Boosting the Ego at Berlin Bistro – Long Beach

I've done aerial silks for over a year now, and I've been pretty reluctant to try anything else. I protest the trapeze, I boycott the hoop, and I've always refused to touch the pole. It frustrates my instructors, it kills my classmates, but I wouldn't be the first girl to dislike holding hard apparatuses between her thighs.

But pole dancing is an amazing artistic endeavor when you do it right, and to me, it was a little like Berlin Bistro's Lavender Lemonade. A drink with a pretty purple lining at the bottom of the glass, the lavender lemonade held a world of potential, a fresh sip of something cold, new, and refreshing. And despite being a fairly seasoned aerialist, the sweet lavender syrup, like the pole, created an old favorite with a brand-new spin. The balance of sugar with spice was better shaken, not stirred. And I had to try to shake it just this once.

After the gyrating warm-up, my first pole class was off to a strong start, but I could have done without the screeching, searing of the hard metal pole as it scraped across my skin. My thighs were red as the Seared Ahi Tuna Burger at a raw medium rare. The bruising that comes inevitably grates grill marks on your flesh, but let it be known that the tuna was perfectly seared. Plus the bruises are kind of worth the effort to make your buns tight and toned, with none of the dimpling around the tuna.

When you look in the mirror during class and you see the gorgeous lines your own body makes, you feel hotter than the wasabi mayo, and suddenly I see what my friends mean when they tell me they do pole for themselves. The Smoked Salmon Flatbread is a dish you can justify for others as well as yourself. You don't get healthier than the good-fat smoked salmon with sweet slices of heirloom tomato and a contrasting crunch of crisp red onion. Unfortunately, the dill-cream cheese is the social stigma that drags down the fun.

But as one empowered lady once said, "The players gonna play, play, play, play, play. And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate". I, for one, won't be letting the fun-Nazis win. And from now on, I'll be grabbing a tasty bite from Berlin Bistro every time I grab a pole and shake it off.

Formulaic Fig & Olive - West Hollywood

I get it. Your kitchen is your domain, you’re baroness of the burners,  the oven is a kingdom and you are its queen. But you’re not too good to follow a recipe. Why, you ask? Why follow a pre-written, pre-conceived notion when you can conspire to create? Because other people have probably already conspired to create whatever you’re thinking of, and they made the mistakes so you wouldn’t have to. 

A recipe is a culmination of every single way every single person ever tried to make something, a conglomeration of other people's trial and error, a conglomeration of everyone else's pain. I'm not saying you can't modify it a smidge or tweak it a a tiny bit to suit you, but change it too much, and all you'll end up with is something someone else already had to throw away.

I follow recipes to the letter because I'm lazy, but when it comes to fine dining, I'm paying for something I can't make. I sit at that cloth-covered table every time hoping for just one gustatory glimpse into the soul of a chef truly touched by genius. When I'm in a restaurant, I want to see chefs going against the grain, going off on a limb, branching out to the point that I can no longer see what twig they're on. And that's exactly what I was looking for when I walked into Fig & Olive.

I'm not sure what kind of creativity I was looking for, but the Crostini came from the recipe book called "generic & unremarkable". And at a whopping $4 a pop, let's just say this recipe won't be called "biggest bang for your buck". Everyone knows that avocado is good in any recipe, and combining it with crab on a cracker is a pretty puny cop-out. The crab was so tasteless it could have been canned, and the firm, unripe avocado wasn't doing the crab any favors. Considering this was a combination of my two favorite ingredients, I was hoping for something better than what normal people serve at a high-end housewarming.

Whatever the crab was lacking, the Manchego cheese with fig jam did not make up for. The fig was a tasty texture, but the triangle of manchego tasted just as good from Trader Joe's, and you'd have to be nuts to go crazy over a couple of Marcona almonds.

The octopus crostini came highly recommended, which I found surprising. You either love or hate octopus and it's definitely not for everyone, but it looks like Fig & Olive found a way to turn the texture turmoil into a crowd-pleaser. The octopus is shaved so thin it's undetectable. Add a sweet carrot puree and you can have octopus without having to taste the octopus.

The crostini were pretty forgettable, but the Sea Scallops were sublime. Fresh, tenderly seared on a bed of carrot tapenade with critical curls of citrus, these three little 6-dollar scallops were an even worse value than crackers. I think the tentacled-mess presentation was trying to distract from how little was actually on the plate.

The Melone & Burrata is ring to relish. This one goes in the book of "sure things". The sweet, fresh mascarpone-stuffed mozz puts all other cheeses to shame. Sure, burrata is the avocado of cheese, but the pairing with cantaloupe contrasted by bitter arugula and radicchio is hard to beat. I may value culinary creativity, but there's no need to reinvent the wheel...of cheese.

