A Wien Wien Situation

My dad and I share an amazingly abiding affection for alliteration, and a complete intolerance to extreme heat. It breaks us down, nucleus by nucleus, disorienting us like whisker-less cats. He visited me the first summer I lived in New Orleans, and I recall watching him melt like a Dali clock as we sat at an outdoor bar. His glasses fogged up, just before sliding down his face. It was really quite something. And they took a while to do it, too. It was a very dramatic few minutes.

I have the additional genetic jackpot of turning an alarming “emergency exit” red when overheated as well. It’s my body’s defense mechanism, much like a lizard that greens itself to match the leaf upon which it sits in order to avoid certain death.  I am the warning sign for everyone else. One look at my unsmiling, candy apple face, and the message to my species is clear: IT IS TOO FREAKING HOT HERE. TURN AROUND AND GO BACK, LIKE I WISH I HAD.

As the temp goes up, my activity level (which is already negligible) and sense of humor go down. Way. Way. Down. I stop talking. I move slowly. I drop things and refuse, REFUSE, to pick them up.

My insolent keys will learn their lesson after spending a night on the floor directly beneath the key hook.

Once again Los Angeles, specifically the Valley, has been treated to an August meltdown. My pajamas are in the freezer, my body lotion is in the fridge. When Titanic was on the other night, the infamous “Iceberg Straight Ahead!” moment caused me to think: I wish. And that’s not great, you guys.

When it gets this hot in LA (again), we all have our own ways of coping with it. I have found that setting my car radio to an easy listening radio station with a name that is purposely misspelled to accommodate the call letters, is quite soothing. It’s a saunic 101 degrees-but I get in my car and vengefully crank the AC to MAX, with all the vents open and pointed directly at me like a never-to-be-seen magazine cover shoot. I sit there for a minute recovering from the 90 Rango seconds it took me to get from my apartment to my car. I turn on my radio and am thoroughly unbothered by the Sinead O’Connor/Bryan Adams/Smokey Robinson lineup that follows. And that is exactly what I need right now: to be unbothered. Don’t ruffle my feathers today.  And since he knows what’s good for him, Christopher Cross never does.

Times like these call for simplicity. These are simply not the days for Beef Wellington and Baked Alaska, forks and knives. I don’t want to think. In fact, I can’t. I’ve put my cerebral cortex in the freezer for safety.

Days this hot need something reliably satisfying, something you can eat with one hand, and in a few bites. Something tried and truly delicious. Something that enters your life fully assembled, unlike absolutely anything you will ever buy at Ikea, including plants somehow. I don’t know how they do it.

The dog days of hot summer call for hot dogs.

Cars and Cole Slaw

Remember when I told you that I am clueless about cars? 

http://thefoodessfiles.blogspot.com/2011/07/buns-of-steeland-fried-pork.html

It is still, and will probably remain forever, true. Oh God is it true.  I’m not a car person. But mine had grown on me.

I drove from Chicago to Los Angeles in that car. I raced to auditions in it, and in the process learned the LA freeway “system” with my feet to the flames. I decided never to drive to El Segundo again, and that the last 30 minutes of the trip to Santa Barbara are painfully beautiful. I listened to CDs for the first and last time in it, and lost a necklace in the stunningly terribly designed cup holders, which were perpetually useless going up or down Laurel and/or Coldwater Canyons. And it got me through many, many In N Out drive-thrus without incident.

Last year, I practically lived in that thing. And not in a creative pre-record deal Jewel way. More of an “it’s completely full of all my crap,” way. Somehow, even stuffed to the gills with necessities I couldn’t bear to put in storage, (necessary things like my food processor, hairdryer, and 2008 taxes paperwork) it never got broken into. I guess the program from my high school production of No No Nannette, and that half a bottle of pomegranate molasses just weren’t enticing enough. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a petty thief who thinks he's better than everyone else.

