Anger Burger

I’ll make this short because I’m sure no one wants to read about a shitty diner.

The first fail is admittedly nit-pickety and I’m not proud of it, but I’m always disappointed to see a side of some kind of dipping sauce come out in a plastic container.  Disposable containers are for take-out.

The Viking’s chicken-fried steak was borderline inedible.  I mean, it was alright I guess.  But with chicken-fried steak I feel like it’s gotta be great and anything else is borderline inedible.  Clearly I’m going to have to make some from scratch this week to wash this one out of our memories.  But honestly: if you’re going to be frying up a steak that was obviously previously frozen, maybe put in some effort to have the gravy on top not be a congealed cap of glue before it even gets to the table?  Yes?  No?

And lastly and worstly, one of the worst milkshakes I’ve ever had.  And by “had” I mean took one sip of and then pushed aside.  It was one of the few times in my life I’ve wondered if I should send something back to the kitchen.  In this instance, I knew if I said something along the lines of “This is basically a big glass full of luke-warm Carnation Instant Breakfast and I don’t want it,” then the waitress would offer to make another one, and I’d have to say “No thanks, I’m not crazy about spitshakes, either.”

Also there was no cherry.

The Viking and I really wanted to find a good greasy spoon – I’m not saying a fancy cafe here, I’m saying a reliable diner where food isn’t fried from frozen and then kept under a hotlamp (including the milkshakes).  Los Angeles is lousy with diners, but so far in the Valley it appears that Bob’s Big Boy is the place to beat.

Our old apartment, despite all its frustrations, was two blocks away from a 24-hour donut shop.  This was a great motivator when the dog’s evening walks were concerned.  In fact, it got to where she started pulling on a route that veered conspicuously straight to the donut place and reminded me of that joke about the woman who walks her husband’s dog while he’s unexpectedly out of town, and the dog takes her straight to door of a woman’s house down the street.  That joke is a lot less funny when it’s written out like that.

The new house, despite all its joys, is not within walking distance of donuts.  This may explain why the dog is no longer walked, and why I’ve lost five pounds.

Yesterday, after driving by Burbank’s Don-t H-t (“All that’s missing is U!”) for the dozenth time, The Viking acquiesced to my begging that he pull the battleship over so we could get some hot fried sugar.  All of this is to bring you up to speed with what I thought was going to be a regular cream-filled donut.

Now, in Los Angeles, the cream-filled is almost always filled with pastry cream or custard.  And while the filling was clearly suspiciously white and stiff, I still imagined that perhaps instead of custard they used something like whipped cream.  I think it’s a very good sign when a baked good makes you bust out laughing at the first bite, for this donut was filled with neither custard nor cream, but vanilla frosting.

Frosting!  I swear to god, it was just vegetable-shortening based vanilla frosting piped into one of the fluffiest, lightest yeast donuts I’ve ever had.  It was like biting into a pillow.  Filled with frosting.  I realize what sacrilegious fuckery this sounds like, but it was so deliciously awfully great that I ate two of them and wished I had another.

Perhaps the best¹ part about having Crohn’s disease is that no one thing triggers the disease quite like stress does.  Concerns and worries commute straight into bowel spasms, dehydration, inflamed joints, brimstone raining from the heavens, dogs lying down with cats, blah blah blah.  You know what’s stressfull?  Worrying about stress.

LET’S GET A BURGER.

There’s a lot of history around the Burbank location of Bob’s Big Boy, the kind of place where the walls are lined with vintage photos and the booth where the Beatles sat has a plaque over it.   And that’s all well and good, but that’s not why you go there.  You go there because the burgers are actually good and they know how to make milkshakes.  And you know, you need to replace about 4000 calories you failed to consume over the last week.

The thing about the classic Big Boy burger is that it’s basically a Big Mac.  Or rather, vice versa — the Big Mac was created specifically to challenge the fame of the Big Boy, and wouldn’t you know it, the Big Boy remains the victor.  It’s easily one of my top five burgers in Los Angeles, nailing the desire for a fast food burger square in the forehead.  It’s spread with plain mayonnaise and what they call “red relish” which as near as I can determine is just regular relish mixed with ketchup.  And I love it.  It’s perfect.

