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The Misfit Restaurant Review
I went on a top secret Valentine’s gift mission to Santa Monica a couple days ago. Yes, we have a splendid fancy mall here, and a couple of indy type shops where you can get odd gifts. There is even an elderly engraver along the main drag, 85 if he is a day, in a tiny store with about 11 products right out of Dickens. The roof leaks when it rains, but buckets are strategically placed, and he shares one wall with a meat smoking joint and another wall with a tire shop. Sorry Mr. Man From Another Time, the west side of L.A. still rules for quirky sole proprietor shops with hard-to-find merchandise. So I found something the (no name, please) shop posted on the internet, emailed them to hold it for my perusal and took a typical SoCal three freeway drive to see it. In parts of Europe, I’d have crossed a couple of borders making the trek. I parked in one of the public structures where I could get 2 hours of free parking, enough time for my errand and maybe a snack.
When I lived in Santa Monica, February meant a turtleneck against foggy weather, so I wore one. Saturday it was an unreal 80 degrees. I stopped at Gap to buy a t shirt lest I melt. Right nearby was an inviting little storefront promising small bites and an extensive wine list. It was called The Misfit. And you thought the title of the article was about me? Trust me, I’m pretty mainstream. Outside the joint, people in yoga clothes (really fit people, looking perfect) lounged. Maybe all the small bites involved yogurt? Looked at the menu. There was kale, but also skinny fries. There were tons of fresh made cocktails (not for a three freeway drive day, sadly), and ribs, and fresh dips and. . . all right I’d stop in before going home.
The 3rd street Promenade is an open air mall which is car free. The only traffic is human. You simply can’t go 20 yards without overhearing strolling tourists with international accents and seeing street musicians, comedy acts and today, a fire and brimstone preacher. Penn and Teller paid their dues down on the Venice Boardwalk and the dream indeed is still alive. Lotsa hope down there. Not so for the “psychic” Irish tea leaf reader, dressed in too much green velvet, who looked seriously cranky. Maybe it was the boy band near her. I mean boy. I mean 10 years old, loud and doing covers of songs much older than their parents. They had guts, anyway. Stopped in to the shop, examined, totally changed my mind about what to buy, and headed back to the car.
Ha, gotcha.
Went to The Misfit.
I sat at the bar and got an immediate menu from someone cheerful, then ordered and almost immediately got roasted chicken and kale soup ($6). Water (free). Watched the bartender make their homemade sangria with white wine and fresh fruit. Eye wandered over the decor, which included a collection of vintage cocktail shakers, vintage decorative only stereo speakers straight from my teen years. (JBL). Younger readers will say: what’s a stereo? what’s a JBL? why would a speaker be 18 inches long? Ask your grandpa. In keeping with retro decor was retro food in all the right way. No premade broth that I could detect. Nothing from the restaurant supply Cisco truck. Neat wine list. Decent prices. I cracked and ordered the hand cut fresh made skinny fries. Half order $3. You could taste the beef fat they were finish fried in (all the rage lately) but they needed salt. Had the yoga crowd quietly protested with deep looks and sighs? Why would beef fat be okay but not salt? A misstep corrected by asking for a salt shaker, delivered basically, yes, immediately. I finished up, nosed around. The kitchen is upstairs with an open window you can see into (not hiding much). The wait staff gets the added bonus of cardio all day and night with the Parisian-style restaurant stairs.
Great service, reasonable menu, busy but friendly. Such a find. What magic alchemy of financing, staffing and sourcing made this happen?
I research it. It’s owned by a mini restaurant group from Phoenix who does this kind of thing. They have a couple places in Pasadena. So unicorns and the magic restaurant fairy were not involved. Pros who train their staff really well were behind the magic, for a change. Yay. I’ve now read like 300 raves and near raves on yelp, and learned I completely missed getting their salted chocolate chip cookies to go (6 for $3). You know what? I like a place you find without yelp or the internet, and learning about it later. But this does explain why the busy staff was surprised when I looked like a greenhorn at the menu, was curious at the decor and displayed no “please me, I expect the moon” behavior .
Go. We’ll meet for cookies and cocktails. It’s at 225 Santa Monica Blvd., Santa Monica, CA 90401, and the public garage across from the Laemmle theater is really close. We’ll go early. Happy hour is noon to 7 every day.
