Noisy Balloonist fluevog

I’m experiencing something akin to feature creep—the reviews lengthen surreptitiously with each round, and my attempts at pop metaphor become more convoluted. Apparently I was conflating a class of restaurant patron with hipster footwear, and there was a callback to the finale of M.A.S.H. Daisy talked me down. The final three restaurant write-ups to appear in the Hungry? City Guides Los Angeles 10th anniversary edition follow. Forthcoming are dispatches for Thirsty? and a feature on the Wednesday Santa Monica farmers market.

Curry House
This sit-down outpost of Asian retail food titan House Foods is the epitome of Japanese casual dining, a benign establishment for diners suspicious of the non-native menus found elsewhere on the Sawtelle strip. Every dish is submerged in a gravy-like slurry the color of Indian warpaint, a fusion of oil, butter (the mild version is animal-free), flour, spices, vegetable paste and MSG that is a nationwide obsession in Japan. Such calorie-laden comfort food could nourish an Artic expedition if the team tired of eating shortening straight from the tub. In fact, House Foods curry—identical to the restaurant stuff—is available in microwave or ultra-marathon-ready vacuum packets at Nijiya Market downstairs.

Curry House’s glossy, wood-paneled dining room is stocked with arbitrary Japanese knick-knacks, vigilant waiters and plenty of white people enjoying curry with rice, curry with pasta, curry gratin or curried pilaf omelets. The stone pot curry distinguishes itself: a mountainous assemblage of rice, your choice of meat and veggies, crowned with a raw egg and served in a rocket hot granite bowl. The eponymous curry arrives in a metal charger and your runner will volunteer to pour it over the dish and mix the lot together. Agree and witness a moment of tableside theater. The sauce hisses and pops, the egg cooks instantaneously and the dish is transformed into a muddy, gratifying chanpuru (“hash” in Okinawan dialect) of starch and protein. Consume the whole thing and peel away the skein of crusty rice at the bottom, caramelized to nutty doneness against the superheated interior of the stone. All curry dishes are available in mild, medium or spicy, and the tofu steak and paper-thin fried pork appetizers are recommended.

Curry House’s secret weapon (for many years literally secret—it did not appear on the menu and was only available to-go) is kare pan (curry bread), deep-fried capsules of yeast dough concealing a payload of extra-spicy curried potato. These small pleasures are a rarity in Los Angeles outside of the occasional Japanese food fair. One makes a fine appetizer or snack; two are nearly enough for a meal, and a steal at $1.80 per. Cooked to order, the panko-dusted pods inflate in the fryer and expel a palate-scarring jet of chilied air when breached. Be patient but unafraid. Curry pan is the single best reason to visit Curry House, and bodily injury is a justifiable risk.

U-Zen Sushi
On a stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard where eateries dart in and out of existence faster than Perez Hilton changes hair color, the chefs at U-Zen Sushi have persevered in virtual obscurity for 16 years, stubbornly begging off the cross-platform fusion food that infiltrated L.A. fish houses during the millennial sushi boom. Even U-Zen’s oddball pedestal-shaped, red and white facade hasn’t been fussed with, save for the peeling signage that was replaced a few years ago. Prior to that, you might have mistaken the place for a nail salon.

Inside, a fellowship of regulars, locals and couples young and old dine on unassuming, fresh fish before rolling east to catch a movie at the Nuart or Royal theaters, respectively. The demure interior, outfitted in black with wood and red lacquer accents, supports an affable simmer of conversation. The sushi captains behind the L-shaped, blonde wood bar are wise to U-Zen’s reputation as a neighborhood haunt—they will gladly coach the unfamiliar and indulge the experienced. You can order omakase here without forfeiting a car payment. Sushi and sashimi are delicate and generously portioned. Preferred species include saba, the gamy Spanish mackerel identified by its lamé tiger-print skin and served with a dab of grated ginger, shredded scallion and ponzu, hirame (fluke), bonito, ama ebi—firm, exquisitely vital sweet shrimp dispatched to order and served with their intact, flash-fried heads peering at you as you eat in a magnificent predatory display—and the soft-shell crab hand roll, a seasonal specialty. From the hot kitchen emerges a spectrum of elegant bento and savory pleasures like tofu steak doused with miso and wilted enoki mushrooms, and the fabulous yellowtail tuna collar—an abstract mass of flesh and bone culled from behind the gills of the fish, shot under the broiler, basted in lemon and delivered to your table shimmering with oily heat. Pluck every roasted nub from the skeleton, frost with soy broth and daikon and submit to reverie.

