I really don’t like being out of the loop. I pride myself on being the person who is asked where to go and what to order.  I revel in the delight of taking a friend to a restaurant they have never heard of and seeing their eyes roll back in their heads while they nod in agreement as they chew vigorously and form a smile with their obviously satisfied mouth.

So when I was informed by my good friend that not only was I late on the uptake about the best hidden gem in Downtown LA’s already impressive restaurant scene, but that said place was an Italian restaurant, I have to admit, I was quite upset. I was so out of the loop on this.

My self loathing continued for days until I finally found myself at Colori Kitchen.  As soon as I walked into this small but bustling restaurant I knew this place is the place to be.  And I am happy to report that after visiting this quaint little spot a few times, I am back. Big time.

The best way to start a meal, I was told, was by ordering the limited specialty calamari.  Now, I don’t like fried calamari.  It’s rubbery, it’s greasy, it’s not sexy at all.  In fact, when I was informed that the calamari was a must, I rolled my eyes, and not in the good way.  What was presented to me, however, changed everything.  Grilled calamari steak, dressed with a lemon wine sauce and paired with peppery greens.  Fork tender, moist and flavorful. No rubbery texture, no fishy taste.  Now the eye roll was the good kind.  If this was any indication of the types of discoveries to be made, I was ready to dig even deeper.

Next up the special salad featuring my favorite cheese in the world – burrata.  Clean, refreshing and the perfect salad before a meal laden with pasta.

Let’s talk about the pasta.

Now, I’m of Italian ancestry.  Therefore pasta is definitely something I’m in the loop about.  So believe me when I say that Colori Kitchen is the place for pasta.

My first order was for the ravioli di zucca – pumpkin ravioli.  The perfect blend of sweet with savory, these pillows of creamy goodness, in a brown butter sauce are made even more perfect with the added texture of chopped walnuts.

The next order was from the daily special.  A pasta in cream sauce prepared with sausage.  A much more substantial pasta preparation, the perfect amount of sauce, matched with the perfect amount of meat with a robust pasta that stands up to both.  Good stuff.

Then, a simpler dish of spaghetti with pesto.  The counterpoint of the bright, herbaceous pesto with the hearty pasta. It was simple but also delicious.

The last of the main courses, the daily special of risotto with shrimp and black truffle, was the topper.  Risotto is an easy dish to mess up, and often misses the mark.  But this dish was so amazing, so perfectly seasoned and flavored that I found myself continuing to take forkful after forkful all while feeling a sense of relief and happiness that I had finally found this place.

However, I was not prepared for what followed.  Much like the start of the meal, which revealed new surprises, the conclusion proved just as fantastic.  I was presented with ricotta cheesecake.  To say that this dessert was enjoyable, to say it was delectable, to say my eyes rolled back in my head while I nodded in agreement as I chewed vigorously and formed a smile with my obviously satisfied mouth is an understatement.  To say that I ate the entire cheesecake, almost by myself, and that at each bite I closed my eyes and reveled in the soft, supple texture, that I slowly, painstakingly savored every single morsel of the richly flavored sweetness is more close to fact.

Needless to say, I now make a point to suggest Colori Kitchen to those who ask where to go. After all, I am so very in the loop.

It has been said that I have a passion for all things Mexican and Mexican-American. Whether the food, the men, or the culture, my most deeply rooted cravings are often attached to those things and people formed from Hispanic roots.  Some say it is due to the fact that I am born and raised in a Mexican-American community which has taken me in as one of their own.  Others speculate that this passion was formed because my own cultural roots are based in a similar Latin culture, and I, therefore, find familiarity between Mexican heritage and my own.  Still others, who base their ideas on the spiritual, say that I must have been a very happily plump Mexican mother who cooked her love into her food and that my current attachment is based on those memories from a life long passed.  Regardless of the reasons why, those who know me well, know that if it’s Mexican-American, I’m in.

In fact, it was a Mexican-American man that first brought me to this tiny gem of a restaurant and re-ignited my red-hot passion for the food.  Upon my first taste, I was so enthralled that I began emitting those guttural sounds akin to those heard in the throes of another kind of passion.  So much so, that my companion commented on how my audible emissions of pleasure were making him uncomfortable.  (Needless to say, he didn’t last too long.)