I ran out of gas once, valet parked it twice, and got 3-400 parking tickets, all of which I contested fiercely. And all of which I lost. You win some (none), you lose some (all). But it was time to move on. The 3 miles per gallon I got is patently awful, and I suddenly really like the idea of a trunk. Something about the presence of more and more yoga mats in my life. And it’s harder to eat groceries from the bag if they’re in a trunk.

Harder. Not impossible.

And so the day came. I was heading into to jaws of the beast. But I had a secret. I may not know a damn thing about cars, but my rad mother knows everything about cars. She is my car whisperer. I have held the phone out so she could hear and diagnose strange car noises from 3,000 miles away. She has checked my oil, my tire pressure, and my vital signs when a new muffler escalated into a new everything. And of course, there's the sticky nickel. If you don’t know what the sticky nickel is, you missed this:

http://thefoodessfiles.blogspot.com/2010/06/ice-cream-sandwich-stakeout.html

So, I had set this day aside for automobile location and purchase. And SHE had set this day aside as well. And I knew that on the complete opposite coast, Somewhere Out There, she sat waiting: the knit-hatted, sweat-suited Mickey in my corner. Towel thrown over her shoulder, ready to glue my wounds back together (gross-but apparently necessary) and put that teeth-protection-thingy back in my mouth.

Mouth guard. I bet it’s called a mouth guard.

The day was a flurry of texts and emails-she was like the third party art consultant on the line in a foreign country, guiding me as I purchased a rare and expensive sculpture at a private auction. Except that it was a moderately priced used compact car. And she is so much more fun than any art consultant could ever be.

So after 4 hours at the dealership-during which I decided that “Hawaiian Shirt Saturday,” is ultimately an ill-advised idea for any group of employees, anywhere-the deal was done. She had done it. She had guided me through the process like a champ, in a way that only she could.

So I signed my name more times than I have ever done in one sitting, on multi-sheeted papers of which I was given the delightfully canary yellow copies. My signature started as a full-scale calligraphic autograph, but by the end was a half-assed initial type deal.

I had two hours to clean out my car, and bring it back to make the switch. So, what would be the best way to spend my last two hours with my old car, and to thank my mom for her indispensability and generous donation of time, services, and knowledge?

There is nothing- I mean NOTHING that my mother loves more than a great deli.

She’s the Contessa of Corned Beef on Rye. The Princess of Potato Salad. The Maestro of Matzo Ball Soup. She can find the Penultimate Pickle, she can uphold Cole sLAW and ORDER (I’m keeping that-I like it, no matter what anybody thinks. I’m one hundred percent sure that no one will think that’s funny, except me. Worth it!)

I’ve split sandwiches at delicatessens with this lady from one end of the country to the next. And perhaps her favorite: Canter’s Deli, Los Angeles California. Brace yourselves. Less than a mile away, at a lovely neighborhood gastropub called The Federal Bar sat: the Canter’s Deli TRUCK. J

So I took the vehicle that had been with me through so many food truck hunts for one last mission. And I went and had the lunch I would be having with my car whisperer, if she were here with me. The whole thing was very bittersweet. Love my new car to death, and I’ll see my mom for the holidays-but I’ve always been cripplingly sentimental, and when I’m like that there’s just no talking me out of it. But you know what goes really well with sentimental?

 A Black and White Cookie.

The Get Fed food truck event at The Federal Bar in North Hollywood happens on a regular basis. It’s pretty much a win-win fish-in-a-barrel situation. You happen upon a fenced-in area, and enter a Colosseum of Food Trucks as a ravenously hungry chest-plated gladiator. (Chest plates are optional and cost extra. I declined one upon entry.)

It was a lucky day for me as a food truck gladiator. I was there for one reason. To uphold the honor of my mom’s love of delis by having one helluva turkey sandwich, and to not get any cole slaw on my pleated leather fight-to-the-death skirt.

The friendly stewards of the Canter’s Truck served me up a most formidable turkey and swiss on rye, WITH cole slaw. On. The. Sandwich. I have been a Sally Albright ever since I was a smaller, younger, and slightly more self-righteous version of myself. I like my toppings on the side.  Plain turkey, no mayo, only cheese, hold the pickles, hold the mustard, hold the relish, hold the lettuce, hold the tomato. But this! This was a revelation! Cole slaw! On a sandwich! Delicious! A godsend on a hot day, you guys.

