Why I Won't Be At the Next No Cookie Left Behind Bake Sale

There is a No Cookie Left Behind bake sale coming up Saturday, and I won't even be there.  I'm cutting the cord on this one, and couldn't be happier about it.  You see, since we started holding our bake sales in 2007, they've grown into a community event.  They are pretty much inseparable from Scoops and the surrounding neighborhood, and they just wouldn't be right without Tai watching over the operations with his smiley goodwill.  Our baked goods come from neighborhood businesses like Lark Cakeshop, Spork Foods, and Large Marge Sustainables, and with the advent of the raffle last year, we've even been able to bring local non-food businesses, like The Echo and Pal Cabrón, into the mix.  Ours is an East Side bake sale, held by eastsiders (which isn't to say all aren't welcome:  we open our arms and tables full of sweets to any and all who want to join us!).

So, when people started telling us during the Haiti bake sale that we ought to have a bake sale on the west side, or in Orange County, it just seemed strange to us.  We didn't want to.  Schlepping this operation to someone else's community just didn't jibe with what works so well for our bake sales.  It got me thinking though.

Our bake sale is designed to bring community together.  But it doesn't have to be my community.  Any community can have a bake sale, and it'll be a wonderful thing wherever it happens to be.  After this revalation, I was prepared to respond to those suggestions.  So, the next time someone told us to have a bake sale on the west side, we'd tell them, "No thanks, but you should have a bake sale on the west side."  And we'd mean it.

I love the idea of planting a seed for local events in communities all over.  It's been a goal for the last year or two:  to convince someone -- even just one person -- to hold a bake sale in their own neighborhood, then provide them the support and the knowledge we've gathered over the past few years, to help empower them to make it happen.  Miraculously, someone has taken me up on it.

A couple months ago, I'd never met Jen.  She sent me an email back in June of 2010, suggesting we do a bake sale on Abbott Kinney.  True to form, I didn't respond March of this year, a full nine months later.  Buzzing off our first bake sale meeting for the year, I checked the old bake sale email address and happened to see her message sitting there, and decided I'd try my new line on her.  A couple days later, an 8.9 earthquake hit the coast of Japan.  I got a reply from Jen: "Given the tragedy in Japan, I think we have to!"  Yes.

Meeting each other over coffee in Echo Park (Jen graciously made the big trek east) went swimmingly.  We found mutual connections, traded restaurant recommendations (Jen has since tried dreamy Robata Jinya, I have yet to make it to Red Medicine), commiserated over boys, and planned her bake sale! And this bake sale is going to be awesome.  It takes place at Tortoise General Store on Abbott Kinney, and Jen has rounded up baked goods from plenty of home bakers, plus a few local businesses (Gjelina and Platine Cookies -- nothing to scoff at) and one very un-local but lovely business:  Seattle's Theo Chocolate.  And of course, dear Lesley over at Chow Balla will be providing her now-legendary maple bacon popcorn. I'm so excited that Jen is making this happen.

So, please come by the bake sale on Saturday -- even better if you whip up a batch of cookies and bring it along.  You'll be supporting Japan and No Cookie Left Behind, but also you'll be supporting Jen.  We'll be back in June with our regularly scheduled east side bake sale, but in the meantime, she's taking the first step in creating a brand new hub of goodwill, good times, and deliciousness in her own community.  But she can't do it without the community itself. 

--
Some links:
The No Abbott Kinney Cookie Left Behind Facebook event (Accept it!  Tell your friends!)
The No Cookie Left Behind webpage.
Our Facebook page.  (Like it!)
Our Twitter.  (Follow it!)

Ich Bin Ein Hipster: Berlin Currywurst

Here's the thing about Berlin Currywurst:  its location is perfect.  Should we be surprised that Silverlakers are fascinated with this little slice of hip urban Germany in the middle of Sunset Junction?  I mean, if this place existed on the west side, say, or in the valley, would anyone be impressed with the space's cool minimalist feel, their commitment to organic ingredients, or the co-owner's totally awesome haircut?

