Dinner (And A Show) With A Magician
Border Grill
1445 4th St
Santa Monica, CA 90401


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.

We found Steve at Magicopolis, 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?

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.

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 The Bar Show.

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.

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.

The modern (perhaps), upscale (hardly), hip (subjective) cantina had walls covered in red and blue-faced amigos drunk off freedom and angry Luchadores, 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 Michael Jackson shrine?

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.

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.





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.

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.

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?

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.


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.

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.

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.

Steve finished high school and…

“Well I was going to go to college but instead I snorted tablespoons of white powder and made bouquets of marijuana.”

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.

Then, just as our munchies were coming back, the next round of eats arrives.

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.


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.


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?


Here’s to hoping Steve doesn’t get impaled by dozens of sharpened metal spikes before you get a chance to go see him.





CLICK PIC TO SEE MORE.

DINNER WITH A SCIENTOLOGIST

Father's Office.
1018 Montana Ave.
Santa Monica, CA



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 restaurateur named San Yoon.

At first glance, it may seem like the two don’t have much in common.

But, really, the resemblance is uncanny.

In their respectively short existences, 50 years for a religion and two years for a restaurant, they’ve both amassed quite a following. Scientology, with 8 million members and Father’s Office with locations in Santa Monica and now even the mysterious Culver City.

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.

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.

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 Mayberry Main St. than Montana Ave. But we’d soon learn that it’s just the first of many meticulously-crafted contractions.

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.

We ordered a few pints of Arrogant Bastard and sat wondering what to expect from our meal and our company: a casually formal burger joint and an unorthodox orthodox.

Then, a moment later, your granny walked in. Well, pretty much.

Vikki was a soft-spoken, older gal with a smile from ear to ear. Jovial and strikingly not bat-shit crazy.

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:

“You HAVE to try the burger. It’s the best burger in Los Angeles. Maybe the world. ( insert foodgasm moans and uncontrollable quivering ).”

But, surprisingly, Vikki gasmed over of the Organic Beet Salad. Turns out, the woman that chose the burger joint with brew pub doesn’t eat red meat or drink. Go figure. It’s a good thing we do.

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.”

As we returned to the table, Vikki asked the question first, “Why Scientologist?”

We replied, “ditto.”

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.

Her religion was skiing.

Vikki grew up in Lake Tahoe, and spent much of her youth worshiping powder and bowing to the iron cross. 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.

By the age of 25, Vikki was an Olympian. But her champion status changed, right around the time the champinones arrived. As we dug into an earthen pot of mushrooms, 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.

But, on the bright side, the horribly tragic story was perfectly complimented by the beautifully sautéed 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.

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. And absolutely no goddamn ketchup. If Father’s office was a religion this would be a commandment.

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.

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.

It turns out Purpose is sold at books stores across the nation, in hard or paper back. Dianetics, by L. Ron Hubbard. The book that lays the foundation of Scientology.

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, 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 are no substitutions and no ketchup people. And rightfully so. This is enough to make any veggie zealot question their allegiances.

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).

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.

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. For her, Scientology was something she had always practiced, one way or another.

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. 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.

And as much as it stresses me to say it, 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 profess our love for it on national television. And while the Office Burger does 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 Hinano and or The Counter, with whatever condiment your heart desires.

Anywho, as dinner came to a close, we only had one questions left:

Q: If you could change one misconception about Scientology, what would it be?

A: Don’t believe everything you see on South Park.

Words to live by.

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.

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 book by its cover. Or a menu… Have a taste for yourself.

DINNER WITH A NUDIST

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


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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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





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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DINNER WITH A BARISTA

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

1120 Wilshire Blvd

Santa Monica, CA



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

DINNER WITH A FUNERAL PLANNER

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



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

We met her at Louise’s.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Q: Do you want to be cremated or buried?

A: Cremated

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

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

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

A: Open

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Q: Do you have any special wishes?

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

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


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

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


Unforgivable. Much like our meal.