[title type="h5"]
Wednesday, August 19, 2015.
Entering Jude's World. Eggslut. Sugarfish. Magical Dining.
[/title]
This is the third part of my diary as I trace a rectangle around the western two-thirds of the country aboard 7500 miles of passenger railroads.
The Sunset Limited from New Orleans is scheduled to arrive at Los Angeles Union Station at five-thirty in the morning. It is right on time. A female conductor says (starting at five!) that we should use our time wisely to gather all our stuff, and that at five-thirty "this train will be out of service." In other words, they are telling us to beat it, as quickly as we can. It's kind of like the rush you get at the disembarkation of a cruise.
In Union Station, I head up to the Metropolitan Lounge, Amtrak's answer to an airport's first-class club room. It's actually rather nice, with coffee and pastries and juices. And newspapers. I learn from today's edition of USA Today that a new pill to arouse passion in women has just been rolled out.
Jude shows up just when he said he would, and we head out to breakfast. The first three places we try are not yet open, but the fourth is worth waiting for. In an old building downtown is the Grand Central Market, in which vendors sell fruits, vegetables, meats, seasonings, barbecue, sauces, on and on. The vendors are mostly Hispanic and Asian, but this can be ignored or emphasized as one likes.
[caption id="attachment_48688" align="alignnone" width="282"]
An egg sandwich at. . .well. . .[/caption]
Jude says that his favorite place here is Eggslut. We are Eggslut's first customers this morning. We get some fresh-squeezed orange juice and coffee. We each get a breakfast sandwich. Mine is named the Fairfax, and is made with soft scrambled eggs (perfect) with chives, cheddar cheese, caramelized onions, bacon, and sriracha mayo. The brioche bun holds everything together well and tastes good in its own right. It's filling, and makes up for the breakfast I didn't get on the train this morning. I don't know what "eggslut" means, but I can see why it's the most popular food stand in the market. We have nothing comparable to this in New Orleans, but we should.
Eggslut
317 S. Broadway
Los Angeles, CA 90013
From there we pick up a rental car for me from an outfit Jude deals with often. For some reason, they thought that a Camaro would be my kind of car. I almost accepted it, but the diametrically-opposed states of existence between me and a muscle car forced me to wimp out and get a Toyota SUV instead.
The reason Jude wants me to have a car is that he is too busy to drive me around. Also in his mind was using me to run errands for him in my spare time. When I made the plans for this vacation many months ago, it was before Jude took a new job that requires him to put in a normal day, instead of the unpredictable freelancing he had been engaged with.
We also didn't know that Jude's wife's house would soon undergo a major renovation. Nor would he have imagined that the plans would be drawn, approved, and begun as quickly as they were. He doesn't have time now to get me from one side of town to another as we meet for breakfast, lunch and dinner. I will have to drive myself.
Still, we spend a lot of time together, more than at any point since Jude was married back in December. I learn that Jude's appetite has increased at about the same rate that mine has shrunk. We would eat a lot.
With breakfast barely digested, we go to a sushi bar called Sugarfish whose owner is known for his insistent ways. We got a dose of that when I asked for some clear soup. "We don't make soup here," said the server. No matter. We get two versions of the restaurant's "Trust Me" menu, which include tuna, halibut, fresh sea scallops, abalone, and yellowtail. It is served with the fluffiest wasabi I've seen. And with a serious L.A. accent.
Sugarfish Studio City (one of ten Sugarfishes)
11288 Ventura Blvd
818-762-2322
sugarfishsushi.com
We both get back to work. I am quartered in his guest room/office, where I am rolling right along with my literary project. And checking to make sure the NOMenu newsletters are getting out. I set up two weeks' worth to be published automatically. So far, so good.
While doing this, I also learn that a hurricane is pointed toward us back home. Seems like every time I travel in mid-to-late summer, tropical action ensues in the Gulf.
A NOMenu reader who has subscribed to everything I do for over thirty years read about my train plans. She is not only a train buff herself, but a member of the Magic Castle, a restaurant founded by a club of magicians in the 1960s. It's a dressy place with numerous shows of magic around what does indeed look like a castle, including being at the top of a steep, high hill.
She, Jude, Suzanne and I all meet for the first time. We get a table for a dinner that I can't call brilliant, but not bad. It's another example of a common phenomenon. When the focus in a restaurant is on anything other than the food, the place rarely is distinguished in its cooking. Here, the attraction is magic. But I expected that, and so was able to enjoy the evening.
And the food was decent enough to pull something away from the magic. The show is not breathtaking (it loses much of its force because of our terrible seats in the back of the theater, but that was our fault), but it is amusing anyway. A young Asian man has a routine of the greatest elegance, making blue cards appear from nowhere, or causing them to disappear into powder.
I would like to have seen what magic might counteract a Fitzmorris family curse: four people need four cars to get us all there and home.
The Magic Castle
Hollywood: 7001 Franklin Ave.
323-851-3313
magiccastle.com
[title type="h5"]
Thursday, August 20, 2015.
Learning And Eating Around Hollywood.[/title]
We make up for yesterday's automotive profligacy by taking only one car to a breakfast attended by Jude, his bride Suzanne, and me. We break fast at Joan's On Third, the kind of restaurant that's has nothing in its category in New Orleans. They cook and bake a bit, make coffee, have fruits and juices, quiches, bagels, pastries, etc. Nice looking place. Quite a few of the customers are models, Suzanne tells me. Then we all go back to the house, and head into our respective work projects.
