Wexler's Deli at Grand Central Market

A lot has happened since we last checked in at Grand Central Market.  Let's take a peek, shall we?



The Market as a whole was named one of Bon Appetit's ten best new restaurants and New York Times coffee authority Oliver Strand deigned to name G&B's iced latte, made not with dairy but with house-made almond-macadamia milk, the best in the country.  The market has gotten a butcher shop, a juice bar, a kombucha bar (did I just say that?), and outposts of Silver Lake's Berlin Currywurst, West Third's Olio Wood Fired Pizzeria, and Santa Barbara's McConnell's Ice Cream.  The long lines multiply and grow, as does the buzz.



And tucked among the shiny new eateries and GCM stalwarts is Wexler's Deli.  LA was a little slow to pick up the trend of nouveau Jewish delis that pay homage to their predecessors, but Wexler's has come to fill that gap.  By necessity, the menu is small, and thanks to chef Micah Wexler's formal training, as much of it as possible is made in that tiny kitchen.  There are a few sandwiches (corned beef, egg salad, tuna salad), house smoked salmon and sturgeon on bagels from Brooklyn Bagels, and occasional black and white cookies and chocolate babka.













But what everyone wants to know is, how's the pastrami?  And more to the point, is it better than Langer's?  Let's talk it out.

Langer's is a civic institution, and with good reason: their delectable pastrami is arguably the best not just in LA, but in the entire country.  I'm glad to report that there's no sense of competitive one-upmanship at Wexler's.  Instead, Wexler, an LA native, has imbued his deli with a respectful reverence for Langer's -- evidenced by the MacArthur Park sandwich, an edible homage to the #19, with its cole slaw, Swiss cheese, and Russian dressing -- coupled with a soft-spoken confidence rooted in his own high-quality product.


The pastrami at Wexler's is very, very good.  They make it right there in the tiny kitchen, unlike Langer's, who parses out the work to an off-site facility (and purportedly uses liquid smoke in their recipe.  Shudder). Its peppery seasoning is properly biting; its smokiness is just right.  The meat is sliced thick, and balances fat and lean well.  The coleslaw on the Macarthur Park is excellent: its fresh brightness not dimmed by too much tangy dressing.  The rye bread isn't perfect -- it's a little dry, and doesn't have the toasty crust of they rye at Langer's -- but it's still perfectly serviceable.



In any city without a pastrami titan looming over it, Wexler's would be a star.  But, and I'm a little relieved to say this, the sum of the parts of the Langer's sandwich still  somehow come together more harmoniously.  Maybe it's the softer bread, which seems to hold the sandwich's ingredients together in a gentle hug, or maybe it's just the alchemy of a recipe that's stood the test of decades.  But my Wexler's sandwich didn't lead to the tears-in-my-eyes ecstasy that the Langer's sandwich reliably delivers.

But, let's not miss the point here: this rookie player in the LA deli game is no slouch.  We've got a solid contender here.

--
Wexler's Deli is in the Grand Central Market, at 317 S. Broadway.

Grand Central Market: Where pig snout meets eggslut

I have some concerns about Grand Central Market.  I'd like to talk about them.

But I'm getting a little distracted.

the slut, with biscuit

The first time I went to Grand Central Market was probably about a decade ago, when Downtown LA held tons of promise for an urban explosion, but we weren't seeing much yet.  At that time, I noticed a few things.  Grand Central Market was amazing.  A huge, bustling open space, mountains of produce, aromas wafting from pupuserías, taco stands, Chinese steam plate places, and more.  It was a little rundown, but this didn't detract from the magic.  And the vast majority of the clientele were speaking Spanish.

open kitchen

Fast forward to 2013.  As we know, the Downtown prophesies came true.  And, you know where this is going: a somewhat absurd rant about gentrification from the very person the Market's new tenants are there to cater to.  Not the first time.  Indeed, we kill what we love.  The latest additions to Grand Central Market include eggslut, home of the 9 dollar breakfast sandwich, Valerie Confections, beloved bake sale contributors and purveyors of delicious, high-end chocolates, and G&B Coffee, notorious among my circle for the time, back when they ran the coffee service at SQIRL Cafe, that they gave one friend her to-go coffee in a jam jar with a bandana wrapped around it, snickering at her request for half-and-half, then charging her seven dollars for the lot.  Um.

