Kanye's Community

Ever since I introduced Miguelito to Kanye West's blog three months ago, he's been checking it daily. "I get all my cool shit from Kanye," he professed. I'm not worried about losing ground to Yeezy, but maybe I should consider changing my name to KhanhYe.

We All [Heart] Yoda

I'm not the only one who liked Brian Lichtenberg's Yoda skirt. So did Hedi Slimane, the former Dior Homme designer who displayed the versatility of the bulbous bottom and Lichtenberg's other designs in a new photo essay. Skirt as mask? Sweater as burkha? Sure! It's as if a crew of California skater boys had spotted East Coast eccentric Edie Beale on the street one day and were inspired to start biting her style.

Taco Carts: Less Baggage, More Flavor

Miguelito and I are on a mission to find a taco cart to cater our wedding this summer. Our short list includes El Galuzo, which is run by the president of La Asociación de Loncheros L.A. Familia Unida de CA, or the association of taco truck owners in Los Angeles.

A truck pulled El Galuzo into a lot in front of a warehouse sample sale some weeks ago. I wasn't brave enough to try the beef tongue so I stuck with carne asada and al pastor.

This was one of the most efficient kitchens on wheels I've ever seen. One side had the hot pot to heat the bubbling pot of meat. On the other, the tortillas were made to order.

Smack in the middle stood the cook, in easy reach of all the necessary ingredients.

A folding table was crowded with the tubs of salsa (avocado, verde and roja), radishes, halved key limes and a chopped medley of cilantro and onions. Plastic forks were also available for those like me who were too prissy to get their hands dirty.

I don't know how I'm going to handle eating a messy taco while wearing a white dress at my wedding reception. Maybe there's a market for fashionable bibs.

More Chocolate and Tar

Last month, I wrote about my day with chocolate and tar. Tonight, after meeting the designer Valerj Pobega and her artist-husband, Mattia Biagi, at a party feting Raven Kauffman's exquisite handbag collection at Des Kohan, I learned that my glib headline about chocolate and tar holds deeper meaning. Biagi's childhood culinary adventures led to his working with the toxic material as an artist. "When I was a kid, I liked to dip things in chocolate," he explained. After moving to Southern California from Italy five years ago, he also became intrigued with the La Brea Tar Pits, which serve as tangible reminders that Los Angeles wasn't always Tinseltown. "I like the texture" of tar, said Biagi in a lilting Italian accent that belied his intimidating portfolio of tattoo art, including a black star stretched across his throat. If only he stuck with dipping shirts and hats in chocolate, we'd have edible art!

Cream Puffs Make a Bad Day Go 'Pouf'

I like to relax by baking. Tonight, after a long, busy day (chastising a publicist, turning down two pitches and offending a designer by failing to call his boutique a "fashion house"), I made cream puffs. The recipe for the puff pastry comes from the Vietnamese-language cookbook that my mom bought in Saigon decades ago. It is the standard recipe for pate choux. To help make the puffs even puffier, I used Swans Down cake flour.

I also used mini cupcake tins. The standard-size tins would have worked. But I realized that the smaller the cream puff, the easier it is to pop into your mouth. Plus, you don't feel that bad if you eat more than one. Besides, I could never achieve the uniformity of Beard Papa's massive cream puffs.

What's also different with my cream puffs is the filling: It has cream cheese in it.

In addition to cream cheese, the filling also calls for instant vanilla pudding mix. I concede this does not sound very healthy or gourmet. I don't think the recipe for the filling came from my mom's cookbook. If it had, she could have started the trend for semi-homemade years before Sandra Lee did. Still, after tasting the cream cheese pudding, you'll have to agree that it is quite yummy.

It's important not to open the oven while the profiteroles are baking.

Otherwise, the pastry won't be able to build the equivalent of an edible bouffant.

It's also important to let the profiteroles cool completely before filling them with the cream cheese pudding. Some people use a pastry bag to pump the pudding into the profiterole. I prefer to cut the profiterole in half and spooning a dollop of pudding on the base to make a little sandwich.

Et voila! I usually don't include recipes because I'm too lazy to type them. But since this one is so easy and short, I've listed it here.