Bob’s fries?  Also delightful if not 100% flawless, still infinitely better than In-n-Out’s notoriously disliked flaccid specimens.  And parsley!  Who still does that?!  Bob’s, I guess.

¹By which I mean the worst.

I haven’t been feeling well and have only eaten oatmeal and tater tots in the last 48 hours, so here’s a photo of my dog wearing my bra:

Last week I ate a banh mi from Nom Nom, who are hugely famous due to being on TV but whose sandwiches I find to be mediocre at best.  The baguette was dry and shredded the roof of my mouth, and proportions were all off.  There were only two slices of jalapeno for the entire sandwich, and even though from the photo it looks like enough salady-bits, it was like 75% bread.  I ate at Nom Nom once before and had the same experience, and this time asked for extra veggies and the girl at the truck said “Okay, but it’s $1 extra.”

For reals?  I can buy a pound of jalapenos for a dollar at any Vallarta grocery store in L.A..  Grump.  Let’s go back and look at that bra-dog some more.

So, you may have heard of this food truck called Grill ‘Em All.  They were on a TV show called The Great Food Truck Race and before that, a West Los Angeles drunky-drunk post-bar favorite.  For perhaps both of those reasons, I’ve ignored the truck, and to my own detriment as it turns out.

Before heading to the truck, we read up on what to eat.  I think the ironic hipster burger of choice is the “Behemoth,” an otherwise normal BBQ sauced burger between two grilled cheese sandwiches instead of a bun.  But there’s a lot of talk about the “Witte,” a burger with bacon, onions, aioli and cream cheese, and the Viking sank his vote on that one.  But then I saw it. “The Dee Snider”: a peanut butter and jelly bacon burger laced with Sriracha sauce.

Peanut butter and jelly burger!

I say this with all honesty and assurances that I wouldn’t fool you: this was one of the best burgers I’ve ever eaten, and despite the patty being overcooked by several minutes.  The crunchy peanut butter was the predictably good part, supplying creaminess and texture to the mess, but the jelly?  And the Sriracha?  Totally genius.  I couldn’t make out what kind of jelly it was, but I’m going to timidly claim it was grape.  And just enough hot sauce to keep the whole thing from confusing your palate.  What might have been twee transforms into something complex and impossible to stop eating.

While we were standing in line (and for a mere 5 minutes, after which our food took only 5 minutes to be made GRILLED CHEESE TRUCK YOU SHOULD PAY ATTENTION) a woman in full cyclist gear including the bicycle approached me and said “Can you tell me what the deal is here?”  She gestured to the long and enthusiastic line at the Grill ‘Em All truck while other nearby trucks wanted for a single customer.  I explained to her the TV show, but then pointed out the occasionally bizarre menu.  Her face lit up.  “What are you going to get?”

“Peanut butter and jelly burger,” I told her.  She laughed.  I laughed too.  What I didn’t know was that I would have to stop myself from going back and ordering a second one.

When the weather gets cold the kids get all depressed and weird, and by “the kids” I mean Mike the Viking and The Thing That Lurks.

Despite having pointedly ignored the Grilled Cheese Truck for well over a year now, I decided that a field trip lunch was in order and wrangled everyone involved into outside pants.

I assure you that all of Los Angeles has already been to the GCT, and in fact the two men behind me were trying to count exactly how many times they’d been¹.  I’ve read maybe a dozen blog reviews, seen it on a TV show and heard about it from friends.  I’ve even walked by it at least three times while on my way to a different food truck.  But to actually pay for a grilled cheese sandwich, there must be one more element: boredom.  And today was that boring day.

