Archive for March, 2009

KoGi

Tuesday, March 31st, 2009

So much hype about this Korean taco truck.  If you don’t know about it, then go away.  Because that means you (a) don’t pay attention; and (b) don’t love me enough to read one of my most delightful and intellectual posts.

I suspected it was more than just hype when the unpleasable taco purist and connoisseur Christopher called me when he first went and said, quietly, “I think…I think it was the best taco I’ve ever had.”

My jaw dropped.

So I recently went, accompanied by said Christopher, when it was parked at The Brig.  The line went in a weird snail formation – a spiral with the end of the line in the middle of the circle.  Weirdage.  It wasn’t devastatingly long, but it was 11:00 pm and they hadn’t even started serving.  We got in line and settled in.

Things that happened to pass the time:

1. We admired the camel toe on the chick on the wall mural on the side of Brig (go look!  You’ll be like “Haha Janet.  That silly bitch.”).

2. We made friends with the people behind us in line, but then when I tried to take a picture of them they got all weird and covered their faces like I was some paparazzo.

3. I bumped into my friend who is a grad student at Irvine.  ?  I hope it was worth the drive!

4. Observing the order-taker dude’s flirtation skillz.  Only OK.

That’s about it.  It was a long wait no matter how you sliced it.  About 1.5 hours.

 

 

My pants were almost peed in when we got to the front of the line – from excitement!  I didn’t want to look like a loser so I had looked up the menu on the ol’ iPhone before I got to the front.  Once the order-taker dude turned his mediocre flirty skillz on me, I started to like him better.  [Even though I had spent at least 20 minutes stamping my foot and grumbling that the line would go faster if he didn't spend so much time shooting the shit with everyone as if there weren't HUNDREDS of people in line waiting omgomgomggggg!]

We got spicy pork tacos, short rib tacos, tofu tacos, and a kimchee quesadilla – not on their website but recommended by the fugitives behind us.

When I first heard about KoGi, I thought the brilliance likely lay in the meaty bbq flavor that would infuse the tacos.  I didn’t realize what it’s really about, which is the shit on top.  Flavor.  Bomb.  Roy had said that they have a secret recipe handed down over many generations in his family for the cabbage spice, and clearly the Chois have it going on.  Truly.  I was like “Meat? Oh yeah.”  [Although I cannot support the tofu - just cubes of uncooked regular tofu.]

Best taco I’ve ever had?  Sure!  I mean, it’s the most interesting, flavorful taco I’ve had, and so I guess if I had three bux I would unfailingly spend it on KoGi.

 

 

THIS shit, though.  I still search the corners of my mouth with my tongue in hopes that some kimchee cheddar bits are stuck somewhere.  God.  What is the secret?  It’s not like it’s anything that fancy – just cheese and kimchee?  Their secret kimchee?  Is that it?  I am dying just looking at this photograph.  Want want want.  Crunchy, sticky, burney, salty, umami-y, spicy, cheesy, chewy.  Ahhhhh.

Follow the truck on Twitter!

Or check them at the Alibi Room!

Postscript re: Alibi Room – it used to be so unexpectedly cute and swanky, but now I’m sure it’s overrun with fools now that KoGi’s taken over the kitchen.  Also, my friend ReeRee just said, “I went to the Alee-bee Room and got Ko-Jee!”  lol.

Figs Boston: Best Leftover Award

Friday, March 20th, 2009

Todd English had us by the balls while we were in Boston. My gang and I had earlier eaten the most delectable fish and chips (post forthcoming, one of these decades) at Kingfish at Faneuil Hall, and then wandered into Figs for dinner, not realizing that the mastermind for both joints was one and the same (and a very sexy same at that).

The wait was long, but not too long, and the hostess was scary, but not too scary. She didn’t write down anyone’s name ever, which alarmed me, and my blatant lack of trust was clearly pissing her off (thus the lil’ scary).

We were squished-seated in a tiny table, flanked by beautiful couples with large age differentials on both sides.   Since the restaurant was called Figs, we were first served some sort of genetically-modfied fig,  – round instead of tear-shaped and with a perfectly smooth skin, served in an interesting green-yellow fig oil. 

Oh, wait.  These are just olives.

