DINNER WITH A NUDIST

The Prospector
2400 East 7th St.
Long Beach, CA


If you walked past him on the street or saw him in a mattress store, you probably wouldn’t notice him. But if you boated past him a mile off the pacific shoreline (apparently that’s the unspoken rule) or happened to stumble onto one of California’s “special beaches,” you’d see him and all of his droopy, middle-aged glory.

This is Michael. He’s a nudist…Amongst other things.

There’s a reason Michael’s favorite joint, The Prospector, is a Long Beach icon. Ironically, maybe, it’s not very hard to unearth. Outside, it’s exactly what you’d expect a restaurant called The Prospector to look like-A John Wayne wet dream. Every inch of brick and mortar is covered in pictures of lonely cowboys out on the range, with no one to keep them company but their trusty steeds. Inside, a dozen or so toothless regulars are tethered to the bar. Their heads hang inches above draft specials, while other drunks toss darts or suck on each other’s faces in the dark corners.


This place is a proper dive…ie- there isn’t a hipster in sight.

As our eyes slowly adjusted to the dark room and darker element, we saw a sign that said “DINING ROOM” and headed for it. We entered a room of fake wood paneling covered in animal heads and anything to do with the cavalry. We spotted our guests, sitting at a lopsided table surrounded by four mismatched chairs, eating from a complimentary dish of chilled relish and veggies. They were almost fully clothed!

As we walked up, we caught the tail end of a conversation that even my imagination isn’t wondrous enough to conceive. Michael’s stern-faced wife looked him dead in the eyes and said…

“I want the coffins out of my living room, Michael!”

Their attention then turned to us and we introduced ourselves to Michael and his wife, Lorraine. We proceeded to sit down and pry.

We soon find out that Michael is somewhat of an investor. A coffin investor. He currently has six coffins lying around the house, accruing value and pissing off Lorraine. His most prized piece is the oversized casket, custom ordered by a Samoan family to fit their 580-pound uncle, sitting in her entryway. And, just when we were about to find out how the hell he acquired all these caskets, our waitress arrived.

She’s a 70-year-old with a red-dye-job-fading-pink-livin’-on-two-packs-of-Pall Malls-a –day-since-she-was-7 type gal. Tapping her pencil on a pad, we hurried to decide, asking Michael about his favorites. He told us he used to come here for the frog legs, before he met Lorraine. So with no help from him, we turned to the waitress, who’d apparently never heard this question in her life.

To avoid the follow up glare, we ordered two of the Tuesday night specials.

And before she even left, a bus boy delivered our first course: “The Prospector’s Famous Soup.” We’re still not sure what kind it was, or where this fame aspired from, but we can tell you that it had some corn in it. And it may or may not have had a celery element.

After two bland slurps (that’s what she said), we got back to finding out how he got a hold of all them caskets.

Turns out, Michael is a mechanic at a cemetery. What does this entail, you may wonder? Well, apparently over 100 pieces of machinery. Yep, he fixes the limos, the golf carts, the hearse, the plows, the ovens, casket hinges, toilets…anything to do with anything in the cemetery.

The weirdest experience had to do with a family moving out of state, who wanted to take their loved one with them. You know, I can understand uprooting an Oak tree your kids planted 20 years back, but uprooting crazy Aunt June? Anyways, they can. Michael assisted, taking a blowtorch to the rusted shut casket to help get her out. Yep. This is actually legal. If you’re the head of someone’s estate, you are in control of everything, including their rotting corpse.

Oh, and I got the answer to the question you’re dying to know but you’d never ask…

“The bodies are like jelly. Jelly mixed with bones. And it stinks near awful!”

Oddly enough, the “freshies” (buried in the last 3 yrs) are usually still recognizable due to embalming, but much longer and you get the “jellies”. And because it’s illegal to transport the bodies in caskets, already buried (wtf?) Michael scoops up the “jelly” into a plastic bag and hands it over.

I looked down at our second course, a standard dinner salad of ice berg lettuce, topped with shredded carrots and 3 cherry tomatoes, and pushed it aside as the Italian dressing turned into the jelly of an aging cadaver. With no visible rust or rot, I’m guessing the salad probably tasted fine. You can be the judge, though.

