Stompin' At The Savoy

There has been much discussion over the years regarding the culinary importance of Hainanese chicken rice: Senor Bourdain has lauded its scrumptious simplicity on more than one occasion, it's the national dish of Singapore, and I have yet to meet a person who doesn't immediately profess their fondness for chicken rice in comida filled conversations. But what makes slices of boiled pollo served with white rice so special? I chose the Savoy Kitchen in Alhambra as the perfecto place to find out.

 Traditionally, this dish is made from slowly boiling whole chickens in a constantly reused pork and chicken bone stock to create a tender texture and rich taste. Occasionally an ice bath is employed after boiling to insure a jelly like skin on the meat. The 'white' pollo at the Savoy is served boneless (and skinless) which is a typical Singaporean 'hawker centre' variation. Next on the plate is the 'oily' rice: cooked in chicken stock, coconut milk, and aromatic leaves this stuff is truly more flavorful than it looks.

The dynamic duo is almost always served with a powerful trifecta of dipping sauces: minced ginger, chili garlic sauce, and soy (or oyster) sauce. This is all fine and dandy but is chicken rice really that mind blowing? Not really. Is it better than other local favorites like: laksa, nasi goreng, fish head curry, satay, or chili crab? I would argue no. Would I happily order a plate sitting on a shaded patio surrounded by die hard fanatics? You betcha.

Cuts Like A Knife

What's better than the simple joy of finding a Kalguksu spot that's tasty enough to blow its own doors off? The fact that it's open 24 hours?, perhaps. Is it that they also serve exquisito steamed mandoo?, always a bonus. Or maybe it's the tangy baek (white) kimchi that makes the signage at Myung Dong Kyoja gleam a little brighter in the bustling calles of Koreatown?, bingo.

 This stuff is truly remarkable: cool, crisp, and refreshing. If my mother in law were to make this version (she likes it spicy) I'm sure it would be much better, but until then Myung Dong Kyoja wears the crown. This is it, however, for the banchan. You won't find fifty small dishes competing with your elbow space here, just the basics.

Seeing as how they throw a few steamed mandoo in the kalguksu, K and I ordered up some pan fried dumplings instead. These little bastards pack in a lot of flavor on their own but really take off when dipped in a handmade concoction of the house chile sauces.

 And out comes the kalguksu: knife-cut noodles in a rich, milky colored broth with green onions, seaweed, sliced carrot, dumplings, and ground carne.

I adhere to K's method of eating kalguksu and dip my kimchi in the soup which leads to a crescendo of spiciness that peaks about halfway through creating a cauldron of pure delight. I like to imagine myself coming here for some reinvigorating kalguksu at three in the morning after a long night of crooning at the local noraebang, although the chances of that happening is pretty slim these days....Oh well, at least if I wake up in the middle of the night (which is often with a chica bambino) I can rest easy knowing that I could have a steamy bowl of kalguksu at that very moment. And as we all can agree, knowing is half the battle.

Legends of the Pho

No, this is not a review of a Vietnamese language version of the semi-chick flick starring Brad Pitt and Aiden Quinn, but rather a noodle house that's plugged into an annoyingly busy strip mall on the outskirts of Koreatown. Legend Noodle (& Grill) is somewhat of a gem in the relatively lackluster pho scene in Los Angeles proper (go outside the city limits and its a whole new ball game). On Viernes I had a mighty hankering and needed to keep it close, so I sped on over to Legend for a steamy bowl of pho tai chin (rare carne and brisket).

 Pho is served here with all the usual accoutrements: jalapenos, basil, sprouts, and limon along with Sriracha and Hoisin sauce. The noodles are sturdy, the carne is tender, and the broth is rich and flavorful. All said and done, Legend proves to be a serviceable solution for your pho cravings.

 On the way out, I noticed this colorful sign which boasts (in Ingles and Korean) of the best pho in town. While the validity of this claim is certainly subject for debate, I would say that if the 'town' they are referring to is indeed 'Koreatown' then I wholeheartedly agree. Happy slurping people.

