Los Angeles

Headaches are the worst. And if you don't catch them right when they start, they're hard to cure. I've had one for four days. My mom told me to drink lemonade.

Lemonade?

I've taken naps, sat in dark rooms, taken Aleve, even taken Fiorinal. What the eff is lemonade gonna do?

But I was desperate, and unable to operate a motor vehicle, so I walked to Cabbage Patch.

I told them my mom sent me and was convinced they could cure my headache. As if that was a normal thing to say to a cafe owner.

He told me of course they could and prescribed French lentils (which were beautifully presented with avocado and drizzled oil and tasted like they could purify your soul) and told me the mint lemonade was on Dr. Cabbage Patch. 

As I have mentioned, I am a teacher in the LAUSD and this year the budget cuts cost me dearly. I lost the auxiliary class I have taught for the last nine years, and though this class added the stress of an extra preparation, it also padded my wallet, which made it a little easier for me to inure myself to teaching four one-and-a-half-hour classes each day with only two scheduled breaks, twenty and thirty minutes each. Gates and locks define the boundaries of the campus and these gates and locks are not to be opened until the school day ends, so this means that for the last nine years, I have been almost literally chained to my desk.

Not once in nine years have I ever “met a friend for lunch” or gone off campus to “grab a bite.” Since there is really no time to do anything but teach my classes, answer student questions, and make small talk in the bathroom line, I practically live in my little isolated realm. I have packed my little island with the essential modern conveniences like a fridge stocked with berries, Greek yogurt, organic peanut butter, whole grain bread, cheese, water, juice; a kettle to boil water for my coffee and oatmeal; and my iPhone so I can enjoy the promise of at least some contact with the outside world during those two luxurious breaks I get.  A colleague of mine once asked whether I was hiding a Murphy bed in my book closet.

In Persian, Darya means sea

Darya in West L.A. 

I wish my comfort food was as simple as mac and cheese or ice cream with chocolate sauce and gobs of whipped cream.  But I grew up with a Persian mother and nothing makes me feel better than basmati rice with saffron; eggplant and zucchini in a tomato stew with veal; filet mignon kabobs, marinated and then grilled to perfection – the dishes that she raised me on.  Back in high school and even to this day, my friends still invite themselves over for dinner in hopes that my mother will be cooking her legendary rice served with one of her Persian stews.

Marriage is a beautiful thing: the union of two people who perfectly complement one another.  So be it with food.  And what better way to appreciate them both than at Hatfield’s, an epicurean labor of love for husband-and-wife chef team Quinn and Karen Hatfield.

Due to both poor time management and navigational skills, we arrived unfashionably late on a Friday night.  Despite our tardiness, we were graciously welcomed like old friends, albeit old friends who are known for being late.  Bourbon, lemon juice and prosecco played nice (for once) in the perfect, pre-dinner French 95 cocktail.  Flaky cheddar biscuits were served with perfectly spread-able butter, and it is well known that butter serving temperature is an art form not easily mastered.  By the time our delightful amuse bouche of quail eggs and parsnip soup made its way over, we knew we’d be back.