Good To Go

Goddammit. I’m sick. 

It’s irritating on obvious levels. But the big rub is that I walk around, all puffed up like a peacock most of the time, touting that I simply do not get sick. But anyone can take one look at me right now and know that’s a load of crap. It would appear I have temporarily acquired Walter Matthau’s nose and I am entirely unable to pronounce any words involving the letters N and/or M. And let’s not even mention the small mountain range of soiled tissues that have become my number one accessory of late.

But oddly I have not lost my appetite.

It is now a new year: 2012. I welcome this year. I’d say it’s already off to an auspicious start. Well, except for the whole sick thing. But I suppose it’s worth it. Fred was sick before me, you see.

Wait, that's right, I was in a car accident last week. No one was hurt, but my car went through over a grand worth of repairs. The other car was fine. I suppose it was all officially my fault, but those tourists stopped at a green light!

Okay, so I’m sick and I caused a car accident that has set me back a considerable chunk of green. All in the first week and a half of a new year that I am heralding as auspicious. Hey, I’m in a good mood, what can I say?

Things look bright. I am going on a mini getaway next weekend to someplace called Inverness. Apparently I will not even have cell service there. I find this to be both frightening and tantalizing. It looks like it will rain there that weekend, so we are anticipating much cooking and snuggles. Works for me. Then, in February, my dad and his girlfriend are coming to visit. I always get excited for some QT with Pops. Plus we always eat out a lot at all the fun places he hasn’t been yet. Cha-ching!

Anyway, things just feel right in 2012 despite the sickies and the car situation.

In case you, my fellow Angelinos, have not noticed, 2012 thus far has hardly been Wintery. In fact, it’s been downright Summery. I do believe it was in the nineties last week. I guess it’s fine. I can’t do much about it anyway. Although, being sick seems even worse when it’s warm and blue and sparkly out. It makes me feel guilty for curling up in a ball with my box of tissues, hot tea and a blanket.

So I won't.

I like to pretend I’m not sick. I’m out in the world. I’m sitting at one of my haunts, Cheebo, having something I have been eating at least once a week for a couple of years, now. It doesn’t matter if it’s Winter or Summer, I can eat their chopped salad any season. I often come here to write (free wi-fi), and Uncle Dougertons and I historically meet up about once a week-ish to have dinner. We always split the chopped salad to start. And we always sit at the bar.

The staff knows me, and my glass of sauvignon blanc is always placed in front of me right as I seat myself. They know not to allow me to eat more than one ramekin of their complimentary home-made potato chips. Sometimes I bring the kitchen fresh herbs from my garden to use. When the power goes out in the canyon I will camp out at Cheebo and read and graze and sip for hours.

Cheebo is not cool or hip or in or sceney. It’s really orange inside and has pretty garish artwork on the walls. The music is usually a little bit too loud and not as calm as I’d like. There is a television above the bar that is always on (though I do appreciate that during baseball season). But there is something to be said for our neighborhood spots. The places that provide us with a sense of community and comfort. Places that are inexpensive with solid food and perfectly acceptable wines by the glass.

So, here I sit, sick with an appetite, at the bar at Cheebo, in the middle of a Wednesday. I’ve got a glass of ice water, a bowl of cream of broccoli soup and my favorite salad. Ever. As I’ve been writing this I realized that, while I have Tweeted and Four SquaredCheebo and my salad love, I have never written about them. And so I feel they deserve their due (and they deliver!).

I’m pretty sure the guy sitting next to me at the bar is sick too. He’s drinking hot tea and has a tissue. I sure hope he is because my ears are blown out from blowing my nose and I can’t hear. So I can’t tell if I just burped loudly or quietly, and more importantly, if he heard me.

Cheebo: Good To Go

7533 W. Sunset Blvd.

Los Angeles, CA 90046

323.850.7070

One year ago: Cremini Mushroom & Meyer Lemon Risotto

Two years ago: Chocolate & Chile de Arbol Brownies 

FOUR years ago: Oyster Stew

I'm Totally Rushing You In the Fall.