We noticed the effects of the dinner conversation and changed gears, asking the couple about their craving for nudity. Michael told us he was born with it while Lorraine told us she’d been tricked into it. Apparently, Michael took Lorraine for a weekend vacation, which was coincidentally on the same beach his nudist club frequents. He conveniently left that tiny detail out.

Since then, Michael has been able to get her out of her clothes and into nudity. Together they even formed AANRF: The American Association for Natural Family Recreation. (Click to see what our diners look like naked) And rest assured, Michael isn’t just a member, he’s the President.

AANRF is a nudist club made up of 6 families and one teenager (well, sort of). She’s still begging mom to sign the permission slip. The club takes Michael’s boat out and visits clothing-optional resorts around the Botox-required state of California. Their most frequented spot is Deer Park Resort, where Michael swears they serve the best spaghetti he’s ever tasted. And speaking of food, our entrees arrived, clothed in deep fried goodness.

The Chicken Fried Steak at $8.99 was down right dirty and delicious, just the way it should be. The steak wasn’t tender but it wasn’t tough. The mashed potatoes where whipped with just the right amount of cream and butter: A LOT. The side of green beans where straight out of can, as they should have been. The gravy, poured over the entire plate of southern goodness, tasted like it came from the skillet you’re Granny spent the last 70 years seasoning. It was rich in fat and flavor.


It also came with a basket of garlic toast. The thick white bread was toasted to perfection with every bite bringing you a tablespoon of garlicky butter that melted in your mouth and warmed our hearts…in more ways than one, I’m sure.





The filet mignon, on the other hand, was just plain scary. At first cut, it looked normal but as oxygen took its toll and the temperature dropped, it took on a grayish hue. But hey, you pay $12.99 for a steak, you get something with grey flesh that’s pronounced fill-it mig-non by your waitress. That’s science.

We definitely didn’t have any trouble making quick work of the fries, though. They were hand-cut, perfectly-salted steak fries, with the ideal ratio of crispy to soggy. Skins still showing, just the way God intended. Right, Michael?

Michael wasn’t as interested in his chicken fried steak as he was in telling us about all of society’s hang-ups and the laws keeping him from getting nice and naked.

“They got a prop about lettin’ gays marry, but nothing’s on the ballot about gettin’ nude.”

However, knowing the laws means knowing loopholes. And Michael’s a regular Cochran of nudey pursuits.

His favorite, and somehow totally lawful, way of flying his flag is to roll through the McDonalds drive-thru butt ass naked for a hamburger. Although, he says, he’d prefer to shame the drive-thru of a White Castle, if they had any out here. He even told us that sometimes, when the WC craving gets the best of him, he’ll take a very thin burger patty, fry it on onions and spread a little strained beef baby food on top. Apparently, it’s almost identical to a slider. But again, you be the judge.

As dinner came to a close, Michael couldn’t help but plug his newest endeavor. He has taken his pension for nudity into the more acceptable medium of photography and released it onto the worldwide web. Click to see more of Michael originals, most of them featuring naked women holding skulls. Are they real skulls? We may never know.

We’ll leave you, just the way that Michael left us, by saying, “Being naked ain’t so wrong. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.” And, as I sit here writing this conclusion without the burden of pants, I can’t help but apply Michael’s words of wisdom to the moral of this story:

Eating at a dive bar ain’t so wrong either. Don’t knock it ‘til you try it or you may end up eating your words.

DINNER WITH A BARISTA

Toi on Wilshire (a.k.a. Toi Rockin’ Thai)

1120 Wilshire Blvd

Santa Monica, CA



This is the guy you see everyday but know nothing about. The guy who's job it is to know if you're lactose intolerant. The guy who can look at you at 7 in the morning and decide whether you'll need a double or a triple shot. This is Randy. This is your Barista. Or, is it Baristo?