But as it stands, everyone who walks into the tiny space  -- cleaned up considerably since its time as a beloved pupusería -- seems to just 'get it'.  A guy in a fedora chats up the disarmingly handsome young German couple who do triple duty as owners, waiters, and cashiers, waxing poetic about his own time in Berlin, getting nostalgic not only about currywurst, but that lovely young German girl who who got away.  A young couple lets their two towheaded boys run around the restaurant while they chat with the owners in German.  Another guy asks about the restaurant's furnishings, and comes to find out that the awesome industrial-looking chairs have been acquired over years, while the tables -- wood tabletops on legs made of metal piping -- were created by a friend of the owners.  Of course.

Berlin Currywurst's menu, scrawled across one chalkboard-painted wall behind the counter, consists of two things:  fritten, nubby chunks of hand-cut french fried potato; and the namesake currywurst.  Currywurst is a German street food consisting of bite-sized chunks of sausage drenched in curry sauce and sprinkled generously with spicy curry powder.  While the menu seems sparse, you have many options:  you can choose from a variety of sausages (pork, veal, beef, and chicken are represented in various combinations, in addition to two different tofu options), and several flavors of curry, all made in-house (I went with a daily special of orange-ginger, but you might try chipotle or jambalaya).

The fritten have a rich real-potato taste. They come topped with lots of black pepper, and if you choose, you can add grilled onions or jambalaya sauce.  The gnarliest, most roughly cut are the best ones, as they're crisped through in all those well-browned nooks and crannies. The real prize at Berlin Currywurst is to take one of those crisped chunks of potato, pull it through the warm curry sauce from your wurst, then dip it in mayonnaise: spicy, fried, salty, and creamy, all in one bite.

Which brings us to the other thing about Berlin Currywurst.  Essentially, you're getting street food in a sit-down restaurant.  The cornerstone of the menu is heavily spiced sausage (you can order yours at a heat rating from 1 to 4, and 3 and 4 are not available to children), and it's served with deep fried potatoes.  Your only utensil is an adorable wooden pitchfork of sorts.  All this is bliss when you're wobbling out of the bar at 2 o'clock in the morning, but this place is for daylight hours: don't be shocked when the bill comes and you're out 13 bucks.  Of course, there's a reason for the price:  they use high-quality organic ingredients, and the offerings are generous (along with a hefty portion of wurst, you get a slice of their hearty homemade bread, too).  The thing is, I'm here for dinner and my judgement is not clouded by way too many tequilas.  I just wish they had some vegetables.

But still, between the comforting food, the great space, and the welcoming service, the place has a nice feel.  And the fact that they've managed to bring a novel ethnic food item to Los Angeles in 2011 is impressive in itself.  So, Berlin Currywurst, welcome to Silver Lake.  We love your aesthetic, and your saucy, spicy chunks of sausagey goodness.  We also love vegetables.

--
Berlin Currywurst is at 3827 Sunset Blvd, at Hyperion, in Silver Lake.

cook and bake. eat and laugh.

In the last month, I was on some sort of high.  I'm not sure exactly how or why, but for a good two weeks, I was bubbling over with happiness in a totally abnormal way.  I was buzzing, humming, flying.  I'd wail at the top of my lungs on the way to work, declaring along with the Cold War Kids that from now on, I'll be royal blue (seriously people, get their new album).  I'd go shopping, and everything would look amazing on me!  I couldn't wait to get home so I could dance around like a crazyperson.  The sun was shining; the world, and my life, were magical.  It was like everything positive I'd heard, read, seen for the last year that I just wasn't ready to believe had finally sunk in. 

It didn't last.

I didn't expect it to.  These things come and go.  But I discovered something.  There are things I can do to keep the magic going, to stretch it out as far as it'll go.  And a night like last Sunday, when my kitchen was filled with new friends baking and cooking and telling stories, then my living room was filled with the warmth of even more friends, laughing, gossipping, cooing over the day's work, moaning contentedly over its deliciousness -- well, if that kind of magic doesn't get you, you must be a robot.  What I discovered is that one major ingredient for keeping my world amazing is opening my home to good people: cooking, eating, and laughing together.