Which I pretty much immediately regretted.  I got into line about 15 minutes after the truck setting up and I thought, great!  They’ll power through these fools in no time.  And I was right!  And also “no time” translates to AN HOUR AND A HALF.  And that’s even with several people nearby me in line leaving to go in search of food they could actually procure and eat during their lunch hour.  An hour!  And a half!  Already these poor sandwiches are doomed, because nothing is worth waiting that long for and then paying money for.  Except maybe the Vicodin truck.  Which I think we already established would do AMAZING BUSINESS and should be parked in the Valley at all times.

So anyway, an hour and a half and $17 later, we were the proud owners of lunch.  We got the GCT signature sandwich, the macaroni and cheese with pulled pork ribs and caramelized onions:

There’s no arguing that this is a magical sandwich.  The proportions are all perfect, and what I was certain was going to be an unpleasant amount of carbs (I mean, I love carbs, but I don’t want a pasta sandwich) (except, it turns out I do) was instead a hot, creamy, sharp, meaty, sweet and salty delight.  It was a nice surprise to find that the hype was justified.  Or sort of – if I’d been one of the office workers in line waiting for a “quick” lunch, I’d be a lot bitchier right now.  In fact the gentleman in line in front of me even ordered a sandwich and then could only wait 10 more minutes for his food before he had to leave without his lunch.  He was very calm about it, calmer than I am about my shower water taking longer than two minutes to warm up.

Anyway,  just for a control, we ordered a plain American cheese sandwich, which I thought was a fair deal at $3.

It was what you’d expect.  I overheard someone in line advise against the tomato soup, describing it as “basically marinara sauce”.  To which I was all, well, okay?  Wait, is that bad?

No!  It is not bad.  It was indeed a very thick soup, but since it was undoubtedly designed for dipping your sandwich in, it was perfect.  I’ll be an asshole just for kicks here and say that the dried herbs tasted like dried herbs, but mostly I’m saying that because THEY COULD HAVE GROWN FRESH ONES IN THE TIME IT TOOK ME TO GET MY FOOD.

Perhaps we shouldn’t have brought the dog along, I thought her head was going to explode with the effort of being a good girl while we ate.

Don’t look at me like that, she got plenty of macaroni and cheese and pork.  Or maybe that is why you’re looking at me.  Either way, stop it.

¹ This is a total tangent, but I kind of hate the social culture of food truck lines. People talk in a very stilted way, aware that they are overheard by everyone around them, and punctuate their wan conversations with long, drawn-out pauses. It’s basically like being surrounded by dozens of blind dates.  Inevitably the conversation ALWAYS turns to the length of the line, how long we are waiting and how the truck proprietors are doing it wrong.  Like when I was at the post office a few days ago and the woman behind me in line kept asking me in a loud, exasperated voice “CAN YOU BELIEVE THIS?!” and I finally said “Yes!  I can believe it!”

My friend Hatherly was supposed to meet me at the Lobsta Truck, but she had a baby¹ so it was up to Mike the Viking and myself to buckle down and eat bougie food from a truck.

I feel compelled to address what other reviewers have commented on, which is the apparent dissonant image of a food truck serving lobster.  What I think is surprising and strange is that people find it surprising and strange.  The food truck phenomenon stopped being gristle tacos years ago, but even Angelinos insist on feigning amazement² over the never-ending parade of unique eats made available from mobile dispensaries.  Lobster rolls seem like a perfect inhabitant of this new food truck land; an expensive lunch one buys themselves only rarely, which works out well since it it’s rarely nearby anyway.

But let me discuss the food before I continue down Navel Gazing Avenue.  There was a line of 15 people before the truck opened, and when I turned to count as I left, was closer to 30 deep (the line extends down the block away from us on the left):

The Viking surprised me – and I think himself – by deciding at the last minute to order the crab roll instead of a lobster roll.  Both crab and lobster are offered with either mayonnaise or drawn butter, and I made the executive decision to have his crab with butter and my lobster with mayo.  I overheard someone mention that the rolls were “really small” and to get two, but at $11 each I was all, I’m going to need to pick up an extra sugar daddy for that business.

This image is very nearly actual size.