The Shack

For me, Tommy's has always been one of those places that hides deep within the psyche only to well up about once a year demanding to be remembered. Not at all unlike the pleasant memory of a kiss on a warm spring afternoon or that slight shock of a vivid dream recalled while awake, this mental conjuring, however, concerns cheeseburgers: gigante double cheeseburgers swimming in Tommy's famous chili to be exact. Founded in 1946 at the corner of Beverly and Rampart, the original shack still slings out greasy goodness 24/7.

I moseyed over to the satellite window (used as overflow during busy hours) and ordered the double cheeseburger combo and grabbed a few yellow cascabella peppers (available at every LA burger stand) for good measure. Not much else to say here, just pure yumminess.

 While chowing at the counter, I noticed that today must be 'athletes' day at Tommy's. One fellow (pictured above on the right) seemed perfectly geared up for a long day of bicycle touring, but wait, isn't he tackling a numero uno combo? I could only assume the bulk of his pedaling was already finished when I overheard a young woman (pictured at the window) telling a friend she's stopping at Tommy's before the big softball game. She proceeded over to her car and went to work like a shaky addict. Is Tommy's some kind of sports super food? Are they going to open a shack in London to fuel the summer Olympians? Amazing, I for one can barely move after feasting at Tommy's, but maybe I should come back when I have some serious exercise to take care of: 'Yeah, I've been meaning to hike up Mt. Baldy for awhile now but not before I get me some Tommy's!'

Grilling on the Steppes

Like the rest of life, there are many misnomers associated with the culinary world. For example, head cheese is not a queso in the slightest and sweet breads are most certainly not a flaky pastry. Perhaps one of the greatest offenders of comida misrepresentation is the concept of Mongolian BBQ, which is neither from Mongolia (it was created in Taiwan in the 70's) or a BBQ (much closer to a stir fry). This is not to say a false label is a bad thing, in fact who doesn't love ambitiously loading up their bowl trying hard not to make the inevitable mess on the way over to the iron griddle? Today, K and I (along with baby Z) took a stroll up to Gobi on Sunset Blvd. for a taste of good old fashioned yurt cooking.

 The process starts (like all things delicioso) with meat: semi frozen thin slices of all natural pollo, lamb, carne, and pork. 

Next come the fresh veggies: locally sourced produce with standouts like spinach, jalapenos, and butternut squash. Mash it down and move over to the canned veggie (baby corn, water chestnuts, etc.) and sauce bar. Like most Mongol Q spots Gobi has recommended sauce mixtures that steer the creator towards a designated flavor. I tend to disregard this advice and just go at it helter skelter: smoked oyster sauce, lemongrass, garlic oil, spicy sauce, and lemon juice. Last but not least comes the noodle mound. Heap up as much as you can and then it's off to the races.

Just hand it all off to the griddle tender and listen to the sizzle.

 I know this seems like a play by play of Mongol Q as a whole but with results like this I didn't want to leave any detail up to the imagination.

The steamy platters are then taken back to the dining table and served with warm sesame rolls. Gobi also maintains an impressive cerveza selection which can pair off nicely to any BBQ combination. Ah, all so very satisfying and remember if it doesn't taste good you only have yourself to blame. So pack up camp tonight and head out to the wide grasslands to pay a visit to your local Mongolian BBQ (or should I say Taiwanese Griddle Fry).

 

Enter the Dragon

Welcome back fellow comida enthusiasts and happy year of the dragon. I started out this year with the humbling experience of witnessing the birth (still in the year of the rabbit) of my lovely daughter. Nothing can really quite prepare you for this moment, and while both terrifying and amazing, what's really astonishing is that all preconceived notions melt away and you somehow know just what to do. This is not to say it's easy but it's fascinating to see how we're truly hardwired for this stuff...very humbling indeed. Anyway, enough pondering there's comida to discuss. I decided (especially with a bambino at home) to keep my almuerzo adventure simple and instantly bolted to the perfecto spot for a modest bowl of noodle soup.