For the batter:
1/2 cup of butter
1 cup of water
1 cup of Swans Down cake flour
4 eggs.

Preheat the oven to 400 F. In a thick-bottomed sauce pan, melt the butter in the water. Turn off the heat. Add the cake flour and whip the mixture. Add the eggs one at a time while whipping the batter until smooth. Spoon into greased cupcake molds. Bake for 15 minutes.

For the filling:
1 3/4 cup of milk
8 ounces of cream cheese, softened
1 box of instant vanilla pudding.

With a hand mixer, beat the cream cheese in 1/2 cup of milk. Add the rest of the milk and the pudding mix. Beat until well-blended. Refrigerate the filling until it thickens and is ready to use.

Yield: 30 mini cream puffs

Soup Kitchen Fridays

My friend Diana runs a blog called Affordable Los Angeles, listing fun things that you can do in the City of Angels without emptying your wallet. In honor of her service to the young, fabulous and broke, I'm spreading the word about Soup Kitchen Fridays, a new deal that The Edison introduced in the midst of the gravest fiscal crisis since the Great Depression (guess how many stories I've written in the past six months have included that phrase?). From 5 to 7 pm on Fridays, you can dine on free tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Gin and whiskey cost 35 cents. The irony is that, because of the Art Deco-style bar's dress code prohibiting athletic gear, flip-flops, T-shirts, collarless shirts and torn or baggy jeans, your outfit will probably cost a thousand times more than your tab, and Lindsay Lohan and the rest of the Balmain crowd will be forced to go down the street to drink beer at Haru Ulala.

East Meets West

Last week, Miguelito and I flew to Virginia to perform the traditional Vietnamese engagement ceremony at my parents' house. It was a rough red-eye ride for me. Miguelito kept jabbing me with his elbow as he thumb-zapped trolls and zombies on his iTouch. Waiting for our luggage to roll down a creaky conveyor belt at Washington Dulles Airport, he asked if we would have pho for breakfast. I predicted that my dad would suggest that we get breakfast at McDonald's. Sure enough, my dad did just that. Somehow, a sausage McMuffin and hash brown patty helped ease our transition to suburbia.

After a nap, we woke up to a lunch of my mom's pho.

Vietnamese food would play a significant role in our weekend. It was not just because it's the only thing my mom cooks. But much of my family's socializing centers around a table overflowing with food. On our first night in Virginia, we would schedule the first meeting between Miguelito's mom and my parents at Four Sisters, a Vietnamese restaurant run by a classmate of my mom's from Vietnam.

At its previous location at Eden Center, Four Sisters, or Huong Que (translated in English as "scent of the homeland") to Vietnamese speakers, was quite popular with a wide variety of people, including Pres. George H.W. Bush. My family went there partly out of loyalty to the owner, who would scrummage for Vietnamese-language newspapers in the back and bring them to my dad at our table. At Four Sisters' new location at the Merrifield Town Center, the decor was much ritzier, with plush cloth banquettes and softly abstract paintings of maidens dancing in silky ao dai. The gentrification and removal from the Viet-concentrated Eden Center explained why our table was one of two occupied by Vietnamese folks. The rest were filled with non-Viets.

Miguelito's mom and mine didn't notice our neighbors. They were too busy getting to know each other.

The bottle of Relax Riesling helped loosen us up.
The tamarind soup would appeal to Southerners in both Vietnam and the U.S. -- it was sweet and filled with okra, in addition to tomatoes, shrimp, pineapple chunks and a spongy Vietnamese vegetable called bac ha.

The next day, Miguelito and I acted as guinea pigs for the beef ragout that my mom made for the lunch reception to follow our engagement ceremony. There were three primary ingredients: beef, carrots and tomatoes.

Miguelito liked the chunks of meat, but not the translucent tendon. He kept dumping the chewy bits into my bowl.

On the day after our engagement ceremony, my parents hosted a BBQ. I would have thought that they'd be exhausted after spending more than three days cooking and preparing for the engagement ceremony. But they called up my aunts, uncles, cousins and siblings to congregate around the table for more noshing.

They got help from the Korean grocery store, which had pre-marinated the thin strips of beef, my sister, who manned the grill, and my aunts, who brought over some dishes.

