You know how it goes, once a respectable coffee house opens its doors in an area that was formerly off the trendy-middle-class radar it’s a good sign that the neighborhood has gone to the diamond-studded-collar-wearing dogs, which, in my opinion, is just what the economist ordered. Highland Perk is to Highland Park what Casbah Cafe was to Silver Lake; what Swork’s was to Eagle Rock; and what al fresco dining was to this country: a step towards a fashionably renewed status and a newly mingled culture towards a more delicious tomorrow.

Couture. Affluence. They now come in a cup.

$1.7 million later, what was once a dingy crack house cum abandoned Mexican restaurant now stands as a renovated piece of artwork in a barrior that’s on the up and up, and to no surprise it proudly houses colorful pieces by local artists. Following suit on the heels of Highland Park’s surrounding trendier neighborhoods - Downtown, Eagle Rock, Silver Lake - local community activist Scott Robbins took the area’s historic landmark, and longtime home of La Casa Blue, and gave it a 360º make-over revamping it from slum to starlet.

But enough about the socialization of formerly undesirable Highland Park, right now I’m not as inclined to discuss this Cinderella story as much as I’m here to talk about the legally ingestible goods to come forth from its kitchen - I want to talk food here, and other serotonin inducing ingredients baby!

So, how did I find myself so interested in this 21-plus-days new coffeeshop? Well, it all began with a little necessary visit to our local post-office to pick-up a package of colloidal silver that was ordered far too late to tackle our sniffling, sneezing, heavy-headed embodiments of germs. Well, I’m exaggerating just a bit; we weren’t quite the walking incubators I make us out to seem, at the moment, but it is true that we were just getting over a cold that was strong enough to force us into nearly a week of voluntary unemployment: which meant no caffeine/no dairy/no eggs/no sugar for us. None. Zilch. Zip. Nada.

Until, we received a coupon from Victor the postman who tempted us to his friend’s new coffeeshop, The Highland Perk. This wasn’t just any coupon, it was a ticket to FREE COFFEE!!!

(Look, you can take the crack house out the neighborhood, but you can’t take the crackhead out of the neighbor. A’ight?!)

I’ll have you know that I was very disciplined and ordered a small/decaf/soy latte, which to my expectations actually had me buzzing a bit. Darn. Now that I started doing Bikram yoga regularly I’m more sensitive to foods and chemicals. Chemicals? What chemicals? I didn’t just say chemicals. I said CAFFEINE. Yeesh people. Can you puh-lease just get your minds out of the crack house at least to the end of this post? Didn’t I say I want to talk about food here?

So, where was I? Ah yes, C…ARROT CAKE MUFFIN. What did you think I was going to say? CR…ACKERS? No; no crackers here. Maybe except for you. So, about this carrot cake muffin….

It was the color of molasses, a fist-sized treat hatted with a ribbon of cream cheese frosting. Baked to a firm chewy exterior that peeled away revealing a soft, moist (read: not greasy) copper coloured belly that was speckled with a confetti of sweet carrot and dark raisin.

So I bought two. One for me, and one for me, I mean, Matthias. It was the perfect match for my La Mill latte, not too sweet, not too cakey. As Goldilocks would say, it was just right.

The entire coffeeshop itself felt just right: spacious ceilings over 20 feet tall with wooden beams, walls richly painted in sexy deep and vibrant shades of blue, red, and yellow offset by concrete floors, and dressed with colorful artwork and plush modern designer furniture. Sunlight pours in from large picture windows on the north wall adding warmth by day to a venue that is moody and loungey by night.

In addition to homemade baked goods like chunky brownie squares, paper molded mini chocolate souffle cakes, and spring colored cheesecake bites, the staff of muscled men clad in tight black tees and blue jeans man the modern stainless steel kitchen to pump out an array of bistro style dishes such as pastas, salads, and soups to quickly name a few. I highly encourage you to take a look for yourselves, and if you decide to wait a bit, say after March 14th, you might find yourself walking in just in time to celebrate the granting of their beer & wine license.

The Highland Perk
5930 York Ave
Highland Park, CA 90042
323.257.0089

Farfalla Trattoria
1978 Hillhurst
Los Feliz, CA

It was that time again - lunch with Noah. He’s an old co-worker I won’t let go of. Everyone needs one, or twelve, lunching companions. The type that finish your sentences and love to eat as much as you do.

