Fast Food Snobbery

I'm an unapologetic snob, even when it comes to fast food. Consider last night's discussion with June-chan about dinner. June-chan wanted to go to Jack In The Box. I countered with a suggestion to go to In-N-Out. We somehow moved from hamburgers to fried chicken as our white trash entree of choice. I told her I was craving Popeyes Chicken & Biscuits, whose nearest franchised restaurant was a couple of miles from her house. She said KFC was only three blocks away. I told her that I would provide door-to-door service from her house to Popeyes if she were too lazy and hungry to travel outside of her zip code. So I sped to her house from where I was, called when I was in front of her apartment building, unlocked the passenger car door to let her in and chauffeured her to Popeyes in Santa Monica. The restaurant was so ghetto that the restaurant manager hung the framed Mardi Gras posters diagonally so that the varied angle would add some class. But, damn, that was some good chicken.

Hookah Mamas

Saturday was a day of experimentation for June-chan and me. Not only did we try coconut custard pie for the very first time (and loved it), but we also smoked a hookah. We knew it would be an evening filled with giggles once we walked in the door of a recently opened Egyptian restaurant on Sawtelle Boulevard, south of Santa Monica Boulevard. Sitting on the front stoop was a waiter with a mohawk. He didn't serve our table, but a non-mohawked waiter who was rather cute with his conventionally shorned locks did. I wasn't entirely sure what one packed in a two-foot-high hookah to smoke. It wasn't conventional tobacco. Surmising from the strawberry and grape flavors that swirled in my mouth after puffing on the long pipe fitted with a hygienic plastic tip, I guessed that the house special that our waiter recommended was a blend of strawberry and grape leaves or a paste mixed with the essence of those fruits. The blend was compressed in a bell-shaped metal container wrapped with perforated aluminum foil. The bell vessel was then snapped on the top of the hookah and warmed with three pieces of charcoal. The heat from the charcoals burned the "tobacco" which June-chan and I smoked. The flavors were so sweet that we skipped dessert. We also felt a little lightheaded but not totally baked. The predominantly Middle Eastern patrons in the restaurant must have thought we were some crazy Asian tourists because we kept snapping pictures of ourselves on our cell phones. June-chan even videotaped me adeptly smoking the hookah on her Razr in case anyone doubted that I knew how to blow smoke rings. The best part about the surreal night was that it didn't end at the hookah restaurant. June-chan and I met two friends in Hollywood and boogied the hookah high off to Tones on Tails' "Go!" and other fabulously catchy dance tracks.

Coconut Custard Pie

Urth Caffe is favored by too many bobos, or bourgeouis bohemians, for my preference. But on a drizzly Saturday, after a couple of hours roaming around an architecture and design trade show in Santa Monica, it was the perfect place to sip chai and snack on coconut custard pie. The graham cracker crust tasted like cookies that were thirty seconds away from being burnt. The bitterness set a nice foundation to the rich filling of shredded coconut, milk and eggs. June-chan said she wouldn't have eaten the coconut custard if I hadn't suggested it. I never knew such a treat had existed. Using the same logic applied to my eel and foie gras discovery, I figured that if I love coconut and I love custard then I would surely love coconut custard.

Fashion Food

Five days packed with more than 30 runway shows, a dozen parties, lots of attitude and a box of soy chips. No wonder Missy and I got silly in the press room.

Fosters Freeze

It's late. I was tired, hungry and lost in Eagle Rock. Blue Hen was inexplicably closed on a Tuesday night. But Fosters Freeze was open, with its deep fryer ready to cook my corn dog and waffle fries. The chocolate shake was refreshing slush. To prevent myself from turning into total white trash, I arranged the food on a pretty plate.

Donde Esta In-N-Out?

Hola! Habla usted espanol? Yo hablo espanol un poco. Cual es su signo? Mi signo es escorpion. Me gusta comer un cheeseburger y los fries de In-N-Out. Y usted?
So I'm honoring the stereotype of being an overachieving first-born child of Asian immigrant parents by taking an intensive four-day Spanish class. In the first two classes, I learned how to ask for someone on the telephone and request the spelling of a name. Those are important skills for una reportera. But I also learned the Spanish word for @ (arroba) and mastered asking what is someone's astrological sign. I didn't need to order my food in Spanish at the Westwood outpost of In-N-Out. Because real estate is so pricey on that side of town, the parking lot is tiny and not free. Many customers steered their cars on the drive-thru lane and gave their orders to a hapless worker standing on the asphalt with an electronic tablet. Though I admired the cheery efficiency of the young In-N-Outers, I was at a loss when I forgot to request a shake with my cheeseburger and fries and couldn't back up in the slow-moving line to revise my order. D'oh! No matter, the burger and fries were thoroughly enjoyed on the red gingham cloth that June-chan set in her apartment for our late lunch. Did you ever notice that the paper wraps for In-N-Out's burgers all bear the imprint of Revelation 3:20 on the bottom? Es dolor de cabeza!

