Yesterday, on our way to Jude's GF's club for dinner, we stopped for a look at the Grand Central Market in downtown Los Angeles. Mary Ann read about it somewhere and had to take a look. It's a collection of vendors selling fresh vegetables, ethnic ingredients, seafood and meats. Among those are with a dozen or two counters where you can have anything from a cup of coffee to a full meal.
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Grand Central Market.[/caption]
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Two of many kinds of mole sauces from the Mole kiosk in the Market.[/caption]
The word from L.A. locals is that the market isn't what it used to be. But it was fascinating enough to us, and we spent a long time there. For two dollars, we bought a big bunch of fresh asparagus and three baskets of blueberries. Since we were on our way to dinner, we didn't get into any of the cooked food, although I did get a shot of espresso, served with a dash of a sort of syrup flavored with hops.
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A cafe for eating eggs.[/caption]
On another trip (I'm sure there'll be one, as long as Jude remains in L.A.), we will return to sample the Asian and Hispanic food, which dominate the scene. One advantage held by Los Angeles's food-a-rama is its great wealth of options in those two categories.
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Chinese fast food?[/caption]
Back to today. Breakfast first at the Langham, of course. It may be MA's favorite venue for that meal in the world. She has her own favorite table (outside, of course, even though space heaters are necessary), her regular waiter and even regular busgirl.
She saved her favorite dish for the last day: poached eggs atop corned beef hash. Which were just right. I had something I would gladly break fast with again: a burrito of scrambled eggs, chorizo, cheese, avocado, and salsa. The native cuisine of a place is always the best food wherever you go.
Mary Ann is miffed with the Langham. Everything has feet of clay with her. She used to think this was the lap of luxury. She had some problem with it this time, although I can't figure out what it was. I found it very comfortable, myself. But I don't collect grand hotel experiences the way she does.
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This can't really be the trail.[/caption]
After breakfast, we went for a hike on a rustic trail that allegedly starts somewhere around the Rose Bowl, and ends after crossing a six-lane freeway on a bridge built for the trail. Mary Ann acted like she knew where this was, but she didn't. We wound up walking four miles on a hot asphalt highway shoulder, around the edge of the Rose Bowl and a golf course. Lots of other people were walking along this way, many with dogs on leashes or babies in carriages, all listening to their iPods.
We never did find out where the actual trail we were seeking began. We may have come close, but by that time we were bushed, it was getting hot, and we were carrying no water. The only thing that came of the trek was a good exercise. And a counterpoint to future improvisations-sans-preparations put forth by my unpredictable wife.
We returned to the Langham to clean ourselves up, pack, and depart at noon. From there the plan was to meet up with Jude for lunch and again, later, for an early dinner. The meals have been too closely jammed for us. Mary Ann skipped lunch entirely. I wanted to have a Cobb salad before I left L.A.
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Original Brown Derby. Photo by Chalmers Butterfield.[/caption]
The Cobb salad is ubiquitous in Los Angeles. It was born there, created by Bob Cobb, the owner of the now-extinct, well-named Brown Derby restaurant. It's classically made in a glass bowl to show layers of lettuce, tomatoes, avocado, radishes, blue cheese, crumbled hard-boiled egg (the two colors kept separate), chopped chicken and crumbled bacon. The dressing is usually a thick vinaigrette, but that's the least well defined aspect of the thing. The Windsor Court's house salad is a Cobb without the chicken, and that's as close as we get to it in New Orleans.
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Cobb salad.[/caption]
We sat out on the sidewalk of a cute little place in Studio City called Sweet Butter Café. Jude, who was still tying up loose ends in his movie production, showed up after we were finished. Of course, he had not eaten and wanted to. So the two of us went off to a slick new place called Mendocino Farms. It seemed gimmicky to me, but there's so much of that in this part of the world that Jude, who has lived in L.A. for six years, has become immune to the factor.
We convened afterwards at the GF's house, where I took a short nap. It was going to be a long day, with another meal coming up shortly.