U-Zen Sushi offers some of the Westside’s most pristine fish for the price. The staff will act politely surprised if you volunteer to sit at the shared table in the center of the room, but they’ll remember you when you leave. You are, after all, reinforcing the communal spirit that has made U-Zen a landmark hidden in plain sight.

Snug Harbor
You may encounter the occasional Hollywood A-lister at Snug Harbor, a disoriented screenwriter or producer wandering out of the jeweled avenues north of Wilshire for a mug of coffee and a scramble, but the über-cozy Snug is a diner for the people, effortlessly rendering archetypal American breakfasts (also lunch, but mostly breakfast) to the bleary-eyed rabble eager to procrastinate their 9am starts.

Tucked away on Santa Monica’s outer fringe where it clashes good-naturedly with morning spots serving frisée salads and micro-roasted espresso, Snug Harbor may as well have been airlifted from a suburban Long Island street corner. This tiny canteen warms you up like a vintage coat and routinely overflows on early weekdays and weekend brunch. It’s not such a bad thing. Add your name to the list and sunbathe on the benches outside—the busboy may even slip you a cup of joe while you wait. Solo diners and pairs can sneak in at the counter, but wherever you take your meal, resist the urge to tar Snug with the epithet greasy spoon. The menu is hardly light, but dishes are prepared with more delicacy than the typical Exxon Valdez hash browns and toast. There are eggs every which way, from provocatively named omelets (The Rage; The Garage Seal) to Eggs Benedict—coddled, molten orbs perched atop English muffin and ham and swooning in tangy Hollandaise. There is an encyclopedia of pancakes entitled Stack Factory and evergreen favorites like huevos rancheros and biscuits with gravy—dense, mellow with dairy and saturated with sausage-flecked roux. There is rejuvenating fresh-squeezed OJ and a roster of daily specials. Watch the blackboard for treats like homespun grits or a fresh blackberry short stack. Orders are slung out of the galley-style kitchen and dropped tableside by career waitresses who glide about in jeans and Ts and are not afraid to call you honey.

Flooded with sunlight and within yawning distance of the complimentary morning papers, the oversize corner booth just past the door is Snug’s most coveted seat, typically reserved for parties of four or more. The wraparound bench is all threadbare vinyl and ruptured springs. It feels like riding a camel, but you freelancers who can stroll in after the rush and idle over coffee and Deuces Wild (two eggs, two pancakes, two shingles of chewy bacon) won’t mind a bit.

The car is gone. The fire engine-red BMW 5-series, abandoned by the man upstairs because he could no longer press the clutch with his mashed leg, is gone. Sometime in the last 15 hours it was sold or stolen or towed (all Sly Cooper-like; I heard nothing), after sitting derelict in the carport for nine years. The wheels actually tore up a bit of asphalt patch in the alley. There was a white envelope on the ground where the car had been. I opened it, half expecting to see a we offered to buy, but no note. It was empty.

This is an unlikely re-post but it’s public radio, so don’t subtract any of my echo chamber credits. Listen to this manic, highly conceptual debridement of the Zac Efron tween stimulator 17 Again, as rendered by film critic Henry Sheehan on Larry Mantle’s FilmWeek on 89.3 KPCC FM. At first, fellow critic Peter Rainer wants a piece of the joke, then grows silent and finally, selflessly, steps in front of Sheehan’s mouth when he offers to send potential viewers a picture of some holes in the ground as a substitute for the film. I would have accepted a sketch.

