Braving the Bazaar

It is fitting that the Bazaar is among the best restaurants in Los Angeles. The Bazaar is evidence that the city has matured, yet remains garish. The Bazaar is located in Sammy Boy Entertainment’s SLS Hotel, the brainchild of one Sam Nazarian, the Horace Cook, Jr. of present-day Los Angeles for you Mad Men fans – though within the entertainment industry, Nazarian prefers promoting nightclubs and hospitality to Cook’s jai alai. Just as HoHo Cook recruited the legendary Patxi to play for his jai alai franchise, Nazarian recruited prominent stylists from supposedly more pedigreed cities to outfit his hotel. Parisian interior designer Phillipe Starck decorated the sprawling SLS restaurant. Murray Moss, a dealer of modernist home furnishings in lower Manhattan, exhibited his venal side when he agreed to sell sundry curios in the Bazaar.

Nazarian engaged José Andrés, a Washington restaurateur and native Spaniard, to be the titular head of the Bazaar and make an occasional visit. Andrés is a protégé of Ferran Adrià, the experimentalist Catalan chef who literally spends six months each year in a Barcelona laboratory concocting recipes based on principles of chemistry. (One example out of a myriad, Adrià created an olive oil spiral which “you loop around your index finger and drop in your mouth, where it dissolves into thin filaments” according to blogger Clotilde Dusoulier.)

Despite all the class Nazarian threw at the Bazaar, the establishment confirms every New York and San Francisco snob’s worst conjuring of a fatuous City of Angels. Tall Eastern Bloc prostitutes run amok, attired in revealing dresses shimmering with rhinestones that serve their purpose of diverting attention from their weathered faces. The men, who could be tippling to repress thoughts of forbidding credit card balances, resetting mortgages, and personal dejection, ooze purported wealth, wearing the expensive suits that prove they concur with Sammy Boy’s business strategy.

The shibboleth about Los Angeles restaurants or at least those in West L.A. is that the entertainment industry and its supporting cast of rubes have corrupted them. Accordingly, a perception (not necessarily my own) is that L.A. restaurants have viewed swankiness and a good scene as the means to a healthy profit, allowing food quality to languish and evidencing a flagrant disregard for California’s agricultural bounty. If there were any truth to this, the Bazaar is in the midst of shattering it, as the quality of Andrés’s high concept tapas are of paramount concern, even when they do not succeed. As it turns out, the elite Hollywood scene whose business and presence Sammy Boy craves never materialized; that business goes to the more subdued and tasteful surroundings, if lesser food, at the Sunset Tower. (Admittedly, we at the Fress do love us some Sunset Tower in the wintertime.) Maybe it is still old times in Los Angeles, tinged as ever with ethnic rivalries and subtle prejudices that have rendered the Bazaar "too Persian" for the city's social elite.

In the 90’s José Andrés brought his aspirations and knowledge of Spanish cuisine to Washington, D.C., another city plagued by an inferiority complex and dearth of flavorful food. Back then, I was a semi-regular at Andrés’ first restaurant, Jaleo, the tapas joint located on Seventh Street between Pennsylvania Avenue’s office corridor and the seedy Chinatown neighborhood just beginning gentrification. Jaleo had an enormous menu of orthodox Spanish tapas in those days, but could execute only three dishes with consistency: sautéed shrimp in garlic and olive oil, octopus with paprika, and a preparation of blood sausage. Everything else was a crapshoot. But lawyers and lobbyists crowded the joint during the happy hour, thirsty for the plentiful sangria and the spectacle of flamenco shows. My crew of fellow misanthropic law students and I would put up with this riff-raff, because Jaleo was among the best casual restaurants in town, and after dinner we could take the Green Line to U Street’s nightclubs, always concluding the evening with a half-smoke, that sausage of unknown composition, from the legendary Ben’s Chili Bowl, the only establishment on the historic Black Broadway to survive the riots of 1968.

Mired in law school at the time, I had never heard of Ferran Adrià or his cutting edge recipes. For a fledgling Jaleo, educating the public about Adrià’s cuisine would be an ultra vires act. Andrés, a shrewd businessman, knew not to unleash the results of a chemistry lab on conservative Washington eaters in a violence-prone neighborhood. The fact that he was serving Spanish food at all was challenging enough. After leaving Washington, I never thought too much about Jaleo, a good but not great restaurant. I knew that he had opened two more branches in the suburbs as well as the more formal Café Atlántico and a few restaurants with other themes, all in the same section of Washington. I had heard that he dedicated a modest six seats within Atlántico to the chemical cuisine he learned from Adrià.