Things are happy. Things are good. Business is good, things feel pretty stable, and, on these crisp nights, I can rock layers (clothing). Thanksgiving has passed and Christmas is coming up really fast. Usually I am a pretty major Christmas geek. I love Christmas music, the tree, the decorating, the parties, the excuse to be over dressed and wear sparkly things, the excuse to be over dressed, wearing sparkly thinks while drinking sparkly things.

This year I don’t feel as much like Mother Christmas as I usually do. I don’t foresee having my annual Christmas party, I’m entirely unclear what I’m giving to whom as gifts (and I usually have that on lockdown months before), and I’m not even getting a tree. I have dug the big boxes of Christmas from the garage, so that’s a start.

A lot of this could be because of the timing of the most recent Dinner at Eight. That would have been last Friday. But even though that’s over and done with, I don’t feel like I can concentrate on things. I am decidedly distracted. I’ve barely even written anything this month. But maybe that’s because I have a crush.

I do.

 

And it (he) has taken quite a bit of my physical and mental space over the past few weeks. He’s coming over for dinner tonight. I haven’t cooked for him yet. I’m nervous. Why am I nervous? I cook for people all the time. I cook for friends, family and even complete strangers. All. The. Time. And yet I’m nervous to cook for Fred tonight. I know I’m going to make my oyster stew. However, I don’t know what will follow. I’m sure it will be fine. I’m sure it will be better than fine. I’m sure it will be delicious and fun.

But I’ve still got the swirlies. Ugh.

Anyway, this past Sunday we spent the better part of the day making cassoulet. I’ve wanted to make cassoulet for forevers. It’ one of my very most favorite dishes. Cassoulet night at Lucques is something I look forward to all year (that’s coming up, by the way). Our cassoulet making was a really fun process that began with procuring our Meat(s) at Lindy & Grundy around one o’clock and ended on Fred’s couch, chowing down at about eleven o’clock. And that was with the fast soak on the cannelini beans. We spent a good deal of the down time doing the Sunday crossword and watching In A Lonely Place (best movie, ever). It all worked out really nicely. It was good times and good food, I must admit. And, as you know, I do so love a Process. And a Sunday. And a cassoulet.

So, back to tonight. I’m thinking either scallops or a stuffed pork tenderloin. Something with beets? I welcome your thoughts on the matter. Regardless, I’ll keep you posted on how tonight’s meal turns out. Promise.

Our Sunday Cassoulet

Serves 6-8

1 lb. dried cannelini beans
10 tbsp. duck fat 

16 cloves garlic, smashed
5 shallots, chopped3 carrots, chopped

1 large ham hock
1 lb. lamb neck, cut into 1"cubes
1⁄2 lb. pancetta, cubed
4 sprigs oregano
4 sprigs thyme
3 bay leaves
1 cup whole peeled canned tomatoes
1 1/2 cup white wine
2 cups chicken stock

2 confit duck legs (we used chicken legs)
1 lb. pork sausages
2 cups bread crumbs

Soak beans in a 4-qt. bowl in 7 1⁄2 cups water overnight. Heat 2 tbsp. duck fat in a 6-qt. pot over medium-high heat. Add half the garlic, shallots, and carrots and cook until lightly browned, about 10 minutes. Add ham hock along with beans and their water and boil. Reduce heat and simmer beans until tender, about 1 1⁄2 hours.

Transfer ham hock to a plate; let cool. Pull off meat; discard skin, bone, and gristle. Chop meat; add to beans. Set aside.

Heat 2 tbsp. duck fat in a 5-qt. dutch oven over medium-high heat. Add lamb and brown for 8 minutes. Add pancetta; cook for 5 minutes. Add remaining garlic, onions, and carrots; cook until lightly browned, about 10 minutes. Tie together oregano, thyme, and bay leaves with twine; add to pan with tomatoes; cook until liquid thickens, 8–10 minutes. Add wine; reduce by half. Add broth; boil. Reduce heat to medium-low; cook, uncovered, until liquid has thickened, about 1 hour. Discard herbs; set dutch oven aside.