Is anyone besides me not so into focaccia?  So much boooring texture.   Awful for sandwiches, never salty enough, dangerous for people with TMJ because it’s always so damn tall.  Lame.  Also- it’s usually paired with rosemary, which is an herb I am officially OVER!

Ugh.  So much grouchiness – not sexy.  No caffeine yet this morning and I’m sitting here annoyed because I was supposed to leave thirty minutes ago for a long road trip and flaky people are making me late.  And making me drive.  Grouch grouch grumble grumble.

When I was a lil’ Janet and I was grouchy, my dad would make me splash water on my face.  This made my face wet, which just made me angrier.  Fail.  I think the point was to refresh and then reset my mood.  If so, then this is the perfect post to be writing because it’s taking me back to the most wonderfully refreshing watermelon salad with arugula, crushed postachios, olive oil, feta cream, and balsamic vinegar, pictured top.  This salad wouldn’t work without a beefy, ripe watermelon, and that it was.  I wished the pistachios weren’t quite so mushy.  I know the feta cream sounds scary but like G’s porridge it was juuust right. 

Whoa what happened!  Why are we suddenly in the dark of the deep sea exhibit in the aquarium?  The service was a bit slow so by the time our pizza came out – Fig & Prosciutto with crisp rosemary crust, fig and balsamic jam, proscuitto, and gorgonzola cheese – it was night-time.  Doesn’t matter – we were fu-uuullll and had maybe one or two slices each of the gigaaantic pizza.  If you laid out every single card in a deck in a rectangular fashion, that’s how big it was.

Digression: I had a super silly chem teacher in high school, who used the Socratic method but not in a scary way.  Anyway, he would tell funny stories of how big of a loser he was when HE was in high school.  My favorite story was about when he was eating a roast beef sandwich when a cute girl he liked walked in.  In the story, he locked eyes with her as she walked by.

[Then he drew a rectangle on the blackboard with a squiggly line all the way through it.] 

“You know how, in roast beef, sometimes there are stringy things going through it? I don’t know if it’s tendons or what, but in this sandwich, the stringy thing started at one end of the sandwich and went all the way through it to the other end.  So I took a bite, chomped on the string, couldn’t bite through it, so I just kept eating more and more and more of the sandwich, until finally the whole thing was in my mouth.”

Can you imagine?  You’re some sweet cute girl, and this…guy!  Is staring at you!  And then he just stuffs an entire sandwich in his fucking mouth?!  You’d be sooo creeped out.  Hahahahha. 

Digression over.  The point of that digression: The prosciutto was like that.  One couldn’t get properly proportioned bites because it automatically entrapped one into a prosciutto vortex.   So you ended up with a piece of figgy bread with no prosciutto after the first bite.  Sad.  

We felt bad about the amount of wasteage – a vast grid of uneaten pizza.  So we vowed to give our leftovers to the first homeless person who was down on his luck.  We saw several folks lounging in doorsteps, but none looked down on their luck enough.  And then when we did find someone who looked pretty down on their luck, none of us could get up the courage to actually say the required phrase “Excuse me, sir, are you down on your luck?”  which we decided was obligatory before handing over any leftovers.

So.  In the end the pizza ended up on my hotel bedside table overnight.  And it was the ultimate “resting” period.  The proteins in the prosciutto broke down, the fig jam had gelled into a soft caramel, and the crust had gotten nice and superchewy.  And, it was channeling a real breakfasty vibe with the sweet, doughy, and hammy.  I still crave crave crave this for breakfast, seven months later.  So delicious – like doing ecstasy in heaven!  Trust me, I’ve done it before.  Awesome.

Figs
42 Charles St
Boston, MA 02114
617.742.3447

Pops Chicago

Sunday, March 15th, 2009

Sharisa: Pops!
Others: [Not listening] Where should we grab a drink?
Sharisa: Popospopspopspopspops!
Others: [Still not listening] Can we go somewhere other than the damn lobby bar? I’m sick of martinis.
Sharisa: POPSPOPSPOPSPOPSPOPS!

So, she wasn’t hicupping. She was trying to communicate that we should go to Pops, which is a champagne bar in the Magnificent Mile (that sounds dumb. Miracle Mile is so much cooler) area of downtown Chicago. It was barely a three-block walk from our hotel, on the way to our dinner rezzies at Frontera (post forthcoming!) Grill, and just perfect.

