A new floor has been reached even as measured by the shockingly low standards of airport dining. A floor you should experience for yourself at El Paseo Café in terminal 1 of LAX.

Clearly, Valentine’s Day 2010 was a travel day so romantic dinner was at the SouthWest Terminal of LAX. Few cuisines make for better airport dining than Mexican. The same people who domesticated corn and beans and llamas perfected the art of throwing things into an edible wrap at lightning speed as required by antsy travelers. Speed is why one never finds Indian tandoori at the airport but can’t roll a suitcase without plowing into a burrito remnant. Indeed a burrito is perhaps the last thing one would expect to have the capacity for turning out poorly. Like pizza and sex, even when a burrito is bad, it’s still pretty good. But the burrito at El Paseo puts so much distance between itself and good that it’s comical. As a human with what I believe to be a normally evolved sense of disgust, my ability to express its depth was limited by the fear of causing an airport disturbance and getting tossed in with the underwear bombers. But after half of this burrito, my underwear wouldn’t need explosives.

If El Paseo served pizza, it would be a Domino’s and K-mart hybrid. Left to the elements. For a month. And if it served sex, it would be the hooker left uncoupled. At Santa Monica and Wilcox. On Saturday. I can’t explain beyond the above what this monstrosity was like. I simply haven’t the vocabulary.

So please see photographic evidence.

Don’t look too closely for fear of vomit on the keyboard but what the devil is THAT? What passed for guacamole was some sort of avocado paste with tomato roe sprinkled in for wetness. The beans were more drainage from a can than fried or refried anything and the tortilla was less edible than Viva paper towels but much much stronger. And hotter. The entire mess was heated to the temperature of nuclear fusion perhaps out of compassion since burnt tongues taste less. I only wish I burned mine more.

Happy Valentine’s Day dinner sweetheart.

BLD is not cheap. Nor does it blow a menu-sized hole through your taste buds. But it is so consistently good in a land of late-rising mediocrity that it deserves the highest marks by LA measures.

In a city that loves its sleep, finding a breakfast spot that opens before 9 ain’t so easy. But with BLD, (breakfast, lunch, dinner) you get as early a breakfast as you’re willing short of IHOP and hotel cafeterias. Considering that you’re blood-alcohol is probably still illegal, you shouldn’t make it too early.

One of the menu items I can’t seem to do without is the Cuban sandwich. They pile on the pulled pork onto a roll of bread that can more than stand up to all of it. Their fries are thin and crispy but will occasionally throw in a wet and soggy one that we all say we don’t like but secretly love to be surprised with. The sweet pickle I can do without. I prefer salty. But that’s me. I want to try other things but each time I have, I regret not going Cuban. There’s something in that sandwich that rings addictive. I hope it isn’t MSG.

The Huevos Rancheros are amazing. Even in a city where most people working kitchen are from Mexico, BLD excels with its take beyond the scope of others. They are also unafraid to charge for the privilege a cool $13. At that price one may balk but shouldn’t. Nor should one pass by the Cuban’s $18, the most expensive on the menu. Because nothing I have ever had that called itself a Cuban quite compares. I’m not even sure that this is a real Cuban since most sandwiches bearing the description have had variations of deli-meat. This was slowly-cooked pulled pork. Spicy. Amazing.

We caught LA on perhaps its loveliest weekend in a while. We sat outside and wanted to keep our sobriety defeated as thoroughly as the night before. But alas, BLD does not have a liquor license for its great outdoors! A let-down of buzz-killing proportions. The lovely waitress apologized that we were not told up-front and offered to promptly re-seat us on the legal side of drunk. No way. That afternoon, we were heading back to gross Chicago where it would be another 4 months before we could sit outside and not get frostbite. Plenty of time to drink indoors. We kept our spot and drank water. Sober had to come sometime. We sat in sunshine like Senators at fundraising bidding our fleeting intoxication fairy-well with a pound of pork.