A decade later, José Andrés turned up in Los Angeles with a menu as ambitious as Nomi Malone in Showgirls. There are scores of traditional tapas, as conceived by Andrés. Then there are the modern tapas, which involve unusual flavor combinations and rare ingredients as well as Señor Adrià’s recondite techniques. In Washington, Andrés serves these more intricate tapas to a mere six patrons at any given time. But in Nazarian’s domain, they are being served in a veritable banquet hall that Andrés spends little time in.

Andrés may have developed his culinary skills, as a technician and a thinker, at Adrià’s almost mythical El Bulli, which is a few hours north of Barcelona near Roses, Spain, and open to only 50 customers a night in the six months when Adrià is not cloistered into his lab. But Andrés learned the art of operations, which is perhaps more difficult and important than cooking prowess, through years of trial and error in his busy Washington restaurants. He took that expertise to Bazaar its spacious kitchen, an efficient machine, preparing and dispensing a thorny menu to a crowd that could have been as indifferent as Washington’s could have been bewildered. Instead, Andrés has a runaway hit, though he owes Los Angeles Times critic Irene Virbila a tithe of the gross for her exuberant praise.

Marisa and I visited twice in recent months with varying experiences. On our first visit, with my visiting parents, the standout dishes spanned the entire menu. The traditional sea urchin pipirrana--a preparation of fresh, creamy urchin served on top of cucumber, onion, plum tomatoes, and red and green peppers, all diced to one eighth inch, in a mixture of olive oil and sherry vinegar--was so delicious that we quickly ordered another. The salmon-like arctic char with chick pea cake and the Greek tzatziki was as flavorful as any I have had. The lamb loin with potatoes and mushrooms was uncomplicated and delicious, as were the scallops in a spicy romesco which possessed the nuanced robustness in flavor that I prize when eating the mollusk.

On the modern tapas front, I was taken by the twin juxtapository olives, which seem to be the work of a magician, but are an old Adrià specialty as I later learned from Dusoulier’s blog. Bazaar served each person two olives side-by-side in white ceramic soup spoons. The first was an olive containing a briny anchovy and a morsel of piquillo pepper and was plenty tasty. The second was a simulacrum of an olive that involved the trapping of olive oil inside a green sphere. The olive oil exploded into my mouth when I bit down, and yet it tasted like an olive, even superior to the real olive. Adrià devised these faux olives through a process of his own creation called process of “spherification” that involves hydrocolloids, which according to the Gray Lady’s Kenneth Chang is “a suspension of particles in water where the particles are molecules that bind to water and to one another. The particles slow the flow of the liquid or stop it entirely, solidifying into a gel.” The science notwithstanding, I loved this derivative olive. It was more precise and tasted better than anything we had a few years ago at Comerc 24 in Barcelona, whose entire menu consisted of juxtaposing traditional dishes with reconstituted or deconstructed variations.

There were a few misses, an inevitable occurrence on such a bold menu. The most obvious example was the ajo blanco, a white garlic gazpacho garnished with a tiny salad of tomatoes, grapes, and raisins, the last of which I quickly noticed and brushed away before eating the soup. The soup’s gelatinous texture alienated me, and I cannot understand how the inclusion of an inedible, indigestible desiccated grape of all things would overcome that.

My father, in his great haste to eat everything, did not see the raisin. But his tongue sensed it and alerted his brain, which understood that a crisis was afoot and that drastic action would be necessary to prevent any lasting damage. To my amazement, my father’s brain took over the controls from his stomach. The brain positioned his head over the plate, and then caused him to bow his head and open his maw. Alas, the offending raisin fell harmlessly onto his plate, saving all of us from untold amounts of future kvetching and perpetuating his napkin’s usefulness.

Marisa and I returned a month later, still celebrating our fifth anniversary. While we lacked a reservation, we knew that each dining room has several counter seats that are available on a first-come, first-served basis, just like at a sushi bar. Not a single seat was occupied during the entire two hour period when we there with my parents.