That one was at a place Jude has raved about for months. Connie & Ted's is an old New England-style seafood specialist in West Hollywood. It was a welcome change from all the hoo-hah Los Angeles frippery, down to earth and free of pretensions. They have oysters, clams, lobster, codfish, monkfish, salmon, fish stews and chowders--nothing unfamiliar.
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Oysters two ways at Connie & Ted's.[/caption]
I started with three each of two kinds of baked oysters. One was Rockefeller, a note from home. The other was in the direction of Drago's char-broiled oysters, which truly have spread across the country. Both oyster dishes were great. The monkfish--whose nickname "lobsterfish," for its textural similarity--was nice and fresh but a shade undercooked. Mary Ann enjoyed a crabcake.
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Monkfish at Connie & Ted's, Since 1940.[/caption]
With us were Howard and Joanne, Jude's girlfriend Suzanne's parents. It was the first time I met them, and I was happy to have them be my guests tonight. They took good care of Mary Ann in their home for many days after MA fractured a vertebra on her trip here six months ago.
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Fish chowder.[/caption]
Howard had what looked like the best dish in the place, a big bowl of seafood stew, with fish, clams, lobster, shrimp, and a few other luscious-looking items. I should have warned him when I asked to take a picture of his plate. Not everybody likes that annoying habit of mine. He did say that I have a legitimate excuse, though.
It was getting dark when Mary Ann, Jude, Suzanne and I left the restaurant and drove to Beverly Hills. For a couple of hours, we explored Rodeo Drive and its environs, stopping in quite a few restaurants to take a look. The eating capital of Beverly Hills is Spago, the flagship restaurant of Chef Wolfgang Puck--one of the first of the modern breed of superstar chefs. Although I half expected to be treated like riffraff when we asked to look over a menu, the staff could not have been more hospitable. Between that and the menu, we decided that on our next visit to L.A. Spago would serve the keynote meal. And the next day we'd go to Bouchon, the French bistro of the French Laundry people.
Quite different was Urasawa. I'd heard of this place, a 14-seat sushi bar with precious (in every sense of that word) sushi served in many courses, with no photos allowed. The door to the upstairs dining room was well hidden, but when we finally found it and asked the lady behind the slats if we could come in and take a look, we were given one word: "No!"
The real absurdity began when we found an ice cream shop whose products are made before your eyes. They pour a liquid ice cream mix into a hermetic electric mixer. Then they attach a hose that delivers liquid nitrogen to the apparatus. The smoke from the ultra-cold gas flows down to the floor and spreads out. And here is your ice cream. Only twice what you'd usually spend for ice cream. It's worth that for the story value, but only once.
A few feet away from this place was the most laughable food item of the entire trip. An ATM in the middle of the block operates like any other. You put your debit card in, you punch in your password, and you get. . . cupcakes. That's already dumb enough, but dig this: two dozen people were in line for the experience.
Most of Beverly Hills was closed by then, and it was time for MA and I to work our way to the train station. It's a long way from Beverly Hills, and not even Jude or his native-Angeleno girlfriend knew exactly the route. I was thankful to have figured out how the mapping service on my phone works--although a paper map would have been more helpful. We had plenty of time, but L.A. is a big place whose traffic is only predictable in that you know it's going to be knotted up somewhere on your way.
The eastbound Sunset Limited usually leaves Los Angeles at ten in the evening. Tonight, because of major track work up the line, its departure was delayed until a minute to midnight. We unloaded the rental car at a shade before eleven. A man driving a luggage shuttle but about to head home was nice enough to pick us and our bags up and bring us all the way to our sleeping car. The train was already loading passengers, and had been for an hour. After seeing to it that her big suitcase was safely in our roomette (where there is no room for it), MA got off the train and spent the next hour talking to the car attendant. She really hates being inside a train.
The Sunset Limited left at a minute to midnight, all right, with a promise to make up the hour and fifty-nine minutes it started late along the 1995 miles between L.A. and LA. The diner did not open for dinner, and the lounge car bar was closed, too. Nothing to do but go to bed.
[title type="h6"] Yesterday || Tomorrow[/title]
Written by Tom Fitzmorris March 31, 2014 12:01 in