the happiest of breakfasts

So, yeah, I'm all for progress and all, but, as always, I'm conflicted.  But I recently checked out eggslut, and honestly, the food was so delicious that it's hard to scoff.  What I loved was the attention to detail.  I mean, the fat-salt-pork formula is hard to mess up.  But, when someone asked for butter with their warm, tender, perfectly cooked biscuit, the chef made sure the server sprinkled some flaky salt on it before handing it off.  The signature dish -- named The Slut, natch -- a velvety potato puree topped with a coddled egg and served in a jar with crostini on the side, is accented accented with a sprinkle of celery salt.  And, even their simplest bacon, egg, and cheese sandwich is really well-executed and totally satisfying.

g&b

Across the market, G&B now offers actual paper to-go cups.  Their space is laid out like a bar -- you walk up and give your order to a friendly and appropriately dapper barista.  And my little macchiatto, served in a Gibraltar glass and topped with a foamed-milk heart, was wonderful.

hard to sneer at the movement that brought this sunny patio

So, what do we think, kids?  Is Grand Central Market's unique local color doomed?  I for one am not too worried about it at the moment.  There are a few of these new hipstery fancy stands, but for the most part, the populist bustle of the Market remains.  If the attempt here is to turn Grand Central into San Francisco's uber-gourmet Ferry Plaza, happily, it has failed.  Because, just as we were waiting in line for our precious sandwiches, another equally eager line was forming at the stand next door, to order every imaginable part of a pig, from an age-worn, hand-edited sign, all in Spanish.  

trompas y orejas y riñón, oh my!

(And also because I like fancy coffee and slutty eggs.)

--
Grand Central Market is located at 317 S. Broadway, between 3rd and 4th Streets. It's a 5 minute walk from the Pershing Square Red Line station.

My Happy Place: Spring for Coffee

Have you been to Art Walk?  You really should.  The streets downtown fill with all sorts of people looking for fun, every corner seems to have performers banging out the night's soundtrack on plastic buckets, and as the night progresses, every storefront seems to have become a gallery -- tiny, strange, mainstream, street, you name it -- if just for the night.  You might have to stand in line at a small street-art gallery on a side street that a friend takes you to, but it's worth it to see the place that, for this friend, "feels like home" -- his happy place.  It's not odd to see a sign for a "Cleaners/Gallery", and by the time you pass by a barbershop a second time, it's turned into a club, lights dimmed and techno bumping.  Step into the sprawling Last Bookstore, and there's a budding dance floor in there, too.  Downtown's DJs-per-square-footage has to be at a national high on the second Thursday of each month. Our city becomes a little extra charged for a few hours each month.

But you'll want to get there early, especially if you're driving (though seriously, do as I say, not as I do, and take the metro, for Pete's sake).  And before the streets fill with hubbub, you can take a moment.  I've driven past teensy Spring for Coffee a million times, always sad to keep driving.  On this evening, I stepped to the little counter, was greeted by two heavily-tatted zany-friendly baristas, got a delicious cappuccino in a real cup made from beloved Blue Bottle coffee, and plunked down at one of only 3 sidewalk tables.  I tried to read, though who are we kidding -- the peoplewatching was way too compelling.  And it being downtown, I had the occasion to do a Google Image Search on my phone for "crackpipe," just to make sure. (I was right.)

Downtown.  Art Walk.  Spring for Coffee.  Crackpipe.  A night in the life.

--
Spring for Coffee is at 548 S. Spring, on the northeast corner of Spring and 6th.
The Last Bookstore is at 435 S. Spring, on the northwest corner of Spring and 5th.
Crewest is at 110 Winston St., at Main, a block south of 4th.

Petrojvik Blasting Company at Bar 107

Last night, I saw the Petrojvik Blasting Company play at Bar 107. I was just downtown, but I was also kind of in Williamsburg, and for that matter, kind of in Serbia, too.

Last Sunday, I went to the Hollywood Farmer's Market. As I approached the end of the line, where it dissipates into a Calpirg solicitor, a guy peddling pesto out of a squeeze bag, and a few random stragglers, I heard the sound of horns. The source: a tiny klezmer band, singing and blowing their horns for whoever might pass by. Picture young beastie-boyish faces, suspenders, vests, and cropped trousers; the accordionist peering over his instrument to sing the harmony to the trombonist's earnest melody, as the French horn player simultaneously used his heel to pedal a bass drum behind him. Love.