My cooking stories often start with " the recipe was perfect, the execution is somewhat flawed." Whoever made the Rosemary Lamb Chops didn't have that problem.They clearly found the most tender lamb chops in the market and added a premixed plethora of Provence herbs. A common, winning combination with amazing underlying eggplant, a brilliant bed of smoky darkness like nothing I've ever tasted.

Everything I ate at Fig & Olive tasted like a foodie following a recipe exceptChilean Sea Bass. The fish is flaky and flavorful and the asparagus and carrots were crisply cooked. How you make that crock of creamy, savor-loaded sauce without a single drop of butter or cream is genius beyond my wildest dreams.

The entrees were dressed to impress, but the Mixed Berry Crostata was a recipe for disaster. The berries are fresh, the cointreau syrup is undetectable, and the vanilla mascarpone is perfectly barely-there. The filo is hard and stuck together, and trying to get everything in one bite becomes a natural disaster. At the end of the day, someone bought a bunch of things that looked pretty and threw them all together. 

A recipe is not a marker of your peak of perfection, rather it’s a conglomeration of your mistakes. It's not meant to tell you how do things right, it's meant to prevent you from doing things wrong. It seems that Fig & Olive follows its recipes to the letter. There's definitely nothing wrong with their food, but at the end of the day, the only thing they got right was the recipe.

Gone Fishing for FishBar - Manhattan Beach

A trip to FishBar is basically a trip to the ladies' room. There is always a line, even if it's 9 PM on a Tuesday night, and there is always a twenty-minute predicted wait time no matter how many people are ahead of or behind you while you wait in a line that doesn't move. And just when you think you'll explode from the pangs of hanger or the pains of that third beer, the stall door clicks and elation is all you feel.

When I'm that hangry, precious little will snap me out of a mood that foul, except maybe the fact that a table for 4-6 magically opens up in 10-15 minutes every time despite the predicted 30-minute wait. And despite FishBar being constantly packed to the gills, we always get a comfortable table with ample space - no awkward elbow-bumping with the next one over.

Even less will make me smile when I'm hangry, but one rich bite has me asking the Lobster Mac & Cheese if it hurt when it fell from heaven. They don't skimp on the juicy red chunks of claw, and the creamy sauce goes great with penne. There's no lack of seafood succulence on this plate.

Even the Bread Pudding is a pleasant surprise at FishBar. I never would have guessed a seafood shack could make this gooey, sticky sponge soaked in just enough sauce to be as sweet as sugar.

It really can't get much better than mac n' cheese and bread pudding to top off a Tuesday night, but wait, it can. One bite of creamy Truffled Crab Mac & Cheese, and the lobster will be just a memory. The chunks of crab immersed in cheese, topped with oil of the truffle is an amazing combination, and don't let the "starter" label fool you - it's more than enough for a meal.

We don't choose to line up for the ladies room, but waiting half an hour for FishBar in the trendy restaurant-row of Manhattan Beach is a conscious choice I make every time I'm there.There may be plenty of fish in the sea, but I've gone fishing for FishBar.

Picking on Perch - Los Angeles

According to Pride and Prejudice, “it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife." According to Chinese aunties, it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman in possession of no fortune, must be in want of a husband.

I was thoroughly reminded of this at my uncle's Mid-Autumn Festival dinner thanks to his awkwardly well-intentioned wife. Spinsterhood was around age 25 in Jane Austen’s time. 29 is 45 in Chinese-auntie years, and they advertised accordingly. “She’s a good girl,” my auntie insisted, “Nothing wrong with her – just a little old.” Well some things get better with age, thank you very much, and alcohol is one such thing. Perch makes one heck of an OLD Fashioned.

Chinese aunties are, if nothing else, brutally honest. Their love is manifest in their bluntness, which can hit you even more unexpectedly than the overly sweet glaze on this soft slab of Pork Belly. But underneath the backhanded compliments lies a love and caring beyond comprehension, unlike the pork belly, whose sugary glaze is barely skin deep.

No one does backhanded compliments like Chinese aunties. They love to tell you that you look significantly more well-fed or significantly less morbidly obese than the last time they saw you, and sometimes they'll even praise you on how well you've aged...now that you're no longer the ugliest person in your family. Unfortunately, that's about all I can say about the Baby Beet Salad - it's the least bad thing I had at Perch. The sweet red dots of fresh beets punctuated by chunks of blue cheese have a smooth vinaigrette and sharp bites of arugula and endive. A solid salad overall, but it's far more forgettable than the backhanded compliment I gave it.

The cute little fireplace next to my table gave me almost as much heat as all my aunties did, but the Boeuf Bordelaise got me a lot less hot and bothered. The standard short rib with a standard side of potatoes and onion went in one ear and out the other...but let’s not get too graphic about that...

I think you can infer that the best part of the mid-autumn festival is not the company. The best part is the moon cake, a tribute to the moon goddess of immortality. Apparently she has two rabbits who do all the medicine-grinding for her elixirs of everlasting life, and I had one of them for dinner. Little Bunny Frou Frou probably wasn’t working all that hard, though, because the rabbit that fills the ravioli is as tender and flavorful as everlasting youth, but let’s just say the overpowering, generic cream sauce will never achieve immortality.