It has been ten years since my first bite, and like any passion, the torch I carry for La Casita Mexicana only grows stronger as each day passes. Even after numerous encounters, my moans have only gotten louder, and more deeply rooted in a hunger for more.

The thing about La Casita Mexicana that makes it so special, so pleasurable, is it’s authenticity.  This is not an Americanized, prefabricated, out of a can restaurant.  Hell, up until a few years ago, the servers didn’t even speak English.  This is a place where one can taste fresh ingredients and experience traditional preparations, a place where every bite inspires, well, guttural moans of pleasure, of course.

The foreplay, if you will, begins before food is even ordered. The server starts every table off with chips.  But not the bland standard of bagged chips with tomato heavy “salsa.”  These fresh made chips are slathered in the house specialty – mole.  And not just one type of mole, all three varieties featured on the menu.  It never fails that this trifecta of flavor serves the purpose of getting my fire going.  Mmmmmm.

To quench this fire, I always order the  Agua de Limon con Chia (Lemonade with Chia seeds).  The perfect blend of sugar and water with the tiny bursts of texture from chia seeds cool me down to prepare me for the next round of Mexican food lust.  Hmmmmm.

Just to tease the senses, before the  main course, La Casita Mexicana presents a soup.  And of the numerous times I’ve eaten at La Casita Mexicana, each time I have gotten this course, I have been surprised and delighted.  This time, the soup was something even more surprising than I’ve had in the past – Sopa de Platano,  what the gringos might call a banana soup.  Just the right touch of sweet to added to the hearty and rich flavors of the soup, it left my mouth anticipating what was to come next. Ooooh.

But those sounds pale in comparison to the deep, animalistic noises that are emitted when the main courses arrive.  First, the Emoladas, enchiladas filled with chicken or cheese, drenched in the rich, flavorful house mole.  The sweet, heavy sauce caressing the tongue whilst the hearty tortilla and moist chicken dance in the mouth always leaves me feeling waves of ecstasy wash over me.

But that plate isn’t even my favorite.  The “Oooh-OOOH-OOOOO-OH-MY-GOD-YESSSSSS!!!” escapes my lips for one plate only…the Chiles en Nogadas.  As a person who craves authenticity, this dish is the real deal.  So many layers of flavors and textures, so much spice paired with so much sweet, so fucking amazing.  And the best part of all, is that finding this dish, a dish seldom found on any menu, it’s impossible not to close my eyes and savor the generations of history encased in this roasted chile stuffed with hearty meats and sweet fruits and topped with a smooth cream and tart pops of pomegranate seeds.  I also find it impossible to take all that amazingness into my body silently, or to leave even a morsel left behind.

This food is as delicious at it is legitimate, so it should be of no surprise that the place that has me craving more, that evokes my passion for the culture and food that I have taken as my own, is La Casita Mexicana.

The South has always been shrouded in mystery to me.  My logical side knows that there is no way for me to understand what it is all about because I’ve never lived, never even visited, my fellow Americans below the Mason/Dixon line. But the illogical side, the side that still believes there may be a monster under my bed, worries that all the stereotypes about those of Southern heritage may be based in fact.  And though I never was too bashful with the kink, the whole squeal like a pig thing always freaked me out.

So needless to say, when I walked into Johnny Rebs’ and saw the Southern pride flag a’flyin’ I was totally out of my element.  We weren’t in my ‘hood anymore.  But my friend wanted bar-b-que somethin’ awful, so I took a deep breath and figured if I heard any banjos playing, I’d run for it.

We were warmly greeted and sat at our booth to check out the menu and my my my did it look tasty.  There were so many choices and so many items that I had heard of but never tried that I was excited.  We ordered our Southern fare and awaited the food while listening to the country music and were relieved that the positive stereotype of Southern hospitality seemed to be in full effect.

First up was the Fried Green Tomatoes.  I had first heard about this dish from a 90′s movie, I’ll admit it.  But I’m pretty sure the gals in the flick didn’t get down quite like the folks at Johnny Rebs.  Not only were the tomatoes the perfect consistency, the cornmeal crust was the perfect textural counter point, but they didn’t stop there, they had to kick it up a notch by sprinkling over the top a copious amount of bacon.  That’s right, bacon.  Well be still my heart!  We scarfed those tomatoes down as quick as a wink.