One aunt made conch soup.

We poured the tart soup over vermicelli noodles and garnished it with herbs, bean sprouts, red onions and a spritz of lime. Miguelito's friend from Minneapolis said it was the best soup he ever had.

Desserts aren't a forte for my Vietnamese clan. An acquaintance once asked why Vietnamese sweets had to be so slimy and phlegmy. Though the confections inherited from the French colonialists are quite tasty, the flan and cream puffs seem to be too heavy and rich to finish a Vietnamese meal enhanced by herbs, fresh vegetables and a subtlety that bridges the distance between China and Thailand. Miguelito and I satisfied our sweet tooth at Hook in Georgetown. The chef, Heather Chittum, who was named pastry chef of the year, filled a chocolate cake sandwich with marshmellow fluff. Dubbed Makin' Whoopie, the treat was a gourmet Oreo.

The $8 price tag didn't deter me from playing with my food. I decided that, from now on, the more the dish costs, the more fun I will have with it.

Working Overtime

Last Friday, I worked some overtime covering a party at the Bar Marmont. It was a 12-hour day for me, but I wasn't complaining. I got to explore Charlotte Ronson's Closet, munch on sliders and onion rings courtesy of J.C. Penney and groove off tunes that Charlotte's big brother, the Grammy-winning producer Mark, played with his all-star friends.

Daniel Merriweather jumped on the stage first. He struck me as the post-Amy Winehouse discovery for Mark. Merriweather's baby face and bouffant belied an old-school baritone that was soothing and nostalgic.

The Sartorialist has highlighted Europeans' knack for layering a denim jacket under a tailored blazer. The Australian-native Merriweather gave his own interpretation of the trend.

Next up was Plastic Little, Philly rappers who weren't afraid of dropping f-bombs. As Mark noted, "J.C. Penney brings out all the pottymouth rappers — I fucking love it!"

Halfway through one of Plastic Little's songs, Simon Rex lent a hand (that is, the one that wasn't clasping a wine glass) to spewing some of the profane rhymes.

Alex Greenwald from Phantom Planet went for a PG rating for his cover of Radiohead's "Just." At one point, he tried to walk on the wire supporting the big black tent erected on the parking lot next to Bar Marmont. Fortunately for those of us standing directly underneath in front of the stage, he squatted on the speaker, taunting us with his petulant pout.

Talia rocked droopy pants.

Then there was Sam Sparro singing his hit, "Black and Gold," in a striped T-shirt under a shiny jacket. Now I know why so many gay men and straight women dig him. He's a snazzy dresser and fearless booty shaker. His song is catchy, too. But for some reason, his video reminds me a lot of Taco's "Puttin' on the Ritz." It must be the tuxedos, top hats and stylized dance routines.

For the finale, everyone jumped on stage. Not a bad way to work overtime on a Friday night.

Pilgrimage to the Bazaar

For weeks, I have been looking forward to dinner at The Bazaar, the restaurant that Jose Andres opened last year in the SLS Hotel in Beverly Hills. I had heard about cotton candy foie gras, global gourmet carts and maybe even something about food being delivered on a white elephant. It sounded like a Mecca for foodies. This was the sign above La Cienega Boulevard indicating that salvation was near.

SLS doesn't stand for subtlety, limits or softness. It's more along the lines of surfeit, louche and sardonic. This was the entrance to the restaurant.

The framed painting was actually an electronic screen that switches between images of a Renaissance monkey-gentleman and a portly prince every few minutes.

Amidst the animals ensconced within the Phillipe Stark-designed rooms, there were other design details that made you go on a mind trip: Industrial Age-era electric lights, mirrored ceilings, chic photos of sporty flappers and long strands of pearl. It looked like the set-up for a house shared by Thomas Edison and Clara Bow.

One of the people I dined with has fatal allergies to nuts and other food. Never fear, waitress Tina was there. Our server was not only knowledgeable of every single item on the menu, steering my friend away from the dishes that would have landed her in the ER. But Tina was also attentive and sincere. Those are important traits lacking in so many of the actors-models-servers working at L.A. restaurants. Good service can never be discounted. That's why it's called a dining experience: it's about the food, decor, ambiance and service.