I wouldn't ever want to become a Chinese auntie, but I do want to give a Chinese auntie compliment to Perch. Perch makes veggies a lot less poorly than they make meat. The side of Cauliflower with savory brown butter and a dusting of curry-esque spice was the best thing I had all night.

The grass is always greener on the other side, but at the end of the day, I wouldn't trade my side of the fence for anyone else's. I'll never understand why my noisy, nosy, nagging, eternally overbearing family expresses their affection in the form of constant criticism, and I'll never understand how a place as prestigious as Perch gets away with such poor offerings of food, but great love and great food both speak a common, universal language. My family is pretty fluent in love, but Perch will need a few more lessons. 

Mixed Up at Chez Melange/Bar Comida/Bouzy Gastropub – Redondo Beach

When it comes to dating, I've completely exhausted my options and have resorted to taking it to the internet. I've been pleasantly surprised by Coffee Meets Bagel, but Match.com has been quite the melange of the bold, the brazen, and the downright bizarre.

And when it comes to food, Chez Melange has been the Match.com of restaurants. There's something for everyone, and you can wear your LBD to a resto francais, have a casual-chic chat at tiny tapas bar, and slouch in jeans an a t-shirt over gastropub beer all in the same night.

There's someone for everyone too, they say, but I have yet to find something that clicks. But Match does seem have someone for everyone, I just seemed to find someone who was better suited for a deaf mute.

When I first saw the sophisticated setting of Chez Melange with the intimate ambiance of Bar Comida, I was instantly hooked. A mix of every type of food with every level of laid back had almost as much potential as my nerdy-yet-witty email exchange with my potential suitor. His first email made peals of laughter escape my lips as readily as the rich, creamy Lobster Bisque slid down my throat. A seamless appetizer, full of promise for the entrees to come. 

It initially bothered me that his professional success was contingent upon my professional failure - I'm a doctor and he is a salesman of caskets - but I still decided he deserved a chance. After a couple of emails-turned-late-night-text exchanges had as many textures and layers of flavor as the Blue Point Bay Mussels. Our conversation topics were as tried and true as this popular menu staple, but what could have been an easily forgettable creamy sauce had elements of white wine to spice it up while the garlic packed a punch. Combine that with savory chunks of bacon for layers of flavor, and we had a conversation we just had to continue in person.

At first glance, I wasn't exactly a fan of his looks, but he was by no means facially impaired.  Like the Maine Lobster Roll, I had hoped that the unremarkable buttered brioche exterior was hiding the sweet lobster within. 

Unfortunately, the brioche overpowered the lobster, and despite our initial in-person convo, which was full of crisp banter, quips peppered with parm pizzazz and just enough truffle to have a little swagger, unlike the Truffle Parmesan Fries, his true colors started to show.

We had started with the pleasantries and the positives, remarking on the night air and all the amazing places we've traveled. Everything seemed to fall into place like the perfect blend of lamb sausage, olives, and feta of the Mediterranean Pizza.

Our shared interest in Game of Thrones lit up our eyes like the perfect salty, smoky salmon of the Smoked Salmon Crostini, and our mutual adoration of Oberyn Martel was the sweet candied lemon on top. But the lemon didn't balance the salmon well - the sharp sweetness was a bit too much for the fish, and things went downhill from there. 

Like all failed dates, there were some snags where things just didn't quite click. He started the downhill slide by boasting that his cooking was now far superior to the crap his mother makes. (Apparently he told her this!) But he really put the nail in the coffin when he went out of his way to watch my favorite movie the day before our date so that he could point out all the parts he thought were stupid.

At this point I realized that ordering this date was even more regrettable than the side of Kale. I love a good vegetable, but like him, this supposedly supercharged side dish was only good in theory. Once you got into the details of the dish, you saw that it was barely properly cooked and lacked any seasoning or flavor beyond a pinch of salt. Not the worst thing in the world, but I'd never sit in a restaurant with it again.

He later went on to praise his own humor, which he definitively rated as superior to mine. His humor was as dry as the “not quite chicharones, not quite carnitas” Crispy Pork Bits, and although I usually do like my humor dry, this guy had the charm of an undertaker and the humor of a corpse. It's hard to stomach tough pork with a side of jerk.

I had high hopes for online dating, but Match.com lived up to my reasonable expectations about as much as Chez Melange lived up to my culinary dreams. But despite spending most of this date wishing I was IN a casket, I'm sure this guy had SOME qualities his mom found redeeming. And despite my criticism of the Chez Melange trifecta, I do love the ambiance of Bar Comida. So unlike my relationship with this guy, which is deader than all his clients, my relationship with Bar Comida is far from over... but over my dead body would I consider it anything more than the occasional booty call.