Drew, who wasn’t going with us because she had a date with a Chicago “friend” (in quotation marks because he was one of those friend-who-so-dearly-wants-to-marry-you-even-though-you’ve-told-him-a-thousand-times-you-have-a-boyfriend friends … one of those friend-who-texts-you-multiple-stanza-poems friends … one of those “Oh, you now need me to pick you up at Pops? Ok, well make sure you stay in the upper floor near a window because the lower floor of that restaurant doesn’t get any cell reception and I want to be able to reach you when I pick you up at 8:55 on the dot” friends), decided she couldn’t miss out and came with us.

The menu is extensive. We obv skipped the Jacquesson 1990 Avize Grand Cru Dégorgement Tardif since I didn’t bring enough cash to spend $1250, and settled on a relatively cheapie cheap Prosecco. We fretted to our server (whom Liz called “attractive” and we all jumped down her throat. Attractive if you’re Charlotte from Sex and the City, maybe) over whether to get the half bottle or a bottle or a half bottle or a bottle do we have time for a whole bottle probably not but will half a bottle be enough etc. for a long time, and instead of taking the easy up-sell, he said “We can surely work out a half bottle for the four of you.” and eased our mental suffering.

This on top of the bouncer getting us a prime table in the window (we seated Drew immediately adjacent to the window for maximal cell reception) even though we yelled “WE’RE ONLY HAVING ONE DRINK!!!” as we were walking in. Very nice, these Chicagoans.

Liz got some sort of peach bellini with peach foam. She gave me a taste. Lordie. When I was a kid, I was allowed to have the foamy head only off of my parents’ beers. I sucked Liz’s foam the way I imbibed said beer foam as a child – like my life depended on it. Delish!

When Drew’s “date” pulled up (we all wondered what sort of car he [hedge fund lawyer] would drive – I kept a lookout for either a Mercedes or an unmarked van) in a BMW and she scampered off, probably mortified that we were waving at her date SO HARD with cheesy grins on our faces. Cuteness all around.

Pops for Champagne
601 North State Street at Ohio
312.266.7677

Jonathan Gold: Can Food Be Authentic?

Thursday, March 12th, 2009

As part of the Zocalo series, I went today with Christopher to the Skirball to see Jonathan Gold, Pulitzer-prize-winning food critic of the LA Weekly. The only food writer, I might add, to have ever won that distinction.

He was moderating a panel entitled Can Food Really Be Authentic? with “a panel of Los Angeles’ best-known chefs” on which were Nancy Silverton of Mozza/Campanile/LaBrea Bakery, Jim Shaw of Loteria Grill, Sarintip “Jazz” Singsanong of Jitlada, and Roy Choi of KoGi truck faaaaame.

Yeah. With that lineup, it was pretty awesome.

What does Jonathan Gold look like? Well. I had heard him on the radio, on KCRW’s Good Food, and he sounds just like Jonathan Adler. And since they had the same name, I assumed they looked the same, but in my head, Jonathan Gold was a red-headed version of Jonathan Adler. No.

The man up top does not look one bit like a ginger Jonathan Adler. He looks, according to Christopher, more like Chris Farley, and his interview style, apparently, is just like him too.

Gosh, what a character! I loved him. He speaks as if he is writing, very thoughtful. Unfortunately, he also had dry mouth? or something? and made awful chewy smacking saliva noises loudly into the microphone as a preface to each of his sentences. Michele Norris has nothing on this man.

So Jonathan opened with a meditation on ravioli. In Italy, they have ravioli with cow udder inside – a longstanding tradition in a certain region of the country. Now, to be “authentic,” and recreate this ravioli in LA, one would have to comb various weird markets to see if cow udder is sold commercially (it’s not), so you’d have to go to a special butcher, and somehow haggle with him to get him to sell you this random part from a cow that usually gets thrown away. Then, you’d have your ravioli, dripping (and stuffed) with authenticity.

But is it truly authentic?” posed JGo. The whole point of ravioli is to feed many with a small amount of protein. The whole point of ravioli is to use what’s close, convenient, cheap. Haven’t we lost the entire meaning behind the dish, thereby negating any sort of authenticity?

Good point. He went on to offer several thousand more examples in the same vein (“I THINK I GET IT” I whispered to Christopher), and segued to a story about a dish in Italy that is a gigantor carp prepared like a pig (how did he get there, I do not know, as I was zoning out and itching to play Wurdle on my iPhone).