These guys are the Petrojvic Blasting Company. I bought their album right there for five bucks, and eventually stalked them to Bar 107, the weirdest reddest downtown dive. Did not disappoint.

Klezmer is a secret pleasure of mine -- it's the hoydel-doydelest musical genre of all (and in fact may be the source of 'hoydel doydel' itself), so in the extremely rare cases that it becomes hip(ster), it makes me happy. The Blasting Company -- now 8 strong (including two hornblowing women, but minus the banjo that was there at the farmers market) -- got all the downtown goyishe ladies dancing with their sultry oompa stylings.

The accordionist showed some serious chops, the trombonist continued to belt out unintelligible but endearing words in vaguely-Eastern-European-sounding languages, and they all just put on a good show.

and downtown was all asparkle

(also, they are going to play at the bake sale this year. i just decided. they don't know yet. but they will.)

I Heart The Gorbals

There's a part in Jesus is Magic where Sarah Silverman, trying to counter the stereotype that Jewish women aren't sexy, sultrily describes slipping into a slinky negligee, then breaks into a ridiculous, flailing "hoydel-doydel" song and dance.

Can you think of a more hoydel-doydel name for a restaurant than The Gorbals? The whatnow?

The Gorbals is the new restaurant of Ilan Hall, former Top Chef winner and Scottish-Israeli New Yorker. When I first heard the name, I had to snicker at his folly, but when I read about the restaurant's namesake -- the neighborhood in Scotland where Ilan's dad grew up among a diversity of poor, outcast immigrant groups -- its unsexiness became lovable. Then when I heard what the restaurant would be serving: "old Jewish food date-raped by bacon," I was totally smitten. Admittedly, my fascination is more about cleverness than deliciousness; after all, Ashkenazi food doesn't exactly strike me as haute cuisine, but then again, Ilan won Top Chef -- obviously he knows some things about food.

This place is not open yet (though according to Eater LA, it should be opening within the week), but apparently there was a preview a few nights ago. Manischewitz flowed and irreverent bacon-wrapped matzoh balls rolled. And, thank goodness, Ilan's beautiful bubbe was in the house.

[photo nymag.com]
--
The Gorbals is at 501 South Spring St. downtown. Opening soon.

Don't Tell Anyone: The Varnish

Can you keep a secret? It's a really good one. I've discovered a portal into another time and place, but I kind of want to keep it to myself. It's actually a tiny door in the back of Cole's downtown. You step inside, and are magically transported.

Cedd Moses, the guy behind the 213 group of bars downtown that includes the Broadway Bar, Golden Gopher, and Seven Grand, recently brought Cole's into that fold, transforming the century-old cafeteria from 'old' to 'retro' in a truly charming way. And in the back of Cole's, he built the Varnish, a 1920s speakeasy hidden in modern-day downtown.

Though few spots can really be secret these days in Los Angeles, you really do feel like you're in on something with the Varnish. The small windowless space is decorated with old traincar booths and dim lighting (the vibe matches that of the Edison, though much more intimate), and you could swear the music wafting through is coming from a shaky grammophone (more likely an iPod, but let's not talk about it). It's the kind of place that makes you second-guess wearing jeans to go out -- stockings with a seam running up the back of each leg might be more appropriate. And pincurls.

But while the vibe is quite impressive, what goes on at the bar is the thing here. There is fresh produce on ice in a glass case. There are beautiful bottles holding exotic spirits. There are laboratory flasks filled with liquids of all colors. The night when I visited, Marcos was our able bartender. All of us took him up on the 'bartender's choice', and he did not disappoint. We stood rapt as he meticulously concocted a whiskey drink with honey and lemon juice; a Pimm's cup with lots of cucumber and fresh mint; El Diablo, a zingy tequila drink with homemade ginger syrup, seltzer, and a float of scarlet framboise, and the night's winner, something amazing with ginger syrup and lots of fresh mint (muddled really well so the drink had a gorgeous pale green hue), and garnished with a chunk of candied ginger skewered on two toothpicks. Watching this Marcos at work is quite a treat. He mixes each cocktail with focus and perfectionism, then after giving it the most vigorous shaking I've ever seen, he pours it into its glass over a single giant block of ice (preferred over smaller ice cubes because they melt more slowly, preventing the dilution of these precious drinks), then garnishes beautifully and adds the signature metal straw.