THE FOLLOWING IS AN UNNECCESARY SHOT OF ME CHEWING THE ABOVE SANDWICH.

The crowds roared, and my gladiator heart raced. Tangy, Crunchy, Victory! Missed my skirt, but nailed the flip-flop.

And to the victors go: POTATO PANCAKES. With sour cream and Apple Sauce. The ideal potato pancake is an extreeeeemely difficult landing to stick. It has to be crispy and evenly browned on the outside, creamy and rich inside. Like mashed potatoes inside of a french fry. Interestingly enough, this idea is also executed perfectly by Shakey’s in the form of their Mojo Potatoes. Say what you will, but they are shockingly good.

The Canter’s potato pancakes are everything they should be and more-perfect on their own, but elevated by a creamy swipe of angelic but tart sour cream and a scoop of smooth and sweet apple sauce. Bite for bite, a starchy opponent I adored.

Here was the plan for the huge black and white cookie: I was full anyway, so symbolically I would save it to eat in my new car as a sort of “out with the old, in with the new,” thing. They would be my first food truck bites in the new wheels. It would be saved for exactly one hour, until I made the exchange.

Not an air-tight plan it turns out. There was nothing left but saran wrap by the time I made it to my car.

But it did soften the blow of getting my last ever parking ticket. Thanks Los Angeles. Love you too. For old time’s sake, right? (She said through gritted teeth)

Some things never change. I was too full and euphoric to be upset.

I dedicate this post to mom the car whisperer and deli lover. Thanks for making all those plain turkey sandwiches for my school lunches, all those years.

Peanut Butter Werewolf

When I was a kid, I sometimes would sleepwalk and eat straight-up butter from the fridge.

Now that I’ve said it, I don’t even know if my parents know that. I remember hoping that no one would notice the little nibble marks down the sunny yellow stick of weaponized dairy, and I think I got my wish.

Lately, I have been “sleepwalking” again. I find myself now eating generous spoonfuls of peanut butter in the middle of the night. I wake up in the morning with a niacin hangover to find at least one, sometimes more, used peanut butter spoons on my nightstand.

So clearly I’ve been spooning.

This is bad for a few reasons. One, I hate ingesting calories I can’t remember. I pride myself in having a razor sharp food memory as I explained in my first ever blog post well over a year ago. (http://thefoodessfiles.blogspot.com/2010_06_06_archive.html).
These sordid secret meetings between myself and assorted nut butters rob me of that.

Sometimes it’s almond butter, so basically just a nice responsible after-hours dose of Vitamin E. A midnight medicine, really. Sometimes, I hoover the peanut butter filling out of a white chocolate Reese’s peanut butter egg left over from Easter, crouching beside that oddly shaped cabinet in the kitchen that I specifically put them in so that I couldn't ever get to them. That plan falls through on a regular basis. Why am I hoovering? Because I do not care for white chocolate. And I do not wish to discuss it.

A bite I cannot recall? THAT is my definition of an empty calorie.

Secondly, it makes it hard for me to inventory my nut-based product stock. That jar of Valencia Peanut Butter with Flaxseeds from Trader Joe’s might be there tomorrow. But it might not.

Among my greatest fears are:

1.)    That the sample lady at the Cinnabon in the mall will wise-up and realize that I don’t have “a friend in Sunglass Hut,” who wants one too.

2.)    That I will run out of shampoo. It happened once to someone I knew.

3.)    That I will develop a nut allergy. Even now, just writing that my heart seized up a little.

Earlier this year, I was given a giftcard to Amazon. I used it to purchase 90 portable packets of Justin’s honey peanut butter, and a lipstick that perfectly matches a bright pink terrycloth one piece strapless romper my grandmother gave me. It’s basically a towel that you wear like an outfit, and I Caps Lock love it. I rarely wear them together, though. That would be crossing a line. Plus, according to her, these Florida-purchased garments used to have two embroidered flower decals, but now only have one, “because of the economy.” So add one more casualty to the list. Bear Stearns will never know the ripples... 