We met Randy at his favorite restaurant, Toi on Wilshire. A.K.A. Toi Rockin’ Thai, on a Tuesday night around 7:30. The place was nearly empty minus a group of tweens parked in back. A traditional Thai rickshaw dressed in blinking Christmas lights sat in front. (May?!) The walls were covered in posters of the typical musical idols of our past and present, and lanterns covered in Thai characters hung from the rafters.

No longer wondering why its AKA is “Rockin Toi Thai,” we joined Randy in a booth beneath Jim Morrison and John Lennon and cracked our menus. With Randy’s appetizer recos we ordered a first course with a Thai woman wearing pleather boots and a bottles worth of black eye liner, (Another Rockin’ Tribute) And though she probably knew every word off Antichrist Superstar, she wasn’t exactly well-versed on the menu. But after a few games of charades and a healthy amount of menu pointing, our app order was in.

While we awaited their arrival, our conversation turned into a Santa Monica history lesson. Turns out, Randy was born, raised and never left or plans on leaving the (310). Say what you will, but this man knows everything there is to know about SM, first hand.

For instance, we all know of the Z-boys. Well, Randy knows the Z-boys. He spent his youth in empty pools and on pacific breaks with the original Dogtowners. This guy lived on the west side when it was still a gang sign. When the 3^rd Street Promenade was the murder capital, not the tourist capital. He even told us about barley living through the coastal quakes of the 1960s, when his entire bedroom wall ended up in the middle of the Wilshire.

Sadly, Santa Monica Story Time came to a close when the Saigon Spring Rolls and Mixed Tempura arrived. The traditional Vietnamese spring rolls were the better of the two so-called Thai apps. They came with a threesome of dipping sauces (spicy mustard, a soy-based something and sweet-and-sour) tasted like they came from a plastic packet with a panda on it.

And the Tempura was more Bloomin’ Onion. than lightly breaded, lightly fried tempura. But hey, you know what tastes good? Anything fried. And in this case, triple fried.

After eating our appetizers around the menus still in hand, our server (and I use that term loosely) returned to take our entrée orders. We chose Randy’s three favorites: Pad Cui, Green Curry with Brown Rice and Pineapple Fried Rice.

From then on, we had PLENTY of time to discover even more interesting finds about our barista. Like the fact that Randy’s working on a nursing degree at Santa Monica College and has six brothers and sisters. Interesting right? Well, it was until we hit the goddamn mother load. Turns out Randy spends his Saturdays in jorts and a tank top on the Venice boardwalk. Roller skating. To. Disco. That’s right. He’s one of these guys:

And reacting to the look on our faces he said...

“Anyone can do it. Feelin’ the music is your membership."

After what we could only imagine was half an hour of cutting herself just to feel, our waitress finally arrived with the entrees. The Pad Cui, which was actually spelled wrong on the menu (Pad Cwi), was prepared, for lack of a better word, correctly. It had broccoli, bell peppers, beef, flat noodles, all tossed in the standard black soybean sauce. Think of what Pad Cui tastes like…that’s what it tasted like.

The Pineapple Fried Rice with Shrimp, our second non-Thai dish of the night, was not good. This vintage Chinese copout was flavorless and gummy. And we especially liked how they threw a handful of mixed nuts on top, disguising it as a royal Thai dish. It wasn’t all bad, though. Unlike most places, they didn’t stiff on the shrimp, which were good-sized and well cooked.

Last, and definitely not least, was the Green Curry was where it’s at. The balance of spicy curry and sweet coconut was right on and the vegetables were cooked to perfection. Even the eggplant, which is so often a mushy mess gripping onto a purple strip, was excellent.

And the happy accidents kept coming when our princess of darkness forgot to bring the brown rice to help soak up the soupy goodness. And instead brought a bowl of black jasmine rice. And though it looked like a nest of large, purple weebles, it turned out to be her best F up of the night. It complimented the curry beautifully and was, hands down, the best part of the meal.

Over dinner, we couldn’t help but grill Randy about the ins and outs of being a barista. We learned about 5 am robberies, crazy bums throwing scolding hot coffee in his face, and a millionaire that works next door, who brews his own coffee, and comes over for a free doctoring of milk and sugar. And because Randy works in Santa Monica, he has the pleasure and in Harrison Ford’s case the displeasure, of serving various celebs their morning jolt.