Then we moseyed over to our main courses.  Beef ribs with grilled veggies, cornbread and coleslaw and pulled pork with collard greens, hush puppies and homemade potato chips, good Lord that was a lot of food for an afternoon lunch.  My britches were busting just at the sight of the plates!  But I hunkered down and got to eatin’.

Now I must admit, ribs usually get my tummy as sore as a cowboy’s ass, but dang it if those ribs weren’t pretty darn good.  I was happy my partner gave me a sample.  My order of pulled pork, which is always a winner in my book, was a giant helpin’ of juicy, porky goodness.  I wish I could say that all the sides wowed me as much as the meat, but I can say that one side in particular made me happier’n a dead hog in the sunshine: them chips.  Now, I don’t often eat potato chips, let alone homemade ones, but these were the perfect.  Crisp, well flavored, and just enough salt.

In a stroke of culinary genius, I took the pork, stacked it on the chip, and gave it a big ole dollop of homemade ranch sauce on top.  Lordy Lordy Lordy!  That made my trip down south worth it!  I couldn’t stop stuffin’ those things in my mouth.  I was as busy as a one legged man in an ass kickin’ contest.  And boy oh boy I was kickin’ that plate of food’s butt.

Just when I thought I was finished, spent and exhausted from my BBQ orgy, the server hits me with the topper.  Pecan pie.

Now lemme explain, I love pecan pie.  Maybe it’s because it is the most fattening, decadent, sugar filled and lusty of all the pies in the world, maybe it’s because of the juxtaposition of textures, hell, maybe it’s because my father didn’t like them so they are my own little act of “neener neener neener” when I eat them.  But this pie, this sumptuous, rich, orgasmic slice of sugary, buttery heaven, was so good, so amazing, that I wanted to slap my mama (because she never made a pie that good).  It was the perfect end to my journey to another world using food.  And, truth be told, this meal made me realize that maybe, just maybe, I need to have my Yankee ass visit the real thing, if the real thing is anything like this.

Giddy up, bitches.

Wait, did anyone else hear that banjo?

Brunch is an exciting prospect.  There is something amazing about waking up late after a night of debauchery, kicking out whomever is passed out next to you and finding a place to have breakfast food in the afternoon.

And one balmy summer afternoon, only slightly hung over, I was beckoned to the one of the newer places in Downtown Los Angeles to partake in the prospect of a breakfast so late in the morning, it morphs into lunch – Pattern Bar.

Located on the corner of 9th and Main - which is practically a ghost town on the weekend mornings - a brightly lit, open aired, oasis of Cuban cuisine convinced me that, this time, waking up a tad bit earlier was well worth it.

After being seated in the very comfortable and group friendly booth, I looked around and truly marveled at the space.  The clean lines and open floor plan referenced a New York bistro, while the decor, music and open windows made me think Cuba – or at least, what I imagine Cuba to be. With the breeze blowing in my hair, I ordered from the menu which boasted one drink and one plate for $20.

I opted for El Vegetariano, which was an odd choice for me as I love the carne, but I wanted to try something light (maybe I was a little more hung over than I’d like to admit) and picked the Watermelon Mojito.

The mojito was perfect for a warm noon-time treat.  Just slightly sweet, the slightest hint of alcohol, it was refreshing and relaxing.

When my sandwich arrived, I was in awe.  It. Was. Huge.  However, the look of shock on my face was quickly replaced by a look of delight after my first bite. The banana peppers gave it just the right amount of kick to balance the fresh assortment of veggies packed between the firm bread.  A wonderful balance of flavor had me gobbling up the first half of the sandwich in no time.  I was happy in what I felt was the perfect order, and then I looked to my left and saw another beautiful prospect.

My friend had ordered the Varadero sandwich, which boasted pork.  So when he offered to give me a half of his to finish the remaining half of mine, how could I say no?  The Varadero was also amazing and rich in flavor, though less refreshing and light, the flavors were on point.  I was full, I was happy, and I wasn’t done yet.

