tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61262875296452329482024-02-06T21:56:19.057-08:00DINNER WITH A STRANGERpart food blog, part social experimentTHE WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11567668823563927253noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6126287529645232948.post-79740637305627540532009-10-22T12:08:00.000-07:002009-10-22T15:12:23.525-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDq9BAt1inM2ka7x3mRB2-n2k2GLvSl_QxRr_NToMl3eIr9nofE4uWRinkffWmncizByBFci94jZYx_9XAg-dxk5mMeQ6fGQUHtgvvQvU2hlOqKfnF_yGoyPwo8JhOLyl-26CpGR6vcg2_/s1600-h/IMG_1823.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 198px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDq9BAt1inM2ka7x3mRB2-n2k2GLvSl_QxRr_NToMl3eIr9nofE4uWRinkffWmncizByBFci94jZYx_9XAg-dxk5mMeQ6fGQUHtgvvQvU2hlOqKfnF_yGoyPwo8JhOLyl-26CpGR6vcg2_/s320/IMG_1823.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395507666001038146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Helvetica,serif;font-size:130%;" class="Apple-style-span" >Dinner with an ATF Agent </span><p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://www.alibiroomla.com/home.php">The Alibi Room</a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">12236 W Washington Blvd<br />Los Angeles, CA 90066<br />(310) 390-9300</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">About a year ago, around 5 am, on a sleepy residential street in Venice, flash grenades were tossed and bullets were fired. Awoken by this warfare, we dropped to the ground<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:00">, </ins></span>scared of wild bullets soaring through open windows into our skulls. Crawling to the front window, we saw our street lined with men dressed in bulletproof vests, holding very deadly weapons. Written on the back of their uniforms in bold, yellow lettering was: ATF. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p>Little did we know that <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:180%20Admin" datetime="2009-10-20T09:18">in </ins></span>less than a year we would be having dinner with one of the 75 ATF agents that had raided the home directly across the street from ours that very night. The place where 80% of The Venice Shoreline Crypt’s drug trafficking took place.</o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> Meet Mr. X. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gc8mVs2H4Vc">He is a bona fide badass.</a></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHrgTDVubqoEIFqBopqxEl3V5KNbvSY2ZtsXkhNMQwhA6WeW29kHN2D0RMDNklmGKplisgcjvRue2c_v4G8juEOk6Ns8MKkhPz382dDHCYdWCtXbGO6kdTzmnQfcNkvn_F894hx4lNrrx/s1600-h/suspects.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHrgTDVubqoEIFqBopqxEl3V5KNbvSY2ZtsXkhNMQwhA6WeW29kHN2D0RMDNklmGKplisgcjvRue2c_v4G8juEOk6Ns8MKkhPz382dDHCYdWCtXbGO6kdTzmnQfcNkvn_F894hx4lNrrx/s400/suspects.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395547544662447906" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">We met him at the very appropriate Alibi Room in Culver City. This place used to be the local<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:01">’</ins></span>s dive bar until it was turned into hip-ville in true Culver City form. Then it became popular overnight when the infamous Kogi BBQ Truck decided to take a permanent parking spot in the kitchen. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">For those of you who live under a rock, this social-networking juggernaut led people to chase a truck via Twitter all over Los Angeles in hopes of standing in a two-hour line to taste the culinary brilliance of Korean BBQ served upon a Mexican taco. It lives up to the hype and keeps the culinary gurus on the road to success. Literally. Chase the dream <b style=""><a href="http://www.findlafoodtrucks.com/">here.</a> </b></span></span><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6FECSQuygqv7pgLig1twHm6HRR0T7KCh576PMfl0o2phRyhIlwZl8Mdk255bK1L1DS0q4IrLyvahEdD3X78OEdYNuX4GSfdVHHg1QeJ8WVdVhqM0o2wXqAXiYu8XhL8Ymfp6s_yl7G3-/s1600-h/beer_mug.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6FECSQuygqv7pgLig1twHm6HRR0T7KCh576PMfl0o2phRyhIlwZl8Mdk255bK1L1DS0q4IrLyvahEdD3X78OEdYNuX4GSfdVHHg1QeJ8WVdVhqM0o2wXqAXiYu8XhL8Ymfp6s_yl7G3-/s320/beer_mug.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395546525781641634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Anyways, we arrived on a Friday night and snagged a seat, which is damn near impossible anytime, <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:02"></ins></span>day or night.<span style=""> </span>The place looks like the Brig on Abbott, with minimal décor and a sleek, industrial feel. They’ve got a decent selection of beers, a poor selection of wines and a list of sweet, chick-approved cocktails. I recommend the Telegraph Ale, but not the Sweet Minced Tea. But hey, it’s a full bar, so get whatever the hell you want. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">As we sipped on our libations we asked the first stupid question of many.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Q: What the hell does ATF stand for? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">A: Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">OH, riiiiight. We continued our interrogation, asking him what it was that made him want to get into this field in the first place. He told us t<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:03"></ins></span>hat it was curiosity more than anything. As a kid, he’d always wanted to know what was really going on what was happening on the inside. So he followed the rabbit hole to a government job. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">But it wasn’t as simple as filling out an application: <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:03"></ins></span>he had to become an agent. He had to pass a test with an 80% fail rate.<span style=""> </span>Then he had to wait for 9 long months in North Carolina where he worked as a mortgage broker, ripping people off.<span style=""> </span>Then 9 months later Mr. X was sent to LA where his hair was ripped from his head, blood was drawn from his veins, and urine drained from his manhood, all while strapped to a polygraph to catch what the secretions couldn’t. They dug deep looking for an old crack habit or the experimental days of burning man, but were unsuccessful. Turns out, Mr. X has never touched a drug in his life. Never smoked the dope, never hit the hard stuff unlike his company. But that was all about to change with some of the best junk we’ve ever touched: Kogi.<b style=""><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3AkLtnRTiVw3TCfJZ3FceqGTeUD-pnfTTrcLaQ2wuFoXMjti5bgDO9M0r9HrhG0yG4eydrbSviqwi36BMsjvw-L4Z9LXPRc4bwOEOM5gy_WvcEAjJ0c8KledfQlnYadw3ZQui_aR4gHDw/s1600-h/taco.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3AkLtnRTiVw3TCfJZ3FceqGTeUD-pnfTTrcLaQ2wuFoXMjti5bgDO9M0r9HrhG0yG4eydrbSviqwi36BMsjvw-L4Z9LXPRc4bwOEOM5gy_WvcEAjJ0c8KledfQlnYadw3ZQui_aR4gHDw/s320/taco.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395509852373402194" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">The infamous tacos that made the Kogi coach an instant fame with the public was an instant hit with us. You can get short rib, spicy BBQ chicken, or spicy pork tacos, and we did. Yes, all of the above. The juicy, marinated meats where topped with diced onions, chopped cabbage, shredded cheese, and a spicy, creamy sauce. One bite of these and all the twittering nonsense makes sense. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAezIgFAjHNKli2fKpMEB-IzUrhdbhdWC7hmvAI4fxrNSu_1mpPRoznlbY2VjZkWDRZPRqVJCX78T1jfQiMlfcIHfhWGvWQba1UakIHrvScvkNzReBVXlvjWczrJUTm3gGQMvYfMPMai9/s1600-h/tortilla.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtAezIgFAjHNKli2fKpMEB-IzUrhdbhdWC7hmvAI4fxrNSu_1mpPRoznlbY2VjZkWDRZPRqVJCX78T1jfQiMlfcIHfhWGvWQba1UakIHrvScvkNzReBVXlvjWczrJUTm3gGQMvYfMPMai9/s320/tortilla.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395510509205587074" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">We also ordered the Kimchi Quesadillas and quickly realized why we hadn’t heard much about them. The Kogi<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:05">-</ins></span>second<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:05">-</ins></span>fiddle tasted like something you forgot about in the microwave after a long night of drinking. Flavorless cheese was hardened between dry, stiff tortillas. And we’re not even sure that there was even kimchi in it. The green sauce doused on top didn’t lend much help either.</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">We chocked it up to being the vegetarian option on Chef Roy’s “who the fuck cares about vegetarians” menu. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">But for all you Quesadilla queens, don’t worry. The Kimchi Quesadilla has a brother called the Black Jack Quesadilla, and it got the good genes. It’s stuffed with chunks of flesh and mercy, and we’ve had enjoyed it many drunken nights since. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Well into our first night of Kogi BBQ, we asked Mr. X about his first night on the job. Apparently there’s not much of an orientation process, because Mr. X was quickly thrown into the deep end. The deep end of a pool filled with naked meth-heads and <span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span>heavy artillery. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">His first day on the job took him to a drug bust<span style="text-decoration: underline;"> </span><span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:07"></ins></span>in South Central.<span style=""> </span>They were serving a warrant at a residence <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:07"></ins></span>that was selling guns and meth out of the back of the house. His boss thought it’d be a good learning experience if he joined. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">So he got briefed, got <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:08"></ins></span>dressed in goggles and a bulletproof vest, and got in the van. His boss handed him his back-<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:08"></ins></span>up gun, a 5 round revolver, just in case. This if course was just the case.<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:08"></ins></span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">They tore threw the back gate and immediately gassed four pit bulls while people scrambled out of a small plywood house, built in the back yard. It was a second whorehouse. The main house, and main whorehouse, was covered in cheap porno tapped to the walls. Mr. X said the whole place was “sticky.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Naked criminals scattered in every direction, and training mode took over as a man tried to flee. Mr. X threw him to the ground, arrested his naked ass, and read him his rights (all in Spanish no less). This process was repeated <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:09"></ins></span> until there were enough perps to fill a wagon, and they headed home. Mr. X had officially seen what it was like on the inside. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">This was the first day of his super-he<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:09"></ins></span>ro career. And time for our second course.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihxZRN84t7gNsyKg7LZenbcjluk_pHs6PHIl2xi6Bi-nz4BQ_N79eapL220OzPveoIc1ZQlfHdMDHgQaa-0-9NwLkuRfyNw6pM7F2vQMYOpw0x2q0yBP8jib7zukbJTKM-wUZx2gKtewzd/s1600-h/sliders.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihxZRN84t7gNsyKg7LZenbcjluk_pHs6PHIl2xi6Bi-nz4BQ_N79eapL220OzPveoIc1ZQlfHdMDHgQaa-0-9NwLkuRfyNw6pM7F2vQMYOpw0x2q0yBP8jib7zukbJTKM-wUZx2gKtewzd/s320/sliders.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395545705657189762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">We ordered Kogi Sliders and French Fries. The Sliders were out of this world and soon out of sight. Like the tacos, you could order short rib, spicy BBQ chicken, or spicy pork and <span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:09"></ins></span>again, we ordered all three. Topped with cheese, shredded lettuce and a sesame mayo served between soft, butter-kissed egg buns, these were delicious. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">And though it’s probably not in our best interest to contradict the Twitterati, we thought these were better than the famous tacos. In fact, they were so good, that for the first time in <i style="">Dinner with a Stranger</i> history, we went back for another round of the same thing<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span><span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:10"></ins></span>...which we promptly crushed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigExl74rZyULaxSxigGMBx7Llb7zjBk7Pz7utjA1J45nwpEyuAySCmFx1fI9QrGiugZAEfc1hIyI8ina3pBaiIf1xSgJKmubYNzLWkzbwWck2P21FyjBRuvKfZZDRizhBQA3aX9o5P-GVg/s1600-h/frenchfries.