This time around, we chose Farfalla Trattoria in Los Feliz. I was craving authentic and rustic Italian chow, and was warmed by the reviews I read. We arrived during the heart of lunch, yet the place was almost empty. I’m hoping it’s a nighttime spot, as it’s worthy.

Service was standard - nothing to rave or rant about. The space itself I liked very much - dark wooden walls and accents, and a back wall lined with wine bottles. I felt cozy and comfortable, and the pasta craving kicked in with a vengeance.

The goods –

Drinks:

I didn’t eye the wine list, but something tells me it’s standard but tasty Italian selections. Had soda and water only.

Entrees:

Mine
Fusilli with Aged Ricotta cheese, chanterelles, spinach, and truffle oil
* If you’re going to have pasta, go *all* out. I really enjoyed this dish. The olive oil with truffles didn’t get lost with the ricotta and other ingredients, and was the shining star. Decadent, but not too rich, the grooves of the corkscrew pasta held tight to pockets of the oil and truffle lusciousness, making some bites of this entree an absolute explosion of bliss. Well done indeed.

Noah’s
Gnocchi with Chicken and Pesto
* I loathe overcooked gnocchi - getting the consistency of this potato delicacy is a huge burden, but Farfalla did an outstanding job. The pesto was just so-so, but the gnocchi had a slight firmness, velvety texture, and a gorgeous smoothness. The chicken was nothing special, but that didn’t decrease the yumminess of the potato pasta squares.

The damage for 1 soda and 2 entrees was about $28, before tip.

RESTAURANT REPORT CARD - Visit 1

Ambiance - B
Service - C+
Food (Taste) - B
Food (Presentation) - C-
Wine/Drinks - N/A (did not consume enough to grade)
Value - B-
Vibe/Energy/Scene - D+

Overall Experience - C+

Final word - I’d like to try some other specialties, but would love more vibrance and energy. Perhaps a Friday night trip is in order.

I’ll say it again, Fatburger. The Last Great Hamburger Stand.

I sparked velvety dissention a while ago by soliciting people for their favorite burger joint, not a national chain. Of course, I violated my own criteria by throwing down for Fatburger, reasoning that even though they are growing through many states, and now even have an East Coast presence, they were still limited in overall markets.

Saying that my favorite burger is Fatburger, by implication, means In ‘N’ Out is not my favorite burger. This is frightening heresy to someone from Southern California, but I’m not from Southern California. Yancey Lovie opened the first Mr. Fatburger on the corner of Western and Jefferson in 1952. It has been an institution in LA since then, but honestly obscured by the reputation of In ‘N’ Out.

In a time where internal politics threatens to charbroil the good name of In ‘N’ Out, and the struggle over whether to extend the franchise beyond its cloistered borders, in 1986 Fatburger had already adopted a Machiavelian doctrine of expansion.

Fatburger’s manifest destiny has not sullied nor faded the quality of their burgers, at least not the original locations dotting Los Angeles like yellow pushpins. I haven’t eaten at any of the locations outside of California. Couple to that Magic Johnson’s policy of investing back into the South Central community, proving there is a great deal of profit to be made by investing in lower income areas. Yet, other high profile entertainers are also quietly looking into franchising up and down the East Coast.

While In ‘N’ Out strives for historical purity by not changing its menu, there is a secret menu of modifications that every Californian knows. Its sort of an inside joke to play on the tourists that will never know to order a double-double animal style. Fatburger’s only not-well-kept-secret is you can order it grilled or char-broiled.

Fatburger also has its own tradition known as the Triple Kingburger Challenge. Anyone who finishes a triple Kingburger (1 1/2 pounds) within six minutes wins a T-shirt, free meals for the week and their picture on the Triple Kingburger Challenge Wall of Fame.

Another important distinction is the toppings offered by Fatburger. Of course, I’m talking about the fried egg and chili. Tommy’s may be known for the most widely proliferated chiliburger in LA, but it is also reviled as the worst. In fact, the chili at most burger places leaves much to be desired. Fatburger’s chili is rich, spicy and dense with flavor.