When the peanut butter came in the mail, I realized that it was essentially the kind of box an actual store would order to put on their shelves, in order to sell. It was that much peanut butter. The little sleeve on top said “Tear Along Perforations Before Shelving. Remove Before Display.” Which I did. Before I displayed it to myself. So I kiiiiiiind of have a tiny Whole Foods peanut butter display case in my cupboard. I’m hoping that’s cool, instead of weird. Fingers crossed.

When I found out there was a peanut butter-based truck, my gaze narrowed, my jaw set, and I began to hatch a plan. I would have this peanut butter truck for my own. I would love it, and take care of it, and pet it, and squeeze it a little too hard, Of Mice and Men-style. And finally, on a Friday night around the corner from my house, the plan came to salty fruition.

This time, instead of spoonfuls of peanut butter eaten in pajamas by the light of the moon like a werewolf activated by saturated fat, I put on real-people clothes. I left my apartment. I walked around the corner, and into a different universe. A universe in which one may order, and eat, a PeanutButterBananaBaconHoney Sandwich.

Let's take a look at this cast...

Peanut Butter: Perfectly salty, indisputably nutty, all-natural, and smooth with the ladies.
Banana: Soft and creamy, wants everyone to get along.
Bacon: AKA Moneybags. Rich and crispy counterpoint.
Honey: The poet of the bunch. Has a way of sweettalking.

It's CLUE, in sandwich form.

Exactly. PeanutButterBananaBaconHoney Sandwich. Now, the real name of this dish is the Thank You Very Much, but I like using my own ingredient-based nickname. It allows me to really toy with the affections of the Space Bar. I will say that I did not actually eat this sandwich. I drank it. I stood on the sidewalk amongst friends and countrymen, and drank this (expletive)-ing amazing sandwich. There was no jaw activity. There were no teeth involved. It was so delicious, I simply could not be bothered to chew.

We stood there, my compatriots and I, alternating between speechless and this-is-so-delicious moaning, until the Thai Airways chicken wings showed up.

Technically, these are chicken wings in a peanut butter hot sauce. But unofficially, they are: “The best chicken wings I have ever had.”

Is what he said. Four seconds after this picture was taken.

Now, a word on Kharyn. Kharyn is a bad-ass PB ninja, who has taken something we have all had at one time or another, and has made it into something absolutely transcendent. When you visit the Pnut Butter Bar truck you will eat THE BEST peanut butter sandwich you have ever had, you will have THE BEST chicken wings you have ever had, and you will leave evidence of both on the sidewalk. You will regret leaving any behind, and wonder if anyone will care that you suck on the paper the fries came on. Heads up: they won’t. They are doing it too.

Oh, yes. Fries too. With a peanut butter ketchup you have to taste to understand the brilliance of. The Pnut Butter Bar ninja grinds her own peanut butter by the way. But that’s just the ice cream sundae on top of the ice cream sundae. And get the Walk The Pig hot dog too, because I’ve discovered that mustard is in love with peanut butter, and being around them makes me happy.

So, go. Find this home-grown grinder of greatness. Drink a sandwich outside a bar with friends. This stand-in-a-circle-no-talking-just-slurping meal will put your fanciest tablecloth dinner memories to shame. Remember that all of your pictures will come out fuzzy, because the air is full of satisfaction and contentment. And try to take them flip-book style.

THE END

Nice to Meat You

Vogue Meatball Sandwich:

Last night I was coming home doing around 70 on the 134 from Pasadena. A beautiful LA night, warm and breezy. To my left the Los Angeles skyline looking like an alien capital city, both a million miles away and impossibly close at the same time. To my right, a to-go box from the In-N-Out on Foothill Blvd, carrying my double-double with cheese and 400 fries. I had thought ahead while waiting to turn at the freeway on-ramp, and emptied every ketchup packet in an even layer over the fries, knowing I would be flying blind for the next 19 miles.