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigExl74rZyULaxSxigGMBx7Llb7zjBk7Pz7utjA1J45nwpEyuAySCmFx1fI9QrGiugZAEfc1hIyI8ina3pBaiIf1xSgJKmubYNzLWkzbwWck2P21FyjBRuvKfZZDRizhBQA3aX9o5P-GVg/s320/frenchfries.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395546883230624754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Mr. X may have to take our word for it, but the meat high from these tiny burgers was as good as any drug we’ve partaken. And fries kept it coming. They were light, crispy and served with a mayo and Siracha-spiked ketchup that had us twitching and licking our gums. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">As we came down, we attempted to talk shop with Mr. X by using the knowledge that we’d accrued from CSI Las Vegas, CSI New York, CSI Miami, CSI Los Angeles and CSI Des Moines. But it didn’t take long for us to realize that we’d sounded like <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:11"></ins></span>CBS, yet again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">So we’d like to take a minute to set the record straight, for you own good:<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">MYTH: </span></span></b><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">You can get fingerprints off a gun.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Turns out gun manufacturers aren’t just good at helping you shoot people. They’re also <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:11"></ins></span>good at helping you get away with it. Nearly every gun on the market is manufactured with a certain type of metal that repels oils. So it’s damn near impossible to lift a print. Sorry, but the truth is, it takes more than a snarky goth <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:11"></ins></span>chick with glasses and braids to dust a gun and catch the bad guy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">MYTH:</span></span></b><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""> You can just wiretap any phone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Nope. Not even a hard-core criminals.<span style=""> </span>Well, you can but not like Sully does. To get a wiretap you have to get a crazy warrant and the approval of a DA and a district court judge. It’s near impossible. Plus, preparing the nearly 200 page case alone usually take two years plus.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">MYTH:</span></span></b><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""> No one wants to be a nark. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">There are professional informants. It’s a fucking career, actually. And a lot of people make a lot of money doing it. They move to the hoods, they join the gang, they hustle, but all for a fee. Some narks settle for as much as 10% of any monetary bust they’re involved in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">MYTH:</span></span></b><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""> Agents pocket some of the money or drugs in a bust.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Cops maybe. LA cops, probably. But agents<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:12"></ins></span><span style=""></span><span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:12"></ins></span> never. At the federal level, evidence is meticulously booked, checked and rechecked. It’s impossible to get away with.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">MYTH:</span></span></b><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""> The ATF hates the cops. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Nope. They need em’. The LAPD knows all the folks in the hood. And the LAPD likes the ATF cause they can sentence crooks for longer under the federal law. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><b style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">MYTH: </span></span></b><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">The Bloodz and Cripz run gangland.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">That was once the case. But today, they’ve largely taken a back seat to the booming number of Latin gangs that have taken hold in most parts of the Southern US.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">It all started about 20 years ago when Mexican inmates bonded together to protect their small community from the whites, blacks, and guards. They called themselves the Mexican Mafia, or <i style="">El Eme</i> (Spanish for the letter “m”). They have since taken over the prison system and the streets to become one of the most highly-organized and dangerous gangs in the world. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">By the time we finished picking Mr. X’s brain and fulfilling years worth of comic book fantasies, it was nearly closing time. The lights were on, the pints were drained and around us laid a total of 13 Kogi baskets with little more than cabbage bits and kimchi-stained napkin balls inside. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">Some would call it a binge, but if you’ve tasted Kogi BBQ before, you know it’s more of a bender. It's a <span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:14"></ins></span>sweet sensation that leaves you hungry for more as soon as you put down the last bite. And suffice it to say, we’ll never forget our first time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="">If you haven’t tried Kogi at the Alibi Room before, we’d recommend it... par<span class="msoIns"><ins cite="mailto:Todd%20Seib" datetime="2009-10-19T20:14"></ins></span>ticularly if you can score some with an ATF agent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->THE WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11567668823563927253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6126287529645232948.post-26003811667018131032009-09-28T18:19:00.000-07:002009-10-22T15:20:14.241-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikHuQIzDn_vD4nQSOPWq_et6nftDyFbWf2OvwdRsQrabnbwH5C7oD3Vvd5b_lWWIRQBnLWQgBsbd7kjR6JQdQl6NRtdCCWyzi5Y8FescXnZB5d_wUO5ab3qamP1l6-aoQQOsBfDJF669t/s1600-h/title.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 34px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhikHuQIzDn_vD4nQSOPWq_et6nftDyFbWf2OvwdRsQrabnbwH5C7oD3Vvd5b_lWWIRQBnLWQgBsbd7kjR6JQdQl6NRtdCCWyzi5Y8FescXnZB5d_wUO5ab3qamP1l6-aoQQOsBfDJF669t/s400/title.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395552700529440866" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmeLaE4Xz5pAiskoFVSj7MCUlP1REuRKT_8r0TNM5B92TYCF66oqnjEwwvbw56H7LoaGUhOrU0LSu2OlekZXiXcY_ZlPPadoWi1yrL1j3S0Yt3R1Cmg_GG7Fk97GkMDMmvXPrmOZ7GFi7/s1600-h/Picture+4.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 118px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSmeLaE4Xz5pAiskoFVSj7MCUlP1REuRKT_8r0TNM5B92TYCF66oqnjEwwvbw56H7LoaGUhOrU0LSu2OlekZXiXcY_ZlPPadoWi1yrL1j3S0Yt3R1Cmg_GG7Fk97GkMDMmvXPrmOZ7GFi7/s320/Picture+4.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386688838809011842" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">DINNER WITH A PAPARAZZI PHOTOGRAPHER</span></span><br /><a href="http://www.chateaumarmont.com/">Bar Marmont</a> at the <a href="http://www.chateaumarmont.com/">Chateau Marmont </a><br />8221 W Sunset Blvd<br />Los Angeles, CA 90046<br />(323) 650-1040<br /><br /><br />We met Giles at Bar Marmont, a favorite watering hole and public execution spot for Lindsey Lohan, Vince Vaughn, Matt Dillon, Owen Wilson, Elijah Wood (or is it Toby Maguire?), and countless other Hollywood types. Here, underneath a flock of actual butterflies meticulously pinned to the ceiling, we hoped to find the Dinner with a Papparazzi Holy Trinity: good food, good drink, and a good old-fashioned celebrity paparazzi standoff.<br /><br />I guess 2 out of 3 ain’t bad.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzDk970uAbvmOxt8jCz9na8O52X4ZUg53gpvHdHb5VAsIHOe5tfpA3oJ3n8YDcN7FyRZJw5lef1ta40ypvqBUqHjTYSaXqrrAbAmg0SDAygqPfMNqdZFkQLlfBVL-N4R1AzxaDBMmY1aq/s1600-h/GILES.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 357px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzDk970uAbvmOxt8jCz9na8O52X4ZUg53gpvHdHb5VAsIHOe5tfpA3oJ3n8YDcN7FyRZJw5lef1ta40ypvqBUqHjTYSaXqrrAbAmg0SDAygqPfMNqdZFkQLlfBVL-N4R1AzxaDBMmY1aq/s320/GILES.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386689651545076866" border="0" /></a><br />He wasn’t at all what you’d expect. No cargo shorts. No backwards hat. No bouquet of cameras around his neck. No, there was nothing TMZ about him at all. You see, Giles isn’t your typical paparazzi; a fact that he solidified right off the bat when we asked him where his trusty camera was.<br /><blockquote>Giles: “I’m off the clock.”</blockquote>You may wonder what kind of self-respecting paparazzi is ever off the clock? Well, as we would learn over the course of our dinner, the self-respecting kind.<br /><br />And, on that note, since we were all off the clock, we ordered some drinks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaazx_YLoqpQUbH18uJiJWOHYNnnUR3imJ3HXrcl4haa5ssfbsrKjd0CW8BhddnCcxp_UFfFMvb01cv9NtTovFBTkxjzSKpSoxRwdkIW7xSDncUu_9AHCzsEthebXB0ZPXm0y3dHzw-6p9/s1600-h/drink.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 206px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaazx_YLoqpQUbH18uJiJWOHYNnnUR3imJ3HXrcl4haa5ssfbsrKjd0CW8BhddnCcxp_UFfFMvb01cv9NtTovFBTkxjzSKpSoxRwdkIW7xSDncUu_9AHCzsEthebXB0ZPXm0y3dHzw-6p9/s320/drink.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386684462224356626" border="0" /></a>Now, normally we stick to reviewing food and people. But Bar Marmont has a reputation for pouring a damn good cocktail. And this night was no exception.<br /><br />Giles ordered a gin & tonic. And though that sounds simple, like soup to a chef, gin & tonic is one of those true tests of a barman’s hand. This one did not disappoint. We ordered a scotch neat, which was a scotch neat, and their famous Calvados Sidecar, a sweet libation that was like liquid <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ferrara_Pan_Candy_Company#Lemonheads">Lemon Head</a>. i.e. delicious candy.<br /><br />We raised our respective glasses and got down to business.<br /><br />Giles was actually born in England to American parents, and, if you listen closely, you can still hear the ghost of a British accent. His dad was in the Air Force, so by the time he was starting to grow hair in funny places, he had seen the world. England, New York, the Midwest, Alaska, and eventually Los Angeles, where he’s been for the better part of two decades.<br /><br />He, like most, chased his dreams of writing and production to the Promised Land. And, like many, he ended up attending, and eventually, planning parties instead.<br /><br />He didn’t know it at the time but it was this elbow rubbing and flesh pressing that would eventually establish a network of contacts and leads for a career in celebrity photography. His career started innocently enough with a buddy who needed another person to man a camcorder. His career started with queen of slow-motion running, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IuYrRebvFHc">Pamela Anderson.</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnNmN9RrGsPHx5-J6onNhEN9IqdFg2TsoSx8nLcYaXRogSfrap28uHog5gP6AkddMU8zQgvQHZNXUgVZTNuF13zQZvm5VT1IUf6Y693kqkhllQZT4Zmk280kF8KauQlGwPkl0rDZqUrV5r/s1600-h/speck.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnNmN9RrGsPHx5-J6onNhEN9IqdFg2TsoSx8nLcYaXRogSfrap28uHog5gP6AkddMU8zQgvQHZNXUgVZTNuF13zQZvm5VT1IUf6Y693kqkhllQZT4Zmk280kF8KauQlGwPkl0rDZqUrV5r/s320/speck.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386684895394865218" border="0" /></a>And, speaking of juicy, overstuffed treats, our appetizers arrived just in time. We started with their Chatcuterie, which is just fancy word for the process of preserving meats, usually pork,that is served on a cheese board. Marmont’s featured thin slices of speck, topped with cuts of sharp Parmesan cheese, soft, ripe figs and a pile of spicy arugula, drizzled in a sweet balsamic reduction. It was one of the best we’ve had, and the figs made a pleasantly surprising addition that complimented the Chatcuterie and the Pamela Anderson story perfectly.<br /><br />Apparently, Giles had been recruited by his friend to operate a video camera while he snapped pictures of the Baywatch vixen. As we stuffed our faces with animal products, we asked him when he knew he had become a paparazzi. In return, we got the best sound byte of the evening:<br /><br /><blockquote>“While I was shooting Pam, she looked right at me and said, ‘Don’t you have anything better you do, you lowlife fuck?’ And, well, I didn’t. That’s when I knew I had found my calling.</blockquote><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyL6_8fRm-Y9avfvkXbU_ZEoncOjnhrUVinlVT__VNCMVO3oCdpPGoQIcv1EHZgWdHVgMQqbbKuAMkdpA0fIIltOQMLB3TPa-p4Vvr0M9S0UyGkT2ODjczLl6kVacJ2AKfl2rDLnSxsg2S/s1600-h/bruschetta.