We checked in with the front desk, and its two hosts sized us up with a whiff of condescension, as if they had been just been culled from the ranks of Sammy Boy’s army of velvet rope minders. “Let me check if we have any availability,” the ingenue said and then scurried off to the dining room. Her counterpart, a young gentleman wearing a suit, observed our conversation, but quickly returned his attention to the computer screen, indifferent to our suspense. A few minutes later, the host returned. “We have two seats for you,” she said smiling. Of course every seat at our counter was vacant, which the host whose only responsibility is to greet and seat must have known beforehand, and we could see that only two seats were taken at the opposite bar. We faced two assistant chefs who were preparing plates of ham and cheese and assembling the cold seafood dishes. The large wait staff ignored us for some period of time, and finally one of the assistant chefs summoned a waiter for us.

We ordered a series of modern tapas, a few repeats from the prior meal and several we had not tried, most of which were not Adrià-style chemistry experiments, but an amalgam of aspects of East Asian and Mexican cuisines. Within a period of 30 minutes, we received practically everything we ordered, and we felt like we were at our very own buffet table. All the intricacies of these dishes were lost on us. I longed for Hirozen’s unagi after experiencing the cluttered Japanese “taco” of grilled eel, perilla leaf-- an herb more commonly known by its sexier, Japanese name, shiso--cucumber, wasabi and fried pork rind, i.e., chicharrones. A pretty preparation of Japanese eggplant with yogurt, flakes of tuna, and a Japanese stock infused with honey could have been lifted straight from the recipes books of local schlockmeisters Café Sushi or Tengu. The worst offender, a banal serving of tuna ceviche, wrapped into a long sushi-style roll with shaven avocado replacing the seaweed, was sodden from a surfeit of coconut dressing.

For Marisa, the Adrià-esque tortilla de patatas “new way,” redeemed what proved to be an unsatisfying meal. A Spanish tortilla prepared the “old way” is “[i]n its most basic form . . . a potato and egg open-faced omelet that derives most of its flavor from olive oil” according to Mark Bittman. It is a ubiquitous comfort food in Spain and often delicious. At Bazaar, Andrés reconfigured the tortilla as an haute French egg, served as an amuse-bouche, albeit ordered a la carte. Bazaar blends potato foam, egg yolk and caramelized onions and serves it cleverly in a trimmed egg shell. The combination was delicious, and its saline, comforting appeal captured the essence of the original. We will return, but not without a reservation.

The Bazaar at SLS
465 S. La Cienega Blvd.
Los Angeles
(310) 246-5555
http://www.thebazaar.com/

Church & State

In that God-forsaken cranny of the world between Skid Row and East L.A., just west of an abandoned outdoor sewer with the unfortunate appellation "Los Angeles River," there is a proper French bistro. Church & State's location is as unlikely as that flickering outpost of Gallicism in Apocalypse Now Redux where Captain Willard takes a surreal respite and a few hits of opium. Indeed, the provenance of the restaurant's curious name must lie in the lack of both Church and State in these parts.

Walter Manzke presides here, proving that his former employer, Joe Pytka – infamous for his ad infinitum overhauls of Bastide over on Melrose Place – is a complete meshugeneh. Manzke actually prefers to toil for another goof, Steven Arroyo, in this urban netherworld than in Pytka's stunning Andrée Putman-designed space. Manzke saves Arroyo from what could have been his worst idea yet, which is to say, even worse than Goat, the former restaurant on La Brea whose lifespan approximated that of a midge and which melted down like Joba Chamberlain on a hot night in Cleveland two summers ago.

To the hordes of self-anointed cognoscenti, attracted to what Jonathan Gold calls – without a whiff of sarcasm – an "art-world restaurant," Church & State's geographic isolation must be among its chief charms. So are the spacious room and its high, post-industrial ceilings, which ably approximate a French brasserie (though with enough hints of purported insouciance so as not to resemble a Keith McNally theme park).

Manzke's team executes with ease. On a recent visit, the Santa Barbara spot prawns were impeccably fresh, naturally sweet, and thoroughly irresistible. A light butter sauce brought out their flavor, and the prawns' own pink roe and a smattering of capers provided a modest counterpoint of salinity. The foie gras terrine with port wine gelée was as deliciously rich and creamy as I expected, though it was not lusty in the way that, say, Bistro Jeanty's foie blond is. (I admit to bias. Outside of France, there is no better bistro in my book than Philippe Jeanty's Yountville outpost.)

