The past several weeks have taken me both to New York City and to Washington, DC.  Both cities vastly different.  I’ve posted enough of my thoughts on New York (though must say had another wonderful meal at Blue Hill, along with meeting Chef Barber, himself) so here are a few ponderings on my quick  jaunt to DC:

1.  Where are all the delis?  Are there no Jews in DC, Maryland or Virginia?

2.  Why are there so many tapas restaurants there?  It seemed there was one on almost every block.

3.  It’s not a good idea to be craving a martini and a surf and turf while visiting a non-drinking vegetarian bordering on vegan.

4.  Don’t kids go trick or treating anymore?  Only about a dozen kids stopped by my friend’s house.  At least he had the good stuff – Reeses’s, Kit Kats, and Twix, so I’m sure the undistributed candy will not go to waste.

A friend of mine recently moved from the bay area to Los Angeles after spending almost his entire life here.  Upon hearing of his move and choice neighborhood of residence, I promptly told him that he must go to Musso & Frank and wallow in the old schoolness  of the oldest restaurant in Hollywood.

Which got me to thinking of other suggestions for Jose (or any newbie Angeleno) of must-go-to places, taking into consideration that he does not have a car so any place must be walkable or busable from the heart of Hollywood.

Here we go, in no particular order:

When it comes to the joy of eating, for me,  there are two types.

1.  Eating for the selfish, pure pleasure of indulging my senses and nobody else’s.
2.  Eating for the enjoyment of sharing the experience with others.

This week, I did both.

Often when I eat really wonderful food, I need, I want to be with friends.  While I don’t mind dining alone,  it’s almost always nicer when it’s a shared experience.  Similar to seeing a great concert.  If you’re anything like me, once the music starts you’re off in your own little world, shutting out the text messenger sitting next to you, or the loud breather sitting in back of you.  But once the music ends, you want to talk about  the volume of the timpani, or the extemporaneous piano riffs.  You want to exchange how the experience affected your senses.  This same encounter carries over to eating.  Most of the time.

For me, when it comes to eating unadulterated, steamed Maine lobster, I’m solo and prefer it that way (for purely shellfish reasons, of course).  Eating lobster is unworldly.  I am hovering six inches off the ground, off in my own lobster loveland surrounded by a sea of drawn butter.  Just hang a Do Not Disturb sign around my neck and leave me be.    The lobster affects me in a way that can’t be shared, let alone described (though lord knows I’ve tried).    And I love it that way.

I suppose that whenever we cook for just ourselves, the same is true – we are a one man show performing for a single audience member who knows your likes, dislikes and what you’re in the mood for.    We alter the way we cook when it’s just “us.”  Maybe a little more butter, or truffle oil -  no less indulgent.

On the other hand…

It always gives me great satisfaction and warms my heart when I can turn other people on to one of my culinary favorites, be it a new way of cooking brussel sprouts,  the Spoonful of Happiness at my neighborhood sushi bar – Koo, or the baby backs at Sneaky’s BBQ.   I like to think that in a very small way, my friends are trusting me, omakase in a sense, validating my good taste by putting theirs in my hands.

This past Wednesday, I took an informal office poll to see if anyone would be interested in partaking in a order of BBQ from my new favorite BBQ non-joint joint Sneaky’s.  A handful had seen my last order of baby back ribs, cole slaw, sweet potatoes, and mac ‘n cheese, a few even stole a couple of bites.  Maybe it was this temptation. It could have been the reviews on Yelp.  Possibly it was my exultant praise on gfork.  Any which way, I was able to get ten people to pork belly up and see the way of the gfork for a Friday lunch order.  Four baby back ½ racks and six pints of pulled pork later, I was in an office of the satiated.  Food comas abounded.  And as Ed J. exclaimed to me, “You’re the baby mama!” after patting his stomach, proudly showing off a nice pork induced bloat.   And I glowed and cooed for the rest of the afternoon.  Not only from eating great food but knowing others had taken part in this experience as well.

After a professionally and personally stressful month, I knew what to do about whatever ails I had -  I checked in with Chef to see if he was Yankee Piering so I could stop by for my omnipotent antidote – Maine lobster.  “Maybe some Beau Soleils will help, too,” he replied knowing of my favorite oysters.   So I trekked out to Lafayette where he had a shucked and plated  half dozen of what I can only describe as a kind of Georgia O’Keefe inspired  heaven on a half shell, waiting patiently for me on a bed of ice.

beau soleil goodness

Beau Soleil oysters are so damn buttery and flavorful, I just want to cradle them in my mouth forever but instead opt  for suckling them for just a few beats  before I bite down  and have the taste explosion detonate its briny, sweetness.

Between those oysters and my requisite lobster, I am in gastronomic, orgasmic glee.  I will not repeat myself in describing the sheer sense of nirvana I experience every time I eat Maine lobster.  But I will  say that it’s the closest thing to being in love – it’s the drug I can’t ever get enough of.

love split in two

I’ve said it once, I know at least twice, and probaly thrice, but it is good to know the chef.