I won't bore you with how I'm connected to lovely Victoria, who designs beautifully sweet stationery as paper & type, or to sweet Satsuki, who designs handmade (by her!) goods as zakka nouveau.  I'll just say that through the magic of Twitter (I know), the three of us planned a baking day in my kitchen.  It was amazing to watch these women work.  Victoria had a conscientious meticulousness as she sliced lemons and rolled out perfect dough (then pierced the bottom of the crust in beautiful geometric patters -- no matter that her handiwork would be covered in lemon curd), and Satsuki lilted around the kitchen with natural ease, chatting happily as she formed pudgy little hamburger patties by hand.  Don't be fooled by their delicate appearance: there is strength, intuition, and wisdom shining through these two.

We cooked all day.  I was in charge of the blood orange galette, Victo made a sunny lemon tart, and Satsuki took on the main course of Japanese hamburgers with sesame snowpeas and completely-from-scratch miso soup.

Satsuki's contribution was especially a treat.  For one, it turns out she is an encyclopedia of simple Japanese food preparations, and had brought with her specialty ingredients from at least 3 different stores:  the freshest bonito flakes ever, the cutest bundle of buna shimeji mushrooms, powdered beet sugar, and two kinds of seaweed -- one imported from the motherland.  And that's just some of her loot.  But also, we got to recreate a variation of one of the recipes she posted, with quirky hand-drawn instructions for each step, on her blog.  Though we went with snowpeas, her okra goma-e recipe is versatile enough for a variety of vegetable options.

The joy in the place multiplied when our dinner guests arrived.  Four giggling girls brought with them a new wave of infectious positivity, not to mention homemade kale chips (sprinkled with fleur de sel, bien sur -- it pays to work at Spice Station!), which we inhaled, and sweet-like-candy farmer's market dates.

We sat on the floor around my coffee table (our places marked by beautiful hand-written placecards compliments of miss Victo), drinking cheap sake out of tacky shot glasses, oohing and ahhing over every course, and smiling from the inside out.

The happiness-high of the past month made one thing clear to me.  The psychobabblers and spiritualists are totally, completely, absolutely right:  if you take the time to nourish yourself with quality, you will get results.  Nourishing, quality literature* and music get me pretty far.  But sharing in the slow preparation and eating of delicious, real foods with high-quality people goes an extra step to nourish both body and soul.

Hey, here are some recipes:
 - Blood Orange Galette with salted caramel sauce, from Lottie+Doof.  (Do you know this blog?  You should.  Totally crushworthy.)
 - Lemon Tart, from Design*Sponge
 - Satsuki's Okra Goma-e, from Zakka Nouveau (For snowpeas:  Trim the end and cut into bites.  Cook for a few quick minutes in a pot of boiling water.  Chill snowpeas, and add sesame and other ingredients just before serving.)

--
* I recently started reading Jonathan Lethem's Fortress of Solitude.  Halfway into the first page, I decided not to finish the other novel I was in the middle of.  My god, life is too short to waste time on mediocre pap when there exists writing that is so achingly, deliciously good.

how can you not love aziz ansari?

Just got the incredibly dreamy Italy issue of Bon Appetit magazine (thanks mom!), and whose napkin scrawlings did I find gracing the last page, but those of Aziz Ansari?  There's an extra interview with him on the Bon Appetit website, and it's the most lovable thing ever.  How can you not love a guy who namechecks Alegría on Sunset and basically recites the Animal menu by heart for a national magazine? This guy is clearly so passionate about food and about Los Angeles.  What is hotter than that?

Here's the interview.

