HUSTON’S TEXAS PIT BBQ
I’m being punished.
I’m being punished with this horrific online traffic school I’ve been forced to take.
And I was punished last night with the WORST BBQ I’VE EVER HAD.
This Hollywood hole in the wall has been here since 1944.
God only knows why.
I think we were the only non-indigents dining in this dingy dump (other, more graphic ‘D’ words come to mind)
We ordered a rack of the pork ribs, potato salad, baked beans, fries and cornbread.
Let me break it down for you:
RIBS: Fatty, very tough and DROWNING in sauce. The sauce should be baked on. These ribs were swimming in a bbq soup.
POTATO SALAD: Eh….
BAKED BEANS: Quite good, a little sweet. Possibly from a can.
FRIES: Orida, straight from the freezer. But hot! (My friend requested “hot” several times. I was almost certain we would be getting fries coated in a special glaze after so much pestering)
CORNBREAD: THE WORST EVER!!!!!!!! I don’t know why I continued taking bites out of this lukewarm couch stuffing!!
The two of us looked like crazy people, our faces and fingers drenched in the bbq, like cannibals partaking in a massacre.
Searching for a reason to like this place. And, unfortunately, never satisfying that hunger…
1620 N Cahuenga Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90028
(323) 464-3972
CAFE STELLA
It was a dark and rainy night.
Bun Boy, our hero, anticipated a fun evening that did not include operating a vehicle.
Take a taxi? Naw, too easy.
He decided to bus it.
Aw, the adventures one can discover using public transportation in Los Angeles.
It’s better than theater, it’s like performance art!
Bun entered the bus, his fare clutched tight in his sweaty palm. He noticed the person in front of him only had half the fare, muttered “Sorry dude” and took a seat.
There was an elderly man sitting in the middle of three empty seats.
I sat next to him and he did not budge, he continued to stare off in the distance, mumbling to himself.
I blatantly stared at his knee to send a message to move the hell over. Message…not received.
The hippy girl in front of me (I’m assuming that, to her, bathing was a novelty that had worn off) was beebopping to eardrum-busting tunes from a cassette player. She randomly drew pentagrams on the condensation that accumulated on the window.
I pondered the bacteria that now wreck havoc on her fingertip and shuddered.
When the bus stopped, a group of non-english speaking people gathered to exit at the front, a few remain in the back.
“EXIT AT THE FRONT ONLY PEOPLE”
Half the group, like lemmings, slid to the REAR entrance.
“EXIT AT THE FRONT ONLY!”
The remainder of the group slide to the REAR.
I laughed and then pointed up front and everyone followed my finger, like magic.
We finally arrived at Café Stella, a cute, upscale French bistro in Silverlake.
While I waited for my friend, I sipped wine, listened to the rain and eavesdropped on extremely dull conversations.
It was quite the pleasantly Parisian experience.
My short ribs were fat central. Albeit, delicious.
The Buratta Heirloom Tomato salad was the best thing on the menu, amazing combo of flavors.
My night ended in saying “Screw you!” to the bus system and took a taxi home that cost as much as a tank of gas.
I had to pee so bad, I made the taxi stop at the parking lot of a Kmart where I proceeded to pee directly on the taxi’s tires.
I had debated whether or not to just go in my pants and roll down the windows to disguise the smell.
Neither decision I would have been proud of.
3932 W Sunset Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90029
(323) 666-0265
www.cafestella.com
COUPA CAFE
THE FOLLOWING IS NOT FUNNY, SKIP TO THE MIDDLE TO AVOID THE MELANCHOLY:
I decided long ago (never to walk in anyone’s shadow) that I knew what the meaning of life was.
Well, not so much meaning, but the purpose of life.
Our purpose is to pursue happiness while ensuring the happiness of others. Maintain that balance and you’re set. That’s all you can do. Pressure’s off.
However, exactly how often are we actually happy? Maybe 10% of each day?
The rest of the time, we’re just muddling through. Wandering like zombies, drowning in coffee, paperwork, meaningless chatter and booze. In that order.
I believe we’re under the impression that the security of a routine (a steady job, a place to hang our hat, people to pass the time with) is the most one can hope for and a decent substitute for real happiness.
I guess my point is that many of us fall into the trap of being so lazy that we wait around, grazing like sheep, for the few times in life that happiness comes our way. Instead of actually pursuing it.