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyL6_8fRm-Y9avfvkXbU_ZEoncOjnhrUVinlVT__VNCMVO3oCdpPGoQIcv1EHZgWdHVgMQqbbKuAMkdpA0fIIltOQMLB3TPa-p4Vvr0M9S0UyGkT2ODjczLl6kVacJ2AKfl2rDLnSxsg2S/s320/bruschetta.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386685173835124370" border="0" /></a>Just as we wrapped up Chapter 1, our Oxtail Bruschetta arrived. The juicy ox meat was piled high on a toasted baguette that also doubled as a sponge. It was topped with a heaping portion of sautéed parsley and caramelized, red onions drenched in olive oil and balsamic vinegar. The flavor was great, but it wasn’t long before the crispy toast became a soggy mess.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP749Nd73lMo5vojuGl4y-6WddZGKh1gouwLF5o2Dj-tu4kn_IVHt80i5Hge9q6ux5aNs3QdSHDRqEDmn8-YmQ28HnHJOcim76Yu409ZirxPTejPcXidYwMQ4yVWKeKbUGJD4BmSEanqME/s1600-h/risotto.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP749Nd73lMo5vojuGl4y-6WddZGKh1gouwLF5o2Dj-tu4kn_IVHt80i5Hge9q6ux5aNs3QdSHDRqEDmn8-YmQ28HnHJOcim76Yu409ZirxPTejPcXidYwMQ4yVWKeKbUGJD4BmSEanqME/s320/risotto.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386685455859785842" border="0" /></a>Last, and definitely least, came the crispy ricotta meatballs. These fried balls looked like Long John Silver’s hush puppies tasted, well, worse. And after biting into one of the fried balls, it was confirmed: Ricotta isn’t meant to be fried. We tried to create flavor in the flavorless bites by dunking it in the sweet Chile sauce that accompanied, but it was hopeless…much like the entire dish. Not worth your stomach’s real estate.<br /><br />After the worst appetizer of the night, we had to ask the burning question: who’s the worst? The biggest asshole in Hollywood? We assumed it would be our nemesis, Harrison Ford, but again, we got the last answer we were expecting.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtAIuG96VxvzZLjgYuvHRPOkFNQQYnpFdtjxsJutwHzJF-RkdCSDyPz9WMqS3_Aw6reRS78lx-gmmiJEgse4QaiAJ5hsvEms-2qJIvGq4aMEOve1CN8FuBqQbCuM1rJKRaptw0cQYH6a2/s1600-h/helen.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtAIuG96VxvzZLjgYuvHRPOkFNQQYnpFdtjxsJutwHzJF-RkdCSDyPz9WMqS3_Aw6reRS78lx-gmmiJEgse4QaiAJ5hsvEms-2qJIvGq4aMEOve1CN8FuBqQbCuM1rJKRaptw0cQYH6a2/s320/helen.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386691734258224674" border="0" /></a><br /><br />That’s right: Helen Cunt (do you mean Hunt?). One of the most beloved female leads of our time is an uppity bitch.<br /><br />The list of usual suspects went on from there. Pierce Brosnan, Sean Penn, Screech, etc. But, on the bright side, Hugh Jackman is apparently a kitten. Don’t believe everything you see in X-Men (you know who you are). And many other Tinseltowners, believe it or not, relish the opportunity to have a photo snapped. The smart ones, as Giles explains, realize that their celebrity status hinges on their maintaining a spot in the public eye.<br /><br />Many of these stars and starlets constantly update their locations on Twitter or facebook while some even call Giles directly. And for those less enterprising celebrities, there’s more than enough people willing to tip off the cameramen. Giles says he gets dozens leads everyday from valet guys, bus boys, limo drivers, flight attendants, taxi drivers and anyone who wants to make a cool 100 bucks just for picking up the phone.<br /><br />But, as Giles explains, all the leads in the world are no replacement for having the eye. He spends most of his days driving around and spotting the celebrities that most of us disregard as normal people- the ones that we Angelinos walk right past everyday without so much as batting an eye. And, believe it or not, a picture of a celebrity coming out of a store or jogging along the PCH is worth almost as much as an <a href="http://toppayingideas.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2008/04/emma-watson-upskirt.jpg">Emma Watson upskirt.</a><br /><br />But don’t be fooled. It’s not all casually chasing leads. No, just as the main course arrived, Giles geared up to regale us with a story of near-death paparazzing. But, first things first….<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1IdzKU6hp2bPCeY2QK9davYTBBSgakEGdelPvpG4rzNmYKCxzJnix9iMb_1y3VAugLduUyirCn4894NmtSkU9t24L-LeLPpvxiATE8nqc4PRskzDj2ly0tUOx6QAxI03JacAh3nlXMuZ/s1600-h/pizza.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 244px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit1IdzKU6hp2bPCeY2QK9davYTBBSgakEGdelPvpG4rzNmYKCxzJnix9iMb_1y3VAugLduUyirCn4894NmtSkU9t24L-LeLPpvxiATE8nqc4PRskzDj2ly0tUOx6QAxI03JacAh3nlXMuZ/s320/pizza.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386686925383041778" border="0" /></a>We started with the special of the night: a gourmet pizza topped with thick slices of tomatoes, dollops of goat cheese, caramelized onions, fried artichokes, sweet figs and chorizo. The pizza wasn’t thick but it wasn’t thin. It wasn’t sweet, but it wasn’t savory. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad. It just was.<br /><br />If you want a flatbread, just do yourself a favor and go to <a href="http://fordsfillingstation.net/">Ford’s Filling Station</a>. You won’t be disappointed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulY7jlqNXOFfjsjuktXyeawXhuv0HDPMFmLvLjsM83rSuPcYjdXDYzAVIZQFtupv1V_Lh44ezknLUgOQiZBdsLvmoTfuiF6iVyPCDDXJh_ax1twlOZnP4pkfykv4-iLy9LrqElc8Cgjgo/s1600-h/HALIBUT.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 244px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiulY7jlqNXOFfjsjuktXyeawXhuv0HDPMFmLvLjsM83rSuPcYjdXDYzAVIZQFtupv1V_Lh44ezknLUgOQiZBdsLvmoTfuiF6iVyPCDDXJh_ax1twlOZnP4pkfykv4-iLy9LrqElc8Cgjgo/s320/HALIBUT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386687171785591842" border="0" /></a>Anyway, next came the Halibut, which, if you recall, is a white fish. However, when the almond crusted halibut arrived, it was pink. We thought it was salmon but after forking it open, we saw it’s flakey, white flesh. It was simple and light, free of the usual butter bath most fish take at other restaurants. It was topped with very novel grilled peaches. They were delicious and complimented the fish perfectly.<br /><br />Lastly came Giles’s roasted chicken, which wasn’t roasted. That bitch was fried, but this is one bait and switch I could get used to. It was delicious. The mashed potatoes housed a pool of butter and the fried Kale acted as a great vegetable placebo. It was hands down the best entrée of the bunch and, really, something worth going back for.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwNib4a-kzDbCU8U-54YxZ6_d8TQgit0GBQ1V_PWioBm0ka0A0r4MeIRSSQszelLyL-dVZmaItIzQFaIfPxgLhBmyP_0CWc8OPx-cYA-XXIu6HZz2sChnXxXRnl9imE1Vfdz6JxEMW2Qr/s1600-h/chicken.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigwNib4a-kzDbCU8U-54YxZ6_d8TQgit0GBQ1V_PWioBm0ka0A0r4MeIRSSQszelLyL-dVZmaItIzQFaIfPxgLhBmyP_0CWc8OPx-cYA-XXIu6HZz2sChnXxXRnl9imE1Vfdz6JxEMW2Qr/s320/chicken.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386687309992951746" border="0" /></a>As we slowly ate his chicken, Giles proceeded to tell us the most exciting tale of espionage, Mexican Federales, gunships and Brad Pitt we’ve heard outside the Oceans franchise.<br /><br />Giles was in Mexico trying to sneak into a sea-side resort where Brad Pitt and then gf Jennifer Aniston were vacationing when he inadvertently trespassed on Mexican Military property. He was quickly apprehended by the Federale and suspected of espionage. After much questioning of what I assume was aggressive water boarding, he was released.<br /><br />But wait, there’s more.<br /><br />Instead of cutting his losses and returning to the US, he instead rented a boat and returned to the scene. But this didn’t fool the crafty Federale. He was chased for over an hour across the Gulf of Mexico by Mexican gunships. They were eventually caught. And while their lives were spared, their film didn’t have the same fate. Giles stood and watched as everything he put his life on the line for was tossed into the ocean.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qafe-LRCog&feature=related">CLICK HERE</a> to help yourself visualize this struggle.<br /><br />As we swapped war stories and cleaned our plates, our waitress dropped off the dessert menu and a recommendation. She told us that the Salty Pistachio Crumble came to their exec chef, Carolyn Spence, in a dream. When she woke up, she proceeded to spend the entire day troubleshooting and perfecting the recipe. Who were we to turn down a serendipitous desert?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpsKhwPXC5Iparf2HObC7nIXv4IsiYsMTQO8zP3NsVxO7-PPLRkpEQt5J_S1vhV00xlAV-rGjsX8eZReFt5gMkhiha47lifQDTsi6DQiCBuTDkBhN20x1_Hp1BUkhJTG_MXYdRPECHQ62/s1600-h/dessert.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 231px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlpsKhwPXC5Iparf2HObC7nIXv4IsiYsMTQO8zP3NsVxO7-PPLRkpEQt5J_S1vhV00xlAV-rGjsX8eZReFt5gMkhiha47lifQDTsi6DQiCBuTDkBhN20x1_Hp1BUkhJTG_MXYdRPECHQ62/s320/dessert.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386687937703076770" border="0" /></a>Needless to say, it was dreamy. The moist, pistachio-flavored bunt cake was rich and dense in a good way, while the pistachio flavored gelato topping it was rich and heavy, also in a good way. The pile was drizzle with delightfully thick pistachio syrup that left you with an incredible sweet, salty, orgasmic taste after every bite.<br />It was dessert perfect.<br /><br />Eat this, people.<br /><br />The perfect dessert was the perfect ending to one of the most perfect “Dinner With A Stranger” dinners we’ve had yet. Giles was everything we didn’t expect. And it was delightful. We were hoping to get the stereotype and, again, our plans were foiled. Instead we left dinner with a friend.<br /><br />While we didn’t have a celebrity run-in, we did find the Holy Trinity: good food, good drink and good company.THE WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11567668823563927253noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6126287529645232948.post-36563763238020061972009-08-05T18:00:00.000-07:002009-09-29T11:22:21.406-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV-sxfDbKQU6tr3ijjrWpIxH8iUDgtQgmBY-xO512GAkqM3pC-rg32kg7vUqlCl8EOVWaIfJk_wQK8OjjNXIKfbBKonyw1AWqhjDvnd7kaHZljQtn24zruqn0Xm9FEqkMYerL7vxFvzcGL/s1600-h/Title.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 40px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV-sxfDbKQU6tr3ijjrWpIxH8iUDgtQgmBY-xO512GAkqM3pC-rg32kg7vUqlCl8EOVWaIfJk_wQK8OjjNXIKfbBKonyw1AWqhjDvnd7kaHZljQtn24zruqn0Xm9FEqkMYerL7vxFvzcGL/s400/Title.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386956374977605554" /></a><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheln2PYq-Dj7MU7OtbCprzxTAiGAmKHWAGHv2BHettJJC7RfsXO7P2zFe_IolOGnZQgKby-L6q7fqEuZxYpXfq92jahOBGABfUPO1FHr1xqVpkQhlYXN_VWEzEKVBXgEQ8mQBOotXGa1tD/s1600-h/l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 114px; height: 113px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheln2PYq-Dj7MU7OtbCprzxTAiGAmKHWAGHv2BHettJJC7RfsXO7P2zFe_IolOGnZQgKby-L6q7fqEuZxYpXfq92jahOBGABfUPO1FHr1xqVpkQhlYXN_VWEzEKVBXgEQ8mQBOotXGa1tD/s200/l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366740830153827106" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dinner (And A Show) With A Magician</span></span><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br /><span class="street-address"><a href="http://www.bordergrill.com/">Border Grill</a><br />1445 4th St</span><br /><span class="locality">Santa Monica</span>, <span class="region">CA</span> <span class="postal-code">90401</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM71q0LFmMsuHkTUwi_FUvY_zwSmojqHGraxjkwFURdHZ0MpXnsMSvgrNvdDzucbi6aE_MK2gJXJjs85Y-JUD_kC1zERxt8u-ZHTellS2uM5tX3GX8fvmW3OzPsN9b1bl2FaC5Jp4vrMvk/s1600-h/steve.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 238px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM71q0LFmMsuHkTUwi_FUvY_zwSmojqHGraxjkwFURdHZ0MpXnsMSvgrNvdDzucbi6aE_MK2gJXJjs85Y-JUD_kC1zERxt8u-ZHTellS2uM5tX3GX8fvmW3OzPsN9b1bl2FaC5Jp4vrMvk/s200/steve.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366741119552436802" border="0" /></a>This is the guy who can hold the attention of a sugar-fed 9 year old without a morning or afternoon dose of Ritalin. Or both. This guy can make an Astronaut question gravity and baffle a billionaire. This guy knows all the tricks. This is Steve. He’s a magician.<br /><br />We found Steve at <a href="http://www.magicopolis.com/">Magicopolis,</a> right in the heart of Santa Monica, the least magical place on Earth. It turns out that Steve isn’t just a magician here, he’s the owner. And, to avoid having to do any magic during our dinner, he instead invited us to his magic show before hand. And what kind of monster would turn down free magic?