Ever since happiness heard your name, it has been running the streets trying to find you.
- Haviz
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Jo vs. Chocolate
I am home from a perfect date. Wait. It’s more like this: I am home after devouring the perfect dessert. Mom and Dad, please turn your heads in shame, as I was not such a lady tonight but more like a rabid rottweiler, attacking a velvety, rich, dark chocolate mess of a dessert, a pot of chocolate at a little Spanish tapas joint off of Santa Monica Blvd, where the legendary run of asphalt meets the ocean.
It was like this. It all started innocent enough. We were staring at the tapas menu. Tortillas Espinola? Patatas Bravas? Whatcha Maccallit? We pointed at sweet-looking delights in the window at the bar and asked, “What’s this? What’s that?” and at the end we ended up inhaling small bites of white asparagus and yellow squash. But when it came to the platos, I hesistated. Not like me to be quiet, so I wasn’t.
“I think…” Pause. “I think we need to leave room for dessert.”
I knew I liked him when he didn’t flinch at this suggestion, didn’t talk about calories or a morning run, oh-so common in Los Angeles. He just said: “Well, why don’t we get two?”
I protested. Weakly. Oh, it was so fake, why am I living in the shadow of Hollywood!? Oh no, I deplored, that’s far too much….okay….alright. Okay, yes. Yes!
The waitress downplayed the whole affair. If she were a cat and I were a cat, I’d take her out to the alley and outright fight her, swipe my paws her way for lying to me about the damn goodness of the thing.
“It’s dark chocolate. It’s rich. It’s good,” she said. Simply. Her voice flat and dull and carrying an air of nonchalance, longing for her shift to be over.
“I’m in, all in,” I said. When did I start playing poker? Wasn’t this a dinner date? We ordered the pot of chocolate and bread pudding.
The desserts came, side by side, passed to us over the food counter by the chef himself. The bread pudding looking more like a tart or crème brulee, square and carmelized and pretty on a little white plate. And the pot of chocolate, it…well, it was just that. It was a sassy chocolate filling, pudding-ish, in a mini mug of sorts with the faintest brush of fresh whipped cream kissing the top.
We dived into the pudding and exchanged pleasantries about the smoothness. He was used to more goo. More pockets of happiness and cream and chunks of bread. I get it, I get it, I shrugged it off. I was thinking….chocolate! Come to me!
I went for it, and it was so thick and stiff that at first I panicked, thinking my spoon wouldn’t return to me. Simply, it didn’t want to come back to me. It was stuck in that velvet ocean, that dark undertow where fat doesn’t exist and you just want to turn over and scream to the whole world that you found it. That you found something exquisite and extraordinary and happy in a tiny little pot.
And then I did it. I groaned in the restaurant and slapped my right hand down on the bar top, accidentally hitting the woman next to me. But all is fair in food and wine and so be it: man down, who gives a shit, because I was in heaven! And then I took another bite, and another, and another, and just ate the entire damn thing. My date gave me looks of surprise. Of delight, the occasional glance of admiration. Like he didn’t think I could do it.
Well, that just goes to show: he doesn’t know me yet.
Because when it comes to me and chocolate, I can always take it down.
It was like this. It all started innocent enough. We were staring at the tapas menu. Tortillas Espinola? Patatas Bravas? Whatcha Maccallit? We pointed at sweet-looking delights in the window at the bar and asked, “What’s this? What’s that?” and at the end we ended up inhaling small bites of white asparagus and yellow squash. But when it came to the platos, I hesistated. Not like me to be quiet, so I wasn’t.
“I think…” Pause. “I think we need to leave room for dessert.”
I knew I liked him when he didn’t flinch at this suggestion, didn’t talk about calories or a morning run, oh-so common in Los Angeles. He just said: “Well, why don’t we get two?”
I protested. Weakly. Oh, it was so fake, why am I living in the shadow of Hollywood!? Oh no, I deplored, that’s far too much….okay….alright. Okay, yes. Yes!
The waitress downplayed the whole affair. If she were a cat and I were a cat, I’d take her out to the alley and outright fight her, swipe my paws her way for lying to me about the damn goodness of the thing.
“It’s dark chocolate. It’s rich. It’s good,” she said. Simply. Her voice flat and dull and carrying an air of nonchalance, longing for her shift to be over.
“I’m in, all in,” I said. When did I start playing poker? Wasn’t this a dinner date? We ordered the pot of chocolate and bread pudding.
The desserts came, side by side, passed to us over the food counter by the chef himself. The bread pudding looking more like a tart or crème brulee, square and carmelized and pretty on a little white plate. And the pot of chocolate, it…well, it was just that. It was a sassy chocolate filling, pudding-ish, in a mini mug of sorts with the faintest brush of fresh whipped cream kissing the top.
We dived into the pudding and exchanged pleasantries about the smoothness. He was used to more goo. More pockets of happiness and cream and chunks of bread. I get it, I get it, I shrugged it off. I was thinking….chocolate! Come to me!
I went for it, and it was so thick and stiff that at first I panicked, thinking my spoon wouldn’t return to me. Simply, it didn’t want to come back to me. It was stuck in that velvet ocean, that dark undertow where fat doesn’t exist and you just want to turn over and scream to the whole world that you found it. That you found something exquisite and extraordinary and happy in a tiny little pot.
And then I did it. I groaned in the restaurant and slapped my right hand down on the bar top, accidentally hitting the woman next to me. But all is fair in food and wine and so be it: man down, who gives a shit, because I was in heaven! And then I took another bite, and another, and another, and just ate the entire damn thing. My date gave me looks of surprise. Of delight, the occasional glance of admiration. Like he didn’t think I could do it.