Meanwhile, sear duck legs in 2 tbsp. duck fat in a 12" skillet over medium-high heat for 8 minutes; transfer to a plate. Brown sausages in the fat, about 8 minutes. Cut sausages into 1⁄2" slices. Pull duck meat off bones. Discard fat and bones. Stir duck and sausages into pork stew.

Heat oven to 300˚. Mix beans and pork stew in a 4-qt. cast iron dutch oven. Cover with bread crumbs; drizzle with remaining duck fat. Bake, uncovered, for 3 hours. Raise oven temperature to 500˚; cook cassoulet until crust is golden, about 5 minutes.


Printable recipe


One year ago: Linguine with Pancetta Mushroom Cream Sauce
Two years ago: The Flying Pig Truck

Duck, Duck, Fat: Dinner at Sun Ha Jang.

This past Saturday night was very exciting. First off, I may or may not have been on a date. But more importantly, I was taken to two (2) places in my City of Angels that I had never been nor had any prior knowledge of. That’s pretty rare.

I was sent an email a day or two before Saturday with a link to the prodigious Mr. Gold’s review of our restaurant destination: Sun Ha Jang. So I was aware and prepared for whatever lay ahead. That would be duck. Excitement mounted.

At precisely seven o’clock (right on time!) I was picked up and off we went. To Koreatown. And just as I was noticing the façade for a spa I sent my mom to as a gift for Christmas some years ago that left her with PTSD to this day (another story), we were parked smack in front of the restaurant.

Sun Ha Jang was bright, but not too bright, tidy, small and about halfway filled up. I think this was about seven thirty. We were seemingly the only non-Koreans in the house, which was a comforting sign. We were seated immediately and handed golden menus with those hologramy-winky pictures in them. We hardly perused the menu at all before our server came over to get our order. This was fine as we didn’t really know what we were doing and we were pretty much going to go for what was suggested from the review. The Roasted Duck. I’m guessing they were used to Korean food dilettantes coming in, clutching their reference guides Smart Phones since she just kindly nodded, and knew exactly what to deliver.

So right after we got our bottle of soju, a bottle of cold tea, and the usual assortment of panchan, kimchi and marinated bean sprouts, came the sliced duck. Our server was kind to us and guided us through The Process wordlessly. She gingerly placed the round, thick, marbled and fatty duck slices on the griddle in the center of the table with a generous smattering of whole cloves of garlic. Then she picked up a chunklet of kimchi and used it to plug the griddle's drain. We later realized this was to preserve all that glorious duck fat.

After just a few minutes we started to pick at the duck, flipping it and whatnot as I had read that we should by no means allow them to condense into chewy nubs. This was when our server hustled back over to assist, and also where I will insert my companion’s only sound bite from the evening for this post, “Aside from the yumminess of the duck and duck fat roasted garlic and the good company, what sticks in my mind the most was the maternal weariness with which the waitress took over as she watched my relative clumsiness in flipping the duck over on the griddle.”

Did you see that? I’m good company!

Anyway.

When the duck was ready to come off the griddle our server even showed us how to assemble and eat everything together. She made a whole presentation on Date’s plate. The result was not unlike a duck salad: the chopped, dressed lettuce with a few slivers of marinated onion, and a little julienned pickled radish, garnished with the duck topped with a few strands of sliced Korean leek and a small dollop of chili paste. It was fresh and clean, yet rich and unctuous. Each bite was crisp, cool and bright right alongside with being warm, supple and lush.

After a little more time and a lot more bites, the cloves of garlic were all roasty, with crisp outsides and warm, oozy insides. At this point I just wanted to eat bites of the garlic rubbed over slices of the now, ever so slightly brittled duck meat that remained.

But there was more. I knew it was coming and I was aflutter. Our server then brought us a bowl of rice cooked with beans and dumped it onto the griddle, sprinkling it with herbs and sesame seeds. And there it sizzled away as it cooked in that beautiful, seasoned duck fat until it was perfectly crunchety on the bottom.