Guys, this place is so special. You have to go. I'd recommend a weeknight, as it can get crowded on weekends. In order to avoid a line through the middle of Cole's, though, on busy nights they take your cell phone number and contact you when you've been let in -- civilized, no? So, get there. But please, don't tell anyone about it, ok?

--
The Varnish is at 118 E. Sixth St., at Main, Downtown.

What I Learned at Wine Camp

I drink a lot of wine, but aside from the late-night Spanish wine tips I used to get from Raul and Kenny at Bodega de Cordova, I'm pretty remedial at fancy wine savvy. So, a few Sundays ago, I took a 'wine camp' class offered by Learn About Wine, and it was delightful. In an airy loft Downtown, long tables were set to seat about 50 students. Each setting had 3 small wine glasses and a booklet with the day's lesson, as well as plates of crackers, cheeses, cured meats, and fruit to nibble (to prevent overdoing it on the sauce), and of course, a trusty discard bucket. Ian Blackburn, the owner of the business, drew on his broad experience in the restaurant, wine, and hospitality industries, and his formal training as a wine educator, to lead us through over 2 solid hours of tasting and learning. And learn I did -- there were lots of 'who knew?' moments:

• You don't actually have to be fancy to be interested in wine. My classmates included teachers, families, pharmacists, architects, and of course, entertainment industry people.
  
• The days of meat with red and fish with white are long gone. Try dusting that scallop with dried porcinis and see how well it goes with a Pinot Noir.
  
• Organic wines don't age well -- buy them to drink right away, or don't buy them at all. On the other hand, wines made from organic grapes (or better yet, grapes from biodynamic or self-sustaining vineyards), are a good, good thing.
  
• Whatever Paul Giamatti might have to say about it, I actually really like Merlot.
  
• For a sure bet, just buy from Costco. Apparently their wine buyer cultivates a really great selection.
• On the other hand, be wary at Trader Joe's. You might think you see a familiar label there, but look closely: some wine producers create exclusive blends for TJs from a broader, and so less distinct, region.
• It's a good idea to break tradition when it comes to packaging. Time to throw out that chunk of tree bark and replace it with a reliable screwcap. And while we're at it, why not do away with heavy-to-ship, fragile glass? Instead, how about just taking your own jug to the local wine shop for a refill retro-styles? I like this idea.
• You can taste an entire country in a bottle of wine. A California Chardonnay and a French Chablis may come from the same type of grape, but expect a subtle, mineral flavor from the rainy French countryside, and a sweeter, bolder wine from sunny Cali. (Is our wine betraying our state's inherent obnoxiousness?)
• Wine camp is fun, but I have much to learn: a few popular French and California wines barely scratches the surface. I'm very much looking forward to my wine education.

Wine camp takes place on the first Sunday of each month. Learn About Wine offers all sorts of other classes and events, too.

4 non-food-related things that are really cool

Oh, Los Angeles, you never fail me.

• The Silent Movie Theater. I mean, they show a documentary about tea, complete with an intermission tea party -- a generous serving of rare oolong and home-made potstickers -- on their lovely Spanish patio. They screen Jim Henson rarities, and when the 8pm and 10pm screenings sell out, they add another screening at midnight. There are couches. What's not to love?
  

• Taking the subway to Staples Center. Faster than traffic, easy peasy, drops you off across the street, and if you're lucky, the whole train will break into Bon Jovi's "Wanted, Dead or Alive" mid-commute.

• Tuesday nights at Heartbeat House, an awesome dance studio in Atwater Village. First, JP will whip you into gear with his Latin/hip-hop stylings and sweaty, high-energy beats in his Zumba class. Then Heather gets you to work muscles you didn't know you had, all in the most feminine way, in her Bellydance class. Might be my favorite two hours of the whole week. (They also have an 80s dance party class, people!)
  

• Thai massage. Is the best thing ever. For one, it's cheap ($45 for an hour!). For another, along with all the regular massage stuff, they yoga you. So, not only are you kneaded and smushed, but your sore, stagnant, muscles are stretched in just the right ways. Quite possibly the best, and most effective, massage I've ever had.

[Thanks to KarenLeah for the Silent Movie Theater photo.]