That translates to the chili cheese fries also. Fatburger gets it right every time: they do not drown your food in the chili, after all, it is the meat you want to taste, otherwise you would just buy a bowl of chili. They confidently ration all condiments in perfect portion, so nothing ever overpowers anything else. In many burger chains, all the flavors are competing against each other for dominance of your tastebuds.

There are just so many unique qualities that separates this patty of meat slapped between a bun from all the other chains, but the quality is almost intangible. Everybody offers lettuce, tomato, mustard, pickles, onions.

It’s the atmosphere. It’s the fresh ice cream used in the dreamy shakes. The lemonade swirling through the plastic lemonade machine. Fresh, never frozen, meat. The shaker of salt they sprinkle on the patties while they’re cooking. The fries at absolutely trounce In ‘N’ Out fries.

And their complete lack of advertising. I’ve lived in LA for eight years. Unless I’m blind and/or deaf, I’ve never heard an ad for Fatburger.

So, Fatburger vs. In ‘N’ Out. In ‘N’ Out is clearly dominant, and I started to ask myself why. I’ve eaten both in the same day to make a comparison, and I never got that turned on about the In ‘N’ Out burger. What could have catapulted In ‘N’ Out over Fatburger, a clearly superior product.

I’m going to play the race card. It is my assertion that because Fatburger was located in predominantly African American communities, owned and operated by a black woman, it didn’t get as widespread exposure as In ‘N’ Out did until recent years.

But, it’s really not a race deal, it’s about location. Whites simply weren’t exposed to a Fatburger in their neighborhoods until the 80’s. Blacks had been savoring Fatburger since 1952, hoping, I’m sure, to keep the secret to themselves. All good things eventually get out and expand, and that’s exactly what happened with Fatburger.

How did a white guy from the East Coast learn about Fatburger before he even got to LA?

No helicopter looking for a murder,
Two in the morning got the Fatburger,
Even saw the lights of the Goodyear Blimp
And it read ‘Ice Cube’s a pimp’

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t dislike In ‘N’ Out, I just don’t have that clingy nostalgia that clouds my judgment in these matters. For that, I have White Castle.

No, we are not one of those kinds of couples…get your mind out of the gutter! Last week, we met up with the rest of the l.a.foodblogging crew for some good food and good conversation at Papa Cristo’s weekly prix-fixe Big Fat Greek Dinner.

It was a little like going on a blind date when we first walked into the dining room, whose blue and white checked tables were arranged communal style for this popular nineteen dollar Thursday event. There were people everywhere, whether they were seated, at the front tasting wine or at one of the appetizer stations. We looked around for some sort of “l.a.foodblogging” sign, maybe even a guy holding a sign like they do at the airport, but no luck. Some of the tables had a bunch of old guys at them, so hoping that our assumptions were correct that my foodblogging counterparts were mostlikely younger urbanites, we used process of elimination to help find our table. Finally, we found our way and met a bunch of the people I’d only known through cyberspace until now–Jonah, Neal, Cybele, Zteve, Kristy, Dylan, WhyWeType, MaxMillion–and some significant others, too. A table full of food kooks just like me…awesome!

We started the evening off getting to know each other–how did we start blogging, what do we do when we’re not blogging–and chowing on warm pillowy wedges of pita bread with taramosalata, a Greek caviar spread that reminded me a bit of lox cream cheese, and sliced loukaniko sausage that we’d picked up from appetizer stations set up in the dining room.

This was a party, yes, but nothing took away from the casual, informal atmosphere that I love about Papa Cristo’s. As usual, everything was served in or on plastic wares, including the wine that adorable owner Chrys S. Chrys was pouring for the night’s wine tasting. Who needs wine goblets when you have medicine cups to try cabernet? So much better than Robitussin and very practical in my opinion!

The night hadn’t even really gotten started yet and we were already full. The appetizers just kept on coming. First, delicious spanakopita triangles wrapped in flaky phyllo and filled with a solo feta cheese filling or a spinach and feta filling. Next, plates of pristine feta cubes, Greek olives, and dolmas–perfect little packages of seasoned rice wrapped in lemony grape leaves. Third, more of their crack-laced pita bread (because you can’t eat just one!) and bowls of cool cucumber and yogurt tzatziki that I just couldn’t get enough of. All of these dishes were served family style, a great way to get everyone to interact and mingle, though none of us needed any help with that!

