Cat Stevens
—Where Do The Children Play?
HOLY GNUDI
Going to Osteria Mozza, for me, is like going to church. The high ceilings, the marble countertops and the scrupulous display of wine make me feel like I should put on my Sunday best and curtsy my way to the table. Last Tuesday, we put on our nicer clothes and went in prepared to wait for the coveted two-top I had reserved weeks in advance.
Napkins on laps and forks in hand, we ordered figs wrapped in pancetta and velvety burrata with caviar and egg. The chef was gracious enough to send us grilled octopus with potatoes and an order of (heavenly) ricotta gnudi to go with our corzetti stampati.
The pasta at Mozza is transcendent. Every glistening piece is handmade by a small team of early morning cooks; so consistently you would think it comes out of a secret Mario Batali vending machine in the back. Eating Mozza pasta is like being able to take a bite out of the Mona Lisa: it’s elegant, familiar and layered in mystery and myth.
Considering the thought, care and craft that go into every dish plated in that restaurant makes me want to reconsider my entire existence. Really. If Mozza can take a simple thing like pasta and turn it into what it is, then I have some serious reevaluating to do. Existential pasta eating aside, it’s always inspiring to be around quality craftsmanship in any form.
Wow. I’m officially Jealous. I need to be more like Pippa at Sous Style.
Winter has finally found us here in southern California, and brought with it a handful of new beginnings: a new job, a new chapter in a new house and, consequently, a new neighborhood—Little Ethiopia to be exact. Moving from the stylish, but sterile intersection of 3rd and Sweetzer to the colorful corners of Pico and Fairfax has been like diving headfirst into a wormhole and coming out into an epicenter of culture and soul. From the Jewish delis down the road, to the Indian spice market around the corner, to the nightly taco stand that manifests in the parking lot each night and disappears as mysteriously, I can’t help but feel like I’ve hit the jackpot.
Torn between the parking lot al pastor and the corner burger stand, (that appropriately serves everything from teriyaki chicken to pancakes and bacon), I opted for L.A. BURGER to be my first meal in the new neighborhood. There was something about the blue paint, the barstools and the giant neon sign that I just couldn’t resist. I figured a cheeseburger and a side of chili fries would be a healthy place to start, but the gentleman there convinced me to go with the “ABC burger” instead; explaining that with avocado, bacon, cheese and mayonnaise it was the better choice. I heeded his words, grabbed a seat with a view of the kitchen and ordered a coke in a cup that was bigger than my head. (For real.)
There’s nothing like a thin patty thrown on a well-worn griddle, stuck in-between store-bought buns with iceberg lettuce and a healthy slather of mayonnaise and secret sauce; add avocado, bacon and cheese to that equation, and you’ve got yourself a pretty good burger for $4.45.
I’m a fan of any place that serves pancakes and burgers in the five-dollar range, not to mention the fact that it’s a cool hang. I’m looking forward to going back for a “California Omelette” and a pancake breakfast combo.
Things I love: used books, the 5pm cappuccino, getting into clean sheets after a hot shower and the last minute dinner date at Son Of A Gun.
Can’t get enough of this.