Sam Nazarian strikes again. With Starck and Andres latched firmly on his nipple, Bazaar at the new SLS Hotel spares no expense. Well, maybe some but gets a solid win despite it.

The hotel took so long to open that I was sure of the project’s death. Shows what I know. Sammy Boy Entertainment (or SBE without deeper meaning as he likes to lie to interviewers) has so much money behind it that whatever problems they were having were simply waited out. Didn’t even have to sell one of his 12 cars or sub-lease the Veyron. Money clearly ain’t no thang considering dysfunctions in the company ensure that not a single bar they’ve ever opened turns a profit. Except The Abby. Gays are profitable. LA hipsters ain’t. But who cares when daddy has a billion dollars? Here’s a few mil kiddo. Go away and don’t bug me. Sammy got enough to buy publicity with Fortune ride-alongs, Entourage cameos and Top Chef judgeships. Good for him, but we’re not here to gossip about Nazarian or envy his estate. We wish to analyze Bazaar on its own merit.

LA restaurants require LA yardsticks. Else, details like timely seating, flighty service and hour-long valet lines would sink them. Bazaar was spectacularly busy even though the place had been open for months. This means ordering will be a lottery of fame and prettiness. This time was no different except that our order was actually taken and delivered in under 5 minutes. A remarkable change of pace in a city whose default motion is through motor oil: slimy, dirty and slow. But Bazaar did better. And made us pay. The disparity between the prices of their food and drinks is canyonesque. A $23 bottle of Peay Vineyards Pinot sells for $19/glass. A Maker’s neat goes for $12. Pretty steep but they’re not afraid to pour making the “shot” in reality a triple. For $4 it’s a steal.

But the food sure hits the sweet spot. And saltiness. And umami. Mention must be made of the Jose Andres take on Philly Cheese Steak which consists of a toasty dumpling filled with melted truffled cheese and topped with a near-raw slice of Wagyu. $8 for a single but worth more. Astounding. I ordered one and got two. It was meant for the party next to us. They let me keep the extra portion. Then, a few minutes later, I got ANOTHER plate delivered with the proper single serve. I didn’t eat it out of politeness but really wanted to. The most expensive item was the lamb at $16. It was worth it. The rest of the items, although good, could not match the the Philly. It was the evening’s highlight. As was the bill. Had we nothing to drink, 8 dishes would have cost $90. Recession pricing indeed.

The evening’s low is LA, not the restaurant itself. They did not seat us until we checked up on our status. An old trick and with the bar prices, a profitable one. The waitress, although competent, had that annoying personality common to those who believe their life to be a stage. And the valet line took 20 minutes to pay the bill and another 25 to get the car. Incompetence by any yardstick. But the people here wait and say nothing which is so different from the adolescent tantrums they throw at every other thing. What is it about cars and parking that bring out LA’s best when it should bring out its worst? I’d rather treat my waiter well and leave tire-tread on the snout of whoever schedules valets. Plan ahead moron. But, it is not fair to judge an LA restaurant by its support services the problems of which are endemic in the city. Bazaar is a fantastic deal in a place where deals are hard to come by. You should go before Sammy Boy Nazarian changes his mind.

Interview Q: Do you have a portfolio? A: Yes. – Good for you. GTFOut. We hire people to work, not audition. And because they obviously hire for ability, The Ivy is without question the best restaurant in LA.

The first thing a patron notices while marching to the table is the relative dearth of pretty people wearing aprons. This is four standard deviations distant from every other LA restaurant and doesn’t immediately sink-in. Why would a star-studded cliché of a spot not follow protocol? And after a dozen or so meals, I feel that the Ivy, unlike every other service sister, understands that its business is to get you in, fed, and the hell out in time to seat the next party. This does not happen when the waiters are too busy learning lines to remember orders.