Hillary Swank pops in for a double non-fat dry (like her sense of humor) cappuccino, while the Rock likes a weak Sumatra blend. And as for the Harrison Ford… Randy tells us, “He’s the biggest asshole I’ve ever served.” Guess the prick showed up smelling of booze at 8am, and told Randy he should get to cleaning the bathrooms. OUCH. So, in Randy’s defense…

Finally, after three courses of rice, we settled on a dessert: Sticky Rice with Mango. It wasn’t a hard choice seeing as how it’s Toi’s only desert. It was actually quite good. The rice was slightly sweet and not too sticky, and the mango was fresh and ripe, to make the perfect pairing.

We ended the night asking Randy if he'd like a cup of coffee to wash down dessert. He humored the thought, but then declined. Just like we'll do next time we're asked back to Toi.

DINNER WITH A FUNERAL PLANNER

Louise’s Trattoria
1008 Montana Ave.
Santa Monica, CA



Emily is a Funeral Planner. You’ll meet her when you discover a tumor that’ll kill you in a month or when rotting away in a nursing home, ready to plan your future. You won’t meet her if you’re suddenly hit by a bus or decapitated by a helicopter blade.

We met her at Louise’s.

It was a Monday around 7:30pm, and the little Italian joint on Montana Ave, was just what we expected. The staff, in pressed pleats and neckties, gave the place an upscale feel. While cheesy Italian prints and a disturbingly large amount of children and spaghetti kept it casual and unpretentious.

After taking a booth in the back, our waiter rushed over, offering “wine or a beer to start?” In dire need of one or the other (or both), we looked to Emily, who replied “No thanks. I don’t drink.” Never feeling guilty for drinking in the presence of someone who doesn’t, we ordered two La Creama pinot noirs (great tasting), an Amstel Lite (better than piss) and Emily’s Diet Coke (good on rust).

A bus boy dropped off a basket of herb-toasted focaccia, and a plate of olive oil and balsamic to tango in front of us. Hangry, we ripped into the basket, plunking the thick, delicious dough into the rich, flavorful oils. Complementary bread is always a good but this was delicious.

After placing our order we got into a little small town small talk. Emily grew up in a small suburb of Massachusetts, in a staunchly religious family of 6. She went to school close to home. Went to church, close to home. Even chose a career that was all too close to home: teaching. Just like her mother.

She taught Spanish at the same high school she attended, in the same town she grew up in, with the same friends, same family and same congregation. Sounds like a plotline right out of an afterschool special on the Trinity Broadcasting Network, right?

Well, that is, until Chapter L.A., Verse 01: 09
She saw the light in the form of a boy. A boy who uprooted our little Emily from Pleasantville to Encino. He was following a dream of becoming part of “the industry”, and she was following him. And suddenly the story of a little pietist from Little Town, MA got very, very interesting.

As our food arrived, we proceeded to dig in. To pizza. To pasta. And to Emily.

When we asked her how the hell she became a Funeral Planner, she simply replied, “I knew a girl. I saw how much money she made. I liked the idea of all that money and well, I don’t mind funerals.”

Death is a billion dollar industry. And until they find a cure, Emily can sell a wrinkled widow with the line, “This is the last way you can take care of your kids,” and make a nice little living, on the dying.

The Pappardelle with Italian Sausage was in a light (by which they mean heavy) cream sauce with big chunks of Italian sausage on top with even bigger chunks of fennel seeds inside. They overpowered the entire dish, that, by the way, was our waiter’s recommendation and a “specialty of the house.”

We should have taken that as a sign of things to come. But as disinterested as we were in the food, we were fascinated with our stranger. And so we asked Emily to take us through a typical day, which turned into her planning our funerals.

Q: Do you want to be cremated or buried?