Each of us were served a Greek salad of iceberg, tomato, cucumber, black olive, feta and a zingy Greek vinaigrette that came in a little plastic take out condiment cup. I’ve always been a fan of Papa Cristo’s Greek potatoes, roasted tender with a slight hint of lemon. The seasoned green bean dish was texturally challenged because they obviously came from a can, but with its hearty tomato sauce, it tasted just fine. And as if our we weren’t about to give birth to some serious pita bread babies–you know, the ones that were growing at exponential rates in our bellies–they brought us bread…warm, crusty French bread to go with the main courses that had yet to arrive!

When they finally did arrive, what we got were plates piled with grilled lamb chops and braised chicken. From personal experience, I can attest to the fact that the meat dishes at Papa Cristo’s are delicious, but I still couldn’t help wondering how tonight’s dishes would turn out since cooking meats for this many people usually has its shortcomings. I was pleasantly surprised–the lamb and chicken were both tasty and tender. OK, so you could tell the lamb was not $20 & up pricepoint lamb, but you know when un-fresh lamb that’s been sitting around has that old gamey taste to it? Well not at Papa Cristo’s…you can tell that they sell this stuff and lots of it; this lamb was fresh, cooked with a nice brown crust on the outside and left a little rare on the inside.

The chicken was even better. It was one of those dishes that certainly tasted better than it looked; on the plate, it reminded me of something one of my guy friends in college made with soy sauce and chicken as his first attempt at cooking on his own. But after I took a bite, I knew that this definitely wasn’t some dude dashing some soy sauce and garlic power on chicken and frying it up kind of thing. The guys at Papa Cristo’s had definitely put some time and thought into this because the chicken was seasoned very well–with wine, olive oil and garlic no doubt, as well as some other spices I’m sure–and was extremely tender. I even got some gelatinous slivers of fat along the way, and boy were they tasty. All of this meat served on…what else? Plastic platters and served with…what else? Plastic tongs, which, by the way, kept snapping in half all over the restaurant because they were a bit on the flimsy side. Who needs to break plates when you can break tongs, right?

There’s no plate breaking at this Greek party, but the atmosphere at Papa Cristos was plenty lively and that was before the belly dancer came out. After that, the crowd went wild…hands were clapping to the rhythm of the brunette-I-Dream-Of-Jeannie’s gyrations across the room. There were people who tried hard not to make eye contact with the dancer in hopes that she wouldn’t drag them out for a dance; then there were others who voluntarily went out and boogie-oogie-oogied till they just couldn’t boogie no more. Perverted old men had their dollar bills out as she worked the aisles with her swaying hips and finger cymbals; both men and women got up and shook their groove thing, seduced by the dancer’s charm.

The festivities didn’t end there, however. After the whole room broke out in “Happy Birthday” in honor of a few celebrants, we were each served baklava, layers of syrupy sweet pecans wrapped in wrapped in flaky phyllo dough. To top that off, coffee served in (what else?)…diposable demi-tasses!

We all had so much fun and such good conversation that it was almost as if this whole l.a.foodblogging gang had already known each other for awhile. When I tell random people that I blog about food, there are some people that get it and that fully support it, and then there are people that don’t exactly get it. “Why don’t you be a food critic?” they ask. And then they don’t drop it when I tell them that I just do this on the side for fun. (”Why not?” they insist.) I also get this: “How can you like food so much and not be fat?” What some people don’t get is that liking food and writing about it doesn’t necessarily mean that I want to write for Gourmet magazine full time; nor does it mean that I eat twelve donuts for breakfast everyday. Meeting everyone that night proved one of my theories true: Foodbloggers are normal people just like me and you, you know (hell, none of us even critiqued the food that night!)…we just happen to like good food and writing about it too!

Papa Cristo’s
2771 W. Pico Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90006
(323) 737-2970
www.papacristos.com

That’s what happened to me the other day. I was on my way to watch the Big (yet very disappointing) Game at my friend’s place in Alhambra when all of a sudden, I saw a familiar sign in front of me.

I also picked up this tub of Mango Sorbet for the rest of the party. Tart and tangy, it packed quite the fruity punch. Not my favorite, but worth a taste nonetheless. I think next time, I’ll just stick with the Lychee.