Lagers, Bloggers, and Library Cards

"A fine beer may be judged with only one sip, but it's better to be thoroughly sure.” – Czech Proverb

It is this person’s opinion that the hallmark of humanity is the proper interaction of man with his environment. This doesn’t diminish the wonderment or power of Angel Falls or the Grand Canyon, but they don’t exist as a result of us. It would follow that the greatest food in the world is that which allows the flavors of the world best disclose themselves. Sometimes a juicy peach plucked right from the tree is a paradigm. Other times, we have to intervene and it is our handiwork that best discloses the latent potential of the raw ingredients. Malt, hops and yeast. In their raw state, all of the ingredients, are actually quite repellent. But with patience, artisanship and time, the ingredients Voltron themselves into an elixir called beer. And while the ingredients, in the broad sense, stay the same, subtle changes in temperature, varietal and storage lead to vast differences in result. On Tuesday, June 12, 2007, the panoply of flavors coaxable from malt, yeast and hops were fully showcased.

If one assumed that on an evening called “Bloggers and Beer” one would find bloggers and beer, then one would be right. But I wasn’t expecting the two phenomena to be so partitioned. Most of the bloggers seemed to be aware of each other’s work. The (marginally lit) room at the Library Bar downtown was abuzz with conviviality. The bloggers seemed relatively unified in another fact: no one that I had the chance to speak to knew much about beer. And so, before detailing any of the beers that were actually served, special praise is due to the originator and organizer of the event, self-professed BeerChick, Christina Perozzi. There are probably dozens of people around this city that are at least as knowledgeable and excited about beer but there is no one else who has the ability, utilizing only charisma and erudition, to make you more knowledgeable and excited about beer.

Like any successful multicourse endeavor, the beers were selected and presented in a particular order. When you walked into the bar, you were handed a set of 8 "library check-out" cards – a little slice of adorable – and told to enjoy the beers in the order laid out on the cards. Each card told you the name of the beer, its style, some tasting notes and had room for notes of your own. So as not to occlude your palate, the beers were presented generally in order – starting from lighter and simpler and progressing towards the heavier and more complex. (I say “generally” because I don’t wish to imply that a light beer doesn’t possess complexity, but in terms of complexity, lighter beers tend to emphasize grassy undertones whereas darker beers have fruity/spicy undertones.)

The first beer of the flight was the Craftsman 1903 lager. Without getting overly detailed, there are two types of beers, ales and lagers. The manufacturing process is quite different but the main divergence is that lagers are made at cooler temperatures and ales are made at warmer temperatures. The 1903 was the only lager of the evening. It was a good place to start and many of the people I spoke to declared it their favorite beer of the evening. I sort of get its charms – mild and smooth with some hints of straw and walnuts, but frankly I think the best description of the beer is the “rich man’s Budweiser.”

Along with presenting different styles of beer, Christina was interested in showcasing beers from different areas of the world. Two of the beers, the Blanche de Chambly and the Maudite are Belgian-style ales brewed in Canada. The Blanche de Chambly is a white ale and the Maudite is a strong red ale. Both of them wear their heritage on their sleeves – clearly nodding to the Belgian ales they are modeled on. The Blanche de Chambly was particularly well received by many of the bloggers precisely because it is deep yet approachable. On the surface, it bears some resemblances to Champagne because of the small bubbles and the fruity aroma. When the beer warms slightly its fruitiness becomes more prominent and some of the sourness (presumably from the yeast) dissipates.

The most divisive beer of the night was certainly the Saison Dupont. This was one of two Belgian ales served (as opposed to ales brewed elsewhere in the style of a Belgian beer) and its merits seemed not to disclose themselves to this audience. Most of the people that I talked to felt that the Saison was sour and acidic. Prior to that night, I had actually recommended that particular beer to friends of mine that claim they only like wine. After this evening though, my recommendation was probably mistaken. Maybe my friends were humoring me but the folks that I talked to were definitely mixed. Saisons are an idiosyncratic beer. They are light, yet higher in alcohol than one might expect (although they were traditionally brewed to be quite low in alcoholic content). And there is a distinctive sweetness, like fresh hay, underneath the lemon and pepper. Saison Dupont is a great example of Christina’s willingness to expand the horizons of the attendees. Most people have never tasted a beer of this style and whether one enjoys it or not, they’re at least apt to toast to its uniqueness.