And then I was sated.

I very much enjoyed my meal and my experience at Sun Ha Jang. I do so love a process. An interactive meal, so to speak. The company was pretty great too.

And then we were off, into the night. Off to destination number two, and as mentioned above, yet another new experience for me, a bar called 1642. This place serves only wine and beer, is perfectly dark and plays almost-but-not-too-loud-and-very-good jazz. Wine and conversation ensued.

This was a good night.


One year ago: Salt's Cure
Two years ago: Grace

Son of a Gun - It's Rated ARGH! (Insert pirate hook here)

I really wanted to steer away from the restaurants for a while and get back to the recipes/stories/metaphors tangled up in my world. But, I was fortunate enough to hit up Son of a Gun on only their second night open and I was on a date doing it. And so, all the news that’s fit to print, right?

I spent almost all of last week and the last weekend in super nesting mode. I think I went out one night. But I wasn’t really cooking anything too exciting either. I actually wasn’t feeling great. But I told myself, and Mr. Michael Motorcycle (named!), that I would definitely be ready to go out for a nice dinner Monday night. I was bandying about the idea of hitting Salt’s Cure or Animal. Then I ended up having lunch with Jill, that very day, at Salt’s Cure (I can’t help it!), and then I remembered, Animal?!, Hells bells! Son of a Gun opened just last night!

And there you go.

It’s been long awaited, but those two, super cute chefs behind Animal, Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo done did it. And I so love that they opened on Oscar night. Their newest, Son of a Gun, occupying the old Cynthia’s space on Third Street, is seafood-centric, with a head-to-toe nautical themed interior. There are 55 seats, half of which – the leather banquets -  are open for reservations and the other half – a long, communal table, running down the middle of the room, are reserved for walk-ins. We marched right up to the bar, however. We sat next to the goldfish.

I tried to wait for the perfect moment, but I’ve never been good at patience or timing – so, Mr. Motorcycle had to hear my pirate joke before he even got a glass of wine down. I think he was humoring me, as he did, in fact, laugh. But let’s face it, I am the worst joke deliverer ever. And my jokes are stuck in 5^th grade. So, points for the boy...

Okay.

So we each ordered a glass of 2008 Erbaluce, La Torrazza, Carema ($13), against the better judgement of our server. She was right and Mr. Motorcycle noticed it immediately: While being a very drinkable wine, this does not have enough snap to hang with the oceanic fare we had selected. This fare was the Smoked Mahi Fish Dip, Celery, Radish, Crackers ($9), and the Fluke, Raita, Oro Blanco, Pineapple, Mint ($15). These two dishes were fun to have side by side as one was very pedestrian in concept and one was tremendously refined. The mahi dip was fresh and crisp and served along side buttery Ritz-esque crackers. I felt like I was sitting on the pier. The fluke was delicate and complex. This dish took one’s palate on a bit of a trajectory from soft and supple, to rich and creamy, to citrusy and and, bam!, a bit of heat. I felt like I was on the, um, very fancy pier?

Side note: I love that their plates are Heath.

At this point we decided to commit to a bottle of 2007 Bourgogne Aligoté, Domaine Rollin ($38). We tasted it and it seemed a bit more befitting for the evening.

Next up was the Alligator Schnitzel, Heart of Palm, Orange ($13) and the dish I was the very most excited about: Linguine and Clams, Uni Aglio-Olio, Breadcrumbs ($16). Here things take a slight twist. But only very.

The schnitzel was fun, but not anything exceptional, nor something the caliber I expect to see from these boys. I’m thinking maybe the breading could use a little something? It was simply, not very interesting. And I want my alligator to be interesting!

The pasta was good. It was cooked beautifully and I loved the addition of the breadcrumbs for the texture. I really did like this dish but, If you can believe it, it was a skosh too salty for me. Translation: really salty.

