C&C: Dupont Circle

Cappuccino and Croissant, Dupont Circle Farmers Market Edition. Unfortunately/fortunately, they do not have a coffee vendor at this charming Washington DC farmer's market, as coffee can not be found growing within 150 miles of the market (don't they know caffeine is the exception to the local rule?!). Nonetheless, there is an Illy coffee shop within a walk, which itself was a treat: I love their artist-rendered cups, and the shops don't exist in LA. A worthwhile mini-escape from the Share Our Strength conference, and good caffeine and sustenance to start off my day shucking collards on the farm.

smartbike DC is a Good Thing

C&C: Euro Caffe

[i must disclaim, not only is there no picture for this one, but also i'm writing it from memory, from a day over 6 months ago. but still, it really was the quintessential cappuccino and croissant experience, and must be documented.]

I've passed by Euro Caffe a million times, but never gave it much thought. I don't spend too much time in Beverly Hills, and besides, the name sounded kind of uninspired to me. Then came my niece's birthday party. Driving down Little Santa Monica on a Sunday morning last July, I saw a crowd of guys in Italian soccer jerseys congregated outside one of the shops. I'd been following the World Cup, not because I'm a huge sports fan, but for reasons best demonstrated by this adorable Adidas commercial. Charmed by the internationalness of it all, and taken by all things Italian, as I am, it was a very exciting sight indeed. I made a point to go back to this place soon.

I made it over there on a weekend morning a while later, and I was not disappointed. The moment I walked into the nook of a cafe, the magic began. Sitting on the ledge of the bar, in the shadow of a giant copper espresso machine, a tray of croissants was cooling. They were perfectly browned and not too big. No crescent curve in these, but each had a sprinkle of coarse sugar baked into its crust. I breathed in the warm buttery scent, and stepped inside.

The tiny place was furnished in sharp Italian stylings, with the walls plastered with soccer paraphernalia. A flat-screen television buzzed some soccer game in the background. Behind the counter, someone was throwing oranges into a juicer. And one of the few small tables inside, a couple regulars were chatting with each other and the proprietor. They were older men -- one wore a hat -- and while not all of them were Italian, all had ties to the country, as their conversation revealed.

As I sat down and tasted my croissant, swooning over that taste, that caramelly taste of burnt butter, a couple walked in. It was actually someone I knew -- a distant relative, Iranian, but grew up in Italy -- and his fiancee. Both of them dashing and perfectly appointed (popped collar, designer shades, the whole nine), they greeted the crew warmly and sat down to what was clearly their regular Sunday breakfast.

I quietly eavesdropped on the little gathering (not that it was difficult -- they pretty much took over the place) and savored a perfect cappuccino. Served in a warmed cup, the coffee was rich and almost chocolaty, without being too bitter. I scooped up a bit of dense foam with the crust from my croissant, and watched the convivial scene unfold in front of me. For an Italophile wannabe like myself, Euro Caffe, unassuming in the middle of Beverly Hills, was perfetto.


Euro Caffe is at 9533 Santa Monica Blvd. That's Little Santa Monica, between Camden and Rodeo in Beverly Hills (and yes, as its location implies, it's a bit spendy. But so, so lovely).

C&C: Little Next Door

I've never been to Paris. But of course, I'm taken in by its mystique thanks to countless filmmakers, novelists, artists, and even food bloggers. I've never had the cliched Parisian experience of languishing for hours at a sidewalk cafe, sipping wine, smoking cigarettes, writing in your moleskine, and finding yourself. Or rubbing elbows with quotidian fashionistas as a charming grocer hands you the perfect peach at a sidewalk market. I mean, this is the land that inspired Annie and Eric to smuggle no fewer than fourteen cheeses (imagine that gloriously stinky suitcase!) back home. Of course I'm smitten.

Paris is a little far away for a day trip, but I can play pretend. The other day as I was sitting on the patio at Little Next Door, enjoying the perfect breakfast, Parisian cliches came to life before my eyes! There was a woman sitting behind me, wearing hot pink stilletos and smoking her cigarette through a slim black holder. There was an unreasonably handsome man in a beret humming loudly to himself.

The cozy shop is appointed perfectly to be the quintessential Parisian cafe, plucked from the streets of Montmartre (or so I imagine). One wall is lined with jars and jars of homemade preserves and pickles: fig jam, preserved lemons, pickled pearl onions, and tiny jars of harissa with cheerful orange rubber washers. The opposite wall houses the extensive wine collection, and in between are pastries, chocolates, charcuterie and cheeses, fresh-baked breads, and more. Everything beautiful, everything evocative.

Even my croissant was a bit of a gamine. The flirty thing came on a vintage plate adorned with roses and hummingbirds, and somehow its twists and curves were a bit more curly, a bit prettier than usual, and it had the lush taste and texture to go with it. It really was a gorgeous thing. And its golden crust was the perfect scoop for the rich foam atop my bowl of cappuccino.

As my neighborhood slowly turns into pretend Europe, it gets easier to get lost in the illusion. Or maybe I just am getting more willing to make believe.

[Incidentally, this character is spending New Years in Paris and Amsterdam. Hopefully he'll share some stories so I can swoon over the city even more.]

Little Next Door is at 8142 W. Third Street, one block west of Crescent Heights.