Cracked the Code: Bar Covell

The boys that run Bar Covell in Los Feliz have figured it out:  Girls like wine.  And girls like stylish, charming boys.  And once you have the girls, you'll bring the boys.  Boys like girls.  Oh, and boys also like beer.  Et voila, with this knowledge, they have cracked the code on bar success (right, because that's all it takes, Tannaz).  Even on a Wednesday night, the place buzzes with an energetic and beautiful crowd, and it's no coincidence.

The wine list is small at Covell, but the bartenders will engage you.  I've only seen the same three guys behind the bar: one owns the place, the other is the wine director.  The third, I don't know his position or pedigree, but this tall man leans in close, smiles with every word, and is a picture of wine knowledge, charisma, and undeniably alluring personality.  They dress as a wine and beer bartender in the heart of hipster country ought to: button-downs, vests, an occasional bow-tie... and tennis shoes.  And as soon as you walk up to the bar, a conversation rooted in your personal tastes on wine (or beer) ensues:  a miniature wine-therapy session that culminates in tasting a wine or two expressly selected to suit your taste, leading to the perfect glass.  Seriously, these guys know what they're doing.

Tonight, I had a glass of a Galician blend  -- spicy and fruity, but not too sweet -- that suited my palate, long ago trained on Spanish wines, just fine.  It eventually came with an unorthodox lesson in stemware from our dear bartender:  Sip the same wine from the bulbous bowl of a Burgundy glass and from the longer, leaner Bordeaux glass, and you will taste a difference.  Science meets poetry as the voluptuous bowl brings out the more 'feminine' floral notes in wine, while the slender glass accentuates the the spicier, more forward 'masculine' tones.  These are the kinds of lessons you learn at Bar Covell:  it's enough to make a lady blush! (I mean, not really.  Well, maybe some ladies would blush, but who would want to drink wine with those squares anyway.)

As if this were not enough, the decor in the place is impeccable:  dim light, a collection of vintage cameras resting on shelves made of stacked books on one wall, an old motorbike mounted on another.   And behind the bar, a section of cool black subway tile holds a perfect row of shiny chrome beer taps:  an Allagash, a Tripel, and a hefeweizen, in much good company.

There's food to be had, and though it can be pricey, you won't be disappointed:  gooey croques monsieur or mac and cheese, a traditional tortilla española fried in olive oil, Heirloom LA flatbreads, cheese and charcuterie plates, and a croissant bread pudding that will one day break my resolve -- just a few. 

Maybe it's because of the bartenders' demeanor, but something makes the crowd in this place extra friendly, and extra interesting.  You're surrounded by the beautiful hipster elite, but on a given night, you might exchange stories with a just-out-of-jail magician (true story), a freckled local musician, or a guy who runs his own local brewery and hosts free barbecues for the community throughout the summer.  It just feels good to be in this place.  Can we please make plans to go? 

--
Bar Covell is at 4628 Hollywood Blvd., 1 block east of Vermont.

What You're Doing Today: Bake Sale for Japan

Not sure what you're doing today?  Good, I'll tell you.  This morning, you'll be going to one of seven bake sales strewn throughout the city raising funds for Japan.  If you go to the one at Black Cat Bakery on Fairfax, you can sample Lesley's crazy delicious bacon caramel popcorn.  If you go to the one at Forage in Sunset Junction, maybe you'll try one of my blood orange bars.  And there's no doubt that there will be plenty of other delicious things at the bake sales at Akasha, BLD, Angeli Caffe, Brentwood Country Mart, and the Chefs Center in Pasadena. 

And whichever bake sale you go to, the proceeds will be going to Peace Winds Japan, an organization headquartered in Japan and dedicated to providing "necessary support to people in need" since 1996.

Come on, guys, it's a no-brainer.  It's a bake sale. For Japan. Get there. Duh.

(And speaking of bake sales for Japan, stay tuned for details on a No Cookie Left Behind bake sale for Japan coming soon!  ON THE WEST SIDE! But in the meantime, go to this one today.)

--
All of the LA Bake Sales for Japan take place from 10 am to 2 pm.  More info here.