START READING HERE:
Coupa Café, an Venezuelan joint where everyone seemed to know everyone, had an amazing looking menu but with AVERAGE food.
We ordered the appetizer combo platter and split a Panini.
The only thing that was worth mentioning was the chicken empanada, so flavorful! Everything else can be chalked up to different versions of fried, flavorless cheese.
After biting into the Petrified Panini, I watched as half of the roof of my mouth scraped off with the first bite.
The sundried tomatoes were like mummified worms.
Our waiter was wearing some knitted afghan sweater that he must have snatched from a dumpster outside an old folks’ home.
In summary, run, don’t walk…directly into oncoming traffic rather than come here.
419 N Canon Dr
Beverly Hills, CA 90210
(310) 385-0420
www.coupacafe.com
EL CARMEN
I don’t think the food here is supposed to be good. I think it was all an accident.
I think the stuff is just meant to fill yer gut, soak up the booze.
Which can, sometimes, be quite tasty.
As in this case. These ghetto, indicernible little grease monkeys were mighty fine.
My Jalapeno Margarita was also quite welcoming. I did enjoy the chunks of fresh jalapenos at the bottom. So did my esophagus when I coughed them back up.
I attended an Oscar party last night, I was force fed an Oscar voting ballot for the pool going on and immediately refused. Choosing who I think will win irritates me to no end. I’m always wrong, especially in the pointless categories of Best Foreign Short Animated Documentary Featuring Flatulence.
The Oscars, like all awards shows, are gluttonous. To reward someone for doing their job is one thing, but to do it 200 times a year, is beyond ridiculous.
These people aren’t curing cancer or stopping world hunger. They’re acting! And to hear them being described by their colleagues using such flowery speach makes ones stomach turn.
The Oscars are just a glamorous opportunity to kiss enough to ass to ensure everyone some acting work in the near future.
While I wasn’t drinking, we did create a drinking game where anytime an actor utters: “Amazing”, “Genius” or a combo of both. “Working with a genius like Miley Cyrus was an amazing thrill ride”, you would take a swig.
8138 W 3rd St
Los Angeles, CA 90048
(323) 852-1552
SPAGO
My very first foray into fine dining was at a Wolfgang Puck establishment in Seattle, (about 14 years ago). I grew up in a town on the outskirts (population: 6000), so fine dining meant we only got to enjoy Red Lobster’s cheesy biscuits on rare occasions!
I remember hopping the ferry with some friends and enjoying my first fancy meal of a half roasted chicken and garlic mashed potatoes. How edgy and exotic!
Before then, I had never really spent more than $10 bucks for a meal. Uh, dollar menus anyone?
Sitting in the glow of this darkly lit eatery (in what I now realize was pretty low on the food chain of fancy), an obsession grew. An obsession with good food being made for me.
Spago used to be the most famous restaurant in the world.
Back when Wolfgang Puck himself was edgy and exotic.
Wolfgang opened the original Spago Hollywood location in 1982 and ever since then, people couldn’t get enough.
Even when we arrived at the Beverly Hills location for a business lunch, I expected it to be dead; filled with a cast of elderly ex-producers and they’re younger plastic sugery-ridden girlfriends.
I was right, but the place was packed! Obviously, ‘ole Wolfy’s still got it!
When Sidney Poitier, Larry King and Harvey Weinstein wobbled in, this only further emphasized that fact.
Poor Larry, I believe he might be animatronic now….
The appetizers were top notch.
The tuna tar tar cones (at top) were the best thing consumed.
I don’t usually like smoked salmon, but as long as I plugged my nose, the pizza was great!
My Lupe de Mer was perfectly cooked. Thank goodness the skin peeled off easily, because that would have been a deal breaker.
The desserts were ok, I picked out the best one, naturally. ;)
Thanks to our hosts for footing the most likely ENORMOUS lunch tab, as I’m sure it was probably around $75 a person. But the company was nice, the ambience was pleasant (we sat outside in the courtyard) and I think I ate too much fish…oy…
PINK TACO
Something I hate more than life itself: WHEN I DROP SOMETHING ON THE GROUND. My abhorence of this type of event stems from when I used to work at an obnoxious store in a shopping mall as a young adult.