JGo: It’s not a carp…
JGo: …It’s a PIG!
JGo: [giggle]

He totally cracks himself up. Very cute.

He also talked about how he has stricken the word “authentic” (also “ethnic”) from his lexicon. I shall do the same.

He then turned the floor over to Nancy Silverton, who looked like a cool chick to hang out with. She had on an outfit that, if I were 15 years older, would likely DIE for, and just a very alluring speaking style. I was very focused on craning my neck to see her dress and wondering how she was doing since she lost all her money to Madoff and didn’t quite pay too much attention to what she was actually saying, except that Italy is similar to LA in climate, and when she started her restaurant here they put her in a new category of food – Calitalian. As if her food was not worthy of being called true Italian, even though her food was delicious according to JGo.

Next was Jim Shaw. Though a quick Googleing says he is a native of Mexico City, I don’t believe it. I mean, he had zero accent, looks white, and is fucking named Jim Shaw. Anyway, he was there to represent why authenticity is good, and had a couple cool lines like “When I got to LA, I realized Mexican food was in its spaghetti phase and hadn’t gotten to its pasta phase” and “I saw Mexi-Cali, but where was Mexi-Mexi?” He seemed very nice and some of his food sounded really lovely, like his stews. He said, of Taco Bell, that saying “chicken or beef taco? That doesn’t tell me anything. That’s like saying your taco is filled with mollusk.”

The true star of the night was Roy Choi. I won’t rehash the whole story about how his Korean taco truck is getting tons of press, serves 400 pounds of meat a day, with lines that were, when JGo visited his truck, over 600-people-long. He got famous via Twitter, with KoGi fans creating a KoGi network, constantly twittering the truck’s location (the truck has since gotten its own twitter account – go follow it). OK, I just rehashed the story anyway. Damnit.

Anyhoo, Roy was thoughtful, funny, passionate, inspiring, cool, and just a BAMF all around. He first talked about his normal day (wake up early to hit the markets, nap during the day, get to the truck at 9 pm), and how he got the idea (he had just been canned from the Beverly Hilton and his now partner came, bought him a cup of coffee, and said they should open a taco truck – “1-2-3, just like that, in those steps.”), and how KoGi got big (“It would have been inconceivable without social media like Twitter.”)

He then talked about how KoGi is authentic – authentically Los Angeles. He’s an Asian guy of Korean descent who has lived in LA his whole life, growing up alongside Mexicans and all other ethnicities. He argued that there really isn’t anything more authentically LA than that. He talked about how, with his food, he was trying to “tap into the rhythm” of LA – specifically, a section of LA bordered by Alvarado, Crenshaw, Venice, and Melrose (“Ever been there?” he said semi-mockingly to the WASPy/Jewy crowd -”Take the 720, or maybe the 724 bus – you’ll get there.”). The resulting food of Korean BBQ inside Mexican tacos made sense, he said. “We’re both a hardworking people. So when I paired the two cuisines, it was like the meeting of two friends who should have met a long time ago.”

The night ended with Jazz Singsanong. She looked like one of those Asian ladies you see gambling with their Prada glasses late at night at Caesar’s Palace, but when she opened her mouth she was soooo adorable. She took over Jitlada only three years ago, and now the place is a phenomenon, serving super authentic southern Thai cuisine. But when she and her brother first opened the place, there was very little business. One day she found the kitchen empty and asked her brother where all the food was. He explained that there was no money, because there were no customers and every day they threw out what they didn’t serve, because their food was made fresh from scratch every day – the curries, the sauces, everything (and now, all the herbs including things like lemongrass and kaffir lime leaves are grown in the garden of her LA home, or else out in front of the restaurant – COOL!). So she said she had to take the money out of her bank account, which was scary because the restaurant was not doing well and, she said, her husband would be very angry with her for taking their money. But, she said, she found the courage to do it thanks to … Oprah. lol. She said she knew that if her restaurant failed she would write Oprah and tell her about how she came to the US with just one suitcase and $200 in cash, and had a dream to open a restaurant.

Nothing more authentically USA than Oprah, ladies and gentlemen.

Listen to the complete podcast here or watch the video!