After sampling an excellent porter (Black Butte Porter) and a less than excellent one (Road Dog Scottish Porter) we arrived at the Westmalle Tripel. I don’t think that anyone could deny that this particular beer had the most going on. Now, you may not like what it has going on, but it is a BIG beer. It may not look like much – pale, straw translucence and less carbonation than the Saison – but when brought to your nose, or rather, a foot from your nose, you know you’re in for something different. Christina educated me on the fact that “triple” is actually a name for a style of beer, not (as I had thought) a description of how many times it was fermented. She pointed out that the two phenomena usually dovetail but it isn’t necessarily the case – often one encounters a “triple” that hasn’t been fermented three times. That all said, the Westmalle Tripel is one of the most classic and emblematic of the style.

While high in alcohol, the beer is never overpowering or “spirit-y”. Instead, it combines some of the best aspects of the lighter and darker beers we had during the course of the evening. Eschewing the maltier notes of the previous two porters (because most of the sugar has been turned into alcohol), the Westmalle instead floats on a balance of the two pervasive characteristics of light lagers and dark ales. The straw and pine of some of the lighter examples of the evening are present (a la the Craftsman 1903 and Saison Dupont), as are the headier, spicier smells of the heavier Inversion IPA and Maudite. A fitting culmination of the flavors of the evening where there could have been a de-escalation. Between the camaraderie shared among the bloggers and the celebration of one of our oldest crafts, this evening aptly showed that the attentive interaction of different ingredients results in something worth talking about.

Library Bar is at 630 W. 6th St., at Hope.

Wineries, Mariachis, and Tamales, Oh My!

It's kind of a random connection, but stick with me here: I get excited when I see the word 'featuring'. You hear a song by an artist you know and love, and then come to find out they're collaborating with another artist you know and love. Sean Paul is making music with Rihanna? The kids from N.E.R.D. are hanging out with Mos Def, De La Soul, Common, and Q-Tip? Good Lord! I love it when my friends are friends with my other friends (not that Q-Tip and Pharrell are my friends...I mean, if only...but anyway).

So you can imagine my elation when two of my favorite Los Angeles institutions, the San Antonio Winery and Mama's Hot Tamales, came together this weekend, and I was invited to watch it happen. Sadly my initial introduction to the winery was overshadowed by a little incident outside my apartment, but on that first visit I really fell in love at first sight: with the evocative space, with the warm people, with the rich history, and with the fact that this vital winery, with all the romantic associations that come with one, exists in the industrial backstreets of Los Angeles' downtown. And it's been existing there for 90 years, run by four generations of the same Italian family, and weathering the storm of Prohibition (by producing into sacramental wines for the Catholic church, natch) to be the last winery standing of over a hundred that used to be in the area.

What has persisted is an old-country hospitality that can't be faked, in a space where a tour of the aging rooms and bottling facility is just as eye-opening as a meal in their Italo-Californian Maddalena restaurant is charming. And then there are the wines themselves: they produce lines of varietals and reserves in addition to altar and cooking wines.

So take all this Italy-meets-California goodness, and add tamales to the mix. Mama's Hot Tamales is a unique restaurant overlooking MacArthur Park that is really making a difference in the fabric of its community. Tamales, in varieties spanning every country that traditionally makes them, are at the center of this non-profit co-op. It works like this: backstage at the tamal shop is actually a classroom, where neighborhood residents can get hands-on training on kitchen topics and business management. The idea is that they can come out of the training and open a tamal-centered business of their own, say a tamal cart in MacArthur Park. The benefit is threefold: a historically low-income area of Los Angeles gets a transfusion of local businesses from within its own population (which happens to have a lot of Central Americans); sprawling MacArthur Park which, sadly, has taken a turn downward from its pleasant past to a reputation for guns and drugs, is revitalized into a destination for a sunny walk and some street-cart vended heritage; and everyone gets to eat delicious tamales. Truly a win-win-win.

So Sunday's event was the best of both worlds. Tamaleros from Mama's had come to the winery with a vast variety of mini tamales, wrapped in corn husks or banana leaves, depending on their nation of origin. And the winemakers at San Antonio offered suggested pairings of tamales and wines: several of their own domestics, as well as a bunch from Latin America, Italy, Portugal and Spain. The event had a great turnout, and the cheery crowd was elated as they tasted a Mexican Chenin Blanc with a deliciously slippery bite of a Guatemalan tamal, or the winery's own bright Riesling with the fragrant guava and cheese dessert tamales.

There was even a live tamal-making demo, provided by Ana's Tamales, who specialize in Honduran tamales (think marinated chicken, peas, potatoes, raisins) and are proud graduates of Mama's training program. See? It's working. This makes me happy.

