more than a food blog

Dude, you should really get that checked out. Those bumps are NOT normal.

Nestled on the south end of the Third Street Promenade is Xooro, pronounced “SURE-oh” – selling, self-proclaimedly, “the one and only premium Spanish fritter!”

Their very snazzy website also says “Voted Best Dessert in LA 2008.” Oh, reeeeeallly??!?

Anyway, Simon and I walked by, were intrigued, but then just kept walking next door to Citrus Valley, a new Pinkberry/RM-esque yogurt joint. You can take MTFB out of Westwood, but you can’t make them not eat froyo wherever they go.

You’ll have to have a nuanced appreciation of Pinkberry and Red Mango to understand the following description. Citrus Valley’s yogurt is exactly in between Pinkberry and Red Mango. Not as tart as Pinkberry, but creamier, but not as creamy as Red Mango. The mochi was sweeter than at either other froyo joints, but the kiwi was dreadfully unripe (at least they had kiwi ahem Red Mango).

Then, Simon and I decided to go to Xooro after all. I blatantly disregarded their “NO PHOTOGRAPHY!” sign, ripped the display out of the window, and started taking pictures (see top).

But what are they?!? you might ask. They’re basically churros with shit inside. We got recommendations from the chap behind the counter – a very darlingly round, overwhelmed cutie whom I shall call PomPom. I got the Dulce de Leche as suggested and Simon ignored the guy totally and got the mango.

And then, we waited. And waited. And waited. PomPom came out twice to apologize for the wait. Apparently they were making them from total total scratch, for which I didn’t mind waiting.

Mine came out, crispy hot and looking like a penis and an anus rolled into one.

It did not help that the inside was brown. lol. Simon’s mango one was aeons better than mine, but neither were what you’d call best dessert in LA. Perhaps the designation was taking into mind that they fry their xooros in rice bran oil, which is supposed to be (a) uber delicious and (b) incredibly good for you. Simon says, and I agree, that Xooro is like voting or the LA County Fair – once every four years is enough.

What’s this? My first post EVAR? and I’ve wasted it on the (non-) original Del Taco in Barstow, CA, something Janet’s already posted on?

Yes.

Let’s be honest folks, I had a billion (read: three) EPIC ideas for what my first time would be. I mean what could be more memorable than a self-made BeerFest? or more creative than launching a clothing line? But if anything can be learned through anecdotal evidence from the past several hundred years, it’s that putting the “first time” on a pedestal will probably leave you confused, disappointed, and yes, even scared. So I’ve decided to ease you in on something familiar.

SCORE! Unlike fellow blogger Janet, I love all things sweet. I’ve got a soft spot for cake and every now and then I get an irrational craving for carrot cake. Granted, Del Taco isn’t the first place I think of for fine desserts, but I was having residual drunk munchies (drunkies). Anyway, I promptly stepped up to the counter and ordered a carrot cake. I was so excited I forgot to order a drink.  Things like how much it cost or what exactly Del Taco thinks makes a carrot cake escape my hazy memory, but I did have the presence of mind to snap a couple of shots:

Just look at that beauty! Isn’t it just one of those things you just have to get in your mouth? But how did it taste? My fuzzy recollection swears that it cost me less than $2, so I can safely say that you get what you pay for. While the cake was surprisingly moist for sitting in a plastic package for God knows how long and the creamy frosting was on par in the taste department, texturally the cake was lacking. True, Del Taco went the extra bit by including real bits of shredded carrots and raisins scattered throughout the cake, but it still didn’t quite fit the bill. I wish I could say that it brought back sweet childhood memories of eating cake at my aunt’s table, but all it did was satisfy my sweet-tooth long enough to get me home.

So there you have it. The next time you’re up at the outlets in Barstow, swing by Del Taco and see for yourself. While you’re at it, no one over here has tried the “Barstow locations only” tostada, so give it a whirl and let us know. And now, a parting shot. Literally.

Almost-Original Del Taco
In Barstow, near the outlets
Take the Lenwood Road or Outlet Center Drive exit.

Simon: Wanna go to Darya?

Janet: YES OMGOMGOMG onyooooons!  Butterrrrrrz!

What could cause me to lapse into such inane lolspeak?  Well, Simon and I are somewhat obsessed with Darya on Santa Monica & Bundy, because of the traditional Persian version of bread and butter to start. It’s a concoction of flatbread, Alta Dena (apparently) butter cubes, raw onions, and some sprinkleable spice stuff.

You know, we’re probably not even doing it right. What we have agreed upon, and what tastes good to us, is the following:

1. Slice raw onion into tiny, bite-size slivers.  May even require a vertical cut (difficult but doable with the butter knife).

2. Put pats of butter onto flatbread.

3. Squish aforementioned onion slivers into butter to secure.

4. Sprinkle with the spices (they’re in that kind of jar where you’re used to seeing parmesan and oregano inside).

5. Roll up like a mini enchilada.

6. Eat – probably close to 10 or 20 of them.

Seriously, we always go through the entire basket of flatbread, all of the butter, and very nearly all of the raw onion, not caring who the fuck we might make out with later.

Neither do we care much about the actual food – a complete afterthought.  Ironic, because the first time we went there they screwed up and served us the wrong entrees, so we got to keep them and also eat the actual entrees we ordered – 4 total!  Whee!

The last time I was there I ordered Fesenjon – the glorious Persian stew with walnut and pomegranate and served with a side of basmati rice. It is sour and sweet and nutty and just fabulous. Not that I have any room at all, ever, to eat anything I order for real.  And then usually we go over to Simon’s house (walking distance!) and I store the leftovers in his fridge and promptly forget about them, only to go “DAMNIT NOT AGAIN!!” later on in the day when I’m already home.  Nuts!