Unassigned
Los Angeles is a polarizing city. A love-it-or-hate-it kind of place, it’s a town about which everyone has something to say. Generally, it’s of the ew-LA-is-a-city-of-raging-artifice-and-vapidity variety, and I’m not saying the opinion isn’t merited. To an extent.
But for all the silicon, there’s legitimate substance, too – in the way of tastemaking, muckraking and a tremendous creative community.
And like it or not, it’s a city rife with delicious food. As a culinary capital, LA’s still finding its footing, but it is certainly well on its way. With its mastery of high-low dining (B. Hills one night, taco truck the next) and ethnic offerings that run the gastronomic gamut, my feelings on LA’s edibles rest unwaveringly on one end of the spectrum. For everything it is and everything it wants to be (hello, repurposed Jerry Maguire quote), I dig it. And I want you to, too. This is why:
The Bazaar by Jose Andres
Let it be known: I am in love with Jose Andres. And no, I’ve never met him, but what of it? It hasn’t stopped me before (see: Clooney, George; Adrien Brody; R. DOWNEY JR.). And this time, it’s about more than mere likeability/lankiness/lust factor; the man is a gastronomic genius. See: The Bazaar, aka THE multisensory extravaganza, a tapas restaurant in which the menu and the eatery are split into two (traditional and modern), the space into an additional three (patisserie, bar, semi-private dining room and, um, museum), and your heart into a million pieces after it inevitably explodes with culinary love.
On the modern menu are a slew of imaginative compositions, whimsical reinterpretations of the classics with a definitive nod to molecular gastronomy. Or maybe more of a vigorous head shake – as is exemplified in dishes like the tortilla de patatas “new way” (served as a frothy liquid with Andrés’s mysterious egg 63, potato foam and miniscule caramelized onions), “not your average caprese” (cherry tomatoes with liquid mozzarella bombs and basil pesto) and an uncannily pitch-perfect lox and cream cheese cone that consists of neither lox nor cream cheese. The traditional menu holds its own, too, with achingly authentic renderings (butifarra, acorn-fed Iberico ham) that prove an apt match for its flamboyant, überdynamic counterparts. But the juxtaposition is more about comparison than competition – by placing old aside new, Andres makes the avant-garde accessible and the classic freshly distinct. It’s a feeling of and, rather than versus. And it makes me squeal with glee.
Roving carts stop tableside to offer bites like cotton candy-enveloped foie (or a screwdriver made with liquid nitrogen), you can (and should) move to the separate patisserie for dessert (it’s like Alice in Wonderland on crack), and the absurdly detailed Philippe Starck-designed space gives the fare a super-spectacled run for its money (do NOT miss the bathrooms). If my assessment seems overwhelming, it is necessarily so; to sum the Bazaar in 300 words (or 3,000, for that matter) is impossible because there is something about it enchantingly ineffable.
And would you expect anything less from a man who allegedly speaks primarily in superlatives? To Jose, I have one thing to say: I love your restaurant (slash you) THE MOST. And to my readers, my nutshelled thoughts: The Bazaar epitomizes when too much of a good thing is just right. Fast for a few days and then order every damn thing on the menu. Twice.
Animal
If this place had a tagline, it would be “Where carniwhores come to play.” Chef-owners Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo smartly coined the term, a construction I realized when I ate there was born more of necessity than mere wit. The word “carnivore” just won’t suffice when referring to the fervor with which I attacked the meat manifestations at Animal; such carnal zealotry merits a label entirely its own. Hence, carniwhore. Order the pig ear with chili, lime and fried egg (shh, it’s cut into strips, you can’t even tell); the pork belly with kimchi, peanuts and scallions (or in any composition); and the mind-boggling caloric investment that is the loco moco with foie gras, quail egg, spam AND hamburger (PS, that rice it’s served over is ridic), and you’ll understand what I’m talking about. Don’t overlook the elegant amberjack (with nectarine, jalapeno, citrus and mint), either – amid its bold, fleshy menu brethren, this is a sophisticated sleeper not to be missed.
The atmosphere is relaxed and a little undone (also, I realized, a necessity when you’re shoveling oxtail in your mouth), a feeling enhanced by savvy servers who seem to get off on your epicurean enthusiasm. And though the space is decidedly no-frills, it’s all the better for your food focus – this joint isn’t about onyx tabletops, after all, it’s about meat. Animal is my pork-worshipping, elastic waistband-warranting, effortlessly badass flesh temple. And to its founding carniwhores, I bow down.
Kogi
Just when you thought fusion was getting, like, so tired, Kogi enters the game with a little Korean-Mexican mouth meld. Adds a Twitterific truck. And charges you peanuts for its grub. The outcome: an utter lack of fatigue. Actually, it’s an excitement bordering on fanaticism…or so the sometimes two-hour lines for its fare would suggest.
To elaborate, Kogi is a Korean taco truck (or trucks, now), a mobile kitchen in which sweet-and-sumptuous short ribs are folded into warm tortillas and spicy Korean pork couples with rice and the singular California potato hash for a burrito experience nonpareil. They trek about town, Tweeting to inform followers as to their whereabouts, and the street food culture-lovers come running. Because the taste experience is both exactly what you’d expect and yet totally so much better. And you’ll get out for under 10 bones. After the Bazaar and Animal, you’ll need it.
N.B. In the event you’re not feeling the truck hunt, Kogi has also set up stationary shop in the Alibi Room. I find this to be something of a cop-out (and my boyfriend swears the truck chow is better), but if you want a cocktail with your taco, Alibi’s your best bet.
Scoops
I understand the implications of my next statement, but it just has to be said: Scoops is the best ice cream I’ve ever had. Now before you start the digital lambaste, listen. I don’t give Scoops the title simply because it’s doing classic frozen flavors really well – it deserves to be called best because it’s doing flavors you’ve never seen. And it’s doing them really well.
The magic is in owner Tai Kim’s market-driven approach – he shops for ingredients each morning and then whips up crazy-innovative flavors with his finds. On any given day, you might see varieties like sunflower seed butterscotch, passionfruit plum brandy (made with Croatian liquor, no less), spiced pumpkin or salted chocolate…or maybe it’ll be green tea zabaglione or honeydew pear Champagne (I swear on my MacBook I’m not making this up). The staff’s encouraging about taste testing, so go ahead and run the sampling spectrum before making your final call. With only one flavor repeated every day (brown bread), you’d might as well try that oolong tea poppyseed. Could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Scoops is a foodie’s frozen dessert dream, and the closest thing to ice cream nirvana I’ve found. It is the crème de la crème, quite literally.
And while Chicago holds the key to my culinary heart, LA – best pronounced with a healthy helping of hipster-cum-valley-girl affectation – is proving seductive. Like I said, it’s a polarizing city. And – best pronounced with some Randy Jackson verbal swagger – I don’t hate it.