Today, for the first time, things did not go flawlessly. They usually do. 1 for 12. When my Cajun Prime Rib arrived, it was cooked so thoroughly that well-done would be an understatement. I wish I took a picture. How was it ordered? Rare, of course. So here we know for certain that the waiter, chef, and bus person all looked at a “prime rib” half an inch thick and thought nothing of it. Alarms should have been sounding. But, an error is not serious so long as it’s corrected. And correct they did fast and without argument. Prime Rib round two was 2.5 inches thick and rare as I’ve ever seen. How about you? Some would argue that they overcompensated by serving black-and-blue instead of rare (there is a difference) but I won’t. The Cajun crust more than made up the heat that the center lacked. I can’t imagine eating it another way.

Also on the menu was 1 Grilled Shrimp Salad, 1 Artichoke appetizer, and 5 Ivy Margaritas at the cool price of $16.75 EACH. I thought the menu said 13.75 and can’t find an on-line version anywhere. I would have loved to scream bloody murder at these bastards and had I found proof of the margarita’s price differential I would have. But you know what? They make simply the best margarita I have ever sucked up with hunger for another. I looked up their recipe some years ago trying to emulate them and of course, got a lot of hearsay. The combo tasting most like theirs was: 1 part tequila, 2 parts Cointreau, 2 parts fresh lime juice. The one today seemed to have the tequila/Cointreau ratio reversed since it wasn’t as sweet as I remember. Either that or the limes are out of season. Either way, 3 are enough to knock me on my overfed buttocks. Each has 3 shots of 80-proof liquor. Cointreau is sweet but it sure can kick.

Finally, a note about the pricing. If you are on a budget, cross the street to News Café. Or better yet, get bent. The Ivy is a place that understands its market as well as its reality. They are in the business of turning tables and @ 16.75$/drink you’re a lot less likely to sit there sipping past your welcome. They deliver food that is consistently excellent with service that is second to nothing in LA. They also seat you on time which would be impossible had they not found their equilibrium price and gotten demand to equal supply. My sample size is north of 10 and never have I waited more than a few minutes past time reserved. Yes, you need to make a reservation. Yes, even at these price points. So if you want to be a hater, print out all the tales of woe you read in other reviews and eat them instead. Keep the Ivy’s tables free of human refuse so I can eat in peace.

Dear Mastro’s Steakhouse,

On Friday, the 23^rd of January, the year of our Lord and Savior Jesus H. Christ, Two Thousand and Nine, we dined at Mastro’s Steakhouse Beverly Hills. Dinner was a symphony of errors. Not for want of service or flavor but management.

If a restaurant chooses to datestamp its menu like an entry in a server log, it should take care to make the date current. My menu stated that it was December 23^rd or some such thing giving the impression that the ingredients have been patiently sitting on the counter hoping someone would order them for a month. Yes, intelligent diners will understand that a restaurant does not reprint a menu every day but there is no reason to boldly proclaim the menu’s age unless it’s flattering.

I have, with advancing age and wisdom, begun informing the wait staff of my steak’s preferred temperature rather than giving a blanket term that everyone seems to define at their convenience. The preference is cool red center. Having advised the waiter of this, my steak was still overcooked throughout its majority but there was definitely a portion of the center that managed to evade heat at all. As I relished this morsel I wondered what natural phenomenon could have made this possible.

Inflation happens. Costs increase and having no alternative, people accept it. However, when one charges US$39 for a fine cut of slightly overcooked beef, and has an extensive wine list with bottles in the thousands of dollars, charging US$18 for a martini is beyond explanation. It is simply an assault on alcoholic decency. Mastro’s is a restaurant, not a resort. Even Sunset Tower charges US$15 and one could argue that it is both. Completely unacceptable.

And finally, when one wants to be taken seriously in any field that requires communications such as from the kitchen to the customer by way of the menu, one learns to spell properly. Ask a random sample of people on the street for the spelling of Johnnie Walker’s family of scotches, and one is likely to hear the same mistake 8 out of 10 times. Fix the damn thing before someone does a special titled: Celebrity Restaurants: They’re just like us! They can’t spell either.