We finished up with the Fried Chicken Sandwich, Spicy B&B Pickle Slaw, Rooster Aioli ($11), on the behest of our super great bartender. This sandwich was excellent! Perhaps one of the best chicken sammies I've had to date, actually. I wish we ordered it earlier so we could have inhaled it, but we were pretty full at this point. Mr. Motorcycle took it home to have for lunch the next day.

I like this place. A lot. I will like it more as wrinkles get unwrinkled, but mostly when it gets all warm and sunshiney out. You know, when we want to be on that pier. Eating awesome seafood in an awesome spot. And they're open late!

Oh, and hey guys, I really want a soup on the menu.

Full of Hot Air

I generally act as though I’m too cool, or too tough to be a fan of, or want, bold romantic gestures. But it’s all a load of crap.

I used to work at a flower shop and one day, while lamenting that I didn’t think anyone had ever sent me flowers in my life, the owner turned to me and said, “You’re not the kind of girl that would get flowers sent to her.” It totally crushed me. But then I see myself doing things to repel that sort of gesture. Last night, while out with some friends, a man came over selling roses and I immediately declared, “I hate roses.”

What? Who hates roses? What an idiotic thing to say. In reality, cheesy as it may be, I’m sure I wanted someone to hand me a rose, but, thinking that would never happen anyway - I tried to control the moment and protect my pride.

My dad has always been really sharp with the bold romantic gestures with the loves in his life. He gave someone a star for Christmas one year. He had it named after her. A STAR. Of course, I don’t know what one does with their star, but my word, she has a star!

Me, I’ve always wanted to go up in a hot air balloon. With that special someone. With champagne. The whole world beneath the two of us, suspended in the air in our wicker basket under a gigantic billowy, rainbowy balloon watching the landscape slowly change under us.

See, I am a total dork.

A few nights ago a couple of friends came over for dinner. I knew I wanted to make a roasted red pepper soup and actually have a pretty standard recipe I usually use. But, for some reason, that night I felt like exploring other ideas. As I was poring through one of my cookbooks I stumbled upon a French red pepper soup recipe that caught my eye. This soup, I read, was one of the culinary delights awaiting balloonists when they would touch down after drifting with the breezes over vineyards, churches and villages in Burgundy, near Beaune, a small city southeast of Paris.

A tear formed.

Needless to say, with some modifications and variations (including a garnish of crème fraiche and lump crab) - and with my thoughts drifting into hot air balloon fantasies, I prepared my version of Potage Aux Poivrons Rouges.

It turned out beautifully. This is truly a beguiling soup because its lovely light red color suggests tomato but its taste is all pepper. It’s zingy but sweet. Both April and Chris had a second bowl.

I paired it with a burgundy and followed it with stuffed pork tenderloin medallions over rice. I imagine this soup would be equally delicious served cold with a glass of sancerre and a salad.

Funny thing: the next day I received an email containing a coupon for a hot air balloon ride. Perhaps it’s a sign that my fantasy may soon be realized. Perhaps I should also stop acting so haughty about the saccharin sweet, goopy romantic stuff.

Because, while I prefer peonies, I totally love roses.

French Red Pepper Soup 
(Potage Aux Poivrons Rouges)

Serves 2

2 tbsp butter

1 medium onion, peeled and chopped coarsely

1 medium carrot, peeled and sliced

3 cups vegetable stock

2 roasted red peppers, peeled, seeded and chopped coarsely

¾ cup milk

½ tsp fresh thyme

1 tsp salt

½ tsp white pepper

¼ cup crème fraiche

2 tbsp lump crab meat

Melt the butter in a medium saucepan; drop in the chopped onions and cook over medium-low heat until they are soft and translucent, about 15 minutes.

Add the carrots, cover and cook until tender, about 15-20 minutes.

Add the stock, leave uncovered and bring to a boil over medium-high heat for 20 minutes to reduce the stock base in volume and to strengthen its flavor. Skim occasionally.

Add the pepper chunks and cook for an additional 20 minutes or until they can be easily pierced with a fork or knife point. Remove from heat and add milk, salt, pepper and thyme.