A couple of months ago, I wrote about spherication. Tonight, I finally got to try it with Andres' caprese salad. While the tomatoes were the real deal, blanched and peeled, the mozzarella wasn't the expected. Instead, they were liquified and then spherified into a white circle whose thin membrane prevented the squishy interior from flooding the plate.

This is the beautiful close-up of the salad. Sadly to say, it received an A+ for presentation and a B for flavor. It was just bland.

I don't remember the names of the cheeses that we ordered to eat with the ham. The toast was a pleasant surprise. Crispy on the outside and soft in the middle, even so 20 minutes after it arrived at the table, the toast was smeared with a tomato jelly.

This looks like what the Flinstones would have eaten for breakfast if they were foodies. Inside the eggshell, painted a shade of slate one bit lighter than the rock on which it was served, were layers of potatoes, crispy meat and eggs. It was breakfast in a little cup.
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It's also a fine example of controlled chaos.

Dubbed Japanese tacos, the rolls of daikon, lettuce and smoked eel were texturally unappealing. I was expecting more of a crunch from the shell, not a slippery disc that unrolled so easily. The eel was cooked to smoky perfection, however.

Alas, the elusive cotton candy foie gras was in my grasp. The breakdown of the $5 treat went like this: foie gras on a stick, fluff of cotton candy wrapped around it. True, it sounded like a gross combo. If you think about it, it's not a strange a concept as spreading fig preserves on a piece of toast with foie gras. We were instructed to eat the delicacy in one gulp.

One bite of foie gras wasn't enough. So we ordered foie gras burgers.

From top to bottom, the layers comprised fleur de sel, brioche bun, quince paste, foie gras and brioche bun.

Here are more foods on sticks: watermelon skewered with the cores and seeds of tomatoes, enhanced with salt, edible flowers and an exotic-sounding sauce. I had a quick flashback to the summers when my cousins and I sprinkled salt on watermelon. That's the Vietnamese way of bringing out the fruit's sweetness.

This might look like negi toro sushi. It's actually a Philly cheesesteak. A blowtorch provided the little burst of fire to sear the wagyu beef.

Underneath the thin slice of delicate beef was an oblong-shaped crust filled with cream cheese.

We also gave the hilly steak a try. It's the vegetarian version of the Philly cheesesteak. Slivers of mushrooms replaced the beef. It wasn't as good as the carnivorous concoction.

Here are more mushrooms, sauteed in salt and olive oil.

I wasn't quick enough with my camera to photograph the smoked salmon plate when it arrived at our table. It was presented under a glass dome filled with smoke. After lifting the dome, the waiter used his hands to dissipate the smoke. The problem was, so many people ordered this popular dish that the room started to smell a bit like a smoker's lounge. The chickpea pancake underneath was a little too brown, as well. The smoked salmon was cooked perfectly. The softened circles of fennel moved the flavors to another zone of lightness and satisfaction.

Doesn't this look like a scene from "Harry Potter"? It's actually a bartender whipping up a caipirinha with liquid nitrogen. He poured the lime juice and cachaça into a metal bowl and chased it with the liquid nitrogen from the ice-coated pitcher. He stirred the liquid mixture for a minute or so until it turned into ice.

He sprinkled edible flowers and tarragon, along with freshly grated lemon zest, on top of the spiked slushee.

I couldn't figure out why candy would cost $2.50 apiece. Perhaps Andres uses real gold flakes?

From the same dessert menu, we found a nitro coconut floating island that fit the budget. Glazed banana slices supported the mound above the puddle of pureed passion fruit. The little brown swirls yielded an inkling of coffee.

One of my friends said it reminded her of "Super Mario 2."

Our senses continued to be entertained after dinner on a walk through the gift shop-lobby furnished by an eccentric interior shop called Moss. Is this the beloved chihuahua that Mickey Rourke lost a few months ago?

This was cruel and unusual punishment for the teddy bears. PETA should be alerted.

My relationship isn't dysfunctional enough for me to buy these stamps.

Maybe I should make another stamp that reads, "My mind." That way, I could make different statements according to my mood. There's "But I've changed! My mind." Or even, "My mind. It wasn't my fault!"