The Grand Central Market was once a bustling open air market situated in the bottom of the Homer Laughlin Building and located close to the Angel's Flight Railway. Opened in 1917, it catered primarily to wealthy Angelenos who would take the funicular down from Bunker Hill to indulge in world class shopping. Today, the Market still maintains some tasty tenants including the 'Blade Runner-esque'  China Cafe. I absolutely adore this place. It's the kind of fondness that even though the comida isn't mind blowing, you love it just the same. We all have one or two of these hangouts loaded into our restaurant arsenals. The cafe itself is basically a rectangle lined with stools (if they're occupied choose one and wait) with a kitchen in the center and an enormous ventilation duct that disappears into the vast ceiling presumably snaking it's way outside.

The menu here consists of what I like to call 'World War Two era' Chinese-American dishes with classics such as: chop suey, lo mein, egg foo young, and chow mein. I ordered a steamy bowl of pork wonton soup: bbq puerco, greens, juicy wontons, scallions, and flour noodles floating in a basic but functional broth.

In response to current downtown demographics, the comida at China Cafe is created to satisfy an increasingly Hispanic palate. This means you will be happily served copious amounts of limon wedges, oily chile sauces, and if you so desire, cheap bottles of ice cold cerveza. All in all, the kind of culinary crossover that makes someone like myself smile from ear to ear. Next time, I'll pay the fare (25 cents) down from the hill and imagine how it must have been years ago to head to the Market and seek out that extra special (yet spicy) something.

Truck Stop

As I have mentioned previously on CCB, eating lunch was quite the ritual at my former place of employment. Not only did my colleagues take great care in choosing what type of comida in which to indulge, we were also perpetually mobile so the world (the Bay Area anyway) was literally our oyster. I have many fond memories of those days and often rue the culinary confines of my current appointment. All is not totally lost however, for I still get the freedom from time to time to drive an oversized truck through the endless calles of even more oversized ciudad. I took the advice of a food-minded coworker and coasted over to Van Nuys to dine at his favorito truck stop, the legendary Don Adrian.

The name of the game here is cemitas poblanas; the illustrious Mexican sandwich that hails from the markets and comida stands of 19th century Puebla. When it comes to variety Don Adrian's got it covered: head cheese, millanesas (breaded puerco, beef, or chicken), fried perch fillets, cattle leg cured in vinegar, lamb, jamon, and salmon to name a few. I opened the stakes with a taco arabe (another Puebla creation influenced by Mid-East immigrants) which is a close cousin of the always scrumptious taco al pastor.

This shawarma style plug is filled with piping hot shaved pork and grilled onions wrapped in a flour tortilla served with a thick chipotle sauce. Although I was sad to see it go (could have happily downed two more), my cemita was patiently waiting in the wings.

I ultimately opted for the pollo adobado: marinated grilled chicken, aguacate, panela cheese, onion, jalapenos, cilantro, and quesillo (string cheese) captured in a warm sesame seed egg roll. Doused with a squeeze of lime, this monster is as good as it looks and just outright explodes with flavor. Even the bread was perfecto (not the dry and hard cemita roll at all), slightly crispy on the outside, soft on the inside yet durable enough to keep things standing tall. I actually look forward to future work expeditions to the Valley now that I know where Don Adrian lives. So keep on the lookout Don, we'll be comin' in hot!

For all the art truckers out there, remember: don't break the art, don't wreck the truck, and most of all enjoy your lunch.

Tiger Beat

I had originally intended to string together a series regarding Bengali market comida, but due to certain time restraints I'll have to go at it piecemeal. Los Angeles is home to more than a few ethnic enclaves: some large (Koreatown), some medium (Thai Town), and some small (Little Ethiopia) that are each officially recognized by the city as areas of cultural importance. Little Bangladesh occupies a mere five blocks along 3rd street but what this barrio lacks in size is more than made up in good times. I started my expedition at Aladin Sweets and Market on Vermont where the steam table was fully stocked ready for hungry cabbies and curious wayfarers like myself. The helpful young proprietor here proved instrumental in deciphering the many fragrant dishes (all Halal) that range from Hilisha curry to Karahi beef. He also quickly sold me (against my will) on the chef's special Biryani which I ordered with a couple samosas (that he ultimately forgot) to go with it.