As we all sat around, discussing politics, world views and the latest episode of Family Guy, my friend said he had to try one more thing – The Cachapa.  We all groaned in dissent, secretly knowing we were relieved that someone else had suggested the thing we all truly wanted.  And like the ending to any encounter of the senses, the Cachapa was sinfully over the top.  Cheese, a corn based pancake, drizzled in agave.  I said I was only going to try two bites…which turned into four, and though I was delighted to have tasted something so decadent, I was relieved that I was not the only one responsible for taking that bad boy down.

On the walk back home, the sun shone a little brighter, the wind blew a little cooler, and I swear, I could hear the faintest sounds of Mambo wafting in the air.

Urbanos is like that new hot guy in the building.  You notice the moving truck, and see the items inside that pique your interest.  An autographed Johnny Cash poster, a DVD collection with the Godfather, The Usual Suspects, and Pulp Fiction, a replica of a light saber (is it just me that thinks that’s sexy?).  You find yourself aroused at the idea of this sexy new prospect and all the fun and naughtiness that may be possible.  And then, after the newbie is all moved in, you try to find any excuse to pass by and check out the situation.  Are there other girls there? Are they cuter than you?  Lots of other guys?  Are they cuter than him? Does he dress well?  Does he dress “too well”?  Are the smells emanating from his apartment pleasing?  Finally, once you have assessed the situation, you go in for the kill and flirt your ass off until you get the date.

That’s how I felt this summer when I walked by the corner of 6th and Hope and saw the corner space being renovated with “Urbanos” emblazoned on the side in hip font.  A pizza bar?  Oooh, interesting. I walked by a few times, checking out what the potential would be for a little rendezvous.  Could I see myself making this place my new spot?  Eventually, I found an excuse to make my move.

On a late Thursday night, I took a friend to give Urbano’s a try.  We casually ordered a salad, side of  prosciutto and pie with a couple of beers, took our number and sat on the patio.  Our food was dropped off at around 9pm.  The only sounds that followed for twenty minutes was chewing, moaning and silverware clanking.  Then it was over, and we looked at each other, panting, hair and clothing disheveled, we were amazed at how quickly and passionately we had eaten every morsel of food in minutes.

What has since followed has been a virtual orgy of dinners with Urbanos. Basically, we’re dating, we have an open relationship where I can bring over friends to partake in our love, and I think we are going to be very happy together for a long time.  In fact, I have been out with Urbanos so many times that I have pictures of our many dates, but some of them are a bit too personal, and blurry, to share as I was giddy with my lust and couldn’t hold my camera still enough while racing to put all the yummy goodness in my eager mouth.

On one visit in particular, we had us a round.  I brought my friend from out of town to meet the new, well, piece of meat.  I was ready to order what I had the time before (which was the night before), the Scimietta pizza.  Pumpkin puree, goat cheese, bacon and sage on that perfectly fire roasted dough…I had been fantasizing about it for an entire 20 hours determined to have round two as soon as humanly possible.

Upon pulling up to the playful bar area, equipped with only 5 seats, I noticed a familiar face in the open air kitchen, and had to thank him for the fantasticness that I had been putting in my mouth at an alarming rate.  I called over chef Ilan Hall (that’s right, The Gorbals guy) and gushed over the divinity and pure sumptuous joy this Scimietta pizza had given me, that he was a genius, that he done good.  And, like a boss, after he thanked me he gave me one of the best pizza related meals of my life.

We started with the Mixed Heirloom Tomato Burrata Salad.  Now, if you haven’t tried burrata cheese yet, it is what I imagine mozzarella would taste like if Jesus blessed it with his tears.  The texture and flavor has been known to make many a cheese lover’s eyes roll to the back of their head.  The tomatoes were no joke either.  Ripe, fresh and perfectly seasoned, they were the perfect counterpoint to the peppery arugula salad.  And, to top off the greatness of any salad is the bread.  Urbanos supplies an mini loaf of it to sop up all the salad yumminess.  But what really made this night special was Chef Hall’s suggestion of a new pizza to try, a special pizza he was planning on adding to the menu that week.  The Urbano Uovo.  Mushroom ricotta, farm fresh eggs and…hell, he didn’t even have to finish that sentence, I was already salivating.