My lunchtime companions, to their detriment, lacked ample appetites; so per my custom, I took more than my fair share. I salivated over a beautiful croque monsieur, its melted gruyere glistening across the table. I worked an angle and devoured half of it, and while it was very good, the proportions were imperfect due to a surfeit of béchamel. I concluded with a delectable slice of mission fig tart, which had a nice buttery crust; it was a fitting coda to an enjoyable lunch. I intend to return soon, even though the neighborhood is ugly and depressing.

Church & State

1850 Industrial Street

Los Angeles

(213) 405-1434

www.churchandstatebistro.com

Attari Sandwich Shop

Within “Tehrangeles,” the local Iranian diaspora of an estimated 600,000 sprawled across Los Angeles, Westwood’s tiny Attari Sandwich Shop may be its most beloved restaurant. Attari is a gourmand’s retreat that captures the unusual nuances of Persian cuisine and demonstrates that it is right at home in the warm California climes. Moreover, Attari does not invite religious discord, as it is neither obviously halal nor kosher, though it does not offer pork.

During a recent lunch, I loved their roasted eggplant – the unpronounceable kashk-e-bademjan – which was simple and sophisticated, yet utterly exotic. Attari roasts their eggplant in grilled mint oil that, together with the addition of assorted fresh herbs, gives the dish a lush green appearance. This seemingly simple eggplant dish is unique in that its texture boasts a natural creaminess, and its flavor is pure aubergine, judiciously accentuated by the herbs. Deliciously crispy caramelized onions and dollops of yogurt-like kashk, or fermented whey, provide the requisite balance.

I also enjoyed the sosis bandari, essentially a cut-up hot dog sandwich studded with small chunks of potatoes in a spicy tomato sauce. Based on its etymology, it would seem to have roots in the southern city of Bandar ʿAbbās, whose denizens speak the dialect Bandari. The sosis bears a close resemblance to my Bubby’s weiner goulash, my favorite stew from childhood. Since a lifelong Clevelander’s channeling of ancestral Vienna should have nothing in common with an Iranian standard, maybe there is a historical link between the two. Or could the similarity be proof of the Jewish conspiracy to defeat the Islamic Republic by stealing its culinary heritage? Shall I blame Britain?

As much as I posture about not travelling west of Doheny, I freely confess that a lunch at Attari followed by an espresso at Euro Caffé, which is a mere block from Rodeo Drive, makes for a perfectly pleasant afternoon. (Hypocrisy is underrated.) I’ll be back soon for the tongue and brain.

Attari Sandwich Shop

1388 Westwood Blvd.

Westwood

(310) 441-5488

LudoBites

Former enfant terrible chef Ludovic “Ludo” Lefebre has set forth an extremely difficult endeavor: To forge a cuisine in the spirit of his mentor, the legendary avant gardist, Pierre Gagnaire, whose deft blending of unlikely flavors and ingredients have elevated him to the zenith of Parisian culinary culture. Erratic execution bedevils LudoBites, the restaurant Ludo has set up for the summer at Breadbar. Moreover, Ludo’s conceptual flights of fancy conceal his considerable technical abilities. As a consequence, our raucous party enjoyed some truly delicious Ludo “bites,” while also enduring a miasma of misfires.

I became concerned when our first course—a poached egg served on toast with bacon and Mornay sauce, i.e., béchamel and cheese—revealed itself as bland, closer in flavor to a special from Norm’s than to the oeuf dishes served in Parisian temples of haute cuisine. We progressed to an incoherent take on miso soup, which included chunks of foie gras, plus rhubarb, hibiscus, and beets. This dish seemed designed to present foie gras in the unlikely context of a soup, but it failed as a summation of all its components. While the foie’s pillowy texture was a clear benefit of its bath in the broth, the beets and hibiscus were indiscernible amidst the salinity, and the broth itself was pedestrian.

The beef tartare posed a different set of problems. Texturally, the beef was rich and succulent and should have been the best dish of the night. But Ludo emasculated the beef with so much black pepper that I tasted little else. Then, to exacerbate matters, he topped the beef with a giant stalk of white asparagus that added one more layer of cacophony to the plate. He redeemed the dish with a single act of genius: He decorated it with large, briny anchovies that were luxuriously good, perhaps the best I have ever had. The anchovies transported me to the Mediterranean coast, if only for an instant, and I could have made a meal of them alone. To my great disappointment, the gregarious, transplanted Texan sitting next to me also liked them, so I could not steal her portion despite my furtive casing of her plate.