A: Cremated

You’ll purchase a cardboard box for $395 bucks and they’ll throw you in a giant oven. Like the oven at Pizzeria Mozza in Hollywood, but for bodies, not LA’s best pizza. After 2 hours of cadaver cookin’, they open the oven to 8 pounds of ash left in the shape of your body. They double bag them, and they’re ready to spread. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpuMAvA8M6g&feature=related

And speaking of cremation (sorry, I couldn’t help it), let’s talk Chicken Portobello Mushroom Ravioli’s. They were stuffed with a dry blend of chicken and ricotta that was comparable to dehydrated couscous. The sauce tasted like a can of whole cream spiked with slimy mushrooms. It’s only redeeming quality was that it was sort of moist, I guess. But even still, it couldn’t counter torrid, parched pillows.

Q: For your funeral service, do you want an open casket or closed?

A: Open

It starts with picking a casket. You could get a simple, wood case for $900 or a solid copper, super soft stuff inside, double-layered casing for $189,000. You even have to option to get a “used” casket. One that has been used to show a body for a funeral service before cremation.

On that note, our next open casket arrived. A platter of Chicken Parmigiana. It looked correct when it arrived, but one cut into the pounded, fried chicken breast and we knew we were in for another disappointment. The chicken was dry and overcooked. The typically battered, crispy shell was doused in Ragu, which turned the fried goodness into a soggy disaster. (Tasted worse than picture looks.)

Even though the conversation turned to embalming, it was still more appetizing that the plates on our table. We divvied up a Margarita Pizza covered in sliced tomatoes and basil, sitting in an overly sweet sauce as Emily dropped some knowledge on us. It was the worst dish of the night paired with the most interesting conversation.

Apparently, after you croak, your body is taken to a care center and put in a fridge, which is exactly where the pizza probably comes from too.WARNING: Make sure family knows burial wishes, or end up waiting in a fridge for over a year while they fight about it. True story. Anyways, then they then drill a hole in your neck, two in your feet, and drain the fluids out one end and pump them into the other.

“Well, that’s if your body is intact. Don’t ever watch an autopsy on YouTube.”
- Emily…. Or do. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRAh3Qse-Us

Emily’s first day at a care center included victims of a suicide and a car accident (beginner’s luck). She assisted an embalmer – who she tells us are mostly gay males (chock it up to sensitivity and a flair for makeup application) –in breaking bones back into place and sewing hard, stubborn skin around them. She stuffed cotton into a nose cavity to bring the relaxed cartilage back to visual life. Even put bubble gum behind the eyelids of a retina donor to give them shape and keep them closed. (Sugar free only, sugar dissolves)

As our actually very fitting dinner conversation continued, we crossed our fingers and tried the Linguine Alfredo. Something so staple and simple that it’s impossible to fuck up. A starch, drenched in butter, cheese and cream. Well, let’s just say we’ve had better from a Lean Cuisine box. Strike 5, Louise’s.

Q: Do you have any special wishes?

A: Here is where you would explain to Emily that over your lifetime, you have cremated and kept all of your cats in urns upon your mantel. You’d then explain your wish to line the inside of your casket with these remains, so you and you’re 6 cats could lie together in eternity. Oh yes, a previous client of hers.

She concludes by telling us about the post death package. A kit that includes all the things you’d never think of but must have. Safe deposit box keys, bank account information, thank you cards, letters to cable companies, electric companies and other contacts you’d never think of...


Now that our funerals were planned, we ordered a little depression control in the form of dessert. We slaughtered 4 layers of dense cake situated between layers of thick chocolate fudge, surrounded by dribbles of hot fudge and raspberry puree. Perfect for those who like rich, coma-inducing desserts that’ll make you have to special order a fat casket. It was actually delicious. A perfect bookend to the bread (honestly, the best thing we had all night) to hold up and otherwise horrendous meal.

But that wasn’t the sweetest part of the night. That came when, drunk on cake, Emily let spill that she and her boyfriend were starting a business shooting erotic photos of women in their basement. Emily claims it’s an art, inspired by the 19th century burlesque movement. But it’s pretty clear that this didn’t start on a whim. Could it be? Our little choirgirl has a bit of a bad streak? A teacher, turned death merchant, turned fetishist?


Unforgivable. Much like our meal.