<br /><br />We arrived around 8pm on a Saturday night and headed to the bar for a little pre-show, pre-game. Yes, that’s not a typo. They have an actual bar at Magicopolis that may be one of the best hidden gems in Santa Monica. Here, even if you don’t go to the show, you can enjoy a comedian slash bartender performing magic trick, cracking wise jokes and serving up whatever particular poison you desire.<br /><br />I know it isn’t our territory, but if this were Yelp we’d give it 5 stars or some shit. Go do this. Every Saturday night at 10 o’clock at <a href="http://www.magicopolis.com/shows/bar_shows.html%29.">The Bar Show. </a><br /><br />Anyway, enough shout outs. After watching the lovely Eric Tait hassle a man about some missing tip money, which he quickly pulled out of the guy’s ear (typical), we topped off our red keg cups filled with cheap merlot and headed in to take our seats. For two blissful hours we ooed and awed over what was less of a magic show and more of a well-written, comedic piece centered around the art of magic. I highly recommend this dish.<br /><br />After Steve’s finale escape from some metal chains milli-seconds before a band of sharp, metal spikes brought him to a bloody, punctured death, we headed across the street to Susan Feniger’s Border Grill.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizvwTKaieGESJboCXKSRXXGe9YIa_W-e-UuOOvQC1ZA-iFAqY3naHdYSAjQmsDO2yYEHCdoLitL0BnYr14JfgswSlQFzYFgW8VEsDGNDYaJvHw1wYI4OHfqSi0Ou0z7DN3HBw_AG1n_VH6/s1600-h/luchador.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 274px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizvwTKaieGESJboCXKSRXXGe9YIa_W-e-UuOOvQC1ZA-iFAqY3naHdYSAjQmsDO2yYEHCdoLitL0BnYr14JfgswSlQFzYFgW8VEsDGNDYaJvHw1wYI4OHfqSi0Ou0z7DN3HBw_AG1n_VH6/s320/luchador.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366737058420368050" border="0" /></a>The modern (perhaps), upscale (hardly), hip (subjective) cantina had walls covered in red and blue-faced amigos drunk off freedom and angry <a href="http://static.panoramio.com/photos/original/1164958.jpg">Luchadores,</a> and candles featuring dead, Catholic saints flickered on the mesa-tops. theme. You know, the ones you can buy at Vons for when the power goes out or when you’re constructing a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ELyTBXzfQJ8">Michael Jackson</a> shrine?<br /><br />We got seated and looked to the endless list of specialty cocktails to keep up the buzz. We were recommended the Mojito by Steve (who has recently stopped drinking) and not recommended the sparkling Sangria by the waiter (who wanted to start drinking). We ordered both drinks and later confirmed both opinions reputable.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZUdhlTZisVsLq4aDBh_jYCtUd7zhnhjT_cxrMYgmIx8niDrtaJJX8pv8KrEvaUNfkQrHuDlZxhzhgzhHEzYClmh1WTTCQrvLr5oIs-t4thCsR11W1V-mwS7Xhd_OiYDp3KZXwRfkXBlE6/s1600-h/chips.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 269px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZUdhlTZisVsLq4aDBh_jYCtUd7zhnhjT_cxrMYgmIx8niDrtaJJX8pv8KrEvaUNfkQrHuDlZxhzhgzhHEzYClmh1WTTCQrvLr5oIs-t4thCsR11W1V-mwS7Xhd_OiYDp3KZXwRfkXBlE6/s320/chips.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366721235665268418" border="0" /></a>They delivered a basket of chips glistening in grease, giving the shakers worth of salt we shook on ‘em a place to stick. And while most joints do salsa solo, a trifecta of complimentary smoked chipotle, green chili, and a mild fresca salsas accompanied.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha9uXjSCC0rM_4hrf2JTca9FEoU14SP0haPq2Pc7Jb1zwcyIV0kaqapSHS7eM5JPCkIwVI1miL5h3KCpYlCu9zoxLZRxNgT6TY4_mwRciclsCmp57ptBcFE9qOarzyX9tTZJ3ofgfFLIzu/s1600-h/guac.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEha9uXjSCC0rM_4hrf2JTca9FEoU14SP0haPq2Pc7Jb1zwcyIV0kaqapSHS7eM5JPCkIwVI1miL5h3KCpYlCu9zoxLZRxNgT6TY4_mwRciclsCmp57ptBcFE9qOarzyX9tTZJ3ofgfFLIzu/s320/guac.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366745415580173778" border="0" /></a>However, the non-complimentary guacamole we ordered up looked better than it tasted. It was served on an edible plate (a fried tortilla) over a palate of endive spears and a dollop of refried beans. But like all guac, it was worthy enough to eat.<br /><br />And with nothing left in the “bottomless” basket to scoop the remains, we got the scoop on how Steve got into magic. Turns out, his pops started as a radio DJ up in the San Fran area and became a game show host in the late 40’s-- the kind that rewarded screaming housewives with frozen packs of peas. He started picking up some tricks on set and wound up performing them for the audience between commercials.<br /><br />Both of his parents were performers and writers and claimed responsibility for “My Favorite Martians” and many of the early Tarzan scripts. After Steve was born, they left the bay and took off for the Valley where he grew up. And after a long career in writing and performing, his father began managing The Magic Castle. Yep. The one you must be a member of or get invited to. The one that requires a password to get into. The word Steve has and is willing to give to us. Jealous much?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6zpKVY4W6s38MYbfB4EZX4p8IB8eA6n01GtiQXSrntwt8_a4MWYxrYTcUiD_k8S3Ex8qJRt0FqJT0x8rx8kQdb_eJcMh8qKInJgYPR1fHT5yEyn01_yWZ49mHCV5Ov5RZ3BbNT8jxMSP/s1600-h/IMG_1398+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX6zpKVY4W6s38MYbfB4EZX4p8IB8eA6n01GtiQXSrntwt8_a4MWYxrYTcUiD_k8S3Ex8qJRt0FqJT0x8rx8kQdb_eJcMh8qKInJgYPR1fHT5yEyn01_yWZ49mHCV5Ov5RZ3BbNT8jxMSP/s320/IMG_1398+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366738616951792578" border="0" /></a>Just as our eyes swelled in excitement, our mouths began to water at the appetizers that magically appeared out of heavy grease. The shrimp ceviche was a medley of sea meat, cucumbers, corn and peppers all tossed in a citrus juice with a hint of cilantro, and topped off with a fan of avocado slices. It was a light start to a very heavy order.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaCdZcepnKSz5wB_1ks8HpeA42_-iDV2wOmcwSOHG_pcCGUS6T4hlQglmZP2N5pgOZwU_yovZ8skiXBEH7rZHzbOQxd6gt8xLLM7AK8QCqyWpcYqbWEBosY48RYl1S5ZfmrxsF7wj5lceq/s1600-h/pillows.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaCdZcepnKSz5wB_1ks8HpeA42_-iDV2wOmcwSOHG_pcCGUS6T4hlQglmZP2N5pgOZwU_yovZ8skiXBEH7rZHzbOQxd6gt8xLLM7AK8QCqyWpcYqbWEBosY48RYl1S5ZfmrxsF7wj5lceq/s320/pillows.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366737876288932562" border="0" /></a>Next, we grabbed for the green corn tamales that were more like corn pudding surprise wrapped in a husk. Although it lacked the mealy texture and density of the typical tamale, it did not lack in flavor. It was soup-ely delicious, especially with the hefty dollop of sour cream and salsa fresca served on top.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8YK8AZS3fL_lIOWsKw2D7MFyF-aodZxIwQphNwctS-paT-WZsG_1Lc2Jeqg0aCls37a9s85P4oaJg9jsyqWoJPal-FyTQ7HVs2YISDN2bebyAFoh3o1qVWjF0a-xx0l6SVBxQYtfprTs/s1600-h/baaaa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 215px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8YK8AZS3fL_lIOWsKw2D7MFyF-aodZxIwQphNwctS-paT-WZsG_1Lc2Jeqg0aCls37a9s85P4oaJg9jsyqWoJPal-FyTQ7HVs2YISDN2bebyAFoh3o1qVWjF0a-xx0l6SVBxQYtfprTs/s320/baaaa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366738622266611794" border="0" /></a>And the lamb tacos, they were b-AAAAAA-d ass. The tender meat definitely fell off the bone straight onto the corn tortilla, ready to be topped with poblano peppers, manchego cheese and drizzled in sweet adobo sauce. This two-taco dish is something you don’t want to split, especially into fours.<br /><br />But, as we reluctantly divvied up the apps, we prodded Steve more about his magical beginnings. He told us that he started splitting the deck at the time magic was still dormant. He hung around The Magic Castle (the only place of its kind at the time) convincing Vaudeville guys sitting around doing nothing to teach him their tricks. Some of them are now legends in the trade. Most noteably, Guy Vernon, the great card shark of Kansas City, who was tracked down by card counting gamblers in pursuit of his quick, secretive maneuvers.<br /><br />Steve finished high school and…<br /><br />“Well I was going to go to college but instead I snorted tablespoons of white powder and made bouquets of marijuana.”<br /><br />Yep. Steve got involved in what he called Magical Drug Acts. (UM. Yes please) His troop, Flash Cadillac, toured the nation visiting colleges, putting on acts combining magic and drugs. You could say his college experience was comparable to many American grads, just without all the classes and homework.<br /><br />Then, just as our munchies were coming back, the next round of eats arrives.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFCp1gw-QBXORslroEmeBYytOjQlMNcvKZDQXktlFqoP3EzbF9rgADhntTkOHZikrCapAqPuMMS56JgvR0yLR8f1JuNSBN8YidOyPAi4Rq3wzUNdV5GD4l0zLX9MQ2Cl4LlBxrB4bE0QY/s1600-h/veggie.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 221px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAFCp1gw-QBXORslroEmeBYytOjQlMNcvKZDQXktlFqoP3EzbF9rgADhntTkOHZikrCapAqPuMMS56JgvR0yLR8f1JuNSBN8YidOyPAi4Rq3wzUNdV5GD4l0zLX9MQ2Cl4LlBxrB4bE0QY/s320/veggie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366739345190095906" border="0" /></a>Now we’re nowhere near vegetarianism (no thanks to Animal’s, eat meat or get lost menu) but if I were, the Border Vegetable Platter might bring solace to my misery. The creamed corn, spiced squash, and the braised fennel were just a few of the flavorful options among many that are sure to please both veggies and flesh eaters alike.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRH2v_bygdp5x1CNApw172dMAKflPpryWZNxfelXHtJ2qAoppu0dOrcm157LHGXZRgzUbiwPnocZ3cf2zjIurzFWnKLpZaiOWFmUtrQPtQf5Y8HztMmffaofm97JPSrY_srbDJ3qK4DLP/s1600-h/orangesauce.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 252px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsRH2v_bygdp5x1CNApw172dMAKflPpryWZNxfelXHtJ2qAoppu0dOrcm157LHGXZRgzUbiwPnocZ3cf2zjIurzFWnKLpZaiOWFmUtrQPtQf5Y8HztMmffaofm97JPSrY_srbDJ3qK4DLP/s320/orangesauce.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366724951317957154" border="0" /></a><br />The Cochinita Pibil was supposedly a slow-roasted pork cooked in an orange, cinnamon sauce served with rice, beans, and roasted plantains. And while there was rice, beans, and two mushy plantains, we couldn’t find any damn oink in the orange sauce. Either Steve was practicing some "pork-slide-of-hand" or Border Grill 86ed the swine.<br /><br /><br />Much like Steve 86ed “the fun yet unruly drug-filled days” to hang his top hat in Aspen, Colorado. There he became a magic bartender and finally bankrolled enough to move to the East coast and start his own theatre act. And, as magic’s popularity started to rise, so did Steve. For the next 20 years, Steve traveled the world, performing in comedy houses, casinos, and clubs. That is, until he ran into some of life’s strange magic. He met a woman. The woman he’s called his wife for 13 years now. And that undeniable magic forced this nomadic magician to settle down.<br /><br />Yea. Yea. I know what you’re thinking: the ole ball and chain does it again… but it’s quite the opposite actually. We owe this magical love connection for bringing us Magicopolis, Santa Monica’s very own magic theatre. Miss Steve not only helped write many of the acts, she used to star in them as the beautiful assistant.<br /><br />But Steve is still the biggest star of the show. He’s constantly tweaking and fine-tuning his surprisingly wonderous acts. He’s always working on new tricks, which we are told take years to perfect. In fact, to introduce a new trick or a skit into the show takes months to years. And because of the hardship from practice to mastery, Steve doesn’t even have an understudy to help perform the 250 shows each year. Which means when Steve’s on vacation, so is the magic of Santa Monica.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6077i0ZK3PWFDUoPoOrb8siPQ3zX521tcs5RGLQTiu4aOnndEcn0Nw_8jor0VK58YHLZDM9LjQl-nim0qEjybWWl6-nu5WJoAmyJg-FymBALklZe5aejzckB8vqklUqmdF1mpgu9rfwi/s1600-h/IMG_1394.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6077i0ZK3PWFDUoPoOrb8siPQ3zX521tcs5RGLQTiu4aOnndEcn0Nw_8jor0VK58YHLZDM9LjQl-nim0qEjybWWl6-nu5WJoAmyJg-FymBALklZe5aejzckB8vqklUqmdF1mpgu9rfwi/s320/IMG_1394.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366740061044873506" border="0" /></a>And apparently we also hit Border Grille on a night when the Chicken Chilaquiles chef was also on vacation. Expecting to get a “cheesy chicken chip casserole”, we instead got dry, burnt chicken, sitting on beans dosed in various salsas, with a few chips on the side of the plate doused in some white cream. Disappointment on a plate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJB_iDzWviSA1fp6a3LUaWx00aA9w8TmhB1VDpf2YRv9-Q4uM-opPx6MUB6G-A9ywUgTtHQxIsqXRfDVDo1HLRn7cskwMxo_2-dFmxgwXdDOtcckcnsX9dfolfCpu9DbQ9PwAPWfAw7yiW/s1600-h/lamb.