The Ultimate L.A. Street Dog & Big Gay Ice Cream

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The snap of a Pink’s hot dog, celebrated by the likes of Jonathan Gold and Calvin Trillin, has never done much for me. In fact, I had one many moons ago when I was visiting L.A. and that was enough for me, thank you very much. I’m a New York street dog devotee: a warm, soft dog straight from the steam bath might be gross to some, but for me it’s heaven. The less it snaps when you bite in the better. I was ready to write L.A. off in the hot dog department until I ran into my friends Doug and Bryan of the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck here outside Lindy & Grundy. They told me their truck would be parked on Sunday in front of a gay bar, Faultline, and next to it would be a woman who makes the best hot dogs they had ever had in their lives. I should swing by and say hello.

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Sad Kitchens

I am in a spiral, a funk, a panic. Today is June 3rd and we’re moving out July 1st. Only, we don’t know where we’re moving yet because we haven’t found an apartment. Craig’s editing his movie so it’s my job to spend my days on Westside Rentals and Craigslist searching for a place that’s not only comparable to ours, but better. That, at least, is the plan. Only, as I click past apartment after apartment I feel myself growing more and more depressed…and it’s a depression brought on specifically by sad kitchens.

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Dear Ina

Last night I had a nightmare that you invited a bunch of food bloggers to your house to hang out and swap cookies and that you didn’t invite me. Imagine the horror! But then I woke up and started reading Deb’s latest blog post and life screeched to a halt: you DID invite a bunch of food bloggers to your house to hang out and swap cookies! And you didn’t invite me!

Last night I had a nightmare that you invited a bunch of food bloggers to your house to hang out and swap cookies and that you didn’t invite me. Imagine the horror! But then I woke up and started reading Deb’s latest blog post and life screeched to a halt: you DID invite a bunch of food bloggers to your house to hang out and swap cookies! And you didn’t invite me!

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The Burger That Ended It All

The Golden State on Fairfax. After 11 days of fish and vegetables, that’s where I headed to eat meat again.

Did tears trickle down my face as I took my first bite? No, they did not. That’s one thing that occurs to me now, how easy it is to take meat for granted when you eat it. Yes, I enjoyed myself–it’s a really excellent burger–but eating meat in America is akin to watching reality TV or listening to loud, repetetive music. It’s not something you really think about, it’s just something you do when you’re not thinking. And that, I think, is what this conversation about meat all comes down to: whether you want to think about it or not.

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On The Precipice of Meat

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11 days. It’s been 11 days of no beef, no pork, no poultry. I’ve had fish up the wazoo; sushi for lunch, seared salmon for dinner. In fact, last night’s salmon–which was very good salmon, from McCall’s in Los Feliz–made me a bit queasy, probably because, at that point, I’d become a human aquarium. Today, at lunch, I had a vegetarian meatball hero at The Oaks near where we live and though the vegetarian meatballs were impressively good substitutes for the real thing, they weren’t the real thing. And all afternoon today, after going to the gym, I’ve been craving a hamburger. A big, juicy hamburger. I think I may just snap.

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Writing Recipes Out By Hand

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If you go into the back of my car, which you can’t really do right now because it’s in the shop (car accident; see my newsletter for details) you’ll notice a layer of paper on the floor. On that paper, you’ll find handwritten directions to various destinations: Little Flower in Pasadena, the airport, etc. Why, in these days of endless technology, do I bother writing out directions on pieces of paper? Hold that thought for a second and come into my kitchen. You’ll notice pieces of paper magnet-ed to the fridge and flattened on the counter with recipes written out by hand. By hand? Who writes recipes out by hand?

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2 Deviled Eggs for 3 People

Sometimes you have a negative restaurant experience that stays with you for a really long time after the fact. This is one such experience illustrated by a very talented illustrator: me.

This fall I went to a hip new restaurant, here in L.A., with my friends Jim and Jess. You might ask, “Which restaurant?” but I’m not sure I want to shame them so publicly. Maybe they deserve another chance. Maybe. Here’s what happened…

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My Life As A Four-Day Pescatarian

An outcast. A misfit. Persona non grata.

That’s been my life ever since, four days ago, I became a pescatarian. True: I only made this declaration yesterday and, truth be told, it’ll probably end with an Umami Burger somewhere down the road. But you should’ve seen the horrified looks on my friends’ faces last night when, at L&E Oyster Bar, I refused the chorizo toast that came with the smoked mussels. It was at that moment they knew I might be for real.

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