While this type of dish isn't really my thing (he also forgot the chutney), I imagine it would make an filling almuerzo for a tireless rickshaw driver pedaling through the dusty streets of Dhaka: Basmati fried arroz with lightly spiced carne served with lime, onions, and pepinos. The small dining room was empty except for a family of four (the matriarch giving me a mean hairy eyeball) who shortly took their leave only to be replaced by a fresh faced couple with a sprightly toddler. They were greeted by an aloof waitress (whom I had yet to encounter) and the hilarity promptly ensued. Although these good folks may have the Muslim faith in common, they most certainly didn't share any similarities when it came to language. Some of the highlights included:

"I want aloo paratha."/ 'no aloo.'/ "no aloo?" (sounding worried)/ 'no no aloo.'

"What's the difference between shammi kabab and shisk kabab?"/ 'yes, different.'

"Do you have french fries?"/ (blank stare)

 I realize that all children love papas fritas, but I'm not sure a random Bangladeshi market is the best place to score a basket of golden brown shoestrings. They then looked me over and asked: "Do you come here all the times?" To which I lied and answered: "Yeah, I like the curries." This seemed to put their minds at ease as I slipped out to pay my tab. The helpful young proprietor implored: "Did you enjoy your mutton?" (I ordered carne but that explained the depth of flavor and the odd shaped bones). He noticed the look on my face and sputtered: "You do eat lamb, I should have asked?" Mortally offended I replied: "I don't eat goats, I worship them." Actually, I just said something like: "Of course, yeah, it was tasty." I ordered dos savory pastries on the way out (one pollo one beef) which were quite delicioso later that evening with a cold cerveza. Despite all the small quirks, I have made it a point to return to Aladin ASAP but not before I check out what's cookin' down the street.

Special Forces

 

Little Tokyo is not only a great place to get a cherry haircut; it's also the new home of a ramen chain that has thus far been mainly limited to the South Bay with a couple of outposts in the San Gabriel Valley. Shinsengumi: a much needed addition to the downtown noodle scene that will no doubt serve to satisfy the hunger of even the fiercest Ronin. Named after an elite police squad of the late shogunate period (who are most famously known for preventing the burning of Kyoto), Shinsengumi likewise protects their long tradition of serving excelente Hakata style ramen. As loyal CCB readers know, this hearty regional variety is characterized by a rich, milky pork bone broth (which at Shinsengumi is meticulously checked using a refractometer) and thin, straight (non-curly) noodles.

I tallied up the signature C.P.C: Hakata ramen with crispy pork ear, poached huevo (I got marinated hard-boiled for some reason), and fried onions. All ordering here is done on a 'golf card' with rows for each member of your party to choose: ramen type, firmness of noodles, amount of oil, strength of soup base, and any omissions along with a myriad of toppings from corn to cod roe

While gawking at the patterned countertop, my steamy bowl was plopped down front and center complete with the core components: pickled ginger, cebolettas, and chasu puerco. All I had left to do was place the toppings and go to town.

Pure crackly goodness. I must admit that I may be a bit too prone to having fanciful thoughts when dining on comida such as this, but with Halloween on the horizon it seems apropos. Shinsengumi would make a robust final meal for any forlorn samurai required to commit seppuku although it would make a terrible, yet slightly humorous mess. While a more modern wayward soul might have their fill of this amazing stuff at the Tokyo location before setting off forever into the mythical Sea of Trees. Whatever you do get some Shinsengumi before it gets you...

Border Patrol

 

I once thought the center of the universe was most assuredly located at the intersection of 6th and Mission in San Francisco. Never before had I felt such insane magnetism and outright unpredictability. I now know this notion to be a folly and suspect that the true hub of the cosmos lies in a much more serene (albeit hotter) environment. San Ysidro, California, the last bastion to browse through endless retail stores before heading south into the equally vast reaches of the Baja Peninsula. Stashed away under the 905 freeway lies the site in question, a well-stocked liquor store with a parking lot host that will knock your 'swap meet' socks off and leave you dreaming for more.

Complete with a few working payphones and the ever pleasant rattle of light rail, Mariscos German must of used some sort of celestial divining rod to find where to best chock their wheels. The menu here is extensive: ceviches, cocteles, clamatos, caldos, and even some sabrosa carne asada to keep things honest. 