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 237px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJB_iDzWviSA1fp6a3LUaWx00aA9w8TmhB1VDpf2YRv9-Q4uM-opPx6MUB6G-A9ywUgTtHQxIsqXRfDVDo1HLRn7cskwMxo_2-dFmxgwXdDOtcckcnsX9dfolfCpu9DbQ9PwAPWfAw7yiW/s320/lamb.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366739349769462322" border="0" /></a>But our dinner still ended on a high note known as the Lamb Sirloin. It was marinated in a pomegranate which let the gamey flavor of meat battle it out with the sweet citrus flavor. It also came with quinoa (pronounced Keen Wa for those of you who don’t practice yoga) and a deep-fried kale leaf. Who knew a shrub could taste so damn delicious or a Mexican joint could cook up any meat beside chorizo.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1-SKYUAlW-VWrtm6wNZURC8II2xE6ivvUfQUaL2gh5O2kAYzTF7ezlZ-Edvb36FglGp8WYCOMUktsilS8Iz7bmWefzLQD1cmZ36PQmDmOPXY55WIMzRBQNNwF4HqnCLuluPRBnqZtI51v/s1600-h/tableshot.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1-SKYUAlW-VWrtm6wNZURC8II2xE6ivvUfQUaL2gh5O2kAYzTF7ezlZ-Edvb36FglGp8WYCOMUktsilS8Iz7bmWefzLQD1cmZ36PQmDmOPXY55WIMzRBQNNwF4HqnCLuluPRBnqZtI51v/s320/tableshot.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366740063375258002" border="0" /></a>There were many surprises that night. Some good (every other dish) and some bad (every other dish). But most surprisingly, who knew that you could find good magic in Santa Monica and even better company?<br /><br /><br />Here’s to hoping Steve doesn’t get impaled by dozens of sharpened metal spikes before you get a chance to go see him.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> CLICK PIC TO SEE MORE.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5VzqqwTGRq_V4lsnn752st1ZHEY0Sy8CCZ56H3FQQhIvMaEEk9uBDFAF1C4vxC5rFdKby7UsGMIIzO4XzdnJkBBlv_4CrS5xKc5IujsQtzXtEiUUA8fgF0YlsJDmbTFx6WPubs-GNVV8/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip5VzqqwTGRq_V4lsnn752st1ZHEY0Sy8CCZ56H3FQQhIvMaEEk9uBDFAF1C4vxC5rFdKby7UsGMIIzO4XzdnJkBBlv_4CrS5xKc5IujsQtzXtEiUUA8fgF0YlsJDmbTFx6WPubs-GNVV8/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366904371666799522" border="0" /></a>THE WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11567668823563927253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6126287529645232948.post-80619381011530863052009-07-01T22:40:00.000-07:002009-09-29T11:23:16.484-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_u6ASJ4P9k5zqN9qby-RS-XZJ-VPFzt94Fr3-kCLmD4CPdFOqjNSGYjofbNWseba3KM-tF8Gvo8-R1PnS4iP5P6El1PfJdwcxdaqrMLHqWyARdmflOTe7B5xuwXCkYMZEOlEbYxuByd0/s1600-h/fathersoffice_header.jpg" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 40px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_u6ASJ4P9k5zqN9qby-RS-XZJ-VPFzt94Fr3-kCLmD4CPdFOqjNSGYjofbNWseba3KM-tF8Gvo8-R1PnS4iP5P6El1PfJdwcxdaqrMLHqWyARdmflOTe7B5xuwXCkYMZEOlEbYxuByd0/s400/fathersoffice_header.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386956663179421602" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYzV5X5OsmvS-YR3ZPNCQyqBACN0YHkltIpzVMLxEzQMMGqQFveP9Uo-37QMDDZqkCTmE-Wfikn2Sra-GJFP3UFwttXurEDLmCg0rm-xsHp9JX8eg3u9O_3pFUZElFpC0VCB-2OPA0YLMj/s1600-h/outside_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 116px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYzV5X5OsmvS-YR3ZPNCQyqBACN0YHkltIpzVMLxEzQMMGqQFveP9Uo-37QMDDZqkCTmE-Wfikn2Sra-GJFP3UFwttXurEDLmCg0rm-xsHp9JX8eg3u9O_3pFUZElFpC0VCB-2OPA0YLMj/s320/outside_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353747542770454082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />DINNER WITH A SCIENTOLOGIST</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.fathersoffice.com/">Father's Office.</a><br />1018 Montana Ave.<br />Santa Monica, CA</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Scientology was created by an American science fiction writer named L. Ron Hubbard in the 1950s. Father’s Office is the most recent venture of a South Korea-born chef and </span><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">restaurateur</span><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"> named San Yoon.<br /><o:p></o:p></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">At first glance, it may seem like the two don’t have much in common.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBOInJ8-iyd-SbCKvcOsOicB_YjYYTLUkunlj2vxmU4swK6kijnhvWUH0DaLFqLfIVBs775T1pwyYb-VJkmp__QlSX4E2pIJZW8rCONJg6FtL2AmMTjD4Xj8ziHPhJwLBjdlrTPiNZ12B/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 529px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwBOInJ8-iyd-SbCKvcOsOicB_YjYYTLUkunlj2vxmU4swK6kijnhvWUH0DaLFqLfIVBs775T1pwyYb-VJkmp__QlSX4E2pIJZW8rCONJg6FtL2AmMTjD4Xj8ziHPhJwLBjdlrTPiNZ12B/s400/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353749297048635090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">But, really, the resemblance is uncanny. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">In their respectively short existences, 50 years for a religion and two years for a restaurant, they’ve both amassed quite a following. Scientology<b style=""><u>,</u></b> with 8 million members and Father’s Office with locations in Santa Monica and now even the mysterious Culver City. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Pilgrims come from far and wide to worship both. Each has a pretty considerable price of entry and I’m pretty sure both have sweet potato fries, upon request. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">But, we all needed some clarification, especially on the last point. And after many ignored emails, awkward cold calls, and fruitless visits to “reading rooms,” we finally found Vikki. A believer in both Scientology and Father’s Office, she agreed to join us for a little dinner and debunking. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="_x0000_i1026" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:143pt;height:214pt;"> <v:imagedata src="file://localhost/Users/jordanc/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0/clip_image003.png" title=""> </v:shape><![endif]--></span><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Walking up Montana Ave., past the dozens of boutiques, pretentious eateries, designer strollers and designer babies, we see the Father’s Office’s sign. It looks like something more at home on <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xNa4MG2dBKo">Mayberry</a> Main St. than Montana Ave. But we’d soon learn that it’s just the first of many meticulously-crafted contractions.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">We arrived at Father’s Office early to secure one of the very few first-come, first-serve tables. We seated ourselves, as there’s no hostess, studied the chalkboard, as there are no menus, and headed to the bar of libations as there are no waiters. There we discovered one of the finest walls of taps in town. A truly refreshing site considering that we're in a city that considers Heineken a microbrew. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUe9IPFLiP0o1OA3QxqhHOmvcoz4NmjCfITWYmTbgcePG99khWrEG0bmTsT-LPXeGx5cYNE2_n0mvNucqz67-OKmHcEw6Kl-teorUGB1vKG1jImmRG1zn_I313_MzbXJ0Y_QMK0SQdCeP2/s1600-h/beer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 226px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUe9IPFLiP0o1OA3QxqhHOmvcoz4NmjCfITWYmTbgcePG99khWrEG0bmTsT-LPXeGx5cYNE2_n0mvNucqz67-OKmHcEw6Kl-teorUGB1vKG1jImmRG1zn_I313_MzbXJ0Y_QMK0SQdCeP2/s320/beer.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353741023278727650" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">We ordered a few pints of Arrogant Bastard and sat wondering what to expect from our meal and our company<b>: </b>a casually formal burger joint and an unorthodox orthodox. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Then, a moment later, your granny walked in. Well, pretty much. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3cgN3uRnEq8_TIQqRM8kEkLE793vQLH5ZW6x_6EIm08IPjxGb1tgobluEugX5pKki3v7QTAMTadD9FVVX4_5yiK6nIpOmUGsJoQ2T5hy2MgXMYi7RSAzz9AeZVOUosb3JBuEYVQ498E4/s1600-h/people.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3cgN3uRnEq8_TIQqRM8kEkLE793vQLH5ZW6x_6EIm08IPjxGb1tgobluEugX5pKki3v7QTAMTadD9FVVX4_5yiK6nIpOmUGsJoQ2T5hy2MgXMYi7RSAzz9AeZVOUosb3JBuEYVQ498E4/s320/people.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353750292156089490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Vikki was a soft-spoken, older gal with a smile from ear to ear. Jovial and strikingly <i style="">not</i> bat-shit crazy. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We ordered a water for her (she doesn’t drink), a couple more brews for ourselves and immediately dove into the minimal menu, asking Vikki if she had any favorites. We expected her to say the same thing everyone says:</span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"></span></span></p><blockquote><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">“You HAVE to try the burger. It’s the best burger in Los Angeles. Maybe the world. (</span></span></i><u><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> insert foodgasm moans and uncontrollable quivering </span></span></i></span></u><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">).”</span></span></i></span></blockquote><!--EndFragment--> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">But, surprisingly, Vikki gasmed over of the Organic Beet Salad. Turns out, the woman that chose the</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> burger joint</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> with </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">brew pub</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> doesn’t eat red meat or drink.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Go figure. It’s a good thing we do. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Squeezing up to the bar, now packed (picture any bar within 6 miles of UCLA, Thursday night, finals week, $4 Long Islands, “Ladies Night,” DJ Douchenozel spinning), and placed our order. An Organic Beet Salad, Spanish Mushrooms, an infamous Office Burger and Sweet Potato Fries “A La Cart.” </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">As we returned to the table, Vikki asked the question first, “Why Scientologist?” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">We replied, “ditto.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Turns out, she wasn’t raised as a Scientologist. Quite the opposite actually. Her family had dabbled in this religion and that, but it never really stuck. She said that even though it has now become her life, religion it wasn’t a big part of her upbringing. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Her religion was skiing. <span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Vikki grew up in Lake Tahoe, and spent much of her youth worshiping powder and bowing to the <span style="color:blue;"><a href="http://www.iran-daily.com/1384/2497/html/044343.jpg">iron cross.</a> </span>She started competing at an early age and by the time she was a teen, she was semi-pro. And, just a few short years later, Vikki became a member on the US National Ski Team. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncsylhuiN0TAldiP4nTHnoYzSx0I6jo9JC603lnYUhe0UbNw460CB9cEd6lK9xh39BHE81Vh1s3Pm9DfIdEQAjamrcYdD3fNKoezx7dSoWIdmG_L7myBnrhl2Ct-FgYwMGvXMsJTfW1tp/s1600-h/mushrooms.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncsylhuiN0TAldiP4nTHnoYzSx0I6jo9JC603lnYUhe0UbNw460CB9cEd6lK9xh39BHE81Vh1s3Pm9DfIdEQAjamrcYdD3fNKoezx7dSoWIdmG_L7myBnrhl2Ct-FgYwMGvXMsJTfW1tp/s320/mushrooms.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353761187078613090" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">By the age of 25, Vikki was an Olympian. But her champion status changed, right around the time the </span><i style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">champinones</span></i><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"> arrived. As we dug into an earthen pot of </span><i style=""><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">mushrooms</span></i><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">, Vikki told us about the day that everything changed. She had a terrible crash during a qualifying event, tumbling all the way down the mountain and tearing all the ligaments in her right knee. When she finally came to a stop, so did her professional skiing career.