Happy Birthday to Golden State

Monday night at Golden State was pretty much like any other night at Golden State.  You walk in, you're greeted with earnest warmth, you invariably run into someone you know, and mouthwatering food, Scoops ice cream, and a ridiculously good beer list are all at your disposal.  Except last night, the kitchen guys relinquished the grill so that Mexicali Tacos could take over, and instead of burgers, they were vending cachetadas, vampiros and other awesome/exotic combinations of grilled tortillas, melted cheese and copious amounts of meat (more details on the food here).  After all, it was a celebration:  The Golden State turned two years old on Monday!

It was good to be there.  I've felt like a part of Golden State since the very beginning.  I was there at Jason's mom's house, when Samir made the very first incarnation of The Burger, and then expected us to put into words how delicious the thing was in focus-group-esque questionnaires that helped determine the menu that the cafe still offers today. (We also got a taste of the legendary beer affogato:  Jolly Pumpkin's dark ale, mulled with spices, reduced to a syrup, and poured hot over Scoops brown bread ice cream. Unholy good.)

When they painted the outside of the shop, I dragged myself out of bed and up Fairfax to come take photos.  I hung around during back-and-forth with contractor after contractor.  Over months, I heard every detail of city codes, regulations, and licenses, and began to wonder if the restaurant would ever open. 

Open they did, and I was there the first night (pictured above).  It became my go-to when I was hungry for food and socialization.  I could walk the three blocks from my apartment and know I'd be among friends.  Jason would chat about beer, I'd get updates from Jim as he went from newlywed to homeowner, to dog owner, to dad, and when they were busy, Rene would entertain me between grilling burgers with his absolutely nonsensical conversation.  I even did a stint behind the counter one afternoon!  After my first taste of the Golden State Salad, I chided Jason and Jim about my new least favorite thing amidst a menu of knockouts.  We almost got in a fight that day, but now it's our joke:  they threatened to name it after me, and now every time I go in there, they offer me a Sassooni Salad.

When I did a blog mash-up with Food Marathon, taking him through my hood, I made sure gstate was on the itinerary.  We were greeted there by my dear friend Nick -- Jim's brother visiting from New York, and after a bunch of other friends showed up still reeling from dinner at animal, an after-hours dance party erupted in the place.

Jim and Jason kindly contributed to No Cookie Left Behind the last 2 years (though they had to hold down the fort at the restaurant during the actual event); they've been nothing but supportive.  They hooked me up with bake sale contributor Kristin Feuer of Bakelab (back when it was Laurel Avenue Bakery) after she brought them a box of cookies, unprompted, to sell at the restaurant.   And after the 2009 bake sale, satisfied, but totally spent from a full day of bake sale action, nothing felt better than plopping down in their familiar dining room, sipping a cold beer, and watching the Lakers beat the Magic in the playoffs. 

It's pretty amazing.  A couple knuckleheads don't have a mite of experience with restaurants, but have excellent taste and undeniably keen intuition.  And within 2 years, their place is named one of Jonathan Gold's 99 Essential Los Angeles Restaurants. Though I don't live in the neighborhood anymore, the Golden State is essential to me, too, and for me it's also a source of great pride in my friends.  Here's to many more beers, many more burgers, and many more years of success for Jim, Jason, and the Golden State Cafe.

--
Golden State Cafe is located at 426 N. Fairfax Ave., 1 1/2 blocks north of Beverly.

Irlandais

I hate green beer.  I don't see the point of adhering to a theme at the lowest, least clever level.  Also it looks gross and unappetizing.  (I also hate green mac and cheese, and green butter, and all the other green things our otherwise incredible commissary at work manages to churn out on Shrek days.  Come on, we're adults.  Is this really necessary?)

When it comes to unnaturally green foods, I draw the line at grasshopper pie (though you won't get me to scoff at this truly incredible fresh mint ice cream (I know it looks pale yellow in the photo.  Trust me, it's beautiful pale green.  And insanely good.)).  I like to weave in themes other ways.  More subtle ways.