FilmWeek on AirTalk excerpt, 4/17/08

For many years my next door neighbor was a twig-like old woman who collected garbage and never spoke. She lived on investment income and the landlord hinted she was fabulously wealthy. Occasionally her mail found its way to my box my mistake—there were thick packets of financial documents. We shared a kitchen wall and patio fence. Her side was a snarl of potted plants and trees with barely room to step. She crept out at night to water them. As best I could determine, her companions were cockroaches and a radio she never switched off. The roaches raided my kitchen through gaps in the plaster, where their corpses piled up in the silverware drawer. Sometimes I put a glass to the wall and pressed my ear against it to decipher the buzz from the radio.

The woman (I forget her name; let’s call her Ruth) had lived next door for decades. She didn’t sleep. Her metabolic baseline was so low she required only brief periods of hibernation; sometimes, through the porch glass, I glimpsed her in stasis by the radio, shrunken and still. Ruth operated a one-woman salvage operation, pushing a grocery cart from alley to alley, sifting through rubbish bins and claiming things she liked. She would return in the afternoon, park the cart at the curb and transfer the day’s take, piece by piece, into her apartment. Sometimes there was a night run. She wore the same clothes every day: drab skirt, stockings the color of dishwater, shabby navy down jacket and a shapeless hat that hid her face. The only person I ever saw her speak to was a wizened security guard at the Barrington Vons. He was reedy and tall and looked like the faintest puff of wind would blow him to powder—I don’t know what he was securing in his condition. I wondered what history he shared with the old woman. Under the circumstances it was easy to dismiss Ruth as senile, and that’s what I did. She was a shade. I was afraid to speak to her.

I was on my porch one evening when she spoke to me. She passed by and remarked, without acknowledging our years of mutual silence, “That’s a very special cat.” She motioned to Caliban, who was perched on the cat tower just inside the apartment. I saw her face clearly for the first time. It was sodden and blotchy, like wet cardboard. She looked desperately old, but her eyes were shining.

“I know,” I replied, trying to appear nonplussed. “Thank you.”

“I’ve known a lot of cats. I know cats,” she continued, “and that’s a very special cat; I can tell. What’s his name?”

“Caliban,” I said, in a mild fugue. “It’s from a Shakespeare play.” Despite her shriveled appearance and central-casting bag lady persona, Ruth was perfectly lucid. Ruth was staring through me like a benevolent wizard. Ruth was oracular. Inside her shrouds hid a clairvoyant soul. I was instantly ashamed of the assumptions I’d made.

“Oh, Caliban, is that right?” She nodded. “Well he’s a smart cat. I bet he takes good care of you. Do you take good care of him?”

Caliban listened. “Well I love him,” I said. “I’ve had him since he was a tiny kitten.”

“That’s good.” She smiled. “Take care of him. You have a very special cat. I can tell by his eyes.” She repeated: “I can tell by his eyes,” and walked away.

I spoke to her only once more after this encounter, about a discarded TV in the alley behind the building. Years past, interest compounded, roaches expired in the salad spinner and Ruth accumulated more stuff. I speculated about the condition of her apartment. One morning in 2007 there was a rap on her door and a sheriff’s deputy announced himself. Ruth was being evicted. She wasn’t home; I’d seen her plod by my window around dawn. She knew it was eviction day, and after painstakingly archiving the detritus of the city for more than 20 years, she walked away from her work with nothing but the clothes on her back. That is a literal statement. She betrayed no sentiment, and she never returned.

It took men two weeks to empty her unit. The landlord was a little cagey about why Ruth was kicked out, but he explained he had offered to help her clean. He had offered to help her find a new apartment. She refused all assistance. My landlord is a Los Angeles impossibility—honest and responsible—so I believe him. He seemed as bewildered as me. I googled her name and found nothing. I sifted through some of the garbage that had been removed from her place in an attempt to decode its value. It felt strangely voyeuristic. How had she managed to fill two bedrooms with stuff, like someone bricking in a tomb, and then casually abandon it? How did precious things become meaningless overnight? I was interpreting Ruth’s collection as a personal monument, but maybe she knew it was crap all along, and that someday it would wind up back in the dumpsters from whence it came. I haven’t seen Ruth since.

Making friends dumpster-side in Westwood. Translation:

Good afternoon! Are you American? I’m Japanese!
Good afternoon! You bet I’m American! Who are you?

Retro Facebook wall in West L.A.