Postscript: I’d just like to say that I totally scooped JGo on this whole authenticity notion. OK, I wasn’t waxing poetic on udder ravioli, but I did talk about Panda Express. From August 13th of last year:

The moral of the story is, sometimes the authentic original isn’t great. It drives me crazy anyway when people say, “It’s SOOO AUTHENTIC!” as if that’s the holy grail. I think Panda Express is just as yummy, in a different way, than the Chinese food I had in Hong Kong.

I’m ready for my Pulitzer now. K thx bai.

The Best Burger in North America

Tuesday, March 10th, 2009

Hi! I just got back from a super fun week in Chicago that ended in fucktardedness when rain (yes, rain) canceled my flight (and a gazillion others’) and I was stuck in O’Hare for 9 hours, and didn’t get home until 2 am.

ANYWAY, for reasons that will become clear in nine paragraphs, a MUST EAT stop was Sweets & Savories.

Let’s get some boring stuff out of the way. Namely, our apps. Keller’s app was a beautiful gnocchi with escar–

–wait, let me backtrack more. First of all, their website is weird. It has an interface reminiscent of when you call that dude that helps you with maps and shit in Metal Gear. But it’s cool. When we actually got there, we thought we had the wrong place. I refused to get out of the cab until I called them:

Me: Ummmm…where are you located again?
Them: 1534 Fullerton.
Me: Yeah but like, what’s near you?
Them: Our cross street is Ashland.
Me: I mean, what is like, exactly next door to you?
Them: An empty lot.
Me: And then an…insurance? Company? On your other side?
Them: Yes.

So the immediate neighborhood seemed kind of sketch, and there was NO ONE in the restaurant (economy? Tuesday night?) but it was the cutest space. The menu was one of those where EVERYTHING looked so fucking fabulous. My heart, though, beat for only one item – the foie gras burger.

This will go down as the easiest post to write of all time, because it’s been written for me beautifully yet hilariously by Peter Sagal, most famous for being the host of NPR’s Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me in the Best Food Writing 2008 (a gift from Christopher), writing (originally in Saveur) about Chicago’s foie gras ban.

“This is the silliest ordinance the City Council has ever passed,” said Mayor Richard M. Daley.”

“What about my hamburger?” said my wife, Beth, who just wanted her hamburger.

Specifically: the $17 hamburger at Sweets & Savories, on Fullerton Avenue, which the menu describes as “Strube Ranch American Kobe beef with foie gras pate and truffled mayonnaise and toasted brioche roll” and which, when served with a side of duck-fat fries, is the kind of meal God would cook for houseguests if God were a 12-year-old kid.

Seventeen dollars is a lot to pay for hamburger, especially one that does not come with a toy in the bag, but a couple things you should know are, first, that it is enormous, the size you remember your first Big Mac’s being when you finally convinced your parents that you were old enough to graduate from McNuggets, and, second, that the heat from the beef melts the pate, just a little bit, so it seems to absorb the truffle mayo above it and then ineluctably swirls into both the beef and the bread, infecting them with glory, the way Agent Smith converted everybody into himself in those awful Matrix sequels. The result inspires guttural grunts of pleasure as you realize you must put the burger down, because if you don’t, it will fall apart, but instead you take another bite mmmph mmmph mmmph.

So. Back to boring stuff like Keller’s gnocchi with escargot, market mushrooms, arugula, and pecorino. Um, that was sarcasm. I have re-read that bit a number of times and can’t tell if it comes across correctly sarcastic. The gnocchi was not boring. It was…garlicky, smooth, sticky, and the escargot sent a shiver down my spine, half because it was so rich and pleasingly chewy, half because I was like, “can I taste snail eyeball right now? I think I taste snail eyeball.”

My soup: roasted sweet potato bisque with crème fraiche mousseline and crispy sage. For a eight years of my life I spent summers with a foodie family, the dad of which would pick sage leaves from the garden out back, crispy-fry them in good olive oil, and then sprinkle them with kosher salt. We would eat these like potato chips. Glorious. So that was my favorite part of this soup. The soup was good, though something you might get easily at other restaurants aside from the sage.

To keep a finger food vibe, we got Croque Madame for our other entree (smoked ham, gruyere, béchamel, fried farm egg, and grain mustard). Whatever vitamin is in egg yolk (I think it’s called…cholesterol? Yeah.), I think I was craving it. I wanted yolk, and I got it, basically everywhere. Messatron Max.