When somewhat cool, puree the soup in a food processor or blender.

Reheat soup over low flame and add crème fraiche. Serve in heated bowls, topped with a dollop of crème fraiche and lump crab meat.

Orange Crush

I have to admit, I have really fallen off the recipe part of this blog lately. The truth is I have been dining out way too much and not cooking nearly enough. I don’t think I’ve even stocked up on food for the house since the massive shoporama prior to my Christmas party, like 3 weeks ago. I have been working a lot. I have also been, well, out a lot. Today was the first day in a long time that I had some quality home time sans distractions. Today was the day to take stock of whatever food soldiers have made it to this point – and were still going strong – in my refrigerator. I hate to waste anything. Other than the fridge fossil fuels, milk, eggs, cheese, butter and my echo, there was only one option to work with. A pound of carrots.

Time to make some soup.

I’m not certain (well, maybe I am), but I think I have a crush. I don’t want to talk too much about it and I don’t want to lend it too much of my head right now. I also have not yet discussed this breaking news with my crush. As is the nature of this beast I don’t know if the crush mirrors my feelings or not. I think so? Oh, hell, I don’t have a clue.

I haven’t had a crush for a while, it seems. Maybe I have – it’s hard to remember that when you have a new crush. The old crushes vanish into thin air and weren’t really crushes anyway. Not like this one. What’s sort of funny is that my last crush… was this crush… but it was a little ways back. Then I wasn’t crushing any more. Now I am again. I'm nothing if not fickle. April tells me I've been blind and have been crushing the entire time. I don’t know. Maybe she’s right. If she is, it makes the whole thing sooo romantic, yeah?

I am thinking that rather than have a whole melodrama fiesta, heavy conversation, come-to-Jesus type of thing I am going to (try) to just play with the concept of having my crush. I am going to enjoy moments as they are happening. It’s always so unfortunate when the pretty moments get skipped over due to obsession with the next moment. I always think back on past relationships and recall that the crushy part was so much fun. Embrace the moment and all that.

So today’s soup had all of these thoughts, and more, stirred into it. It’s an uncomplicated soup but full-bodied and confident in it’s simplicity. The sweetness of the carrots and the pop of the ginger and cumin create an obvious yet unlikely marriage. Like John and Alice Coltrane. Tenor sax and harp. Tidy suits and rainbow-y mumus.

So I don’t know what’s going to happen. Well, I do know what will happen with the soup. I was referring to the crush. I guess I’m a little unnerved. But only a little. Heather calls it spun out – which I find to be totally cute and entirely appropriate.

I’m going out with Yvonne tonight. But on my way I may just drop off some soup on crush’s doorstep. Eek!

Hey, it’s fun to dork out sometimes…

Crushy Carrot Soup with Ginger & Cumin 

Serves 6 

Ingredients 

• ½ stick of unsalted butter
• 1 ½ lbs. (approximately) peeled, chopped carrots
• 3 celery stalks
• 1 medium onion
• 1 tablespoon ground cumin
• 1 tablespoon ground ginger
• 4 cloves garlic
• 2 tablespoons walnut oil
• 4 cups vegetable stock
• ½ cup heavy cream
• a pile of sage leaves, divided
• salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Directions

Melt butter in heavy large pot over medium-high heat. Add onion; sauté 5-7 minutes. Add garlic; sauté 2 minutes. Add chopped celery and carrots; sauté 10 minutes. Add stock and bring to boil. Add cumin, ginger and sage leaves. Reduce heat, cover partially and simmer until carrots are very tender, about 30 minutes. Cool slightly.

Puree soup with immersion blender. Season with salt and pepper. Stir in cream.

Bring soup to simmer, thinning with more stock, if desired. Ladle into bowls. Top each with a drizzle of walnut oil and a sage leaf. 

Printable Recipe

Tasca

 
I love wine.