The rolls are certainly no submarine sandwiches, and while I could have eaten three I was also happy with just one.  The crab was fresh and sweet and even the Viking felt it was a good portion for the price.  I think getting it with butter was smart, since it turned out that “mayonnaise” actually means “mayonnaise with a lot of Old Bay in it”:

My lobster roll was delicious and I’m not sorry I got it, but if I’d known the mayo was seasoned I would have gone for butter instead.  The lobster just barely escaped being completely overwhelmed by the spices, and the crab would have been lost entirely.

Lobsta Truck’s clam chowder was pedestrian and I didn’t take a photo of it.  I am an acknowledged clam chowder jerk, right down to my sense of entitlement from having grown up in the Pacific Northwest where, like it or not, Ivar’s sets the standard.  Lobsta’s chowder is a standard cream-base soup, lacking complexity and mouthfeel.  The clams in it, however, were pristinely tasty, and I desperately want them to let me make their chowder for them to show those clams the good time they deserve.

Despite the scoff-inducing $4 pricetag for a whoopie pie, I ordered one anyway and was not disappointed that I was disappointed — I really, really don’t need a $4 whoopie pie habit.

It was just okay.  I found the cake grain inappropriately large and sturdy for a whoopie pie, and the filling had no trace of marshmallow flavor at all, just a run-of-the-mill vanilla buttercream.  And once again we have zero salt in a very sweet baked good (as confirmed by the ingredient list on the package), a mistake I am finding increasingly amateur.

I had a genuine moment of food regret as I handed over $33 to the nice fellow working the truck.  Thirty-three dollars!  For lunch!  I guess we’re eating lawn clippings for dinner again.  But the rolls themselves were worth the splurge, and as we drove away I saw a group of people sitting on a tailgate eating their lobster rolls, and they’d brought wine and real wine glasses with them, and I was overwhelmed with a buoying moment of love for this food culture.  While hundreds if not thousands of people were right at that moment eating some pile of overcooked excrement at Olive Garden, five people in the Valley of Los Angeles were drinking white wine and eating fresh, sweet lobster rolls while a 75° January breeze ruffled their hair.

¹ Two years ago, but she still has him so I guess she likes him.  I’m not sure she likes him 100% when he keeps her from eating lobster rolls, though.
² I don’t mean we shouldn’t be amazed, we should be, but at the luck of living here, not at the limitless medium of the food truck.

I don’t know about you, but I’m surprised to learn things about myself.   I generally consider myself to be a well-discovered country, over-populated, mined for resources and in decline.  But every once and a while I see how I look to others and think, are we talking about the same Sunday?

Anger Burger has accelerated this.  I’ve written several of what I feel to be balanced, thoughtful and positive food reviews only to have someone tell me later how surprised they were that I hated something.  Animal restaurant and Sprinkles cupcakes are two examples: my mother told me she was sad I had a disappointing birthday dinner at Animal after she read my review, and someone from Sprinkles contacted me after I wrote about their cupcakes to tell me how sad they were that I “did not enjoy” them.  Which leads me to believe one thing: I don’t make myself clear.

Let’s try something new.  I’ll say upfront: Little Roni’s of Olympia, Washington makes a kick-ass sandwich.

But first, let’s discuss something ambiguous.  I fully admit to just not comprehending the “unfinished” look.  This is the most polite photo I could take of Roni’s interior:

Any other photo would have shown a badly-hewn hole in the ceiling, cheap fluorescent fixtures, shelves that look like temporary storage for a backyard shed and nary a personalized, comfortable angle in sight.  The interior was also so physically cold that my mother and I had to keep our large outside jackets on while we ate, and ate quickly so we could get back to the car’s heater.

So while I may be a tremendous douchebag for saying this, I also can’t ignore it.  It’s physically uncomfortable to be inside Little Roni’s.  Which is a real fucking shame, because the sandwiches are dreamy.

My mom has been to Little Roni’s several times and reported back that their brisket sandwich was the best sandwich she’d ever had in her life, hands down — and my mother knows her way around both brisket and sandwiches.  On the day she took me, the brisket wasn’t yet ready (weeping! hair rending!) so we had the same sandwich, but prepared with Roni’s pulled pork instead.