When it was presented to us, it was not the prettiest thing I had ever seen, but hot damn it was decadently delicious.  The eggs, cooked just over easy, released their velvety yolks to make a sauce that mingled with the mushroom ricotta to make what I think may have been the best bite of pizza I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating.  It was salty, hearty, creamy and just a touch sweet.  I don’t think I’ve been the same since.

This meal was so fantastic, that I have now decided to take my relationship with Urbanos from dating to serious.  And, quite frankly, I love Urbanos so much, that I’m willing to share with the world just so I can show off my sexy pizza stud and show others what I’m all worked up about.

I wish I could say that I found Ichiza on my own, with my determination to find a restaurant so legitimately dedicated to the food rather than the decor or the amount of douche bag tourists in sparkly Ed Hardy that would cross its threshold.  But that would be a lie.  And though I don’t fancy myself a follower of all Judeo-Christian ethics, lying is one of those sins I try to avoid committing.  I confess, I was bedazzled.  The shiny, false idols of culinary heaven had taken me far from my righteous path of foodie devotion. I had strayed from my beliefs

But upon my last trip to the City of Sin, I found redemption, salvation and quite a bit of salivation.

Off the beaten path, in an unassuming strip mall that could be in any city, void of all the pretense and laden with all the edible riches of Japanese bar food, Ichiza is like a beacon of delicious purity hidden in a dingy den of smoke and mirrors.  A lone virgin in a house filled with whores.

At first glance, the options were overwhelming. Menu choices strewn on the walls, written like ancient cave drawings, some scribbled in Japanese, some with amateur pictures to help explain.  Upon being seated, I felt like I was in over my head.  This was too much goodness, too much authentic-ness for me to handle after a weekend filled with glossy restaurants and bars.  But with my fellow foodies by my side, a couple of them experienced tourists in this land of wonder, I decided to just let things happen.

What happened was amazing.

We started with the Beef Tongue.  Sublime.  Tender and perfectly seasoned, this hearty dish was the perfect start to our feast.  It was simple, it was authentic, it kinda got me giddy.

Next up was the albacore and mackerel sashimi.  How in the world a restaurant in the middle of the desert got their hands on such fresh, succulent fish is a mystery.  Perhaps they made a deal with the devil?  Regardless, it was fantastic.

By this time I was reeling in how amazing the first two selections were.  Not only purely delectable, but purely traditional.  So when the next course arrived, the albacore tartare, I was surprised that something that looked so fusion inspired was presented.  This dish seemed like a combination between a tostada and a sandwich, with a Japanese twist of ingredients.  Though a bit messy to eat, I enjoyed the combination of textures with the fried wonton wrapper providing the crunch, the rice the firmness and the fish and avocado the tender splash of flavor.  However, I was not as impressed with this plate as I had been the other two, seemed like it was trying too hard.

I started to worry.  Perhaps this place was like all the others, a charlatan, a sinner pretending to be a saint.  But all my doubts were quickly dismissed when I was presented with the next course.  In a hollowed out lemon, I saw a pile of uni, garnished with thinly sliced cucumber bathing in ponzu.  It looked too good to be true.  Too perfect, too much what my little heart has always longed for.  Perhaps this was a mirage, an optical illusion, but after I took my first bite I knew it was real.  Real damn good.  It took all the self-control I could muster to keep myself from pushing the eager chopsticks of my counterparts away and claiming the entire course for myself.  Luckily, I am a pillar of strength.  But I can’t lie, I was tempted to have another order all to myself.

Still drunk with the food lust fog that had taken me over, I was snapped back to reality when the next dish arrived.  The red snapper sashimi, which was garnished with paper thin lemon wheels and salmon roe, was every bit as tasty as it was beautiful.  The ponzu was a perfect citrus conter point to the firm fish and the roe supplying an extra pop of salty goodness.

The carpaccio of kobe beef was next on in line.  I can’t even count how many times my friends of Japanese descent have spoken the praises of kobe beef.  So succulent, so tender, so worth any price.  However, I found the flavor of this supposedly amazing meat completely masked by the strong flavor of onions and black pepper.  Was it good? Sure.  Was it the transcendent experience I was expecting? Not so much.