I love graze-y, noshy, snacky, wine-filled, conversation-heavy evenings. On frequent occasions I love a destination that is not my or one of my friend's houses that can accommodate such an evening. Surprisingly there are fewer options than one may imagine - especially with quality food (I am not talking about a glass of "house red" and wings here). Obviously A.O.C. is a great option but it usually ends up being a whole THING - kind of dressy, kind of expensive, kind of a scene. There is Vinoteca, in Los Feliz, which is lovely. But it's more of a wine bar in a literal sense - a bar that serves primarily wine with an extensive wine list. They do serve food and it's not horrible - but it's not so great either. Mediocre at best.

Late last Summer I learned about Tasca. I went on a date (I know... it's rare, but it does happen occasionally) with someone who seemingly frequented the place. We were there for dinner. We sat at a table. Date ordered a bottle of wine (after we had a couple glasses of prosecco) and then proceeded to order a slew of menu items, primarily small plates, that came out staggered at a nice pace. We had the Artisan cheese plate with fig & quince paste and fruit & nuts ($12), the charcuterie plate ($14), white anchovies (man do I love an anchovy) served with tomato, hard boiled egg & aoili on crostini ($9), the Boudin Noir - black sausage with sauteed apple & onion ($12), Gambas Al Ajillo - sauteed shrimp in garlic sauce ($11), charred rapini ($5) and a salad of Burrata, heirloom tomatoes, Serrano ham & watercress in a balsamic reduction ($12). I guess we ordered a lot.

The food was perfectly fine if not wildly memorable. I did particularly like the white anchovies and the Boudin Noir. The cheese and chartcuterie plates were just a little weak - uninteresting cheeses that were not entirely ripened, Spanish-inflected but still mediocre choices of cured meats, etc. The shrimp was a little drowny in the (slightly heavy) sauce. The salad was great but I have become admittedly alarmed that it has remained on the menu to this day - when heirloom tomatoes are not in season.
 
The wine list is quite nice. Simple, clean and well priced with a wide selection available by the glass and quite a few nice bottles in the $50 range.

The space is intimate, warm and inviting with nice, subtle lighting and lots of candles. There are about a dozen tables lined along one side of the room with a bar that stretches the entire other side of the room. The music is a little abrasive - or maybe just not my style (Eurotrashy beats) but isn't too loud. The staff is delightful and obliging. The crowd is varied, local, casual, happy, and - it would appear - regulars.

I've been back to Tasca quite a few times since the date last Summer with different people in different contexts - friends, chef-y roommate, Madeline, a possible romantic interest, and even by myself. The more I go the more I dig it. I prefer to sit at the bar and try different wines by the glass with different dishes. On one of my recent visits with - who else, but - Dixon, we tried their roasted tomato soup ($8). It had a beautiful presentation, in a terrine, but was somewhat lacking intrigue and a bit sweeter than I would have liked.

 
We then ordered the baby artichoke salad served with "heirloom" tomatoes over arugula in a Meyer lemon vinaigrette with shaved parmesan ($11). This was a very simple, fresh salad that I quite liked.

 
The most exciting menu item of the evening was the braised short rib served with butternut squash agnolotti ($12). The meat was rich and tender and the agnolotti was decadent, soft and sweet with a brown butter sage sauce drizzled over it. Yum.

 
We tried a few medium to heavy reds throughout the evening. I was fond of the '04 Chateau Le Fleur Bibian Bordeaux ($7) while Dixon went a bit heavier with the Parrone Cabernet Sauvignon ($6). When they have it in stock the Tempranillo ($5) is a great choice as well.

It's nice. I can roll in in my jeans or in a fancy, girlie ensemble. I can be with a friend, multiple friends, a date (ahem), or solo. I can sip and snack. I can graze. I can eat a proper dinner. Hell, last night I just stopped to meet a friend for a couple of glasses of wine. I'm not saying I've found my Regal Beagle, but Tasca has something I've found rarely in LA and something I very much appreciate - a sense of place.

Note: Parking is a bitch but there is valet.

Tasca
8108 W. 3rd St. (at Crescent Heights Boulevard)
Los Angeles
(323) 951-9890
tascawinebar.com