I won’t say where I worked (I’m mortified not only by where but how long I ended up staying there) but I sold lots of little crap that customers would always drop on the ground and leave for me to clean up.
When they weren’t stuffing the stuff in their pockets.
Which I’d prefer, because then I wouldn’t have to clean anything up. Take everything you can grab, people!!
Either way, I got so sick of picking stuff up, that now, when I drop something as simple as the toothbrush, I begin to fume and huff and puff.
The mother of all situations is the DOMINO DROP. This is when you knock over something that knocks something else over that knocks over 72 SHAMPOO BOTTLES making you turn around in a panic as your elbow swipes EVERYTHING off the window sill!!
Why are there so many freaking bottles in my shower??
It all enrages me.
Just like when James Brown’s “I Feel Good” comes on the radio.
(I believe that certain songs should be permanently retired when they’ve been played 1 million times)
I’m almost too pissed off to review Pink Taco now. Let me calm down.
Pink Taco is an upscale Mexican Hooters, essentially.
You don’t really go for the food or the clientele (almost strictly businessmen) but for the boobs and the margaritas.
My carne asada tacos (pictured at top) look like they’ve been snowed on. And they were just as cold.
Pink Taco is a chain, so I won’t waste any more breath on them.
Thanks for letting me vent.
SPERANZA
“Did you do anything fun this weekend?” asks the bank teller (whom I DON’T know).
“Um..not really,” I reply. And then the obligatory, “What about you?”
“Yeah, I didn’t really do anything.”
(This is painfull)
What was I supposed to tell him? I went to a wine-tasting dinner with friends? Or that I spent all of the next day in bed with food poisoning only leaving it to commit unspeakable acts in the bathroom?
I’m not a fan of small talk. But when your small talk gets specific, you’re on the verge of being an asshole.
I continued to play his little game, nervously sweating and focusing on his Friar Tuck haircut surrounding a prominent bald spat.
“Happy Monday”, he says cheerfully as I tear the receipt from his hand and jet towards the exit.
What I did do was go to a really fun wine-tasting birthday party with friends. But not before going to dinner at Speranza in Silverlake.
Speranza is a super casual (paper napkins) Italian job, like eating on the porch of someone’s home.
Since we had about 18 people, we choose the prefix menu, which including all these apps and a really average, miniscule bowl of pasta.
The cheese plate (and bald pear) was fantastic.
The caprese salad was boring.
I don’t like the combo of prosciutto and melon, so I didn’t like this dish. Prosciutto reminds me of shaved human flesh. Which is only tasty when it’s fresh.
We were given our choice of three pastas, I chose the bolognese. Which we found out halfway through was made with Veal and this made Chesty Morgan push it away. “I’m not usually one to stand by my beliefs except when it comes to veal…”
I then had my first bite of Squid Ink pasta. Grody to the max. Squiddy! And my mouth was black after my one and only bite.
Like eating an oil slick.
After dinner, we headed to 55 Degrees in Glendale. Up top is a wine shop and below is a wine bar and a private room we had rented for our own wine-tasting. Each pour was about half a glass, so everyone got pretty toasty pretty quick. Such a fun time!
Until my food poisoning the next day…
2547 Hyperion Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90189
(323) 644-1918
CLAY OVEN
Aw, the Valley on a Friday night. A force to be reckoned with.
Ventura boulevard is essentially a parking lot and trying to get anywhere on time is kind of a joke.
Tonight was a clandestine business dinner with some high-profile power players. One of which, I’m sure, was packing heat. I was worried someone would order something she didn’t approve of.
Clay Oven is very upscale for an Indian restaurant. Linen tablecloths, several servers per table. No faded pictures of the Taj Mahal hanging crooked on the wall.
And the food was out of this world! Billy Goat Gruff mentioned my best blogs are the ones where I hate the place. Well, BGG can just scurry off a cliff. Cuz this place rocked.
The best dish on the menu was the Mango Chicken Massala! The mango was pureed in this velvety sauce, the result being the perfect combo of sweet and spicy.
The Vegetable biryani (basically, Indian fried rice) was fantastic, not just containing a bag of some ghetto frozen veggie medley but real chunks of fresh vegetables.
The samosas, pictured below (lovingly with someone’s bracelet around them) were out of this world!