It is spectacular.  The housemade mustard is sweet and full of whole mustard seeds, the onions are silky and rich, the au jus is meaty and flavorsome without the addition of fake caramel-coloring.  A genuine masterpiece, really, and in my opinion a damn deal at $7.50.

The butternut squash was also delicious, though slightly less successful in physical execution.  You have a choice of breads, and as we discovered, you should avoid the crusty ones.  Each bite of the hot, crunchy baguette effectively squished all of the beautifully cooked squash, cheese and apple slices out the sides.  I ended up eating pieces of bread with one hand and pieces of the filling with the other.  It was messy and barbaric, but it should serve to demonstrate the tastiness when I say that we ate the entire thing anyway.

And while I wish they could offer half-sandwiches so we could have tried even more varieties, I understand how much of a pain in the butt that would be.

I was happy to see the shop busy on a Tuesday afternoon, and even as I type this I wish I had a curry chicken sandwich in my hands, but as take-away.  Perhaps the interior of the restaurant won’t bother you at all, and I hope it won’t.  Because you need to eat there, and as soon as possible.

Is that clear enough?

As an American, I didn’t understand until recently that ramen is an edible foodgroup.  That wretched dry brick was all I’d had, and even as a salt-hungry and largely tastebud-dead teen I knew that shit was evil.  After eating it I’d get a chemical flush all over my face and neck and would often lose sensation in my tongue for a short while.  It did not bode well for my desire to be a penniless college student.

Then, I found real ramen.  A paragon of noodles.  The king of bowl-meals, an ambassador of all things salty and soothing.  Hakata ramen, my current obsession, is made with a thick, oily, milky-looking bone-based pork broth.  It’s fucking insidious, I warn you now.  Traditionally, Hakata ramen should have very thin noodles lacking that trademark kinkiness of other ramens, and I think that’s a good deal of why I like it so much, but if I implied it wasn’t about the broth I’d be misleading you.

The Viking and Frego.

It doesn’t surprise me that Los Angeles is home to several great and totally authentic ramen joints, but what did surprise me is that we moved near one of them: Ramen Jinya.

He accepts your heathen noodles and will spare your village.  Today.

I think I’d still prefer a bowl of Shin-Sen-Gumi’s Hakata ramen if handed a bowl of each and asked to choose, but we’re starting to enter Sophie’s Choice territory.  Jinya’s pork is superior and the broth is almost a dead ringer – only the noodles break in favor of Shin-Sen-Gumi, and then only because I feel less of an ass ordering them soft (the option is right on the ticket you fill out and hand to the server).  But here’s the real issue: Shin-Sen-Gumi is a 45-minute drive away now.  Jinya, you have the lead.

There isn’t much to say about sushi.

We went to Katsuya Studio City with good friends last night.  Each Katsuya location is known for being a celebrity hotspot, but for some reason I can’t really pin down.  The sushi is solidly good, with some just good and some clocking in at awesome.  But the prices are pretty normal and the restaurant itself isn’t particularly fancy or anything.  The Studio City location is in a strip mall next to a Domino’s Pizza and a pet grooming store.

So, there is the economy of Los Angeles: for no particular reason, things get famous.

Don’t get me wrong, Katsuya is good.  The above curried oyster on a rice cracker with salmon roe was like being slapped across the mouth with a flavor glove.  I like to imagine the flavor glove as being studded with rhinestones, too, if that helps.

Most of the time I’m the only one that wants monkfish liver.  More for me, of course.  I love it.  I’ve described terrible monkfish liver as “catfood” before, but this stuff was more like cheese.  Fish cheese.  I’m totally making this worse the more I type.  Stopping now.

We lost count of how much nigiri we ordered.

You know who loves Japanese food?

The babies.  Sure they eat soggy Cheerios and lint, but this kid knows when to cry at the vegetable sushi and hold out for bites of yellowtail cheeks.  Wait, that was me.