BUT NOT AS MESSY AS MY FOIE BURGER!

“Mmmph” is exactly the noise that came out of me as I shoved it down my gullet. Our server came over, saw me, and said, “How is every — actually, I’ll just come back later.”

I don’t need to describe the burger, as it has already been done exquisitely by Sagal above. The only difference is that our fries were fried in beef tallow, not duck fat. Oh no! (Sarcasm again – I was just as excited.)

OH SHIT! I forgot to mention that we did the prix fixe menu – app, entree, and dessert for $36. I always worry about prix fixe because I never want dessert, so in the end it always never seems worth it. So I asked, at the beginning, for the dessert menu to confirm that there was anything I wanted.

Oh, there was something I wanted alright.

I wanted the Meyer lemon curd tart with blueberry compote and soft cream. Super tart.

Oh, and this -

Warm Belgium chocolate fondant cake with cocoa sorbet and chocolate ganache sauce. I was awfully tempted by other items with cool ice creams (white pepper ice cream, brown butter ice cream) but Keller is a chocolate fiend so…

So, the main star of the night was, clearly, the burger. I didn’t even wipe my hands on my napkin before pawing at my iPhone to tell everyone about the burger I just had.

…There should be a word for an obnoxious foodie. An obnoxfoo?

Sweets & Savories
1534 W Fullerton
Chicago, IL
773.281.6778

The evolution of my animal photography skillz

Sunday, March 1st, 2009

Ladies and gentlemen, meet our darling hammie CHEETO! We have had her for a looong time but I never could get an MTFB-worthy picture of her, for two reasons. (1) Hammies are nocturnal; hard to get good light for pictures; and (2) I suuuuck at taking pictures of animals (this includes humans).

Entrees and appetizers sit STILL. They don’t wiggle or careen or blink.

Witness the evolution of my skills, from beginning (horrid) to end (mildly out of focus but passable):

This clearly belongs in the “horrid” category. There actually is an animal pictured above (don’t get distracted by Tinx’s nice rack). It’s a papillon puppy. But she’s squiggling so violently that with the no-flash photography she looks like a dementor on a foggy day.

When I showed this picture to some of my friends, they were horrified. “WHY WOULD YOU TAKE PHOTOS OF DEAD SEALS?!??” Epic fail. They are actually elephant seals, and they’re just lounging around, for god’s sake. Anyway, the sky looks pretty in this photo (note: probably because skies don’t move) but the things on the beach look like gray poos.

Apparently I have a more luck with my freaking iPhone than with my nice camera. This photo was aided by the fact that this lil’ girl was the chillest puppy ever. Her owner was three thousand years old, so maybe that’s why.

Hmmm. Ok. I’m starting to understand that lethargy is the key to good animal photography. (Except in the case of seals, which apparently swing too far in that direction.) Above is Emry’s dog, getting some coolness off the floor on a hot day. Good, good. We’re getting closer to “awww” territory now.

One lucky night, I got home to realize that Cheeto was sitting IN HER FOOD BOWL. Resisting the urge to chide her for being rude, I instead took the opportunity to snap some photos. She’s in focus, yay, but…night-time-orangeness, not to mention…a FINGER in the photo? That’s such a cliche bad photographer move lol!

OK, try 2, without getting my left pointer in the frame. Too late, too late. See her little paw sticking out of the food dish? This picture is mid-ENH! and she’s moving already. Bah.

FINALLY! A semi-blurry but still somewhat acceptable shot! This and the one at the top are culminations of several strategies: (1) Humans tend to settle down when they eat, so I gave her a cutie to nom on.

[Digression: When I posted these pictures up on bookface, the following ensued:

Monican at 11:47am February 25
Misleading: I thought your hamster was named Cutie and it's eating a cheeto. But at closer inspection, it's the other way around.

Janet at 11:56am February 25
lol. She's called Cheeto because she's orange. But then again, so is a Cutie. Misleading all around.]

(2) I woke her up in the daytime, which meant good light. (3) It also meant she was groggy and not wiggly. (4) She has a new pink cage (clashy cute!) which is smaller – easier to pin her down.

Now that I’ve gotten some chops, I will now really get to work on my “Dogs That Should Have Been Named Oreo” photo essay.