Saturday, November 26, 2016.
Lunch At Spago.
Spago was the talk of the American restaurant world in the late 1970s. Chef Wolfgang Puck. Had already made a name for himself as chef and chief of Ma Maison in Los Angeles. He used a simple trick to gain attention from the budding food-writer cadre of those times: he took all the starch out of restaurants. Pizza in a gourmet restaurant? It was unthinkable, until Puck thought about it. Now it seems a natural, normal part of dining out. So do hamburgers, which Puck also installed on his menu.
It should not surprise readers of our Diary that my wife Mary Ann has lunch at Spago almost every time she's in L.A. Which she is often, now that she has a grandson to make a fuss over there. Those who heard Mary Ann when she sits in for me on the radio show would also guess that she gets a hamburger almost every time she's in Spago.
Including this time. Jude also went for the hamburger, which I must admit did look good. Mary Leigh had a steak salad. Suzanne (Jackson's mother, Jude's spouse) had salmon. An order of agnolotti pasta (sort of small ravioli in a cream sauce) came for the table. I had a creamy soup and veal liver with the onions, bacon, and horseradish made into sauces with the thickness of mashed potatoes. ("You were the only one who got that, of course," MA reminds me.)
And so there we were, all four members of my nuclear family, together for a rare meal, along with the two people who come closest to being nuclear without fitting the description perfectly. Jude is the only full-fledged member of both nuclear families fully represented at Spago.
If Jackson could talk, he'd have gossip to tell. (It wouldn't be Spago without gossip and who's who.) The first high chair the waiter brought forward for Jackson had a mechanical flaw. The waiter instantly swapped it out for another one, on which a wet spot was found. Then a long pause, and the captain came forth. "We have several parties in private rooms today for people with one-year-old babies," he said. What were the chances of that? Apparently not that formidable, we learned. In Beverly Hills, mothers of small children clearly believe that there is a place for their children at Spago's tables. Spago concurs with this. Our lunch commenced in full tilt.
This was the most expansive meal we had in L.A. on this trip, but it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be--just a shade over $250 for the six of us. (And, boy--that Jackson can eat!)
An odd thought crossed my mind, and I got a laugh out of MA with it. "What do these restaurants have in common?" I ask. "Fury's, the Peppermill, Pascal's Manale, and Spago?" Nobody has a clue. "All four are running specials of liver and onions today," I tell them. As usual, most people don't want even to think about veal liver, let alone eat it.
Spago Beverly Hills: 176 North Canon Dr. 310-385-0880.