If and when I plan next year’s Red, White and Blue Cheese party, I should remember to:

1.  cut out the “exotic” accouterments for the grilled cheese bar.  cheese, bread and butter are the only things people want.

2.  buy only interesting, unusual cheeses.

3.  if someone asks to bring something, kindly request no cheese.

4.  buy two loaves of baguettes, not one.

5.  cut the hours to 1:00 to 6:00.

6.  not use the good crystal.

7.  relax.  it’s only a party.

8.  last but not least, to have the presence of mind to take photos.

This year, for some reason, I was much more frantic than usual.  I sweated the small stuff (an Izumi trait), I was late in planning the menu, and I hadn’t been sleeping well to begin with.  (Probably a byproduct of the aforementioned.)

Just in time for Father’s Day, or summer solstice, or just because, this has to be one of the coolest cooking tools.  Okay, after THIS that goes with THAT.

There are many times when I’m sitting at my desk at home wishing my cup of coffee (or tea, these days) was warmer than room temperature.  I wonder to myself if it is worth getting off of the warmth of my task chair and trudging down a flight of stairs and walk halfway across the house only to stick my cup in the microwave, wait, then trudge back upstairs.  I need not wonder anymore, as long as I can get my hands on this.

I’m sure I can think of more than 57 varietys of food to use this on.

I have often read about, heard about, but never actually eaten at LA landmark Langer’s Deli near MacArthur Park. I knew it was an institution, serving up hearty breakfasts and old school deli sandwiches since 1947. I even lived a few blocks away for a few years but have never taken a gander inside. But after whetting my appetite for a good pastrami sandwich while reading about my beloved Katz’s Deli’s west coast appearance this weekend at the Great American Food and Music Festival down in Mountain View, I was a-hankerin’. I also wanted to take my parents out to an old school restaurant they haven’t been to in a while so Langer’s was the obvious choice.

The MacArthur Park area is historic (formally called Westlake Park before WWII) and really quite beautiful and lively in the day – people picnicking in the park, couples milling about the lake, street vendors selling corn on the cob with mayo, and fake ID cards, store fronts hawking colorful t-shirts hanging in the windows like pinatas (and actual pinatas, too), families out shopping crowd the sidewalks, ethnic foods permeate the air. But at night, the sinister comes out. When the sun goes down, MacArthur Park turns into a haven for drug dealing and gang activity. When I lived in that hood, I dared not venture outside alone at night. Police helicopters buzzing by our loft was a nightly occurrence. Sirens blared and blended in with the sounds of buses, car horns, and mariachi music. And for these reasons I can only assume, Langer’s closes at 4:00 PM daily, open only for breakfast and lunch.

Once you step off of bustling Alvarado Boulevard and into the oasis of the deli, there is an immediate sense of brightness and calm. You suddenly feel like you’re not in downtown LA. You could be in a deli in Santa Monica. Or Encino. (But definitely not on the east coast.) Management has kindly put a large Purell dispenser by the front door, in case you feel the need to clean the street off your hands. The host smiles and greets you. The wait staff in their crisp white dress shirts all seem happy, chatting with the customers and amongst themselves. The tables, booths, and floor look squeaky clean. We sit down and peruse the extensive menu, though I already know what I want – the #19 – pastrami on rye with cole slaw, swiss cheese and “Russian-style” dressing. Dad orders the French dip pastrami, Mom gets an omelet.

Within the next few minutes after our food arrives, three things happen that absolutely floor me – grabbing the rug right out from under me and knock me on my butt.

1. Dad sprinkles black pepper on his bowl of cottage cheese.

2. Dad places an order of Hungarian goulash to-go.

3. #19

Now, I have known my dad for over 40 years. All my life, in fact. I must have seen him eat cottage cheese a hundred times. But I have never, EVER, seen him put pepper on his cottage cheese. “I do it all the time!” he said, after I questioned him about his choice of seasoning a dish I would never think to season in the first place. (Later after regaling a few friends of this, I found it to be a perfectly normal way of turning simple cottage cheese into something savory. Who knew? I certainly didn’t.)

Along the same “Dad, I never knew!” lines, I don’t ever recall hearing him mumbling the word, “Hungarian,” let alone “goulash,” for that matter. Ever. “I love it! Restaurants just don’t have it on their menu so I never get to order it.” Okay, good rationale. But still…

Lastly, if you know me or have read my writings, you know how much I adore Katz’s Deli in New York. Their pastrami to me is heaven on rye. Never a NYC trip goes by without a visit. From the moment I step off of Houston and into this infamous deli, I swoon. Eating Katz’s pastrami has always been a religious experience to me. It is (okay, was) the end all, be all, of sandwiches. No other came close to giving me pure cured meat eating pleasure. Until I met #19. A sandwich is only as good as the sum of its parts, and let me tell you, stacking their seasoned, juicy pastrami on top of crunchy cole slaw layered with a thick slice of swiss cheese between soft rye bread that’s been slathered with Russian dressing, equals the gawd damnest bestest pastrami sandwich, quite possibly, that will ever pass these carnivorous lips. Meat by meat, the two delis’ are quite the same on my tastometer, and although I’d take Katz’s light rye over the Langer’s standard, putting together all the ingredients, the  #19 forges ahead as gfork’s Sandwich King.  Sorry, Katz’s.