Nancy does not like Indian. Even the smell of curry makes this gal run like a racehorse to the restroom. So, this little piggy had none. She just drank her sorrows away and nibbled on white rice.
14611 1/2 Ventura Blvd
Sherman Oaks, CA 91403
(818) 995-1777
www.clayovenla.com/
GOLDEN INDIAN GRILL & PIZZA
This place is quirky, eclectic and like a biblical woman during that time of the month, UNCLEAN.
To roughly quote Tenille, “This place is the grossest meal that I kind of enjoyed.”
Situated on a lonely stretch of Pico, next to a 7-11, Golden Indian Grill & Pizza (of course the two go together) was kind of a last minute decision.
Upon entering, we notice a disheveled, lady of the evening counting her lotto tickets and marking them on a spreadsheet. Proving that a little organization in advance can save you a lot of unnecessary hassle later, when you attempt to cash in hundreds of crumpled, expired, losing tickets.
We ordered the Chicken Tikka Masala pizza,
a greasy, foul-colored pile of curry
and some hollow Samosas.
The pizza was actually kind of tasty.
The curry however…one word…instant diarrhea. It’s one word if you say it fast enough on your way to the bathroom.
The pictures on the wall were the highlight of this culinary journey.
There were four enourmous photos (one with red eye) of random people shoving pizza in their tomato sauce-stained mouth. Not pizza models. But real, disposable photos of weird, squinting strangers all eating a completely different brand of pizza. Hilarious.
We served ourselves water from the .99 cent store plastic pitcher from the deli fridge. For dessert, we had some weird Indian yogurt popcicles that were not bad. But like with the curry, my stomach grumbled just looking at the previously melted and refrozen treats.
When the kitch factor had dissipated, we finally got the hell out of there, all of us regretting our decision and remembering there were three of us and only one bathroom! Grumble, grumble…
5954 W Pico Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90035
(323) 930-2193
ALL ABOUT THE BREAD
Continuing with my “Do you ever…” series, we discuss the enigma of finding long lost friends on Facebook and then immediately ditching them again.
We’ve all stalked, I mean searched for people we went to high school with, elementary crushes, ect.
And most of us have had at least one person reject our “Friend Request” right? Bastards! Of course, I’m not referring to me, I just feel bad for you guys.
But what about those folks who we’ve just never been able to find online. What have they been doing? Living on hippy communes learning to make earth-friendly bombs?
I’ve been looking for this one person for over ten years and suddenly she finds me on Facebook. Yeah! The clouds part! She’s finally joined the human cyber race!
We chat back and forth a bit.
Then we each forget the other exists.
Huh? We used to be inseparable as teens. What the hell happened? I think just knowing that we can talk to someone whenever we’d like, has spoiled us to the point where we actually DON’T talk to each other.
It’s like the difference between telling your kids the dangers of drugs (and having them sneak off and do them) or having a baseball bat-sized joint constantly sitting on top of the TV. Sure, your kids could go and smoke it. But it’s no fun if they can have it whenever you’d want.
Plus, the first puff would most likely asphyxiate them. And you would wonder who’s body that is blocking the TV.
Speaking of joints, let’s get to an AMAZING sandwich spot.
All About the Bread is a new sandwich place from one of the people that brought you Bay Cities Deli.
Except, this sandwich is BETTER.
First of all, let me start by saying I ate here with Clyde.
The last time I neglected to mention Clyde, I was made to feel very guilty. He’s thinks every time he’s mentioned on my blog gets him one step closer to the fame he so desires.
And he’s completely right.
Ok, so, like the title says, it truly is ALL ABOUT THE BREAD. The crust is crispy but not “rip open the roof of your mouth” hard and the bread isn’t too thick (like Bay Cities) so you won’t lose a veneer trying to take your first bite.
We ordered the Meatball sandwich (pictured at top). Officially the best I’ve EVER had. The meatballs were so flavorful and you get a side of marinara if you were about to complain the sammy looked dry. Stop complaining! Geez!
“Napoleon, go make yerself a damn Quesa-Dilla!”
The Godfather is a rip-off of Bay Cities’ Godmother. But better. The sandwich isn’t a complete soggy mess and the bread is actually warm out of the oven!
Make sure to Friend Request this restaurant as soon as possible. Then brutally ignore them once they’ve accepted you.
7111 Melrose Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90046
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