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">But, on the bright side, the horribly tragic story was perfectly complimented by the </span><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">beautifully sautéed </span><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Spanish Mushrooms. The balance of garlic, herbs, vinegar and olive oil was spot on. The best tapas mushrooms we’ve had this side of Sevilla. </span><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefsR9DDfqnnCDZP7a1uO2MgN34KCqGMY4xfAAiK1NfcSkltqUhSYkTR3o1OHfjHw1obImHe9jtHHZ4CYiPogRZ93gCYltfo_bI3appFiiqlfaRoWgy-7TYfYNjxLX68SxDxSMaO-TCnaw/s1600-h/fries_1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 258px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhefsR9DDfqnnCDZP7a1uO2MgN34KCqGMY4xfAAiK1NfcSkltqUhSYkTR3o1OHfjHw1obImHe9jtHHZ4CYiPogRZ93gCYltfo_bI3appFiiqlfaRoWgy-7TYfYNjxLX68SxDxSMaO-TCnaw/s320/fries_1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353750866862539618" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Next came the Sweet Potato “A La Cart,” and the quote marks finally started to make sense (see picture). They came with a side of blue cheese aioli and a friendly reminder that there is no ketchup. Yep. You heard right. By law, they can refuse you service and ketchup. No substitutions. <span style=""> </span>And absolutely no goddamn ketchup. If Father’s office was a religion this would be a commandment. <span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Anyway, as we dug into the delicious, garlicky tubers, served in what would be every bums dream cart, we dug further into Vikki. That's when we found out that after years of representing her country on the slopes, she decided to protest against it. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Yep. Vikki went hippie. And not just the flowery-acid-tripping-moccasin-wearing hippie. This was the top of the line. The dank dank. The urple of all purple. The grade A-anti-afghani-hippie shit. She camped out on the hill in Berkeley and spent the next decade fighting the man. She protested, sat in, striked, lobbied, burnt bras, even chained herself to fences and tanks. She was trying to stop the war and looking to find a purpose. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkXWegm0IE9n3ZydI2im3QcCq09HUVAHFo9nS_jdr3zUptjWRcEKXt2r2AhbynhFkTuGbT7u7mD4vksVvgZOfvzD-GWD6r4zPn18h0L5WNoM9AW4alIGr1aFvzgo0b_Vh5d5HJZquPnJ9/s1600-h/LRonHubbard-Dianetics-ISBN1403105464-cover.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSkXWegm0IE9n3ZydI2im3QcCq09HUVAHFo9nS_jdr3zUptjWRcEKXt2r2AhbynhFkTuGbT7u7mD4vksVvgZOfvzD-GWD6r4zPn18h0L5WNoM9AW4alIGr1aFvzgo0b_Vh5d5HJZquPnJ9/s320/LRonHubbard-Dianetics-ISBN1403105464-cover.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353744225214176658" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p>It turns out <i style="">Purpose</i> is sold at books stores across the nation, in hard or paper back. <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: italic; font-family:Helvetica, -webkit-fantasy;">Dianetics, b<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-style: normal; font-family:Helvetica, fantasy;">y L. Ron Hubbar</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica, fantasy;">d. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Helvetica, fantasy;">The book that lays the foundation of Scientology.</span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqcaIwEzc7ZKjboXfUvEbsVPd5wG3nvkVI1-0FWMBXl51BTSplFQx7n3cKsvh5Xu_BFg04OHzN6rX54bj4xdd5rJQ2PrhkHmucBSBy0PaWffCjh7mj9ZddbGib2j4a7OkKxhto5sbhzqI/s1600-h/burger.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqcaIwEzc7ZKjboXfUvEbsVPd5wG3nvkVI1-0FWMBXl51BTSplFQx7n3cKsvh5Xu_BFg04OHzN6rX54bj4xdd5rJQ2PrhkHmucBSBy0PaWffCjh7mj9ZddbGib2j4a7OkKxhto5sbhzqI/s320/burger.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353744764767379970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Just as we were getting to the juicy part, our main courses arrived. And speaking of getting to the juicy part, the Office Burger. The rare<b style=""><u>,</u></b> dry-aged beef, filled with magical juices of a cooked cow was topped with caramelized onions, apple wood bacon compote, gruyere, Maytag blue cheese and arugula. Yes, there<b style=""><u> </u></b>are no substitutions and no ketchup people. And rightfully so. This is enough to make any veggie zealot question their allegiances. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">And Vikki’s towering Organic Beet Salad was also beautiful (for a salad). The vibrant reds and greens were stunning and the generous topping of cabrales blue cheese, walnuts, aged jerez vinaigrette, and pumpkin seed oil made a very well-composed dish (for a salad).<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">But lucky for us, Vikki shared her Beet Salad as openly as she shared her life story. Both simple and yet full of flavor. Over bites of the subtly balanced sweet yet sour beets and over-powering aged blue crumbles, we got back to the main course: Scientology. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9mebQSlS4rrhdRgC51Vc67-VbEkwSD6fOKLwyM-aDJtu3pbM2ZXh9-QsF2XiDTDyuBJF4WxUrN2dkU5fP1yOri7cDFsVo-61xDw7FTDxq1UQQZ0Q73LxN9bIcnmtMAChGyNXxAD1HmrFi/s1600-h/salad.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9mebQSlS4rrhdRgC51Vc67-VbEkwSD6fOKLwyM-aDJtu3pbM2ZXh9-QsF2XiDTDyuBJF4WxUrN2dkU5fP1yOri7cDFsVo-61xDw7FTDxq1UQQZ0Q73LxN9bIcnmtMAChGyNXxAD1HmrFi/s320/salad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353745075652621762" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">Vikki, along with many of her hippie friends, found a smooth transition into Scientology as their core beliefs were ultimately the same. She told us that, regardless of practice, she had always believed that a sound, clear mind is the most important thing that a person can have. F<o:p>or her, Scientology was something she had always practiced, one way or another.</o:p></span></p><!--EndFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;">So Vikki stopped digging for drugs in cow shit and started paying her taxes. And over the last few decades, Vikki, along with her husband, have both made Scientology their work as well as their religion. They specialize in counseling people addicted to drugs and alcohol.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Together they travel the globe helping set up free rehabilitation facilities and Scientology start-ups. Oh yeah, and they’ve been known to hit the streets to test some stress in their day and still do.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">And as much as it stresses me to say it,</span><span style="font-family:Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;mso-ansi-language:EN-US; mso-fareast-language:EN-USfont-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I will. This famous LA burger joint doesn't house LA's Best Burger. Good, yes. But it didn't make us want to jump up and down in our chairs and </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EcgIxfNim7o&feature=related"><span style="color:blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">profess</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">our love for it on national television.</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> And while the Office Burger </span></span><span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">does</span></i></span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> justified the right to deny you any chance at tarnishing its yummy, troubleshot beef and bun with a bottle of Heinz, better burgers are out there. Your perfect patty is awaiting you at </span><a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/hinano-cafe-venice"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Hinano</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> and or </span><a href="http://www.thecounterburger.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The Counter</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">, with whatever condiment your heart desires.</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Anywho, as dinner came to a close, we only had one questions left:</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><u></u></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.5in;"><b><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Q:</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">If you could change one misconception about Scientology, what would it be?</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">A:</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Don’t believe everything you see on South Park. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Words to live by.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We paid our tab at the bar and walked outside, the sign and ourselves now more illuminated than when we walked in. We shook Vikki’s hand at first, but couldn’t help but hug her goodbye and thank her for one of the most genuine Dinners with a Stranger we’ve ever had.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">We all learned something that night. Whether it’s a burger joint without the best burger or a Scientologist who is remarkably unremarkable, don’t judge a </span><a href="http://www.truthbooks.com/"><span style="color:blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">book</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> by its cover. Or a</span><a href="http://losangeles.menupages.com/menuprocess?id=27417&link=c575bd4e6528b6b1d27a513c36f3593b37cb0a0deb8f17fe58093c5eb593473c66fcb121eac560e49f64d7aac5b59b85"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span><span style="color:blue;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">menu</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">… Have a taste for yourself. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->THE WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11567668823563927253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6126287529645232948.post-21843241579557793312009-05-26T12:14:00.000-07:002009-07-28T11:22:20.533-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtzzPaYDwD8q9kFwTGFexxx9LAfU6EyW43OYREw-4LpG_O7TF2zfcCrgRBsR5xiyzirDlk4pudbI5twhEI5N1yzwYYNUXTdqSRjpdboSEn1leN8YGSZlh3zCiz3MMq7ckJ-cOJo-DOCE3/s1600-h/prospctr_header.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 47px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtzzPaYDwD8q9kFwTGFexxx9LAfU6EyW43OYREw-4LpG_O7TF2zfcCrgRBsR5xiyzirDlk4pudbI5twhEI5N1yzwYYNUXTdqSRjpdboSEn1leN8YGSZlh3zCiz3MMq7ckJ-cOJo-DOCE3/s400/prospctr_header.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363578068092018962" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOL9KDnZD3u7f-jFn1-va1V8t8eJaVNiEvpbTzED44VEoUqHTCoLnUtvPf002JT1bVbYrMR98YzKNMJ83FsIRT4TyP1WUykLle6M95jA1tjv31tE4TGwqN1BogTspB9qtllrYteBmjDJ6U/s1600-h/IMG_1330.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 140px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOL9KDnZD3u7f-jFn1-va1V8t8eJaVNiEvpbTzED44VEoUqHTCoLnUtvPf002JT1bVbYrMR98YzKNMJ83FsIRT4TyP1WUykLle6M95jA1tjv31tE4TGwqN1BogTspB9qtllrYteBmjDJ6U/s320/IMG_1330.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340228385082094098" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:130%;">DINNER WITH A NUDIST</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /><br /><a href="http://www.prospectorlongbeach.com/">The Prospector </a><br />2400 East 7th St.<br />Long Beach, CA</span><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />This is Michael. He’s a nudist…Amongst other things.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnH47t4syP_P1aA-lTv9FaEZiFI0ESw1BFrA3qVErfuPCR9iu51WlQb56SaxDWkOrXvh_bbMBqBGuJ0P8Wbr9zvQVIdyBp0qkHIAb2a2Wep8aFssqPJdN0El8lDDVC0uAhfuKwjufa8tYg/s1600-h/outside.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 89px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnH47t4syP_P1aA-lTv9FaEZiFI0ESw1BFrA3qVErfuPCR9iu51WlQb56SaxDWkOrXvh_bbMBqBGuJ0P8Wbr9zvQVIdyBp0qkHIAb2a2Wep8aFssqPJdN0El8lDDVC0uAhfuKwjufa8tYg/s320/outside.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340220905290730706" border="0" /></a><br />This place is a proper dive…ie- there isn’t a hipster in sight.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOS3IETpWCshrtBm0m_iu1rFUr00inrun8qHGVcO_aTmaXByZv8ZyIr0uCtjeXh6EcXCI-vwuHxOP1cpGJ79gisk79A-JTO2TAQuC2IqCa6Lcok-EcBjCQhJjoEsvU0rSXIcnoqn8Lye47/s1600-h/dinning_room.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 229px; height: 168px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOS3IETpWCshrtBm0m_iu1rFUr00inrun8qHGVcO_aTmaXByZv8ZyIr0uCtjeXh6EcXCI-vwuHxOP1cpGJ79gisk79A-JTO2TAQuC2IqCa6Lcok-EcBjCQhJjoEsvU0rSXIcnoqn8Lye47/s320/dinning_room.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340225345212814290" border="0" /></a>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!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvSMICRVYY_OnhRnwXQ5eUmCN4_kkwjeQU2HSLLtnzpExJtDRoYUIitsEexCZa0q0-Ny_RAGNbbkJlXHBZgv8ueAjN5rnLl-tRsKyvTicDCEdntFdmPUUuTUpmMjndBStpQxmHqKj2Coi-/s1600-h/relish.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 163px; height: 147px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvSMICRVYY_OnhRnwXQ5eUmCN4_kkwjeQU2HSLLtnzpExJtDRoYUIitsEexCZa0q0-Ny_RAGNbbkJlXHBZgv8ueAjN5rnLl-tRsKyvTicDCEdntFdmPUUuTUpmMjndBStpQxmHqKj2Coi-/s320/relish.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340221255208762818" border="0" /></a>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…<br /><blockquote>“I want the coffins out of my living room, Michael!”</blockquote>Their attention then turned to us and we introduced ourselves to Michael and his wife, Lorraine. We proceeded to sit down and pry.