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Muffins With Moms
My Scottish grandmother was a terrific baker. The Waterloo for most home bakers is pie crust. Snap. How about nice crumbly scones? Double snap. I can make those both very well, thanks to her. Having left school at 14 (typical then), and with no desire to work in a factory (horrible work), a shop (nice young girls did not mix with strangers), or a pub (are you kidding?) she had been a housekeeper to a couple of, as they said in the U.K. way back when, “retired gentlewomen.” Bake well, keep your job. That will raise your game. Marriage whisked her away from all that. World War II finished the social re-ordering begun during World War I, and I assume retired gentlewomen now order in. Or maybe they have Posh Meals on Wheels?
All by way of saying today, here in Southern California , in a world unimaginable by my Granny Glen, was Muffins With Moms day at Juliet’s elementary school. Earlier in the year was Donuts With Dads. Next month, Oatmeal With Old Folks? Kidding.
Juliet awoke at about 6:30, got dressed and woke me at 6:42, informing me she would come back at 7 a.m. at which time I would be getting up. She’s been getting herself up and dressed for the past week, much to our fascination. I dozed a bit and then she did return at 7 and I dutifully got in the shower. By 7:35 I was wearing a nice blouse and jacket with my customary jeans and we were curling her hair so we would both be looking our best.
To make it on time for the 7:45 beginning (we always arrive as close to first as possible for all school events. It’s not considered uncool until you are about 15, I think), we drove the 2 blocks to school. Mock me if you will, but that nice warm car was awesome during today’s 20 mile an hour winds. We parked near the school, joining the throng of mostly Hondas and SUVs bearing moms and kids. The Multi Purpose Room had plenty of mom and child volunteers directing us to the treat-laden tables. Today was a modest fundraiser mostly meant for us to have a little downtime before the rush of real life. I mean how much money can you make when the muffins are 25 cents for small, 50 cents for big, and coffee or milk costs a quarter?
Back to my Gran and her home baking. Everything on offer was a steroidal leaden bomb from the grocery. Not even a bakery muffin in sight. Sigh. Who bakes any more? Answer: no one, at least when it comes to feeding 700 moms and kids. We spied some mini cinnamon rolls and bought 3. And they were pretty darn good. So was the Starbucks coffee and actual half and half for said coffee. Since our choice was between sitting outside in the wind and having a picnic in the car, guess where we went?
So we hung out for about 30 minutes, watching people arrive and fight the wind up the hill to the school. We cruised for tunes on the radio and blasted the heat. Too many drive time commercials. We put in our well-worn Kids Bop 20 c.d. Those are covers of popular songs with cleaned up lyrics sung by talented kid singers who are not famous. Cleaned up Lada Gaga. Cleaned up sexy dance numbers with the sex taken out. Cleaned up ballads without references to drugs or suicide. Kinda nice, actually.
We joked about keeping our cinnamon rolls secret since they did not start with “m.” We tried to think of other breakfast foods that start with “m.” “Milky Way”, chortled Juliet. “Milkshake”, she added. “Meat”, said I, half-heartedly. At the thought of meat, Milky Ways and a milkshake for breakfast, Juliet laughed too much and spit milk on her shirt, her knee and parts of the seat. Thank god for black pants and plenty of napkins. Too soon, it was time to face the wind.
Back home, John asked where his muffin order was. Hmm. Juliet did not mention a muffin order.
Oh well. Guess I’ll be making muffins this weekend.
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House Salad Dressing at Chez Romano
About 100 years ago in the 1980’s, I watched some British gadabout on PBS doing a really awesome canal trip in France. He was a movie producer of note (no, I can’t remember his name) and made a point of stopping to buy wine like every 1/4 mile. Good for him. He also ate really well and trotted out his adequate French to buy local ingredients for his staff to cook. Yeah, he traveled with a staff. Of course. Like he was going to cook for sound and camera. The man had wine to drink! And I consider anyone who can go on a multi week canal trip with a staff, crew and get all expenses paid by someone else on the off chance it will be aired on t.v. a truly brilliant producer.
At one of his stops, he bought lettuce picked straight from the field. Then it was prepared into a salad the right way. You put a small puddle of mild olive oil into a big bowl. You dash vinegar into it. You grind pepper on it and dash in salt. You whisk it and then put the leaves in, coating them lightly. If you are really fancy, you switch up the vinegar, add dry mustard or red pepper flakes, or some grated cheese, a mashed up garlic clove. You get the picture.
Anyway, ever since, I have done dressing like this, though often in a mini food processor so I have extra and can use it another day.
Fig Balsamic Vinegar, Seasoned Rice Vinegar, Canola Oil, Olive Oil, Oregano. Mix and match. Not really sure what a puddle measures out to, but I’d bet it’s under 1/4 cup. A dash is a quick slug. Beware vinegar bottles without that little dropper thing. You’ll be dumping out the sour puddle in the sink (the dog won’t eat it) and starting over.