Ludo also knows how to sauté a scallop. His divers were plump and delicious. I did not bother with the accompanying curry-yogurt sauce or spinach, because the scallops were too good to be adorned with anything. I also enjoyed the nuanced richness of Ludo’s creamy polenta with its cantal and tender tail of beef lurking at the bottom of the crock. In addition, L.A. blogdom’s consensus that Ludo can fry a chicken is, for once, correct.

On the other hand, the shrimp in a “sweet and sour emulsion” was a disappointment. The unsightly emulsion resembled the nasal outpourings of a very sick Cyrano de Bergerac, and it did not taste much better. The veal sweetbreads with foie gras, pear, and a liquid choucroute could have been great—that is, if the sweetbreads had not been overcooked. (To be fair, Ludo was not far off the mark, and I am confident he usually does much better.) The cod, which had attractive red contours owing to its spicy butter, was slimy and utterly inedible. The kitchen simply phoned it in.

All three desserts were bad; one of them, the odious combination of chocolate mousse and jalapeno, molested my tongue into submission, ending my night. (A simple cheese plate would have sufficed.) Although Ludo offers dessert, his heart and mind certainly lie elsewhere.

Ludo attempts to navigate a lengthy menu, put his stamp on the entire meal, and befriend his customers in the process. Alas, he does not convince in a single course. At this point, the aspirations are too high, and Pierre Gagnaire remains sui generis. (Our lunch at PG’s eponymous restaurant during our honeymoon remains a high point and one of my fondest memories.) For this type of restaurant, Ludo may find more success with a tightly edited menu with dishes that are demonstrable theorems, not hypotheses undergoing constant experimentation. As a devoted Francophile, I truly want Ludo to succeed. I appreciate his spirit of adventure, and I do like this style of food very much. But it is a high-wire act, and he is not there yet.

LudoBites at Breadbar
8718 West Third Street
Los Angeles
(310) 205-0124
www.ludolefebvre.com/ludo-bites/

Beverly Soon Tofu

I am helpless against the addictive power of gochujang , that fiery, fermented chili paste that is an essential element of Korean cuisine. Accordingly, we recently visited Beverly Soon Tofu, a local standard- bearer in the hitherto unknown (to us) world of soondubu jigae, the beloved red stew, catalyzed by the chili paste and filled with uncurdled tofu and sundry other tasty vittles.

Located in the de rigueur anonymous strip mall in K-town, BST’s English signage curiously reads Beverly Tofu House. Once inside, BST charmingly attempts to conceal its Olympic and Vermont location by decorating its walls with wood-like cut-outs that attempt to evoke some mythical, tropical Korean idyll. (Instead, they just reconfirm the awesomeness that is the Town of K.) The tables take the form of bisected tree trunks, and the backless seats are ersatz stumps. The illusion is broken only by the massive posters advertising Bokbunjajoo Raspberry Wine and what I will only assume is the deliciousness of its fashionably Alize-esque flavors.

The food, unlike the design, is serious business, as is the demeanor of its presiding grandmotherly practitioner. (Miss Bird took a particularly liking to her, giggling gleefully in her Graco as the old woman loudly tore sheets of plastic bags from a giant roll. Was it the sound that tickled our baby’s fancy? Or was it little Miss Bird’s knowledge that this woman knew the score?) Our meal began with an assortment of carefully prepared and delicious small plates, the banchan. I enjoyed all of them, but two were standouts. The kitchen gave each of us an amuse-bouche of silky, sliced coins of white tofu perched in a bowl of delicate soy/sesame oil sauce, and strewn with finely chopped green onions and grated dry seaweed. This beautiful and sophisticated creation, neither spicy nor sweet, had an airy effect that set the stage for the more vivid flavors to come. Texturally, it was a little slice of heaven, the tofu melting softly on our tongues. I also was quite taken with the kimchi of cubed daikon radish and its sweet, tangy chili sauce; the complexity of the spicy sauce’s flavors elevated this tiny dish of kimchi beyond the realm of simple comfort food.