Sincerely,

The Food Bitch

Beso Restaurant
Attn: James Vold, GM, Eva Longoria, ???
6350 Hollywood Blvd
Hollywood CA 90028

Dear Mr. Vold,

On Friday, May 9th, in the year of our Lord and Savior, 2008, I dined in your new Hollywood restaurant: Beso and toward the end of dinner, I would have enjoyed nothing more than to present myself to the chef, remove my trousers and force him to Beso my big, hairy ass with a pinch of salt.

It is common for a celebrity to open a restaurant that she “does not want to be one of those celebrity restaurants” only to have it then follow the script as closely as a teleprompter. Naturally, the scene was great. Lots of the requisite pretty people trying their hardest to look casual and fabulously well designed interior trying its hardest not to look ethnic. Who could ask for anything more? From a bar. From a restaurant, one could, and indeed should, ask for a little extra.

We were seated 30 minutes late even though our table was “being set” for at least 15. I assumed that the rage in Hollywood has become hiring bus staff that move like glaciers. But then, my partner in dine was bumped at least a dozen times by various employees who were moving around far too quickly to avoid obstacles and wore the dedicated expression known to waiters (and evidently glacial bus persons) that discourages stupid customer requests such as: “May I have some more water?” Where were these people when we needed a table? They could have bumped other diners clean across the dining room and then reset the table like a champion cup stacker.

Then came the food. How did thou gag me? Let me count the ways:

• If one charges US$14 for a tablespoon of guacamole, one should probably lace it with illegal narcotics or gold flakes or something. There is no such thing as a U$14 tablespoon of guac. Or was the price in Pesos? Damn. I should have looked.


• Being white and stupid, I sometimes can’t tell between products of Indian and Mexican DNA. But I can certainly tell between their food. Why serve Nan bread at a Latin-themed restaurant?


• Grilled shrimp should require neither a cleaver nor a personal crab claw to enjoy. All it should require is a little prep work in the kitchen. Anything else isn’t kosher.


• Skirt steak is skirt steak. It’s either raw or burnt. When did people start getting the impression that skirt steak was Filet Mignon? I guess when it started costing US$29.

Overall, if I can say one thing to help out your future bloated customers it is this: LAY OFF THE SALT! I seriously thought that I was going to shrivel unless I got some water pronto but, of course, no matter how prominently I placed my empty glass, no one could be bothered to refill it. I looked for salvation in the remnants of the Nan bread which seemed to have (only) 4 spoons full of salt sprinkled on but definitely could have used an intravenous drip after finishing my skirt steak. It may have skirted on many things but covered the old Sodium Chloride as thoroughly as a long denim skirt covers an Orthodox chick.

If I were smarter and more driven, I’d open up a bottled water stand on your sidewalk. Then I’d have the most profitable 9 months in business history.

Dear Ashton Kutcher,

On Saturday, November 18th, in the year of our Lord and Savior: 2006, I dined at Dolce Enoteca, your Italian/American fusion/fission restaurant/bar. May the good Lord rest my digestive system.

I won’t complain about the moderately bad service. I have been to enough LA restaurants to know that what you people call a service industry is simply legalized aggressive begging by wannabe actors. So it’s OK that our water was refilled sparingly, bus service was non-existent and our second round of drinks shuffled to the table roughly 10 minutes after we finished our meals. I won’t complain about a 20 dollar crab cake appetizer that made up for its tiny size with completely average taste. Nor about the six or seven crab ravioli that couldn’t decide if they wanted to be hot or cold or just plain strong.

But when your bathroom(s) staged an uprising and released a torrent of excrement into the dining room entrance, this pious diner had had his fill. How is it possible that a mere toilet could spew forth a river of waste through an entire restaurant? Or was the toilet a mere agent and an overfed customer the principle? Indeed, the Tigris and Euphrates could never flood with such a return on the gallon. But whereas the former cradled civilization, your floor will now cradle E. Coli. And Cholera. And your competitor’s burritos.

So long. Farewell. Smell you laters.