C&C: La Maison du Pain

Knowing how I stalk the Wilshire Vista neighborhood, someone turned me on to an LA Times article* about a year ago: two Filipino (Filipina?) sisters had opened a French bakery on Pico, just east of Hauser. Their experience was in accounting and bookkeeping, so this certainly wasn't the obvious path, but they had a dream and wanted badly to make it happen. The article was interesting because as it was written, they were in the thick of the struggle. They juggled debts while scrambling to fill orders for Beverly Hills hotels; they had nephews and cousins helping out in the kitchen; they lost sleep and hoped and prayed, but they were not out of the woods. It was almost like the author was using the article as a plea, to get people to go to the bakery and make sure they thrive.

It appears to have worked. A year later, I (finally!) made it into this friendly bake shop, and I must say, you are pleasantly knocked out by the sweet smell of the place the minute you walk in. Its style is minimalistic, but the gorgeous baguettes, financiers, tarts, and fresh loaves of all sizes, coupled with the smiling faces behind the counter, are decoration enough. One wall is a large window on the shop's prep area, revealing a pair of Kitchen-Aids standing side-by-side, one black, one white, like the bride and groom atop a wedding cake. Beside them sat a cast-iron pan filled with apples, waiting eagerly to become a tarte tatin.

Although there is no coffee on the menu (in fact there is no menu, other than the display case itself), cappuccino is indeed available. Mine came presweetened, and I took it and my croissant to one of the small tables outside. The croissant was a hefty thing, and this concerned me: large ones are often reminiscent of the Costco variety. It had a little dampness going on inside, but the crust had some body, and it definitely had that taste, the subtle but amazing flavor of browned butter that, in the world of croissants, separates the hommes from the garçons.

The cappuccino was similarly virtuosic. The espresso was strong, but not bitter, and the milky foam tasted straight off the farm. People go to fancy avant garde restaurants in Barcelona, make reservations 2 years in advance, to experience foams flavored like carrots or nutmeg. But here it was on Pico, sitting scooped on a rusk of croissant: airy froth with just a mellow afterthought of coffee flavor.

As I sat and had my breakfast, a steady stream of people walked in and out of La Maison du Pain. It's inspiring to know that with a lot of hard work and a loving support, and a generous nod from the local paper, the sweetest of dreams can come true.

La Maison du Pain is at 5373 West Pico Boulevard, 1 1/2 blocks east of Hauser.


* That article is no longer available for free, but here is another one from the about same time from the Phillipine News Online.

Cappuccino&Croissant

And thus begins a series on a simple but transcendent topic: cappuccino and croissant. It's a small breakfast that, for me, fulfills a need for both indulgence and utility. The indulgence is a balanced one: granted a good croissant is a miracle of layer upon flaky layer of buttery pastry, but it's not too sweet. There are no extraneous flourishes like chocolate or marmalade, no chintzy accessories to stand between me and that perfect crisp of browned buttery deliciousness. And the cappuccino, lightly sweetened, is similarly fundemental: the foamy head is just enough understated luxury. There's no need for saccharine syrups or heavy whipped cream when you get to savor the rich flavor of espresso. The combination is simple sustenance, elevated to sophisticated refinement.

This breakfast's utility comes from its accessibility. Nearly anywhere you might go in the western world, you can get some local version of this combination. I have been lucky enough to enjoy this little treat at a funky hotel in Montecatini Terme, Italy, and at a stylish cafe in the Munich airport (punctuated by a petite square of dark chocolate... What? I had to fill the 6 1/2 hour stopover somehow!). But the classic case was in London.

I was there for a family gathering, and in fact, much of said family -- at least 8 people, as I recall -- were staying in my aunt's smartly decorated, but modestly sized home in the city. It was really fun to be with all these cousins and aunts and uncles, but nights of party after party at my uncle's house, followed by restless jetlagged sleep on air matresses that deflated in the middle of the night, were taking their toll on all of us. I was going a little crazy, and needed to get out. I had noticed a building a short walk from our surrogate home that looked intriguing. It was a bizarre marvel of architecture, with a wild combination of brightly colored brick, tile and stained glass, all contributing to an unlikely theme: the Michelin Man*.

I walked over one morning, and still a bit bewildered by the building and what it was doing there, was dazzled by what the airy, sunlit ground floor held: a high-end florist stand churning out huge chic arrangements flanked a sparse, modern coffee bar. It's been a few years, but what stays with me about the place is that everyone seemed to know exactly what they were supposed to be doing: there was an overwhelming sense of order. It was like the essence of a perfect cafe was plunked down from the heavens to be my personal Zen retreat.

I sat down with a book at the corner of the bar, and ordered my usual. I pulled off pieces of the rich croissant, and with each sip from my cappuccino, I gradually regained my sanity. By the end of my little escape, I was steeled and ready to face the challenge of family togetherness.

So, obviously these simple coffee and pastry moments are quite special. So with this I'm going to begin documenting them. The menu out of the way, I can focus on details: the hard crunch of coarse raw sugar embedded in the glossy golden crust at one place, or the two men at the next table going through an agonizing break-up at another. Basically, I get to focus on two of my favorite things: coffee culture, and minutae. I think this will be fun. And verbose.

*Thanks to the magnificent Internet, I now know that that peculiar building was commissioned by the Michelin Tyre Company [sic -- hey, it's Britain] in 1909, and now houses a restaurant called Bibendum. Apparently Bibendum is the Michelin Man's real name (who knew?).