But we were here for the stew, and I am pleased to report that this majestically red and hearty creation had an addictively robust flavor. I especially liked the iteration with kimchi and beef (though I did not care for the oysters, which were slimy and vile). It’s hard to ignore that the mild-mannered, but dependable tofu it is a worthy counterpoint to its friend, the soondubu – the Ackroyd to the stew’s Belushi, if you will. Upon serving the sizzling bowls of stew, the server cracks a raw egg into the teeming melange; however, I found that the additional fat slightly undermined the dish’s austere appeal. Marisa, befitting her sagacity, was grossed out by it, and therefore smartly declined the egg. I also enjoyed our accompanying platter of sautéed spicy squid, which, lo and behold, was served in a spicy chili sauce with some onions. The dinner was such a hit that we visited BST twice in three days – once on “date night” and again a few days later with Miss Bird. We can’t wait to go back.

Beverly Soon Tofu Restaurant

2717 W. Olympic Blvd.
Koreatown

(213) 380-1113

Hey, Umami Burger, I want my calories back.

Marisa, a little over one month ago:

Getting ready for our first trip east with the Belle, we decided that Steve would pick up a quick lunch for us. For the last two weeks, I've been feeding the family a steady diet (as Steve would say, emphasis on "diet") of fresh fish and very, very fresh farmers market produce. (N.B., if you live in Southern California, get thee to a farm stand tout de suite and stock up IMMEDIATELY on fresh asparagus, Harry's Berries strawberries, and some purple ass potatoes. They're all, like, negligible points and beaucoup de delish.) Anyway, we keep hearing about this damn Umami Burger -- from such varied sources as people on Facebook and noted Brentwood potheads. If those bastards know a burger joint in our 'hood before we do, then clearly something strange is afoot at the Circle K. So I dispatched my man-servant to South La Brea while I changed the bird's fifteenth soiled diaper of the day. He returned with burgers, fries, onion rings, and sweet potato chips. The minute they hit the counter in our kitchen, I felt the need to reach for a mop and a bucket o' Lipitor. The waxed paper containing these items could not contain the oil slick within.

Steve and I bit into our burgers with the glee of exhausted new parents who forgot to eat breakfast (oh, wait, that's exactly what we are). I had the So Cal burger (Umami Burger's riff on a basic cheeseburger), while Steve smacked down on a Port Stilton. As we recoiled from our first bites, we looked at each other, perplexed. "Do we like this?" we kept asking ourselves as we ate our lunch, occasionally swapping burgers in the interest of science. Hours later, with the overwhelming fifth taste haunting me with a shimmer of nausea, I think it's safe to say the answer is no.

Steve, present day:

The Umami experience was so traumatic for the Primipara that she cannot countenance eating another hamburger, let alone finishing this blog. Now Marisa is a burger girl at heart and has always loved herself some In-N- Out and Carney’s. So for her to desist from eating burgers, for more than a month after the Umami debacle, is a testament to how bad the place is. Of course, this has made my life difficult, because I do enjoy a burger and have been really into 8 Oz. lately. But the Umami burger was so repugnant that Marisa’s seemingly rash response is, in fact, quite reasonable.

Umami Burger wants to impart the so-called fifth taste into its hamburgers. The question of what “umami” actually is remains outstanding and perplexing. Harris Salat, writing in the Times, tersely defined umami as “the taste of mouthwatering savoriness.” But this definition is less than helpful, since savoriness, even intense, “mouthwatering” savoriness, would seem to have a home in one of the four other “tastes.” (This taste classification system feels as crude as the five Classical elements.) The umami inquiry veers off into peculiarity because of the allegation that the fifth taste was somehow discovered in 1908 by Japanese scientist Dr. Kikunae Ikeda. I would not expect a particular sensory experience to be a candidate for discovery, like some rare species on the Galapagos or an esoteric element with a minuscule half-life on the frontier of the periodic table.

Perhaps Dr. Ikeda actually identified the chemical composition of the so-called umami flavor such that when a given food consists of at least these chemicals, it has the umami flavor. Along these lines, the Umami Information Center, a marketing group, defines the fifth taste as a “pleasant savoury taste imparted by glutamate, a type of amino acid, and ribonucleotides, including inosinate and guanylate, which occur naturally in many foods including meat, fish, vegetables and dairy products.” I’ll concede that salty foods include NaCl, just as--I have long (and geekily) joked-- organic foods contain carbon. But the Center’s description of umami as having glutamate (such as MSG, which Dr. Ikeda invented) and ribonucleotides is too clinical for me. (I’ll concede that a technical definition of umami may be warranted, but it vitiates the romance associated with food.) As a result, describing umami to non-chemists may be akin to Potter Stewart’s famous legal definition of pornography: "I shall not today attempt further to define the kinds of material I understand to be embraced . . . [b]ut I know it when I see it . . .”