Fosselman’s Ice Cream Co.
Street: 1824 W. Main St., Alhambra, CA 91801
T: 1.626.282.6533
www.fosselmans.com

hours: M-Sat | 10am-10pm; Sun | 11:30am-10pm

Over the last couple of years, Siete Mares has become my favorite Mexican seafood restaurant. They have several locations throughout greater Los Angeles, but I’ve only been to the one on Sunset. Nothing fancy, but the fish is fresh and the salsa is always surprising because it is never the same. Its not elitist, but it is not a hole either. It falls somewhere in between, leaning precariously closer to hole than haute. I don’t know what the turnover rate is in the kitchen, but it means there is always a fresh take on pico de gallo.

First, let me get this out of the way: I have a beef, which means a rant for you.

There are a growing number of seafood restaurants that offer crab. Siete Mares has a combination platter, which offers a panoply of fried goods piled on a plate. Accompanying that are a few sauteed…uh, logs…of…um…crab? Burned again. What I thought was crab turned out to be Asia’s greatest deception against the West: K-rab.

What is this living nightmare, K-rab? There is not a breathing human that believes this cut rate pollack mush is low grade carrion, let alone crab. The idea -the very notion- of finely grinding a fish, squeezing it out like telephone cable, and air brushing it red, is absurd, laughable, and teetering precipitously close to personal insult.

I propose a law, which, if Schoolhouse Rock taught me correctly,

needs to jog a labyrinthine process of cajoling, hand-wringing, and consultations with Jack Abramoff, in its long and arduous gestation period.

Any food that lists ‘crab’ as an ingredient that is not real crab shall be banned, and the supplier fined $10,000 and imprisoned for up to 15 years without parole. Punishment would be further envigorated by a strict diet of surimi for the entire term.

There is no greater disharmonious miscarriage of nature, than manufacturing a fish product you can unravel like a fruit rollup and write a will on.

Now that I got that off my chest, you have been duly warned. All the crab is K-rab. The one exception is their namesake. The ubiquitous Seite Mares, the Mexican BoooYa Base. In it, you will find a plump, real crab, shell and all.

Now you can enjoy yourself! Siete Mares, as the name implies, specializes in seafood. There is a consistent thread among Mexican style seafood, and they cover all the themes.

Cocteles, which are large seafood cocktails served in a schooner glass. You know, the one they try to upsell you in Bennigans, equating to an extra five dollars for three ounces of beer. Well, it doesn’t matter here, you are getting 20 ounces of seafood in a cold tomato soup base, augmented with onions, cilantro, spices, cucumber, avocado and tomato. It is fresh, inviting, and filling. Each one runs about 10 bucks. One thing I like about Siete Mares are the paleolithic slabs of cucumber and orange that seem to accompany everything, including Tecate.

They have cheap ceviche appetizers: whole tortillas with a liberal mound of seafood, whether it is fish, shrimp, K-rab (why, oh, why) or octopus. Each runs about 3-4 dollars. You can get the entree portion for 10 bucks a pop, but I couldn’t eat that much ceviche, could you? Some things are best in small bites.

You can get all forms of shrimp: Shrimp Veracruz, shrimp diablo, shrimp mojo de ajo, shrimp ranchero. Veracruz, now that is something that would be banned on any high school menu. Bacon wrapped, cheese stuffed, deep fried shrimp. You bet its healthy!

However, I have a new favorite dish, which veers 180 off the chart for this or any place. Molcajete. Named after the spanish word for mortar and pestle, this stew is served in a volcanic rock basin.

They don’t screw around. This thing is so hot, it’s like you planted your face in a steam vent. I dropped my napkin on it. It burst into flame. Spilling out of the mouth of Pele is a boiling cornucopia of shrimp, chorizo, mexican cheese and a cactus leaf. Binding the seafood and meat is a stew base that is dense, palpable, and feverish with tumultuous flavor.

The Molcajete is simulteneously hellish and divine, angrily simmering the whole time I carefully picked through the food. Each splatter is like napalm, and cutting a skittish piece of cactus is a skill developed that I haven’t quite mastered. The Molcajete is a grand paradox, comfort foot yet little comfort in eating it. It is Frankenstein’s monster, parts netted from the sea, ground meat rended from the land, a block of diary, and a strange vegetable choice I’m not convinced can be considered a vegetable. Together, it is an otherworldly stew that will surprise, confound and overwhelmingly satiate.