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15_6pF4ea1pZmhrZUzG_ly29mNGwwJlgkSOiGSL0_steXaUqS_sv1geUDysE50ZKbHbUeftYQkZx9snoydX1t2fZvOzngssDpwCtGU_3vWFcCYZCbAJXCOREQOQYIKNXm8RsgXQXqml1i/s1600-h/micheal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj15_6pF4ea1pZmhrZUzG_ly29mNGwwJlgkSOiGSL0_steXaUqS_sv1geUDysE50ZKbHbUeftYQkZx9snoydX1t2fZvOzngssDpwCtGU_3vWFcCYZCbAJXCOREQOQYIKNXm8RsgXQXqml1i/s320/micheal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340227218142223842" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />To avoid the follow up glare, we ordered two of the Tuesday night specials.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9g4rvrp9_lK5bu4ut7g17iFFmoL_bTqPnFGUj1GvvaE0iECFlHKs7G5t6e4a7lR2jHK5r0yQ3Hxj9gWEwPAvC4kIG7gv-h9YJYrwqAbKWIgHeq4pBNUmwIou_UCIQrGefN1RBskQg-vPx/s1600-h/soup.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 211px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9g4rvrp9_lK5bu4ut7g17iFFmoL_bTqPnFGUj1GvvaE0iECFlHKs7G5t6e4a7lR2jHK5r0yQ3Hxj9gWEwPAvC4kIG7gv-h9YJYrwqAbKWIgHeq4pBNUmwIou_UCIQrGefN1RBskQg-vPx/s320/soup.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340222031119103810" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />After two bland slurps (that’s what she said), we got back to finding out how he got a hold of all them caskets.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Oh, and I got the answer to the question you’re dying to know but you’d never ask…<br /><blockquote>“The bodies are like jelly. Jelly mixed with bones. And it stinks near awful!”<br /></blockquote>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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_A0yDLweQA&feature=related">“jelly”</a><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8_A0yDLweQA&feature=related"> </a>into a plastic bag and hands it over.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22RUzKJA2W9ZBwUYdpVNZ48REhaIwx4rFx9Y2Pwc4NxQBGwGHaLwZ5roXIzAIEBqmsjg8Mb8FRy1wuFKsNhHm0QGoNmDLkA02tvF7EVBJhn6omjpT6VZ-z-oloztslkXlkT3SKSuHb1Ep/s1600-h/salad.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 177px; height: 145px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh22RUzKJA2W9ZBwUYdpVNZ48REhaIwx4rFx9Y2Pwc4NxQBGwGHaLwZ5roXIzAIEBqmsjg8Mb8FRy1wuFKsNhHm0QGoNmDLkA02tvF7EVBJhn6omjpT6VZ-z-oloztslkXlkT3SKSuHb1Ep/s320/salad.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340222823484581154" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <a href="http://www.aanfr.com/Home_Page.html">(Click to see what our diners look like naked)</a> And rest assured, Michael isn’t just a member, he’s the President.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://dpnrresort.com/">Deer Park Resort</a>, where Michael swears they serve the best spaghetti he’s ever tasted. And speaking of food, our entrees arrived, clothed in deep fried goodness.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4uX2AsWUHDK7gOagvKzTgS8pidPVzlLSL5uHC8C9MsB-KTzAhET00jI8YZhN4WPsp5BrZfoDd_mjyufGnlMmeqlAOb5PTvJP1i_y8tsFnAxS97nFM-4-H68CLuZOTBuo0tz0KXcv78yE/s1600-h/chickenFSteak.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 218px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP4uX2AsWUHDK7gOagvKzTgS8pidPVzlLSL5uHC8C9MsB-KTzAhET00jI8YZhN4WPsp5BrZfoDd_mjyufGnlMmeqlAOb5PTvJP1i_y8tsFnAxS97nFM-4-H68CLuZOTBuo0tz0KXcv78yE/s320/chickenFSteak.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340223663483589346" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGCYzn1pcY4OimoZfNU5v5uzf_phmHLg7xKHGELpFt16-EnOfRyYyLIXwwrjCNld7FvqQvkoqJRqRscWnMXjzFxZck5ZgiQryOxsUAnNfHOTqHnJvpfmGvSIEcWa6-iDIRBpGPbFWcKY9/s1600-h/bread.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 204px; height: 153px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGCYzn1pcY4OimoZfNU5v5uzf_phmHLg7xKHGELpFt16-EnOfRyYyLIXwwrjCNld7FvqQvkoqJRqRscWnMXjzFxZck5ZgiQryOxsUAnNfHOTqHnJvpfmGvSIEcWa6-iDIRBpGPbFWcKY9/s320/bread.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340223927794268594" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_i_cmDW5rcVkiIWpXwMquEu90NRM-sipgAaynnCui5YoLf_jvdfEz3zNCX-TyiEBvnSEmkf64R-p4NWuXwxUKc4ieMgnZ4GCsSNFgrtgGuS-NFxGULVe9B5Rx8JWB7ifBeWjKLrrRX8g/s1600-h/filet.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 218px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV_i_cmDW5rcVkiIWpXwMquEu90NRM-sipgAaynnCui5YoLf_jvdfEz3zNCX-TyiEBvnSEmkf64R-p4NWuXwxUKc4ieMgnZ4GCsSNFgrtgGuS-NFxGULVe9B5Rx8JWB7ifBeWjKLrrRX8g/s320/filet.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340224129143224866" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><blockquote>“They got a prop about lettin’ gays marry, but nothing’s on the ballot about gettin’ nude.”</blockquote>However, knowing the laws means knowing loopholes. And Michael’s a regular Cochran of nudey pursuits.<br /><br />His favorite, and somehow totally lawful, way of flying his flag is to roll through the McDonalds drive-thru butt ass naked for a<a href="http://hamburger.urbanup.com/20763"> hamburger</a>. 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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOm-W2gFScIscohpYWTqNqByZvWs-MaFbYN9y2so8yUlfSNeekA8v29nv1QxdhdMgZ7s6mj1uY7UF9luEek5KD54mCj1SxY3OMPZO21rOERG1RXYNqZO766X46zuXVbydv3ZiJXWdPf9DA/s1600-h/cowgirl_nude.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 202px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOm-W2gFScIscohpYWTqNqByZvWs-MaFbYN9y2so8yUlfSNeekA8v29nv1QxdhdMgZ7s6mj1uY7UF9luEek5KD54mCj1SxY3OMPZO21rOERG1RXYNqZO766X46zuXVbydv3ZiJXWdPf9DA/s320/cowgirl_nude.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340227754591299314" border="0" /></a>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. <a href="http://www.bbrphotography.com/">Click</a> to see more of Michael originals, most of them featuring naked women holding skulls. Are they real skulls? We may never know.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />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.THE WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11567668823563927253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6126287529645232948.post-25304281118525859552009-05-12T15:00:00.000-07:002009-07-28T11:19:30.057-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvDBsw1lKW9g0xmER9LUW8dxsqYX2h_Uz5XhzyvpaLPCQLyZz51UOWbHsEqSXfTYd3oWcVpvx8SY6OGP4TgKV6NKFM76DT7L00nYJUepaP4LD7i84Qo3LeFsMm-qK6n4yBt9Dlpn9fBLr/s1600-h/header.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 476px; height: 63px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvDBsw1lKW9g0xmER9LUW8dxsqYX2h_Uz5XhzyvpaLPCQLyZz51UOWbHsEqSXfTYd3oWcVpvx8SY6OGP4TgKV6NKFM76DT7L00nYJUepaP4LD7i84Qo3LeFsMm-qK6n4yBt9Dlpn9fBLr/s400/header.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363577260299947170" border="0" /></a><span><span><br /></span></span><div><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 183px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFiyCKqMZP5eyWEbcALUIkAqrBzcfZoRib5phSi5qUACwLwW_GJ-wdxuFvKZyso1zLt1rjYRSwMOR3wFQOA1zZowgmSVDQCvfrXpQI3vR4LlkG9MaBzDaduCiG6mHpCpoduFNtffB6kHVd/s320/Toi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335065763549171426" border="0" /></div><span><span><span style="font-size:180%;">DINNER WITH A BARISTA </span> </span></span><div><div><a href="http://www.toirockinthaifood.com/wilshire/"><span><span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Toi on Wilshire (a.k.a. Toi Rockin’ Thai)</span></span></span></a></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span>1120 Wilshire Blvd </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size:100%;"><span>Santa Monica, CA </span></span><br /><br /><br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Baristo? </span><div class="Section1"><div class="Section1"><p class="MsoNormal">We met Randy at his favorite restaurant, <b style="">Toi</b> on Wilshire. A.K.A. <b style="">Toi Rockin’ Thai</b>, on a Tuesday night around 7:30. The place was nearly empty minus a group of <a href="http://everythingchangesbook.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/04/girl-in-mirror.jpg">tweens </a>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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fgdMCViYsr-F6cQP8d8wXQcBhH7Rg2c2Qb6vJYXja-eubJSsbBBjPgptYywQQ7VOEej59i9a_EDF2t-tX3Xnu2vFzESuvQj2A8yUK4R-eOD8dJKhTUlY925Qn0yFom6lDbXyVG91EaTb/s1600-h/Randy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 374px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8fgdMCViYsr-F6cQP8d8wXQcBhH7Rg2c2Qb6vJYXja-eubJSsbBBjPgptYywQQ7VOEej59i9a_EDF2t-tX3Xnu2vFzESuvQj2A8yUK4R-eOD8dJKhTUlY925Qn0yFom6lDbXyVG91EaTb/s320/Randy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335077978101290130" border="0" /></a>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 <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8iJDtAqHO-s">Antichrist Superstar,</a> 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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;">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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;">For instance, we all know <i style="">of</i> the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Z-Boys"><span style="color:blue;">Z-boys</span>. </a>Well, Randy <i style="">knows</i> 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<sup>rd</sup> 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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fDhseUhlnTdH2HSB9Af-onPwFvOTj_KnXdjnBxveHOs39IrNlVgJ2Ng85d2tpHYNdty0hETgJnqK8yAahCV9LJphoVjfO07hd0UI-r_9PpoG3cCsWT53bU4oqQxACjkt6QuaZ5s1lefO/s1600-h/springrolls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 210px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4fDhseUhlnTdH2HSB9Af-onPwFvOTj_KnXdjnBxveHOs39IrNlVgJ2Ng85d2tpHYNdty0hETgJnqK8yAahCV9LJphoVjfO07hd0UI-r_9PpoG3cCsWT53bU4oqQxACjkt6QuaZ5s1lefO/s200/springrolls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335070107427291298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Times;">Sadly, <span style="font-style: italic;">Santa Monica Story Time</span> came to a close when the Saigon Spring Rolls and Mixed Tempura arrived. The traditional <i style="">Vietnamese</i><b style=""> </b>spring rolls were the better of the two so-called <i style="">Thai</i> apps. They came with a threesome of dipping sauces (spicy mustard, a soy-based </span><span style="font-family:Times;">something and sweet-and-sour) tasted like they came from a plastic packet with a panda on it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><span><span><br /><br /><br /></span></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzX9AlJn5RgAO1e8iygV0CuB95zMv9ONC4iRSftGGLNZoBIwMNEk0-OoPxuBX6fQGPlqr8GAnJQ47NxteIwMxa50vWwpWegfTxTVHruZqYmgaVSwxSC3h6p7T6u-vo-nRjN_U5kXWqK5S3/s1600-h/tempura.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 206px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzX9AlJn5RgAO1e8iygV0CuB95zMv9ONC4iRSftGGLNZoBIwMNEk0-OoPxuBX6fQGPlqr8GAnJQ47NxteIwMxa50vWwpWegfTxTVHruZqYmgaVSwxSC3h6p7T6u-vo-nRjN_U5kXWqK5S3/s200/tempura.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335114839826290386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Times;"><br />And the Tempura was more <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-pUn42IxP4I"><span style="color:blue;">Bloomin’ Onion</span>. </a>than lightly breaded, lightly fried tempura. </span><span><span>But hey, you know what tastes good? Anything fried. And in this case, triple fried.</span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;">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.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;">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?<span style=""> </span>Well, it was until we hit the goddamn mother load. Turns out Randy spends his Saturdays in <a href="http://acctrash.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/manjorts.jpg">jorts</a> and a tank top on the Venice boardwalk. Roller skating. To. Disco. That’s right. He’s one of these guys:</span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg32v0IZdRUT92J4T_BKSYojoa1gfw2XpjazUXvyKGY6erpiL1CbklnoYkrcG-ts9vwRqPFk0-Wfa8KqMr1LpRx2NuyOof2l6e4w2iuR6vm14ToqhHVS7K0BfN_f_hGBHELdgiZ3xBSY4QG/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 237px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg32v0IZdRUT92J4T_BKSYojoa1gfw2XpjazUXvyKGY6erpiL1CbklnoYkrcG-ts9vwRqPFk0-Wfa8KqMr1LpRx2NuyOof2l6e4w2iuR6vm14ToqhHVS7K0BfN_f_hGBHELdgiZ3xBSY4QG/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335070792881734322" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;">And reacting to the look on our faces he said...<blockquote>“Anyone can do it. Feelin’ the music is your membership."</blockquote></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Times;"></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYgqs6ac0FMhQk4xIplpzPiykZMi34aXaA5Wzyvhqqhnr5xLw15gy0j5tUvozSHJYs0C1T_4aB4XcDzo9Zuj1Rrt88srD_eBvsyR8USRkVcXkPAuD_0fbDuIKqk7oDdMtsZPOZA6TS1sB/s1600-h/padcui.