I grew a bit disheartened.  Sure there were only two dishes that didn’t wow me, but, again, being in the city of sin, I was starting to doubt if the meal could get any better.  Perhaps there was a limit on how much authenticity a restaurant within these city limits could muster. Enter the chicken and egg bowl.  Hearty, warm, comforting.  This is the kind of Japanese food that one outside Japan doesn’t even know exists.  I imagine that this is what mothers have made for their children for many years.  The rice, which was seasoned with all the glorious flavors of the chicken, egg, ginger and other seasoning was addictive.  And regardless of the fact that I was totally hogging the bowl (I mean, I am a self-proclaimed glutton, after all) I could Not. Stop.  Eating.

Crisis of faith averted.

Before we went for dessert, the four of us resolved to try something totally out of normal line up.  We scoured the walls to find the thing that sounded the most exotic, the most odd.  We decided on two exotic eats.  First up, the uni and squid roll.  Sure I like squid sometimes, and uni was one of my favorite acquired tastes.  I can’t say the roll was bad, but with the strongly flavored nato beans, which I think may be even more of an acquired taste than anything I’ve ever eaten, combined with the squid and the too-delicate-for-the-application uni, the roll was a fun experiment in Japanese flavor combinations, but not what I would call a success for those of us at the table.

Number two arrived next, bacon wrapped mochi.  That’s right, mochi.  Now I must say that I’m no fan of the dessert variety of mochi. I find the texture off putting and the flavor very bland.  I was not expecting to enjoy the little skewer of meat wrapped jelly.  Boy, was I wrong.  It was fantastic!  The bacon flavor completely permeated the mochi and the combination of the texture of the soft mochi with the assertiveness of the bacon was so good, I ate more than my share.

Then – Honey Toast.

Sure it sounds odd.  Plain even.  However, let me assure those with any doubts that this dessert was the most amazing part of the meal.  This dish is made up of a combination I have never even seen before – half a loaf of Japanese white bread, toasted, topped with ice cream and drizzled with honey.  When my friend ordered this, I thought she was crazy, it didn’t sound like it was going to be that great.  She promised me that on her last visit she thought the same, but was converted.  I took her word on faith, then I took my first bite.  Carbs and cream and gooey sweetness – oh my.  Bite after bite, the “ummm”s and “ooooh”s eminating from the four of us was enough to dispel any doubts that this little restaurant in this little strip mall was the real deal.

And as if to truly seal the proverbial deal, just to make sure I didn’t ever lose my faith in the food gods again, the check arrived.  Four women with hearty appetites ordered ten plates of food to share, three beers, a hot tea and one of us ordered a bowl of ramen.  I was expecting to pay for this great meal with a great big Vegas style price tag.  The damage?  Just under one hundred dollars.  I’m serious.  I was stuffed, contented and the other three were a bit tipsy, and we waddled out of there having only spent $30 each.

If that doesn’t prove there’s a higher power, nothing will.  My faith has been restored.

My mother, God love her, inspires many things in my life.  Sometimes, the inspiration is questionable, like the time she cut my hair into a mullet.  However, at other times, her example has lead me to wonders beyond my wildest dreams.

On a summer afternoon, I was able to pay her a visit, which is a rare treat for someone like me who is part vampire and tends to shun daytime outings.  Upon my arrival to the casa de madre, we got to the task of picking a place to eat.  A food snob like myself finds the selections in and around the Whittier area limited as chain restaurants don’t really do it for me.  So when dear sweet mama suggested, “This place in La Habra that makes fresh croissants everyday,” I was skeptical, but put my trust in the matriarch of my family.  After all, it was her cooking that created this lustyglutton in the first place.

As we pulled into the strip mall, I was still not convinced that mom had made a good call.  We were on busy Whittier Boulevard, across the street from a high school, in an area seemingly void of any foot traffic to speak of.  We walked in and, much to my dismay, we were informed that the only croissants left for sale were chocolate chip. Well, I was about ready to throw a tantrum.  So what if this place was opened at  7am? So what if they were going to close at 2:30?  I wanted a croissant!!!

But mommy, in her infinite wisdom, diffused my would-be bitch fit with a small ray of hope. “They put aside a bunch of the plain ones to use in sandwiches.  Why don’t you just get a croissant sandwich?”

God bless her.