Well, that just goes to show: he doesn’t know me yet.
Because when it comes to me and chocolate, I can always take it down.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
I used to know you
I remember.
Riding bikes with you in the sticky Maryland summer
Our faces painted bronze
And the smell of cut grass stained into our shorts and elbows
Our feet black from asphalt and simply not caring.
Oh, old friend, where are you now?
You used to be my secret keeper.
Whispers and wishes that floated like bath bubbles
And drifted like unicorns, crashed like our matchbox cars at birthday parties.
The world is wide and you are out there, somewhere
Your heart beating among the millions
And I am here,
Wishing you well.
Riding bikes with you in the sticky Maryland summer
Our faces painted bronze
And the smell of cut grass stained into our shorts and elbows
Our feet black from asphalt and simply not caring.
Oh, old friend, where are you now?
You used to be my secret keeper.
Whispers and wishes that floated like bath bubbles
And drifted like unicorns, crashed like our matchbox cars at birthday parties.
The world is wide and you are out there, somewhere
Your heart beating among the millions
And I am here,
Wishing you well.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
It's been a while
What have I been up to?
A dinner party in West Hollywood where we drank too much wine and ended up at a hip cowboy bar. (Yes, there is such a thing). Speak easy style!
Buying halibut at the Santa Monica fish market.
A restaurant opening where the bar stools were handmade and the wood left raw and unstained; the art walk in downtown that left no room on the sidewalk for my friend and I. Greasy burgers at Nickels Diner and a serenade of mac’n’cheese.
Wine at The Association. ‘Nuff said.
Falling asleep at the beach. Dreams are sweeter when dreamt on sand.
Hike among the greenery of Temescal Canyon.
Late night PinkBerry (I’m a big coconut fan!).
Business meetings at Cork Bar downtown.
Two-hour afternoon snoozes. Delightful.
Biking to the ocean.
Workouts at the Santa Monica stairs.
Brentwood Farmers Market.
The usual hazelnut latte at Peet’s in Brentwood.
Sushi in the marina (yellowtail, melting on the tongue!)
Rendezvous with Top Chef Stefan at his new restaurant on Olympic.
Hangin’ pictures in my kitchen.
French toast at Blue Plate on Montana (two days in a row. Sinful).
Dodgers games and too-expensive beer; long lines for the ladies room.
What is it about this place that makes me feel as though I am always on vacation?
A dinner party in West Hollywood where we drank too much wine and ended up at a hip cowboy bar. (Yes, there is such a thing). Speak easy style!
Buying halibut at the Santa Monica fish market.
A restaurant opening where the bar stools were handmade and the wood left raw and unstained; the art walk in downtown that left no room on the sidewalk for my friend and I. Greasy burgers at Nickels Diner and a serenade of mac’n’cheese.
Wine at The Association. ‘Nuff said.
Falling asleep at the beach. Dreams are sweeter when dreamt on sand.
Hike among the greenery of Temescal Canyon.
Late night PinkBerry (I’m a big coconut fan!).
Business meetings at Cork Bar downtown.
Two-hour afternoon snoozes. Delightful.
Biking to the ocean.
Workouts at the Santa Monica stairs.
Brentwood Farmers Market.
The usual hazelnut latte at Peet’s in Brentwood.
Sushi in the marina (yellowtail, melting on the tongue!)
Rendezvous with Top Chef Stefan at his new restaurant on Olympic.
Hangin’ pictures in my kitchen.
French toast at Blue Plate on Montana (two days in a row. Sinful).
Dodgers games and too-expensive beer; long lines for the ladies room.
What is it about this place that makes me feel as though I am always on vacation?
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Luxurious laziness
I can't remember the last time I spent a lazy weekend here in LA. Doing nothing. Lounging all day long in comfies with unwashed hair and glasses on. Wandering outside only for Peet's coffee and to allow the sunlight to warm my face, just for a while.
Well, this weekend was that sort of weekend. Nothing but good things and simple stuff and even as I type this now, I have some sort of urge to just hold on to it, as tightly as I can. After all, these types of days are rare and if they weren't so rare, I'd be clawing for something to do, like a mime in a cage. I'm flustered when busy (always) and get all the more antsy when I have no agenda. So it is.
I made dinner for a friend on Friday evening and then we wandered down to my local bar and I watched, amused, as he roamed the bar, singing Black Eyed Peas and trying to pick up girls. Later that night, sometime around 2 a.m., we delighted in bites of cheesecake and fresh strawberries and stayed up late talking. He talks quite loudly and I had to shhhh him, more than once, for fear of waking my roommate. He fell asleep on my couch, snoring happily. He awoke on Saturday morning with strawberry stains on his shirt and a massive hangover.
Brunch on Saturday in the Montana neighborhood with work friends. The French toast at Blue Plate is killer, it's the challah bread, it's gotta be. After, one friend and I moseyed on down to the 3rd Street area and I found myself at Hennessey's Books--art and architecture, baby! I could have stayed there all day, curled up among the books, not even reading, just happy to smell them and live among the paper and ink. I picked up a book I've been eyeing for a while, ever since I toured the Gamble House back in January, a coffee table-esque read on LA homes.
And then, well, I just read. All day. Nearly all night. Until 11 p.m. when I showered and threw on a sundress and headed north to Pasadena for drinks with mon frere and his entourage. I passed by the lights of downtown and I imagined the people squished on street corners and huddled within the caverns. I imagined the restaurant, bright and shiny and new, with its chrome-metal sign hung, just perfect, and its flag waving cheerfully outside on Spring Street.
And today, I read. And read. And read.
My current reading list:
Still reading.
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