#19

For the past several months, I’ve been lost. Flitting about New York, Los Angeles, Portland and San Francisco, suffering from a loss of words. I’ve had no inkling, or desire even, to write about my culinary adventures. In New York, I had an amazingly underwhelming sirloin/short ribs/foie gras burger at db Bistro Moderne, but a surprisingly good organic beef burger at the new Yankee Stadium. My LA trips were filled with the requisite Johnnie’s french dip pastrami sandwiches; an Asian all-you-can-eat buffet in Gardena (which involved an angry black widow spider and 400 or so spider babies); damn fine Korean BBQ at Manpuku on Sawtelle; and several successful shopping trips to my beloved Surfas kitchen supply house. In Portland, I experienced the bacon maple bar, and an addictive banana with chocolate chips and peanut butter fritter at Voodoo Doughnuts. San Francisco has been made up of a handful of trips to Baby Blues; an admirable first attempt at making lobster tikka masala;  small but tender and tasty (albeit, mildly overpriced)  mussels at Plouf; and several death row meals of steamed lobster at Chef’s restaurant, Yankee Pier. But none of these experiences have provided me the impetus to write again. Until now. And I have an email to thank for it.

When I was growing up in LA, Stern’s was thee place for ribs. A local BBQ joint that was connected to a motor inn in Culver City, this restaurant will always have a special place in my heart – it was a gathering place for birthday parties, banquets, club meetings, or weekend dinners with the family. To me, this prepubescent “any food you can eat with your fingers is cool” kinda girl, Stern’s was da bomb.

Fast forward 38 or so years. San Francisco. I’ve exalted the virtues of Baby Blues a few times on these pages, but have secretly wished that a closer-to-work ‘cue shop would magically appear. Sure, we’ve got places to lunch -  our usual Chinese restaurants, burrito trucks, cheap sandwich shops, Italian cafes and build-your-own salad places around, alas but no BBQ. Friday morning, the BBQ fairy heard my silent cry, waved her magic wand (or was that a pork rib?) and sent me, in the form of the sometimes foodie but always hip email newsletter – Thrillist – news of a  guerrilla BBQ scullery – Sneaky’s.  Guerrilla, because they only take orders via email, and they only smoke, cook, and do their deliveries (only) on a certain number of days, and do this with seemingly only word-of-mouth advertising.   Gotta love that.

The photos on their website looked enticing enough so I shot them a quick, early morning email asking if they’d deliver to Telegraph Hill.  At about 10:00 AM, Pat from Sneaky’s replied to my email – yes, they would be available to deliver baby backs, cole slaw, sweet potato and or mac & cheese for lunch. Huzzah! I showed Annie their website, and after checking them out on Yelp (she’s a big Yelper, I am notably anti-Yelp, however), she gave me a thumbs up and said she’s in for lunch. We got our other partner in lunch crime, Henry, to also share in the bounty. “Three half baby backs, a half pint of sweet potato, a half pint of mac & cheese, please,” I email replied. I sent them our address and phone number, and asked what the delivery charge would be. A few minutes after sending the email off, I got a phone call. “This is Patrick from Sneaky’s. Your total will be $41.00.” “No delivery charge?” I asked reluctantly. “Nope.” Though finding this hard to believe, I accepted it. And so the Sneaky’s  love affair started before I even had a bite.

Right on time, a cute, hipster kid came bounding through our office lobby carrying a couple of bags . “Patrick?” I asked, silently hoping he was. “Yes!” he replied while I silently screamed, “Yes!” myself while secretly doing the Kurt Gibson fist pump in my head. “Here’s some free cole slaw for you, too!” The experience was getting even better. We exchanged money for food and off he went to what I can only imagine his next delivery, while off we went to start our feeding frenzy.

After shooting a few requisite food pics, I pondered the meal before digging in. While I was told that the food arrives cold but a few minutes in the microwave should do the trick, I was still a little skeptical. The seemingly well-seasoned meat looked dry. The mac & cheese was nondescript (as cold mac & cheese normally does). The mashed sweet potatoes looked, well, mashed. After heeding the reheating instructions, I took one end of the half rack in hand and pulled the meat apart from the bone. The meat slid off like a trombone slide. I took a bite. I heard the angels sing. Again and again and again. (And now I know how the angels got to be so cherubic.)  Spicy heat (that initially almost too much but one gets used to it), sweetness, tenderness, with just the right amount of fat to make it ever-so-tasty and juicy, I openly declared my love for Sneaky’s. The sides were just as delectable, but the ribs were the star. Having food that good, at decent prices, AND delivered to your office (by a cute hipster, no less), seemed downright criminal.

Like the Stern’s of my childhood, and Baby Blues of my adulthood, Sneaky’s now has earned a place in gfork’s BBQ Hall of Flame. And that hipster boy who took my order and delivered the goods to the office? Turns out, he’s one of the owners.

Thank you, Thrillist, thank you, Sneaky’s, for kick-starting this lost girl to write again and for providing the ‘cue muse in which to write about. Rock on.