So a sandwich it was.  A turkey pesto on croissant, add onions, hold the cheese.  We were then asked if we’d like the lunch special which added a bag of chips and a cookie.  Why the hell not?

My spirits were beginning to perk up as mom and I took a seat on the cute patio area to enjoy the nice weather and a bit of conversation.  And then, it happened.  Our lunch specials were delivered to us and I took my first bite.  Oh. My. Dear. Lord.

The croissant was insane.  Buttery, soft, flavorful, yet substantial enough to hold its shape in a sandwich and not give way to becoming a crumby mess.  The pesto mayo was just tangy enough and the turkey was surprisingly moist. The tomato and lettuce were crisp and not at all wilted like so many other sandwiches I’ve tried and even though I asked for the onions on my own, I really think it kicked up the overall sandwich flavor.  I was in heaven.  But the awesome didn’t end there.  Lo and behold, a built in dessert was there waiting to be consumed.  Mom and I decided to cut both her chocolate chip and my cinnamon sugar in half and experience both flavors.  After all, this place is a bakery and if the croissant is this good, the cookies could be orgasmic.  The chocolate chip was delicious and the cinnamon was so astronomically amazing that I had to fight the urge to buy a half dozen, rush home, turn out all the lights and eat them in a frenzy, naked.  That good.

Needless to say, I’m going to be more inclined to visit the lovely city of La Habra in the very near future.  And this place was so good, I may even get there early to grab a lone butter croissant – for my mommy.

I must admit that when it comes to German food, I am a novice.  In fact, if it wasn’t for National Lampoon’s European Vacation, I wouldn’t even know the microscopic amount I know now, which is – beer, wieners,  beer, cabbage, beer and that girl who lets Rusty see her boobs.

So when a fellow foodie told me about her recent internet “coupon” she acquired for Steingarten, I have to admit I was excited to pop my proverbial cherry.

Upon our arrival, I was very impressed with the set up.  Deep rich woods, open airy dining room, family style tables that could fit an entire pack of lederhosen clad blonde men (that’s German, right?) during a rowdy and beer induced party.  But being that it was lunchtime on a weekend, it was very calm and well lit thanks to the skylight in the main dining room.

Our first order, of course, was beer.  And being that my lunch date is some what of a beer expert, she was delighted with the options and with our selections.  Refreshing and clean, I don’t know what it was I drank, but it was good.

I insisted on beginning with a soft pretzel as I have a passion for carbohydrates and all things guaranteed to make my ass grow in width.  Though my friend was not a fan, I was very pleased with the warm, just-out-of-the-oven taste and the bitch slap you in your sinuses hot mustard that accompanied the warm up.  So far, me likey the German food.

Inspired by the family style seating, we decided on sharing two entrees so as to experience more variety and to generate closeness in experience.

First up was the sausage, with sauerkraut on the side.  I tend to enjoy the taste of phallic shaped foods, which I know is a shock to all of you, yet I can’t say it was the best I’ve had.  Much like my encounters actual phalli, I enjoyed the experience, but it wasn’t anything that really had me craving a repeat.  The flavor of the sausage was pleasing with it’s smokey undertones, the ‘kraut added the needed crunch and the mustard, a more toned down version than the pretzel’s counterpart, was just spicy enough.  However, my response was, “It’s ok.”  One major issue for me was the curried ketchup.  Is curry a staple in the German diet?  I found it very confusing and it detracted from the meal for me, though my friend found it very pleasing.

The potato salad and little gherkin pickle were a delightful addition to the plate. The creamy richness of the potato, then the tartness of the pickle contrasted well with the flavor of the sausage and the sourness of the ‘kraut.  It was enjoyable, true, but so far I was still more excited by the boobs from European Vacation than I was by what I was eating.

Next up was the “Build Your Own Burger” which we went a bit overboard with.  The addition of bacon, carmelized onions, roasted tomatoes, and roasted garlic aioli pushed up the price of our burger but, sadly, not the flavor.  Though it looked like it would be amazing, the meat was rather bland and overdone and the additions were too muted to stand out.  Nothing was wrong with the burger, but I found it a bit uninspiring when compared to the interesting “fifth” flavor of that Japanese one on Hollywood or the classic American from that office off Venice.  You know, the one where your dad works.