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 221px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFYgqs6ac0FMhQk4xIplpzPiykZMi34aXaA5Wzyvhqqhnr5xLw15gy0j5tUvozSHJYs0C1T_4aB4XcDzo9Zuj1Rrt88srD_eBvsyR8USRkVcXkPAuD_0fbDuIKqk7oDdMtsZPOZA6TS1sB/s200/padcui.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335071143860106386" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Times;">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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9fsZ8zL1ZgCZ4D9j7AlkFtY-cWEnjzth8gAM-cujZ9omBas_4fD648mkBWwvwZBIV92wHxrGosUJ0mldDxxU5PeZTWxpcbie-bNeyacOLf8kgHg2i63Y3iU8J-hKjTAZhxAd1uZ7y1Dk-/s1600-h/pinapple_rice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 212px; height: 157px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9fsZ8zL1ZgCZ4D9j7AlkFtY-cWEnjzth8gAM-cujZ9omBas_4fD648mkBWwvwZBIV92wHxrGosUJ0mldDxxU5PeZTWxpcbie-bNeyacOLf8kgHg2i63Y3iU8J-hKjTAZhxAd1uZ7y1Dk-/s200/pinapple_rice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335071372678659858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Times;">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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBpf9D_j7ixOmmdmELVVdHTo9QTJEmxxbgXe6uTgH3ZWvDkh4GxOAtBoh-RZruQPM1vsiFkphAbYeaAkO2kyH0wgdanRzLXRvJgsghqUl1jO2PzN8dwcWrtWQzPCOilsiI5DAfaHh2McT/s1600-h/Curry.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 219px; height: 161px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZBpf9D_j7ixOmmdmELVVdHTo9QTJEmxxbgXe6uTgH3ZWvDkh4GxOAtBoh-RZruQPM1vsiFkphAbYeaAkO2kyH0wgdanRzLXRvJgsghqUl1jO2PzN8dwcWrtWQzPCOilsiI5DAfaHh2McT/s200/Curry.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335072007507723490" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Times;">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.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BajhRF_h03jqE0P4i6G_O325WwvFeRGsyOXoXC-glt7cyI3JAT89L0lCM1C5au8MZm_im56yBLFzJep9lihYkHWwEWIGfT0dBJh2xipCGev2gMnV9NH0fNJs5YG3uaGAqjcaVmmdrRE6/s1600-h/Black_rice.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BajhRF_h03jqE0P4i6G_O325WwvFeRGsyOXoXC-glt7cyI3JAT89L0lCM1C5au8MZm_im56yBLFzJep9lihYkHWwEWIGfT0dBJh2xipCGev2gMnV9NH0fNJs5YG3uaGAqjcaVmmdrRE6/s200/Black_rice.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335069147960836802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:Times;">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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;">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.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;">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…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc6I5QLaDwTWill8WJQzvoUMb2oz7Epxut4zUhtZqJK939eXrXNMlNe5hqxQIyEo2K4bR4fAZ-tl42PuNb0KR9SYsafFx_P5jY3Lms_BLNBQpPnIPZSMGMkLiyBQ0SqfytqCvhypAtVQ_9/s1600-h/harrison.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 488px; height: 363px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc6I5QLaDwTWill8WJQzvoUMb2oz7Epxut4zUhtZqJK939eXrXNMlNe5hqxQIyEo2K4bR4fAZ-tl42PuNb0KR9SYsafFx_P5jY3Lms_BLNBQpPnIPZSMGMkLiyBQ0SqfytqCvhypAtVQ_9/s400/harrison.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335094439617377826" border="0" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ubldD83qcmOya1YuKv4mQTILElU-u4TuP_4loyU25d6G_exPjFoKkvH_5ZOBXO4hW0td8x_SdzKJykuyg2ERWN_KZa1Wj9hcR2fEAmxddqw_TtyoV5YvDmoCnWhys4zwxcu9j-cHWB-O/s1600-h/Mango.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 156px; height: 115px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ubldD83qcmOya1YuKv4mQTILElU-u4TuP_4loyU25d6G_exPjFoKkvH_5ZOBXO4hW0td8x_SdzKJykuyg2ERWN_KZa1Wj9hcR2fEAmxddqw_TtyoV5YvDmoCnWhys4zwxcu9j-cHWB-O/s200/Mango.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335072494301621282" border="0" /></a></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span>Finally, after three courses of rice, we settled on a dessert: Sticky Rice with Mango. <span style=""> </span>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.<span><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span>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.</span></span> Just like we'll do next time we're asked back to Toi. </p></div><div class="Section1"><span><span></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;"><span style=""> </span></span></p> </div> <span style=";font-family:";font-size:12;" ><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Times;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p></div><!--EndFragment--> </div></div>THE WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11567668823563927253noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6126287529645232948.post-18002174126892864122009-05-05T18:52:00.000-07:002009-07-28T11:21:20.188-07:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTBl6u9bwvv8hbOicPdwAdlg5o2BRfUmOiu-EdmF9EzLFSIefUHv11QngjNaCoZidczY-b84XMNtHlrIHJCUpj8fMEVMMDx2gjPsiTxfgo7Uwj-esEkZwfU_L2vHF_q42386_0yVrYH7pY/s1600-h/Dinnerwitha+stranger_title.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 73px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTBl6u9bwvv8hbOicPdwAdlg5o2BRfUmOiu-EdmF9EzLFSIefUHv11QngjNaCoZidczY-b84XMNtHlrIHJCUpj8fMEVMMDx2gjPsiTxfgo7Uwj-esEkZwfU_L2vHF_q42386_0yVrYH7pY/s400/Dinnerwitha+stranger_title.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363577757434046338" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnE-edmeN7ez83ZjLVM9sVe2ZWxT8Iej2ifynkKDS74sBpBB02gUHdjfoM0kOk4S9AEJ1n_4dcXktm_PuBCWY0fB6H66toU3A7vZM3YgtMVr1jdKpHMYUrjb-TA39LNZg8MJiuEi3IQliS/s1600-h/louise.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 123px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnE-edmeN7ez83ZjLVM9sVe2ZWxT8Iej2ifynkKDS74sBpBB02gUHdjfoM0kOk4S9AEJ1n_4dcXktm_PuBCWY0fB6H66toU3A7vZM3YgtMVr1jdKpHMYUrjb-TA39LNZg8MJiuEi3IQliS/s200/louise.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332523767375210514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />DINNER WITH A FUNERAL PLANNER</span></span><br /><br /><a href="http://www.louises.com/">Louise’s Trattoria</a><br />1008 Montana Ave.<br /> Santa Monica, CA<br /><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />We met her at Louise’s.<br /><br />It was a Monday around 7:30pm, and the little Italian joint on <a href="http://www.thehollywoodgossip.com/images/gallery/sean-jayden-nanny.jpg">Montana Ave,</a> 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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQCnIIrNTWm2RamYznH4Ku97YF3GLyRXMOXGEk1Y9hROX8yqq3A5RyHYDzrcKXWujF0Zx_QLlcyZhH4AitPv3ca-GB3k5Hwg_UwlorGuJH0wpDmkY5o05J8XWjhFzrw4wcsvXElw5oOLB/s1600-h/angles.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQCnIIrNTWm2RamYznH4Ku97YF3GLyRXMOXGEk1Y9hROX8yqq3A5RyHYDzrcKXWujF0Zx_QLlcyZhH4AitPv3ca-GB3k5Hwg_UwlorGuJH0wpDmkY5o05J8XWjhFzrw4wcsvXElw5oOLB/s320/angles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332524312836791330" border="0" /></a>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).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GOmJwpZ9ZGTlLsMUy14QqtjFHepDEwqZVaD7ZGQ7rlCW2FK7-jskSP1iX6uMBvn1wZaaunE6WYgcP8jEFZgOEyS3CGS7h_pfVnrQX2108-23xemgDF5tPj4YKNVmoWvYbVpv5xMO-8IN/s1600-h/bread.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GOmJwpZ9ZGTlLsMUy14QqtjFHepDEwqZVaD7ZGQ7rlCW2FK7-jskSP1iX6uMBvn1wZaaunE6WYgcP8jEFZgOEyS3CGS7h_pfVnrQX2108-23xemgDF5tPj4YKNVmoWvYbVpv5xMO-8IN/s200/bread.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332524494361820466" border="0" /></a>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. <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=hangry">Hangry,</a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />Well, that is, until <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 51, 51);">Chapter L.A., Verse 01: 09</span><br />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.<br /><br />As our food arrived, we proceeded to dig in. To pizza. To pasta. And to Emily.<br /><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcYXUHbCUxXBZclpg5xrqc8Bai-x2w0KXbbpz-0UN11mC4EBXraItk6L5ZI75blqra8TrOv73zLhiL_hmvAQroezBr95kvD9tbZCBzF7SOgW6TBNrO6M0-yoGVN9rc6wb2swhz5uAjsTE/s1600-h/parpadelle.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXcYXUHbCUxXBZclpg5xrqc8Bai-x2w0KXbbpz-0UN11mC4EBXraItk6L5ZI75blqra8TrOv73zLhiL_hmvAQroezBr95kvD9tbZCBzF7SOgW6TBNrO6M0-yoGVN9rc6wb2swhz5uAjsTE/s200/parpadelle.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332524769051873714" border="0" /></a><br />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.”<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Q: Do you want to be cremated or buried?<br /><br />A: Cremated<br /><br />You’ll purchase a cardboard box for $395 bucks and they’ll throw you in a giant oven. Like the oven at <a href="http://www.mozza-la.com/pizzeria/menu.cfm">Pizzeria Mozza</a> 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.<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpuMAvA8M6g&feature=related"><span style="font-size:78%;"> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RpuMAvA8M6g&feature=related</span></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_kNfbfss3B1C_SmiUVXZJKoVLQaixZgN9z-Y5MRVRTYKp5ArPDyOss1uoJSfZsySy0OMCdL8l9AXCEkth3tHHDSO2XI-hWtiGr7DLDu2FevEbzw4wl3-3unx3m2jdp063810EwnU7HsX/s1600-h/ravioli.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5_kNfbfss3B1C_SmiUVXZJKoVLQaixZgN9z-Y5MRVRTYKp5ArPDyOss1uoJSfZsySy0OMCdL8l9AXCEkth3tHHDSO2XI-hWtiGr7DLDu2FevEbzw4wl3-3unx3m2jdp063810EwnU7HsX/s200/ravioli.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332524939933356898" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />Q: For your funeral service, do you want an open casket or closed?<br /><br />A: Open<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc8VzGIR28ch72W-6w1m4SolcXErdPNOhKnvM3FMcw8_BZmnimXHL5-MuIXU5hQU82H8XKg6nVDQc4sXgA4H9pdPZ7ZHLf3B4Hh9u_eWocT19CycXWu6TZAKsrv0LeyH0ck9-Kk2YvJe6s/s1600-h/chickenparm.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc8VzGIR28ch72W-6w1m4SolcXErdPNOhKnvM3FMcw8_BZmnimXHL5-MuIXU5hQU82H8XKg6nVDQc4sXgA4H9pdPZ7ZHLf3B4Hh9u_eWocT19CycXWu6TZAKsrv0LeyH0ck9-Kk2YvJe6s/s200/chickenparm.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332525110998196994" border="0" /></a>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.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiRk0ElUhuof8gHB7RbOvcyGFCp43BfxZ0fp4vcr8VRq2ydQjYuZPVEJvpDoBlrQCESgUvzzuDtl8LZYoMOlazKJQixKkDQQmp2hzXBAkySDtIZ6MjugUNHABUPS8WOtmtyu42fub_a7Ra/s1600-h/pizza.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiRk0ElUhuof8gHB7RbOvcyGFCp43BfxZ0fp4vcr8VRq2ydQjYuZPVEJvpDoBlrQCESgUvzzuDtl8LZYoMOlazKJQixKkDQQmp2hzXBAkySDtIZ6MjugUNHABUPS8WOtmtyu42fub_a7Ra/s200/pizza.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332525258609861154" border="0" /></a>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.<br /><br />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.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">WARNING: Make sure family knows burial wishes, or end </span><span style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);">up waiting in a fridge for over a year while they fight about it. </span></span>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.<br /><br />“Well, that’s if your body is intact. Don’t ever watch an autopsy on YouTube.”<br />- Emily…. Or do. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRAh3Qse-Us">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VRAh3Qse-Us</a><br /><br />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)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Q: Do you have any special wishes?<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh71p8wj44dLQ9LHU7ctK9r31MVPp9lgE9j3p9xHSl5aYn2ZkMG1BGDD6jmhWny5UeSJUVmP50-h9qaxay18XdayAD8krRzBRHecT2n3XEYifqi7H7HLpKzCmWtrdqI2Go92RUOE5DyGOSD/s1600-h/card.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 182px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh71p8wj44dLQ9LHU7ctK9r31MVPp9lgE9j3p9xHSl5aYn2ZkMG1BGDD6jmhWny5UeSJUVmP50-h9qaxay18XdayAD8krRzBRHecT2n3XEYifqi7H7HLpKzCmWtrdqI2Go92RUOE5DyGOSD/s320/card.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332526460165961426" border="0" /></a>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...<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOO0OZA4hmKg07YWAI2QP7G4Eq4Ne-y313l_Hss_LvgFfS2cYc-gPd5yEXEFQPOAVN-6kElX9Pu4CS8a7U9Ah6iK5IyiiMzUvMnFC7zztDvLlJpCgoUxuitOc1th-hJuLT6LdN1t4z7eyM/s1600-h/cake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 205px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOO0OZA4hmKg07YWAI2QP7G4Eq4Ne-y313l_Hss_LvgFfS2cYc-gPd5yEXEFQPOAVN-6kElX9Pu4CS8a7U9Ah6iK5IyiiMzUvMnFC7zztDvLlJpCgoUxuitOc1th-hJuLT6LdN1t4z7eyM/s320/cake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332526889115513426" border="0" /></a>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?<br /><br /><br />Unforgivable. Much like our meal.THE WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY.http://www.blogger.com/profile/11567668823563927253noreply@blogger.com0