Los Angeles

Living in Southern California, we enjoy rich ethnic diversity. Those of us who explore culture through cuisine are very happy about that. Located in West Los Angeles, Yabu, which has a devoted following and is a good example of a neighborhood Japanese restaurant. Because Yabu has a much larger, sister restaurant in West Hollywood, when you call to make a reservation, you will be asked to confirm that you want to eat at the Pico restaurant.

You do.

There are lots of chain restaurants with Japanese names, but Yabu's kitchen prepares authentic Japanese comfort food. Serving lunch (Mon.-Sat.) and dinner (Mon.-Sun.), the restaurant is perfect to drop in for a quick bite at the sushi bar or with family and friends to hang out at one of the tables tucked into the corners of the room. Order cups of hot green tea, ice cold bottles of Japanese beers or hot (or cold) sake and try out new dishes as you enjoy easy conversation and good food.

So, I was like, driveen in the valley ‘n’ stuff? And I like drove past a shop that said Artisan Cheese Gallery, ‘n’ stuff? And I was like “wait, did I just, um, this is like the valley, ok?  And I think I jist saw sometheen with the word ‘artisan’ on Ventura Blvd.”.  No way, right? So, I go “maybe I’ll jist turn around and check it out, right?” So, alls I wanted to do was see if I dint eemagine it? 

So anyways, I turn around and park and go in.  Let me tell you darlings, it was as if a magic wand was waved over me, imbuing me with all manner of sophistication.  This was no ordinary cheese shop. It was a ‘gallery’ indeed. The light streaming in from the street reminded me of my days spent in the South of France (NOT). Wooden shelves lined with cheeses that were in their natural habitat of room temperature beckoned for my palate to take the journey.  A sliver of Boschetto with Black Truffles from Italy brought on such a surge of ecstasy through my body, I could have used something to hold on to. A bedpost, perhaps?  I closed my eyes with rapture as I allowed Brie Nangis from France to slowly dissolve on my tongue.

Clementine, the great west-side L.A. charcuterie has amazing candies, too...

Ok, so I love Shirley Temple.  Anyone who thinks I’m a sap can eat me.  She was a genius.  There’s never been a child performer who could do what she did.  At the age of 3, she could sing, dance and act. 

When she uh, matured, one of the many things she did was a television show called Shirley Temple’s Storybook. It ran from 1958-1960. She did all the classics and even starred in some of them. 

As young as I was, I was aware of the schism between her matronly plumpness and the tight fitting costumes she squeezed into as she appeared as The Little Mermaid among others.  But, that never diminished my love for her.

One for the Table has never engaged in deliberate snarkiness. I’ve certainly avoided it as I scrupulously adhered to the motto “if you can’t say anything nice…” But, in this economy, I find myself being a bit cranky when certain chefs hold themselves to a particular standard and humiliate others on national television, when they themselves have a restaurant that is pitiful. Gordon Ramsay has set himself up as the arbiter of quality, but after eating at The London twice now, I can tell you The Emperor has no clothes on.

The first time I went there, I was really excited to have the English Breakfast. I loves me sausages. What I got were these dry, jerky-like, lukewarm salt tubes accompanied by a roasted tomato whose flavor was incomprehensibly bad. How can you mess that up?

The second time I went was because my daughter’s admissions counselor for the college she’ll be attending in the fall was staying at the Bel Age hotel where The London is located. Looking over the menu, I felt like a pinball being battered around from bad choice to bad choice.