I want to tell you something that I am ashamed of.
And it’s shockingly NOT the fact that I have more than once opened
an operational oven half way to a fully-cooked pan of brownies, to scoop off a
bit of half-baked batter for myself.
Nope, it’s not that.
As a child I was a bottomless pit reader. Gifted with books
as rewards for good grades or good deeds, my world was the size of the circle
of illumination provided by an Itty Bitty Book Light. In high-school I found
myself disappointed by so many classics, and completely changed by others. The
Great Gatsby I could take or leave as a costume drama about rich people. But The
Catcher In The Rye made my human heart sizzle away in a million exploding
pieces like Pop Rocks. Made me feel and
hurt. Made me not alone.
But this is not what I am ashamed of. I have made it this far in my life, the
product of an activist family and a liberal arts education, without reading
HOWL.
I have heard shavings and chunks of it here and there, and I
know a little of its role in the cohesion of the beat generation. But the other
night I found myself in Downtown L.A. after a white-hot nightmare of a day, in
The Last Bookstore. This is a place you must go, because it is a true true book
store and we as a nation no longer know how to erect and support and patronize
and behave in these sorts of things. It’s so much more Noble than Barnes.
Sundown had not translated into cooldown, and there were big round fans set on the floor, blowing warmish air through the tall bookstacks, and around the feet of the visitors. I navigated around the stacks, and for some reason reached for the printed copy of HOWL. I opened it and begun.
These words that everyone else except for me has dutifully
read, spilled out towards me like shiny netted fish, released with
one slice onto the deck of my boat. My eyes couldn’t take in the page quickly
enough, I couldn’t get enough. Starving
hysterical naked, angelheaded hipsters, the ghostly daze of a Chinatown
soup alley. I didn’t know what most of it meant, I had done no
research yet. I could only swim in it, let it happen to me. Each word a
rotating planet in the universe of its careful phrase, and all of it new to me.
They were so graphic, so beautiful, so immoveable. A time of evolution
and flight, described in a manner so fixed. There was not one word that could be
replaced without destruction. Once again, my heart was made to blast apart and
dissolve, Pop Rocks style.
Yadda yadda yadda…Brussels
Sprouts.
Another recent night I was escaping myself for a while, and chose to exodus and
eat at the bar of a restaurant downtown that I have only heard incredible
things about, from the people you trust to know incredible things when they taste
them. Baco Mercat has been widely discussed, written about, and lauded. Just
like HOWL, I was the last person to this party. I had eaten Josef Centano’s
perfect food at Lazy Ox Canteen, but never here.
They serve Bacos
at Baco Mercat. Go fig.
A baco is a flatbread sandwich, and JC fills it with things
like melting beef carnitas, oxtail hash, and unapologetic flavors like horseradish
and sriracha. I had The Original, and I couldn’t even take you bite by bite,
because I ate it so fast. But also, because I was completely distracted by the side dish I
had ordered as an afterthought.
I don’t know what lifted my hand to touch HOWL, and I don’t
know what lifted my voice to say “Caesar Brussels Sprouts.” I think perhaps I
was feeling guilty about my ice cream to vegetable ratio lately, and Brussels
sprouts seem like the most vegetable-y of vegetables. I would eat them out of
duty, for my health, like a good little girl.
When you go to Baco Mercat, and they set this bowl in front
of you, the smell will happen to you first. The unmistakable anchovy-garlic
perfume that makes Caesar dressing such an all-tastebud event. Then you actually
eat it. The intimidating orbs have been shaved into slivers, dressed in all
that is Caesar, and tossed with mellowed red onion and flakes of pecorino. Pop Rocks Heart, all over again.
Served warm, this dish achieves several culinary paradoxes.
It is salty-sweet, the sweetness of the sprouts brought to earth by the sheep-milk
cheese. It is both delicate and hearty, a pile of thin strips amounting to a
bowl of serious roughage. And it is an absolutely luxurious vegetable. It went
from side dish to the center of my life in one warm, balanced bite. I pushed my
delicious baco to sit in the shade behind my majestic Brussels , to wait patiently for my attention until
I had finished.
I realize that I am the last person in the country to read Allen
Ginsberg, and the last person in Los
Angeles to eat at Baco Mercat. I happily sat at their
lovely bar with my Brussels ,
thinking “I must tell everyone I know about this!” The next day, Bon Appetit
magazine published their 50 Best New Restaurants. And Baco was on it. I am no
longer needed.
But I shall add my little voice anyway. These are the best
Brussels sprouts I have ever eaten, and possibly even the best overall vegetable
preparation. Go and eat a warm salty bowl of paradoxes. Even if you have to
travel very far to do it.
“…who drove
crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out
if I had a vision or
you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity…”
Baco Mercat
408 S. Main St.
Los Angeles, CA 90013
www.bacomercat.com
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