Joan's On Third
Studio City: 12059 Ventura Place
818-201-3900
joansonthird.com
[caption id="attachment_48689" align="alignnone" width="480"]
A heavyweight burrito at Tinga in Los Angeles. [/caption]
Around one, I pick up Jude from his office and we go to a Mexican place he likes called Tinga. It's a worn-out space that redeems itself with large original drawings on the walls. I have a burrito that make me wonder what the Spanish word for "doorstop" is. This thing weighs at least two pounds from a filling of at least six major ingredients, all tightly bound in a thin flour tortilla. I usually disdain such things, but this is as well-made a tortilla as I've ever encountered.
Tinga
Los Angeles: 142 S La Brea Ave
323-954-9566
tingabuena.com
After lunch, Jude needs some help. Would I mind picking up some plans from the store that designed the cabinets for his new kitchen? Then go to his house and drop off the plans to Pepe, the head of the construction crew? And as long as I'm there, would I take their two dogs outside for a few minutes, and feed them? How can I object? During the ten years he visited us at home (ever since Katrina), I asked Jude to undertake this or that project for me in his spare time.
Dinner tonight is with Jude's friend Brian and his wife Joey. They are aficionados of good eats and drinks. When they came to New Orleans for Jude's wedding, Brian was wowed by Commander's Palace and the Pelican Club. We figured he owed us one. Jude picked Craft as the venue for dinner. It's a classy restaurant that reminded me a little bit of the the Four Seasons in New York City. It's owned or managed by the superstar chef Tom Collicchio. The menu is difficult. Not only are the foodstuffs arranged in peculiar categories, but the type font is so small that I wish I had my flashlight with me.
[caption id="attachment_48690" align="alignnone" width="480"]
A table full of shared plates at Craft in Los Angeles.[/caption]
The menu is structured to encourage sharing. Appetizers serve as entrees, entrees serve as appetizers, and the like. We didn't give the order enough thought, and we had a) too much food on the table and 2) a few items that several people didn't like on principle. I keep forgetting that not everyone is an omnivore. I thought everybody ate fresh beets these days. I was wrong.
I was impressed most by the variety of fish available, most of it from nearby Pacific waters. The effort to keep well supplied with such foodstuffs drives prices up. The halibut I ordered was just under $40. Also disagreeing with my instincts is the low level of seasoning even in dishes whose ethnic provenance ought to promise more pepper than this.
Jude did not seem to be happy with the bottom line of the check. It was a good deal higher than he told me it would be. I don't care about that--it's something I'm always ready for--but he's trying hard to be a boulevardier.
During dessert, a deep trill comes up from the floor. "Was that an earthquake?" I ask. The natives at the table look at each other. Brian says, "Yeah, I guess so." Then he went back to eating.
Craft
Los Angeles: 10100 Constellation Blvd.
310-279-4180
craftrestaurantsinc.com/craft-los-angeles
We headed back to the junior Fitzmorris's residence as we came: winding over a tall mountain range. But unlike the outbound route, it's very dark. Jude drives like his mother. Hold on!
[title type="h5"]
Friday, August 21, 2015
Still Running Around L.A. Soup And Sandwich With Angelinos. A Good Italian Trattoria In A Bad Neighborhood.[/title]
Jude and I have an utterly unnecessary breakfast at Starbucks, where I get a bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon. We both go back to work, and reconvene for lunch at Sycamore Kitchen, a restaurant across the street from Tinga, where we were two days ago. This stretch of La Brea Boulevard seems to be Jude's favorite Los Angeles restaurant row. But then, it may be all about convenience, since his office is in the neighborhood.
The restaurant's tables--most of them outdoors--are jammed with young adults eating sandwiches and salads. I start with a bowl of gazpacho big enough to make a meal. Then some sort of sandwich so unmemorable that--well, I've forgotten it.
While driving home, I notice two adaptations. First, I seem to know my way around the parts of Los Angeles where we have been hanging. Second, the people here seem to drive the way I do: too far back from the car ahead, at a speed slightly below the limit, and hesitant to make turns. Mary Ann calls this driving style "Old Grandpa." I like it, and the fact that most people here drive that way, too.
I run another errand for Jude, involving the replacement of the third mega-dumpster of construction debris at his house. My job is only to make sure the driver did it right. This is important, because the winding neighborhood street that Jude and Suzanne live on has an amount of traffic out of all proportion to the neighborhood.
Dinner tonight with Jude's in-laws Howard and Jo Ann. They are very likable people, and were kind enough to nurse Mary Ann in their home for many days after she broke her back in an L.A. visit about two years ago. Howard and I have a few interests in common. He owns a great old wooden, tube-operated radio from the 1930s. And he has a beloved old cat that looks a lot like my cat Twinnery, but about twice as large. (Twinnery gets a lot more exercise.)
We go to Osteria La Buca for dinner. Jo Ann has CDs by Rod Stewart, doing standards. This is both her and my kind of music, and we sing duets (or trios, with Rod in the mix) all the way to the restaurant.
The neighborhood is a bit scruffy. The food is very much Italian, from the neighborhoods of Rome. We divide a host of pasta dishes, some chicken, veal, and beef. And more pasta, and a pizza. The noise level, with all the hard surfaces in the warehouse-like building, is very loud. Neither Howard nor I are pleased by this. But we are the wrong age to be here. La Buca is populated mostly with people Jude's age, which explains everything.
What it doesn't explain, however, is why this place is jammed at six-thirty, yet approaching emptiness by around eight-thirty. "People who live in Los Angeles go to bed early," Howard tells me, and Jo Ann agrees. I keep forgetting that New Orleans--and Italy, even to a greater degree--stays open later than the typical American city. Even the big ones.
[title type="h3"]Back To Part 1, Backstory: A Box Of Trains[/title]
[title type="h3"]Back To Part 2, New Orleans to Los Angeles[/title]
[title type="h3"]To Part 4, Los Angeles to Seattle[/title]
[title type="h3"]To Part 5, Seattle to Chicago to New Orleans[/title]