Whatever delectable direction you choose to take, all orders come with a spicy seafood broth that will warm up the taste buds in a hurry. Typically there is a prawn or two to be found floating in your cup, which is mostly for flavor in my opinion, but if you're starvin' como Marvin take the extra step and suck away.

For me, it seems, the intergalactic concourse is all about the tacos de pescado: precisely fried white fish in a warm tortilla simply topped with shredded cabbage, pico de gallo, and crema. It would be tough task to find a contender for these magnifico plugs on either side of the border...muy bueno. It may be that our perception of time is determined by our personal inner clocks. Being that the center of the universe is relative to our own limited travels through the ether. Er, right...I'm just glad to have pinpointed its source once again, at least for now.

Use Your Noodle

Is it truly absurd to motor 15 miles for a bowl of noodles? Not when you got the time and the traffic's right. Besides, distance driving is a sport Angelenos frequently play whether we want to or not. But more importantly, as a wise comida sage once told me, when one is faced with the promise of phenomenal noodles it is always prudent to take advantage. K and I faithfully accepted this advice and sped out to Temple City for a Taiwanese style almuerzo at House of Mandarin Noodle.

While ordering a fresh mango juice, the stern (yet meticulous) waitstaff quickly profiled us and determined that K most certainly spoke Hokkien dialect (which she doesn't) and that I, Solo Basura, should ultimately be given the option to eat with a fork. With that established, I set the wheels is motion and ordered it up.

The first item on the block was a glistening bowl of puerco wontons in a spicy sauce with crushed peanuts and chopped celery. These little bambinos cover a lot of bases: fiery flavors and juicy dumplings combine with an emphatic crunch. During my savory foray, I couldn't help but think that this dish would make an excellent desayuno and it would sure as shinola wake you up in no time flat.

Next came the sliced beef pancake (sometimes referred to as a Shandong beef roll due to its Northern Chinese origins) stuffed with carne, green onions and cilantro. I must admit that I have had better versions of this tasty creation, but I also realize it's counterintuitive to complain about anything that's beefy and flaky.

And for the finale, a steaming cauldron of delicioso beef noodle soup: rich broth (not greasy at all) with tender carne, firm noodles, scallions, and cilantro. This stuff will put a smile on your face and damn sure cure what ails ya. If beef isn't your thing HOMN has around twenty noodle soups (along with stewed cold cuts) to choose from, just be sure not to miss out. I am deeply humbled to have recalled my comida teachings in such a meaningful way: it's not the distance, it's the noodle. This was well worth the trip.

A Happy Diversion

While attempting to reach my local Italian deli for a look at a sandwich of legendary stature (later, for sure), I was abruptly blockaded by an unexplainable swarm of LAPD. This included three low flying helicopters, a dozen or so motorcycles, and an endless stream of squad cars all being filmed by a rookie cop with a smart phone. I decided not to take any chances in case they were going gangbusters towards the previously mentioned deli (which is certainly popular with the fuzz), and changed my course entirely heading south to Arlington Heights where La Cevicheria rocks gently in the breeze. This place is no secret, but the steady trickle of customers (never overwhelming) seems to make the already jovial proprietor even more elated. Walking up to the screen door my mouth started watering like Pavlov's dog when I mentally pictured my usual ceviche of choice.

The Chapin: a holy grail of tangy mixed mariscos Guatemalan style. One might presume that a ceviche recipe from a landlocked country might be a bit like buying a surfboard in Nebraska, but believe me this is some of the best that the present universe has to offer: shrimp, pulpo, crab, tomates, red onions, avocado, cilantro, fresh mint, and Worcestershire sauce served with a dynamic duo of tostadas and habanero salsa.

 In addition to a Peruvian ceviche (highlighted with red snapper and yellow aji peppers) and the now infamous chalice of Bloody Clams, La Cevicheria serves hearty Caribbean fish stews along with industrious seafood cocktails like vuelve a la vida: camarones, oysters, abalone, octopus, crab, fish ceviche, tomates, pepinos, onion, avacado, and cilantro all swimming in a saucy micro-ocean. Whatever your briny poison, this spot has got you covered. I would like to thank the LAPD for a truly pleasant dining experience and for reminding me that when you go one way I'll gladly go another. Here's mud in your eye!