I’m serious when I say this thing is hot. Thirty minutes later, long after onions slowly weep their way to an oily death on a dank fajita plate, the Molcajete is still steaming and hot to the touch.

When I order fajitas at my local sexually ambiguous national chain, Boobz, the waitress comes out in a tank top, short shorts, welding mask and tungsten-chromium reinforced apron and gloves. Before serving I have to sign,

in triplicate, an agreement that will indemnify Boobz against damages, and hold them harmless should I (hereafter referred to as The Customer): burn, sear, char or otherwise conflagrate myself while in the commission of my dinner thereof. I sign the papers on her butt and she scuttles off.

You could never serve something that bold and hot in a national chain, with the fear of constant litigation due to the occassional, itinerant cockroach in the salad, let alone someone losing their face in a rocky crater of boiling stew.

Despite the risk, he seems to be having a good time.

This tragic smile serves as an indelible barrier to the presidency.

I know its out of the way for most of you, but if you’re in my ‘hood and heading toward Spaceland or Silverlake Lounge, you are not too far away. You can’t miss it, it is big, orange and blue. It also has a convenient outside cash-only stand, and parking fo’ free.

El Siete Mares (The Seven Seas)
3131 W. Sunset Blvd.

When India Sweets & Spices first opened in Glendale I’d say I visited three to four times a month.

Then I burned out on the chaotic lines and the food. I stopped by again twice this weekend en route to a Christmas shopping destination. I was delighted to see that my local incarnation of ISS has become better organized. The restaurant is less antiseptic now that the walls and ceilings are dolled up in baby blue scenic murals. The 50″ television is now placed at the end of the dining hall and it displays deliciously hammy Bollywood dance numbers. The ordering and food pick-up system is much less disorganized and the food is even better than when ISS first opened, in my opinion.

I got a Mysoor Dosa that arrived in half the time of prior visits. The dosa was perfectly hot, toasty and tart while its contents were savory and spicy. The next day I ordered a quick bhel puri snack. It’s a jumbled mix of boiled potato, minced onion, puffed rice and bhel (crispy Indian crackers), seasoned with yogurt, fresh coriander, cumin, chili, masala and tamarind sauce. ISS serves up seven flavored chats in the $2.49- 2.99 range. They’re quickly prepared and taste great with a mango lassi or just a big cup of cool water. Mostly, it’s nice to see a local spot come into its own.

India Sweets & Spices
3126 Los Feliz Bl.
Glendale, CA
90039
323-345-0360

Figaro Cafe is a charming French sidewalk cafe and boulangerie set amid the quaint storefronts and theaters on nouveaupunk Vermont Avenue in Los Feliz Village. Figaro is a truly cozy venue. Even the emulation of the French sidewalk atmosphere offers a cocoon where diners can enjoy a quiet meal without the distractions of other diners or passers-by. There is no barrier, just the environment effectively washes away extraneous city bustle. Inside, dark mahogany and antique fixtures set up an old world feel.

I’ll avoid the obvious euphamistic jokes on how I surrendered myself to the lobster bisque, or why I question the fact that every time I go into a French restaurant, it is magically staffed by people with French accents even though there is no definitive French community anywhere in Los Angeles. Yes, the city is populated with actors, I already figured that out.

Bistro food to the French is what McDonald’s is to Americans, and they have us beat, hands down. Service is quick, the food is reasonably priced and prepared with care and affection. Some other time I will do a deconstruction between haute cuisine and bistro, but I’ve discovered the foundation is the same. Bechemel, cognac cream peppercorn, melted guyere, are all some of the common ingredients between the two distinct cooking styles.

Figaro offers the staples of bistro dining. A sweet, lovingly simmered onion soup, with plenty of browned cheese hugging the crock starts off any good meal.

Their escargot, however, are prepared differently than the drowned-in-garlic butter style…and I like them drowned in a pool of garlic butter. This is your only warning, they are presented stylishly, but a bit too much of the gamey snail creeps through the tomato garlic dressing. At first chew, it is rich and flavorful. By chew three it is rubbery and snailish. By chew six it can taste a bit like spent gum. Chew 12 finds it broken down into a gut-like, muddy ball. Yes, I wish I could swallow at chew three, but you are probably familiar with the dynamic of trying to choke down something rubbery and slightly too large, and its ability to trigger the gag reflex. You have to choke through six of them.