If umami can naturally occur in meat, it certainly does not do so in the Umami burger. Accordingly, the chef saw fit to use tamari sauce, which is a thicker version of soy sauce (itself a flavor-emasculating grotesquerie) and anchovies, normally one my favorite fishes to eat. But it is a mystery, on a Lynchian scale, why anyone would mix a very astringent soy sauce and loads of anchovies with quality ground flap meat, as if it were some perverse East-Meets-West version of Hamburger Helper. Thanks to Umami Burger, my wife may never want to go out for burgers again.

Note:

The wife was so totally disgusted by Umami Burger that she refused to finish her blog AND took forever to edit my own portion of this entry. As a result, we were scooped by our homie TC at Sinosoul. Not only did Umami Burger ruin our lunch, its mere existence silenced our blog for far too long. Umami Burger, you can suck it.

Umami Burger
850 S. La Brea Ave.
Los Angeles
(323) 931-3000
www.umamiburger.com

Don't Hock at Lu Gi: A Tyro’s Guide to Hot Pot

I have long struggled with Chinese food, the only national cuisine to which I took a visceral disliking. My opinion changed after experiencing the spicy complexities of Chung King, but I’ve never been taken by any other Chinese restaurant. So I cannot dismiss Chinese food altogether, and the San Gabriel Valley’s rich dining scene is just too alluring. Still, it can be so inaccessible, and virtually every one of our adventures in the SGV has been met with failure. (Thanks, J Gold.) As it turns out, all I need is a guide. (Not J Gold.)

Ergo, we met SinoSoul and his fiancée, Hayon, at Lu Gi, a Taiwanese hot pot joint in San Gabriel. When we sat down at our cramped booth, I was totally overwhelmed. There was a bifurcated cauldron of two broths cooking on the table-top burner, one glowering with all of its dark redness and another more docile looking one, tranquil and clear. Lu Gi, according to SinoSoul’s footnotes, does not have a “ma la” pot, which I understand is exceedingly spicy. Lu Gi offers only a “la” pot. The white broth, the yuānyāng, was decidedly un-medicinal relative to Sichuan hot pot.

There was an array of ingredients on the table: platters of thin slices of raw beef and raw lamb; a tower of quivering tripe; assorted mushrooms, tofu, and taro; various dumplings made of squid, shrimp, and K-crab; squid noodles which somehow replicated the shape and texture of calamari; long, grassy noodles; leafy greens, including those from a chrysanthemum; and finally, a fish cake, a supposed specialty of the house. After surveying the table, I realized that these items would be going into the broths. There was also a delightfully garlicky seaweed salad with a spicy kick for everyone to nosh on.

As for the hot-potting procedure, Tony C. explained that we were to take our small bowls over to the salsa bar of debatable hygiene, mix in a few sauces, add a pinch of some satay sauce, sesame oil and soy sauce and then start loading up on all the good stuff boiling in the broths. If there is an art to the hot pot, I did not master it. But I did manage to make quite a mess. We ate for over two hours and had a great time doing it. But with my inelegant blending of all the sauces and inability to maintain the segregation of the two broths, I couldn’t really discern anything from any other, with one exception. I really liked the fish cake, which pre-boiling was a gray shapeless mass of fish paste with corn starch and whatever else. The only thing it resembled, if remotely, was truly gelatinous gefilte fish. Tony C. broke the mass into smaller pieces and boiled them in the two broths. I was taken with its inherent fishiness; underneath the multiple layers of clashing sauces and broths, I could somehow still taste the sea in it. Granted the volumes of MSG in the spicy broth helped elicit this effect. But maybe what I tasted was that umami thing that is infecting hamburgers on La Brea. In any event, two hours of chazering this stuff kept us up all night, chugging from the large, cold bottles of water the ESP had the foresight to place at our bedside. While Lu Gi was absolutely terrific in the moment, I’m not sure I’ll return soon. But I will absolutely return to the SGV with SinoSoul for some more fressing.

Lu Gi
539 W. Valley Blvd.
San Gabriel
(626) 457-5111