Everyone was so happy, but at one point, they got about a million times happier. Because out of nowhere appeared the best mariachi troupe I have ever seen. Booming voices, smiling faces, trumpets and giant guitar-looking things, endearing choreography, and as if all this was not enough, accidentally-hipster skinny pants! That's right people, we're talking cream of the mariachi crop.

So, what's better, a collaboration between Biggie and Mary J. Blige, or one between inner-city wine and tamales? Tough call, but could you hand me my glass of Riesling and that mole negro thing over there while I think about it? Yeah, thanks.


San Antonio Winery is at 737 Lamar Street, Los Angeles, California 90031.
Mama's Hot Tamales is at 2122 West Seventh Street, Los Angeles, California, 90057. They're only open until 3:30 so get there early!

Saturday night: Summer in the city

We had an action-packed ladies' night on Saturday. I was reeling from all the driving during the day, but was excited about all the fun we had planned. Four girls, three destinations, all in and around Downtown, culminating with dancing. Unbeatable.

First, dinner. We went to Ocean Seafood in Chinatown. I had been here before, for dim sum -- at table after round table, diners pointed at delicious little bites from the many carts that zipped across the huge bustling dining room. Dinner is a lot mellower, but still fun. We walked through the door to the wide curving staircase that leads to the restaurant. Mirrors on all sides, lush carpet under our feet, sparkling chandeliers over our heads. It's ethnic-restaurant fake-fancy taken to an extreme degree. Upstairs, one wall of the lobby area consists of tanks of live dinner - lobsters, crabs, all sorts of squirmy things.

We ordered a few things for the table -- a dim sum sampler, a tofu dish, honey walnut shrimp (that seemed a bit too mayonnaisey for our taste), but the performance highlight was the peking duck. Two waiters roll the shiny lacquered duck out on a cart. There were also a plate of green onions, a dish of sauce, crispy puffed rice chips in pastel colors, and small plates, each of which had a small fluffy rice flour disk on it. One of the servers carved the skin off the duck, and the other made individual bite-size sandwiches -- a bit of sauce on the rice flour 'bun', a chunk of scallion, and a slice of the roasted duck skin, garnished with a pretty rice crisp. I love tableside service! It's like a meal and a little show all in one. So we ate. A lot. And engaged in some serious girl talk, each of dishing about our weekends so far, reliving some drama, seeking boy advice. Good times.

Next stop -- the Hotel Figueroa. This place may be the dreamiest place in all Los Angeles. The best place to spend a summer night. I stumbled on it a couple years back when I decided to give myself the now-famous Self-guided Walking Tour of Downtown Los Angeles (which is to say, I drove downtown and walked around some). It doesn't look like much from the outside, but pass through the front door of the hotel and you walk into some sort of gorgeous den of Moroccan splendor. The decor keeps to the theme, and every detail is beautiful, from the tiles that decked the lobby walls, to the lanterns hanging throughout the veranda. The bar is on said veranda, and people spill out to the tables surrounding the pool. There was a packed crowd on Saturday, and the peoplewatching was exemplary. This place just attracts an interesting clientele -- artsy, stylish, hip, but not too hip. So we had a drink, felt the breeze against our shoulders by the pool, made an appearance at a goodbye party, and swooned over the perfect perfect perfection of the night, the place, and at that moment, the city. And then we left -- we had places to be.

Finally. Dancing! It happens more rarely than I'd like, but it's such a treat to go dancing. The four of us were all on the same page. We didn't want anything too high-brow, just good fun music and no Hollywood scene. So we decided on Gabah. There is no scene here. It's in a borderline-shady bit of East Hollywood, it smells, as Jessica aptly put it, of 'patchouli and pee', and the decor is tacky-tiki -- fake hanging plants and all. But the music was great. Solid hip-hop, lots of old stuff, fun poppy reggae. Serious dance party, nothing pretentious, sweaty and loud.

Spent but giddy, we finally made our way home. Such a successful outing. Good people, great venues, and dancing. Makes me really love this city and all it has to offer, especially on a summer night.

Ocean Seafood is at 750 N Hill St., between Alpine and Ord.
The Hotel Figueroa is at 939 S. Figueroa St., between Olympic and 9th.
Gabah is at 4658 Melrose Ave., a block west of Normandie. Saturday nights is 'Chocolate Bar'.