Escargot aside, if you are familiar with bistro fare, you proabably know the standards, but I’ll run down a few: Chicken and mushroom crepes with cream sauce, ham and guyere sandwiches, beef bourgnion, thyme chicken, fromage plate, creme brulee, fondue. All the foods are rich and exciting (except the aforementioned escargot…try the ones at Rainbow Room, you’ll be surprised). I know I may be speaking in generalities, but, like my comparison to McDonalds earlier, any competent French bistro will make these dishes with the care and flavor they deserve. I’ll get into specifics when the food fails to live up to my expectations, and Figaro surpasses them.

They have a respectable wine list, but I stick with Chimay Red label on tap. Chimay is Belgian ale brewed by Trappist monks. It has a fruity taste, nice weight, and decent alcohol content. Other Belgian ales can suffer from being overmalted, thickly sweet and undercarbonated, but Chimay Red is perfectly paired for a hearty French meal.

Figaro is located at 1802 Vermont Ave in Los Feliz, valet parking is available to shake you down, or you can circle for six hours and park nine blocks away…if you’re not familiar with Vermont Ave.

Anyway, I went East of where I live and work to go to Papa Cristo on the North-East corner of Pico and Normandie.

Two of my friends have Greek in their family tree. One of them in a pilgrimage to explore his Greek religious roots asked me to join him in a visit to St. Sophia’s Greek Orthodox Cathedral. My other friend has Greek on her father’s side of the family. In fact, when I mentioned I was going to Papa Cristo, she said the owner is her grandmother’s cousin!

The famed Greek restaurant and market was quite busy. Me and my friend went on a Thursday night which is the night they have a belly dancer! I attempted to take photos but she was moving too fast for my lagging edge technology of a digital camera (you push the button and it doesn’t take the photo until a fraction of a second later) so I’ll have to be content to show you a photo of the crowd and two of the dishes on our dining table. I had the lamb chops (shown in photo) while my friend had the steak.

We also split the eggplant appetizer.

The atmosphere of the place is bright and happy. There is something about the liveliness of cultures on the Mediterranean!

The love for life reputation of Greek culture was very evident when the dancer came out as the crowd clapped to the music and the more adventurous dinners joined her in moving to the music.

Service is bare bones but friendly: you place your order at the grill and take a number to your table. You get your own water from dispensers and the staff brings you your order when it is ready.

The food is delicious with good sized portions and relatively inexpensive. Check out the menu.

I plan to be back!

Papa Cristo
2771 W. Pico Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90006
(323) 737-2970 (phone)
(323) 737-3571 (fax)
Hours:
Tuesday - Saturday: 9am - 8pm
Sunday: 9am - 4pm
Closed Mondays

A little while back, Jonah posted about the blog, The Great Taco Hunt.

Tacos can be found almost anywhere in our great city: in ubiquitious taco trucks (like the one parked across from Eagle Rock Sworks), small stands and sit down restaurants. Thus, Bandini of the Great Taco Hunt will have a virtually never ending supply of material for his blog!

Recently, was visiting with a buddy of mine in his part of town and so when time came for dinner, he asked, what would you like to try?

Well, as the cliche goes, when in Rome do as the Romans!

My friend has several taco stands he frequents so he picked El Taco.

For a little history of Manny’s El Loco stores, click over here.

I ordered three soft tacos (carnitas, chicken and carne asada) and one large Orange Bang.

Hmmm … I was very contented!

My friend asked which ones I liked of the three variations. I ranked them: carne asada, chicken and then carnitas. He agreed and said, yeah, it was odd, the carnitas was a bit off today; it is usually better than that.

There are three locations for El Loco’s delicious tacos and other good Mexican items.

El Loco
3309 North Mission Road
Los Angeles, California 90031-3111
323.224.9070

Other locations:
845 W. Cypress St.
Covina, CA 91722
(626) 339-6025

437 Glendora Ave.
West Covina, CA 91790
(626) 814-3474

Photo is of the Mission Road location.