I rolled my window down about 30%, which is my desired amount for the 134 at night. Three great songs in a row came on, and I had a mini road trip love affair with my double-double, and 400 fries. I am one of 9 responsible drivers here in LA, which means I kept my eyes on the road, and kept my hand making the round trip from fries to mouth repeatedly over the course of the journey. Anyone passing me would have glanced over to see a wild-haired cruise controller, singing along manically, stopping only to take competitive eating style bites of In-N-Out, clearly fleeing a crime scene. But with a great soundtrack.

When I got home I had ketchup on my neck and pants, and a smile on my face. And while I wouldn’t have changed a thing, I was grateful for the economy sized bottle of Tums I knew was waiting for me in my bathroom cabinet.

For the record, I did not purchase Tums for my stomach, as I have heard people do. I am fortunate to pretty much never have stomach problems. I could digest a Tikki Hut. I bought them because I recently discovered how tasty Assorted Fruit Tums are, and sprung for an economy-sized bottle to round out my snack collection.

I actually should keep them in the kitchen, not the bathroom.

If there is a point to the In-N-Out neck ketchup story, it is this: I can’t help it. I simply adore meat. Meat ON BREAD is an unthinkably good combination, but Tartar or CharredCharred, I can’t get enough. I love vegetables! I love fruit! I love bread! The whole wheat kind, AND the stuff that tastes good! I love dessert!

But I swoon for meat.

Angelina Jolie once claimed the she would rendez-vous with a rotation of men in swanky hotel suites on a regular basis. Well, I have a collection of animal protein dishes scattered about the country that I have corresponded with from time to time.

There was a pork chop at Sepia in Chicago that I would have given it all up to run away with. But the cast-iron dish it was seared and served in was not ideal for spontaneous travel, as you can imagine.

And a cochon de lait pressed sandwich with cherry mustard at Luke in New Orleans that I spent a dark and rainy night with. Then we rode the streetcar down St. Charles. I made it home safely, but it met a tragic end somewhere around Audubon Park.

This Minetta Tavern burger and I never even actually spoke out loud that night in NYC. We just knew.

And one day, near the airport in metropolitan Burbank, I finally met THE ONE. And it goes by the name: INCREDI-BALL.

I believe that is a family name.

The Great Balls On Tires truck sat alone in the distance. Quietly, shy perhaps?

Instead of doing my taxes, I was doing this. It was wrong, this couldn’t possibly work. This would surely backfire. That pile of receipts wasn’t going to take this laying down, in date order or not.

My heart leapt, but I kept my cool. “My cool,” looks quite similar to an awkwardly paced run-walk, and usually is punctuated by my dropping something which rolls out of reach under something else.

Ground Kobe beef, applewood smoked bacon, arugula tasting like the evil spicy version of the color green, gruyere, a lovely subtle garlic aioli, on toasted brioche. In a three-bite size. Two of them. I find the three-bite size to be the best size for pretty much anything. One is over too quickly, two lacks closure, but three is the magic number.

My friendly host Clint, a damn cool guy. Maybe…TOO cool...   

He gave me not only the refined and perfected Incredi-Ball, but a Ballywood as well-a cooked to perfection garam masala chicken meatball with coconut madras curry, crispy fried onions, tomato AND cilantro chutney, over saffron basmati rice.

You know those long musical numbers in Indian movies, with all the lovely bright colors, and hand-dancing? If that were a dish, it would be this dish. Smells so good and spiced perfectly. I admire India so much for its alacrity to boldly spice food.

And because everybody votes.

Both were absolutely tax-ignoring worthy. Each ingredient so simple and well-executed, and working together to make a perfect bite. Which is important because, as I mentioned, you get a whole three bites. I loved each bite with a feverish impatience, and have not seen Chicago pork chop or Minetta burger since.

I did however devour this spaghetti and meatball dish that my adorable cousin made for me. It was too good to pass up, and I've never regretted it. And such a reasonable portion size.

But I did eventually do my taxes.