed by a long shot.
At Fat Matt's, I ate my first bite of ribs. Surpassing all other bones protecting the hearts of pigs that I have tried, this first bite of soft, fatty, sweet, tangy pork and I will never be the same. I also had "Brunswick" Stew which is like pot roast with a little bit of tang blended into a chili-like consistency...with corn. It was delicious. I also had a bit of a pulled pork sandwich, a few forkful of coleslaw and some mac and cheese. You can see the menu exactly like I did here.
A white-haired man with a guitar sang silly country songs on the small stage. Men from Alabama in their Crimson Tide jackets jawed on cellphones. Black ladies on their lunch break waited for a table to open up and I, with my messy fingers and white sweater ("You wore the wrong color," said my friend Matthew) sat there, smiling next to a case of BBQ sauce for the trip home. A case.
If the bible-lovers here are right, I, my sisters, all women, nay, all people have descended from a man and his rib. And that's a great lineage I'd say.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
neck bones for Jesus
I don't usually go to church but yesterday I went to the United House of Prayer to have lunch at their Kitchen Café. We stood in line with our trays under the portraits of black reverends and a black Jesus. In the skylit dining room, black and white guests chatted about work as they enjoyed their lunch break.
Plates of lemon cake sat wrapped in plastic. Banana pudding in To Go clamshells. Greg ordered neck bones and rice. Karen had BBQ chicken. We shared sides of turnip greens, mac and cheese, black eyed peas and yams. I ordered crappy spaghetti bake because I LOVE crappy spaghetti bake particularly when it's covered with melted cheddar cheese. Meat sauce that has been stewed for a day combined with pasta that has been boiled for almost as long makes a squishy, lovely lunch.
The neck bones were served with brown gravy and the BBQ chicken was slathered in a dark burgundy sauce. I enjoyed the braised neck bones, the beef softened by lingering, low heat. It reminded me of oxtail which I guess is the opposite end extension to a neck. I nibbled at the sides, discovering the wilted turnip greens, slightly acidic from the vinegar used to break down the tough fibers. The mac and cheese was great and so were the yams although they were almost too incredibly sweet. We joked that this was the only way one could spread the word of obesity. Or Type II diabetes.
For dinner, Karen and I went to Wild Wing where I satisfied a craving for hot wings. We happened upon "Two-fer Tuesday" where buying 8 wings got us 8 more. I'm a wimp when it comes to wings so we had medium spicy hot wings and Jamaican jerk wings. Not to be remiss with the terrible appetizers, we also ordered loaded potato skins with cheese, bacon and jalapeños. With a dessert of peanut butter, chocolate and caramel flavors piled into a stack of wafers, cake, cream and gooey layers, our bill came to $21 between the two of us and we were stuffed. It's amazing to me how much food doesn't cost here.
As we looked around the restaurant, Karen pointed out the many tables of black and white friends dining together. You actually see less of that in LA, a more melting pot city by most accounts. How does that happen in a place that everyone claims is so racist? I suppose that calories might be the answer to a common love that transcends external appearances.
Plates of lemon cake sat wrapped in plastic. Banana pudding in To Go clamshells. Greg ordered neck bones and rice. Karen had BBQ chicken. We shared sides of turnip greens, mac and cheese, black eyed peas and yams. I ordered crappy spaghetti bake because I LOVE crappy spaghetti bake particularly when it's covered with melted cheddar cheese. Meat sauce that has been stewed for a day combined with pasta that has been boiled for almost as long makes a squishy, lovely lunch.
The neck bones were served with brown gravy and the BBQ chicken was slathered in a dark burgundy sauce. I enjoyed the braised neck bones, the beef softened by lingering, low heat. It reminded me of oxtail which I guess is the opposite end extension to a neck. I nibbled at the sides, discovering the wilted turnip greens, slightly acidic from the vinegar used to break down the tough fibers. The mac and cheese was great and so were the yams although they were almost too incredibly sweet. We joked that this was the only way one could spread the word of obesity. Or Type II diabetes.
For dinner, Karen and I went to Wild Wing where I satisfied a craving for hot wings. We happened upon "Two-fer Tuesday" where buying 8 wings got us 8 more. I'm a wimp when it comes to wings so we had medium spicy hot wings and Jamaican jerk wings. Not to be remiss with the terrible appetizers, we also ordered loaded potato skins with cheese, bacon and jalapeños. With a dessert of peanut butter, chocolate and caramel flavors piled into a stack of wafers, cake, cream and gooey layers, our bill came to $21 between the two of us and we were stuffed. It's amazing to me how much food doesn't cost here.
As we looked around the restaurant, Karen pointed out the many tables of black and white friends dining together. You actually see less of that in LA, a more melting pot city by most accounts. How does that happen in a place that everyone claims is so racist? I suppose that calories might be the answer to a common love that transcends external appearances.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)