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Top Chef: The Cadillac of Reality Shows
Okay, these days, based on monthly payment cost and status, I guess I mean an SUV hybrid. Or something.
Reality shows have a formula. Get a bunch of competitive people together. Isolate them, give them tasks and stand clear for fireworks which will make good, cheesy television. “Top Chef” does get competitive people together, but humliation and ratcheting up personal beefs are not the number one reason they are there, thankfully, or they would have lost me long ago. The (mostly young) male and female chefs are supposed to cook really good food under time constraints for picky people. Kind of like being a parent, come to think of it. Is that why I love the show?
Tom Colicchio, Perennial Top Chef Judge and Co Host This season has the contestants cooking their guts out in various parts of Texas. In the summer. Since I grew up there I can assure you the sweat you see on the contestants as they cook is not exaggerated. Prior seasons, in New Orleans, Vegas, Chicago and New York, to name a few, have focused on the cutting edge blend between high end and higher end. The creators seem to have figured out that these days, chefs going into business (since the winner gets backing and publicity to launch their own restaurant) will do well to offer comfort food. Texas has plenty of that, with barbecue, Mexican influence, coastal seafood, oh who am I kidding?
I watch it for the personalities. Who is going to crack? Flame out? Steal recipes?
Somehow, this season is especially loaded with Asian chefs and women who are lasting to the end. Prior seasons have featured a lot more tattooed chefs and kind of punk chefs. The class of 2012 is calmer, younger and, maybe due to the economy, very anxious to please.
We shall see how tonight goes with the Final Five. Once it is Final Four, they are whisked to a fabulous location with even more culinary torture to endure. For a very good cause. Their future.
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Hot Peppered Pizza on the Highway to Hell: A Review
Los Angeles has an ever-replenishing supply of consumers under 30, aided by the presence of lots of top tier colleges, and, oh yes, the draw of Hollywood fame and fortune. Are they eating 3 course meals and sipping $100 bottles of wine? Not so much. Pizza? Yep. And not Pizza Hut, Papa John’s or Domino’s.
Point of fact: indy pizza joints are popping up in trendy Los Feliz and Silver Lake almost as fast as wine bars. Actually, they are usually within a storefront of each other. Such is the case with Lucifer’s Pizza, on Hillhurst. You might not fly such a restaurant name in the heart of the Bible belt, but it is doing just fine where black clothing is de riguer, even for toddlers (seriously!). The place proclaims itself to be “Damned good.” Get it? The hook of the menu is that you get to decide how spicy your pizza will be: “zero,” “medium,” “fiery” or “blazing”. Go for blazing and fresh cut hot peppers, pickled peppers, and housemade chili sauce will end up on your pizza, which you can order in personal or large sizes. Sandwiches, wings and salad round out the food choices.
Being in Rome, my dining partner did as a Roman and ordered the spiciest pizza there was, and made it blazing. I went with zero as I was hungry and if lost feeling in my mouth, what the hell (!) would I eat? We got some water/Coke out of the cooler (you can bring your own beer and wine; they don’t have a license) and waited quite a long time. We took plenty of peeks behind the counter; the kitchen seemed to be a little overwhelmed with take-out orders. We people-watched, seated at our table shaped like a coffin, spurning groups of three or more who were trying to get us two to move so they could have our bigger table. You’ll pry this comfy coffin from my cold dead hands, hipster.
The thin crust pizzas, a bit greasy with cheese, showed up. John reported his was very spicy but far from inedible (you’d have to bring food literally on fire to be too spicy for him). I tried a pepperoni slice off his which had been soaked in the chili sauce. Hot on its own, never mind the fresh sliced hot peppers all over the pie. My Sicilian sausage with fresh tomatoes was okay, but we are pretty sure we were eating dough not made in house. Dough is a big part of setting yourself a cut above as a pizza joint.
The point in coming here is not necessarily nuanced ingredients, however. It is about being guaranteed access to very hot peppers, wearing black, being in a black room and not spending too much money to do so. Lucifer’s succeeds on all the above counts, but has a way to go to beat Garage Pizza a few blocks away, where they make the dough in house (rumor has it that the chef cut his teeth at Joe’s Pizza in New York!) and slices are ready to go almost instantly, with a wide choice of toppings, too.
Lucifer’s Pizza is located at 1958 Hillhurst Avenue in Los Angeles.