Afrirampo

If The 5.6.7.8's and OOIOO had a love child, it'd be Afrirampo, an outrageously silly but musically daring girl group from Osaka, Japan. Oni and Pikachu, as they call themselves, use drums, an electric guitar and voice-distorting gadgets for their avant-rock, which is basically the 21st century description for the noise music that the Boredoms, UFO or Die and other bands hailing from Osaka had created in the late 20th century. It'd be tempting to describe Afrirampo vis a vis other Japanese girl bands such as Shonen Knife and Puffy Ami Yumi. Afrirampo would have never followed the traditional route of going to a junior college and working for Japan Inc. as OLs, or office ladies, a la Shonen Knife. And Puffy Ami Yumi would need to take a lot of crystal meth to sound like Afrirampo. For last night’s show at The Smell, Oni and Pikachu were dressed like Vegas showgirls transported back to the Stone Age. They shredded their red lace and satin costumes and smeared crimson glitter all over their faces. The crowd loved them, especially when they ended their one-hour set by banging wooden drumsticks on the speakers, mic stand and brick wall edging the small stage. Too bad Afrirampo didn't use a theremin in their act. I would have loved to pick up some tips for learning how to play the electronic wave instrument that I purchased earlier that day online. One of the four opening bands did, however. Harasser psyched everyone out by opening its act with a moody theremin solo accompanied by drums. Then the theremin player switched to an electric guitar, and the shirtless lead singer stomped onto the middle of the floor. The singer was an intimidating presence to say the least, what with the fake blood he had poured down his shaved head, tattooed torso and ZZ Top-style beard. The effect was appropriate for the speed metal that he spewed for the next 15 minutes or so. For the new band that I'm going to start with Drummer Girl and other friends, I'm thinking that we should follow Harasser's cue and psyche the audience out by starting with a raging drum solo and mellowing into a Portishead-like tune.

Huston, We Have a Problem

Eight hours after ending a tea party, I was done with being a lady. Though I was still wearing my tea outfit, I hit Hollywood Thursday night for a bit of electroclash and cosmopolitans flavored with raspberry-flavored Stoli vodka at the Beauty Bar. Stoli is my favorite vodka, but too much of it on an empty stomach can turn any lady into a tramp. I convinced Drummer Girl and her close friend to help me forage for food. We ended up at Huston's Pit Bar-B-Cue, which is located next to a parking lot a couple of doors down from the Beauty Bar. I didn't feel out of place as I had grown up in South Carolina, where barbeque, yams and collard greens are staples on the school lunch menu. But it's not every day that you get a girl in a white blazer rolling up her sleeves, pinning back her hair with a silver barrette and tucking a paper napkin under her chin before she dug into her pork sandwich and potato salad. I managed to keep my shirt as clean as the ivory Mercedes-Benz that was parked right outside of the steel bar-fortified restaurant window. The barbeque was so tasty and tender that Drummer Girl even had to order her own.

Tea for Seven

Is there a better way to send off a boss who's about to embark on a new life as a lady of leisure than to hold a proper tea party for six ladies and a gent? How about playing tea Tetris with your tablemate? Mr. Pirate and I sat primly across from each other at the far end of the long table in Chado Tea Room on Thursday, sipping our lavender Earl Grey tea with our pinkies stretched high above the white porcelain cups. I even wore my tea outfit: a white blazer that Luella Bartley had designed for Target and blue and white striped Bermuda shorts with black peep-toe wedge heels. Once the three-tiered tray of finger sandwiches, scones and bundt cakes was set between us, I flexed my fingers to prepare them for an hour of daintily devouring everything. I couldn't see Mr. Pirate's full face as it was obscured by the top row stacked with smoked salmon and dill toast, watercress sandwiches and a chicken-cranberry concoction that I first thought was some mean joke of mixing chicken salad with PBJ. As Mr. Pirate moved down the tray from the crust-less sandwiches to the warm scone with clotted cream and apricot preserves, I matched him item by item. I started getting full by the time we reached the bundt cakes set on the bottom shelf. I couldn't let Mr. Pirate shame me into giving up before we finished tea Tetris, so I took quick bites of the banana bread bundt and the chocolate bundt, both of which were rather mediocre despite their vanilla cream filling that was presumably intended to uplift the flavors. It would have been more satisfying if Chado had ended the meal with a tart or fresh fruit.

Hooray for Hollywood!

Joe, Isabel and I coursed four winding blocks through Eagle Rock from their house to Colorado Wine Co., where we each paid $10 for a wine tasting that segued from an Italian "il" prosecco and Hugel gewurztraminer made in Alsace, France, to a pinot noir from Willamette Valley, Ore., and Tuscany's Monte Antico rosso. Settling our stomachs were ash-seasoned soft cheese, grapes, strawberries, pate, olive bread and truffled cheese slices. Isabel and Joe didn't like the gerwurstraminer, not just becuase they couldn't pronounce the name but because the hollow wine didn't pair well with any of the six variety of cheeses we tasted. I told the co-owner that she should have offered spring or egg rolls to bring out the best of the gerwurstraminer, which traditionally works wonderfully with spicy Vietnamese or Chinese cuisine. Still, the prosecco made such a good impression that Isabel and I each bought a bottle to take to Scott and Ollie's Oscar party, where we sipped the bubbly with ginger snap cookies, cornichons and Auntie Em's homemade pate. I had to borrow five bucks from Joe in order to enter the Oscar pool. Somehow I bested the entertainment industry insiders and won the $25 pot. Woohoo!

And Isabel said:
It's true, I can't pronounce nor spell gewurztraminer. But honestly I don't think I'm much the loser for it. The wine languished on my tongue but left nothing to show for it. The olive bread made more of an impression to my palate. There was a truffled cheese that I particularly liked. I didn't pay enough attention to tell you whether it was a cow or sheep's milk cheese. I think it was most likely a cow's milk cheese. It was pungent, it was yummy, it went well with the pinot noir we had. Dinner consisted of stuffing myself full of run-of-the-mill fare not worth mentioning here. Except for the pate from Auntie Em's. It was a standout. This is all I will say about the food since at this point I've had too much to drink and eat and really should be put to bed.