eating out los angeles

Don’t think for a moment that we’ve forgotten about you, soakingwetpanties2006. It’s just that Egg Salad is moving and Fish Taco has a hangover and I have become a competitive eater in the non-caff arena. To illustrate, I have just returned from Los Angeles, where I ate twelve distinct meals in three days. I present these meals to you in date/time order:

Kiriko Sushi, Thursday, 8:00 p.m.: Most notable here was the halibut sashimi with ponzu jelly and black truffle shavings and the sea eel sushi rolled in salt and topped with yuzu shavings. Neither of these slammin’ treats are on the menu— my former roommates, Alex and Eric, are that awesome. Chef Dice K gave us a tiny but sensational turdsworth of sesame ice cream on the house.

Barney Greengrass, Friday, 12:30 p.m.: At this restaurant, located on the top floor of Barney’s New York, I consumed ½ of a smoked fish sandwich and a good chunk of the bread basket while staring at plastic surgery, fake boobs and business deals. A quintessential Los Angeles lunching experience.

Langer’s, Friday 3:30 p.m.: At this restaurant, I consumed ½ of the finest pastrami sandwich ever to touch my lips. Needless to say, my panties were soaking wet. Eric bought a hat that reads “’Hot’ Pastrami.” And then there was Joan, our waitress/resident genius, who informed us that she made a special trip to Israel to further explore just what it means to work at a Jewish Deli surrounded by “crack cocaine.”

El Parian, Friday, 4:30 p.m.: Here I split a goat taco, a pork taco and a beef taco and had myself a beer to boot. All delicious, though in hindsight I should have skipped the tacos altogether and ordered up a steaming plate of goat. 20/20 and what-not.

Nameless Thai Night Club, Friday, 8:30 p.m.: At this establishment, I nibbled on some fried chicken skins. Pockets of grease exploding in my mouth aside, this dish was the definition of a party in my pants. Following this dish, I visited my first strip club, Jumbo’s Clown Room, where I learned that the only thing I dislike more than looking at strippers is looking at my friends looking at strippers. So I chugged a couple martinis for dessert.

Yuca’s, Saturday, 1:00 p.m.: This place was, quite simply, the shit. Greasy and flavorful, the tacos at this small hut kick ass (in every way).

Father’s Office, Saturday, 6:00 p.m.: At this restaurant, patrons must stalk their own tables; there are no reservations and no waiting list. The competitive environment ignited my appetite for gastric destruction and I hastily devoured the sweet potato fries, frisée salad with two soft-boiled eggs, lardons and a light coating of bacon drippings, and a smoked bacon/carmelized onion/arugula/gruyere/Maytag blue cheese burger, aka the best thing I have put in my mouth in recent history.

Mashti Malone’s, Saturday, 8:00 p.m.: Here I discovered that unbuttoning one’s pants creates room for ice cream! One scoop of creamy rosewater and one scoop of blueberry cheesecake later, my panties were exposed.

Loteria, Sunday, 11:00 a.m.: At this food stand I achieved Mexican nirvana when I put scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes, chorizo, and cheesy nachos in a soft tortilla and dipped the tortilla in black bean sauce. By now I had reached ‘permanently full’ status. Still I persisted.

Siete Mares, Sunday, 4:00 p.m.: Though I was slightly distracted by a real-live Cyclops and a beer-covered schizophrenic, my first fish taco experience was beautiful. (I dedicate this meal to Fish Taco.)

Original Thai Dessert, Sunday, 6:30 p.m.: I’m not quite sure what I ate here, but it involved four distinct items. Dessert is the new appetizer!

Din Tai Fung, Sunday 8:30 p.m.: I was tired. My body was at full capacity. My jeans needed to be surgically removed. I ate ten fascinating soup dumplings and some spinach and blacked out. Then I had some tacos at the airport and went home.