I will admit like any novice, I could just be so elementary in my undersatnding of what I expereinced that I wouldn’t know good German food if it threw me out of a zeppelin, Indiana Jones style.  All in all, I left Steingarten with a full stomach, but feeling unsatisfied.
Perhaps I will return next time and find I was mistaken, but for the price we paid for what I considered a mildly good meal, I may just have to order beer and pretzels and look for hot girls who’ll show me their boobs…

I was so excited to have been able to participate in such a great show at such an interesting and innovative establishment.

And I totally appreciate the opportunity to laugh at myself…

KCET Free Lunch – Guisados: Taco Sampler & Arnaldo Palmero

When it comes to things I lust after, bars are pretty high up on my list. There’s cocktail bars, chocolate bars, and, most lust-inducing of them all, sushi bars.

And when it comes to the rawness, I like it straight up, old school, traditional.  When I order fish, I want to taste it, melting in my mouth, making my eyes roll to the back of my head with the sheer sensual simplicity of it. Serve it up like they do in the mother land and save the avocado for those who can’t appreciate the classics.

I had heard the raves about Oomasa, and when I found myself with a rare free weekday to have a lunch in my new stomping ground, I took the opportunity to indulge in the sweet, moan inducing goodness only sushi can provide.

As I walked up to the unassuming building located in the adorable Japanese Village Plaza, I hoped that this place was as good as I had heard…I was in need of something amazing.

Boy did I find it.

The friendly sushi chef was on point and brought my friend and I as much sushi as we could order – which was a lot.  Starting with the sweet shrimp, that crisp, fresh, sweet flesh was a perfect way to start off the meal.  Promptly followed by the crunchy, salty delicacy of the fried shrimp head.  A perfect counterpoint.

Next, the albacore.  If ever there was a fish I can count on to make me swoon, this is it.  And, as always, my old stand by didn’t disappoint. Melt in my mouth goodness with the citrus kick of ponzu.

My friend wanted the freshwater eel, and who was I to say no?  As always, the warm meat and sweet sauce were wonderful.

And then, something happened.  My companion asked the sushi chef for “That one with the Yuzu on it.”  Presented to me was the red snapper.  So beautiful, with its pale flesh tinged at the ends with a bright pink, I took her word when she said, “Try this, it’s amazing.”

Amazing is an understatement.

I was advised that I should let the sushi linger in my mouth to get the full impact of the flavor.  I placed the piece in my mouth and began to savor…oh sweet baby Jesus.  Firm, yet silky, the taste of the fish was elevated to another level with the addition of the sour Yuzu, the light squeeze of lemon and the additional salt place atop the masterpiece of fishy goodness.  From deep within my body came a sound so animalistic, so filled with passion that I blushed when I was snapped back from my food lust trance from the giggles of my friend and her declaration of victory, “Right?!”  Truth be told, that was the best red snapper I’ve ever had the pleasure of putting in my eager mouth.  So even more eagerly I gobbled up the second piece.

Next on the hit list I ordered the salmon roe.  One of my favorite things to order as it is an acquired taste, which means usually my friends let me eat both on my own.  This time was no exception.  The best part of eating a truly fresh bite of salmon roe sushi is that the eggs explode their salty goodness one by one as they are consumed, making each piece’s flavor last and last.  Delicious and all mine.

The Spanish mackerel was, much like the snapper, the best I’ve had.  Perfectly prepared by the skill sushi chef, the seasoning and texture was perfect.  Not at all oily like at lesser establishments.

Salmon and yellowtail belly finished my order.  Both simply prepared, both simply fantastic.

I sat with my friend, continuing our discussions on dating and weekend plans, happily filled with enough sushi to satisfy without overfilling.  But before I asked for the check, I asked for one more red snapper, slowly, deliberately enjoying every morsel. A perfect dessert.

The check arrived, and though it was not cheap, it was worth every penny.  I’ve learned in my tenure of sushi eating that you often get what you pay for.  After the feast I had just had, the $60 total was not only reasonable, it was much lower than I was expecting.  Smiling like a child who just got away with something naughty, paid my check and happily walked out into the crowd of people exploring the tiny plaza.  I was sated, lust fulfilled and happy to have found yet another bar to add to my rotation.