We started off with our traditional breakfast at Pat & Lorraine's, familiar to Tarantino fans as the scene of the famous opening monologue from Reservoir Dogs.
Most of the food and drink is fairly typical diner fare, but they have spectacular Machaca, served with scrambled eggs & 'home fries'.
(an aside: home fries are a shameful surrender by restaurant management to prep cooks who are too lazy to grate potatoes for real hash browns. But in this case, the machaca more than makes up for the corner-cutting.)
Any visit to LA involves a lot of driving around, and this was our day to rack up the miles. We sped hither and yon in Bobo's trusty Jetta, framing LA's vast cultural sprawl with a car windshield. Following last month's midwest swing it was strange to see a city that was vibrant, alive and fully populated...even the squalid bits had more meat on their bones than the midwest equivalent, adding their own flavor to the stock of the city.
Although even by west coast standards LA is almost tumourously alive, pulsing and squelching like Tetsuo's renegade flesh at the end of Akira. One minute you're think you're in Korea or Vietnam, drive three blocks and you're in some wretched American slum, drive a few more blocks and you're surrounded by exotic Italian sports car dealerships. It's more than a little disorienting.
Bobo is an excellent tour guide, capable of delivering a thumbnail history of whatever neighborhood you find yourself in. Our trip to his favorite Highland Park taco truck the previous night included a gratis lecture on the history of its resident Avenues street gang and several colorful anecdotes invovling shootouts at burger stands and gas stations.
We ran some errands and then went in search of lunch, which Bobo decided would be at a posh bakery cafe called Doughboys. Finding it was a chore, as Bobo couldn't remember what street it was on and his call for directions got us sent on a wild goose chase (what kind of waiter doesn't know the street their restaurant is on?) Bobo finally abandoned modern technological solutions and let the Force guide us. Tacking against the headwind of my ridicule, he got us to our destination only slightly behind schedule.
The food was worth the wait, although I had better service at a Wendy's in Kentucky. Our well-meaning, very energetic and heavily tattooed server kept hopelessly misreading our intentions- his response to our plea for a basic espresso drink was some kind of vanilla milkshake.
Bobo (nonplussed):
Uh...no. Do you have an iced latte?
Server (with the enthusiasm of a very small dog):
Sure! Should I make that a double?!?
Bobo (deadpan):
No thanks.
Our order of dual French Dips also triggered a merchandising land mine- "Would you like those white trash style, with bacon and grilled onions?!?"
Bobo blinked rapidly in horror, but recovered his equilibrium in time to mask my involuntary choking with a polite refusal.
Quick question for social historians:
When was bacon elected America's culinary panacea?
Once we fended off our server's aggressive upsaleing (irritating for the patron, mana for the owner) we enjoyed excellent iced lattes and OUTSTANDING French Dips, the best I've ever had. And you need to understand I spent a good portion of my youth in the company of the Pelf, sampling every French Dip we could find.
This one was ideal in every respect. They bake their own bread, so a perfect baguette is perhaps to be expected. But the meat was thinly sliced, pink and succulent, and the Jus was copious and carried the deep color and flavor of stock, not the thin, bitter taste of bouillon. Plus, there was more than enough of it. Even the horseradish sauce was spot on- not to hot, but not washed out and bland.
The food redeemed the experience, which is fine with me. I'll take spectacular food in a so-so setting over so-so food in a spectacular setting every time.
(to be continued)
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