So, after a delightfully Irish coworker invited me to an office hallway St. Patrick's Day celebration, my thoughts didn't go in the direction of sickly green hors d'oeuvres or sweets.  As usual, they went to cheese.  I decided to take a classic French recipe for gougeres, fluffy savory cheese puffs, and replace the cheese with an Irish cheddar.  Delicious idea.

I came home with a pretty special cheese:  it's an Irish cheddar, but flavored with porter beer, giving it the look of chunks of cheese marbled with deep brown porter.  In the store, it seduced me with its prettiness, but when I got home, I freaked out a little.  What if this brown cheese makes my gougeres look like little turds?  I forged ahead, resolving that I would take them anyway:  if they are delicious, and I have put work into them, what's a little turdish-looking-ness among friends?  Better than throwing away perfectly good food.

Well, it turns out they look beautiful and not at all turd-like!  A deep golden brown, with pockets of gooey cheese and a sprinkling of cracked black pepper on each.  This is my way of cooking for St. Patrick's Day. 

--
And if you're hankering for a little more Irish-ish, how about some fancy cranberry fennel soda bread?

Irish Porter Cheddar Gougeres
adapted from Gourmet

1 1/2 cups coarsely grated Irish Cheddar cheese with porter

For pâte à chou (cream-puff pastry)
1 cup water
1 stick (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, cut into small pieces
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup all-purpose flour
3 jumbo eggs, or 4 to 5 large eggs

black pepper

In a heavy saucepan bring water, butter, and salt to a boil, then lower heat to medium.  Add flour all at once and beat with a wooden spoon until mixture pulls away from side of pan, about one minute.

Transfer mixture to a bowl, and beat in all but one egg, 1 at a time, beating well after each addition (You can use a mixer for this, but a wooden spoon works fine).  Batter should be stiff enough to just hold soft peaks and fall softly from a spoon. If batter is too stiff, in a small bowl beat remaining egg lightly and beat into batter a little at a time, until batter is desired consistency.

Preheat oven to 375°F.

Lightly grease 2 baking sheets or line with parchment paper or foil.

Stir cheese into pâte à chou.  Arrange level tablespoons about 1 inch apart on baking sheets. Sprinkle tops of gougères with black pepper and bake in upper and lower thirds of oven, switching positions of sheets halfway through baking, 30 minutes, or until puffed, golden brown and crisp.

A note on yield:  The original recipe says it makes about 40.  I must have been generous with my tablespoons, as I got about 32.  Guess it depends how big you want your gougeres.

We Jumped Over Fire

I celebrate new years three times every year: our western one, in the middle of freezing cold winter, Rosh Hashana, which lands in fall, and the one that has always seemed the most right to me, Norouz, Persian New Year, celebrated on the first day of spring.  It's a celebration redolent of sweet rebirth:  painted eggs, sweets on the table, fresh fruit everywhere.  The scent of fresh herbs and hyacinth waft through the day's traditions.  And on the eve of the last Wednesday before Norouz, you light a fire, then you jump over it.

Somehow this particular tradition -- a holiday known as Chaharshanbe Soori --  had escaped me until now.  I mean, my family doesn't even go camping, so I suspect getting a fire lit outside, let alone the grave dangers involved in jumping over it, were just too much for us.  But tonight, a sweet coworker named Saba invited me to her home to share in a tradition she holds on to from her own days in Iran.  I had no idea what to expect, but I'm so glad to have experienced the warmth of the fire and of Saba's hospitality.

 For me, tonight was a whole new way of doing Persian.  In my head, the associations with Persian events are words like overdone, super-fancy, formal, and stuffy.  But, tonight, the setting was Saba's cozy-artsy apartment in Franklin Hills, and the event was much more personal.  Not that the spread was not impressive:  Saba's home is peppered with accents from the old country, all with a unique touch.  Her gorgeous old silver tea set was a find at an antique shop in Tehran, and the beautiful but quirky miniature painting of a dainty Persian dancer in traditional baggy pants standing on her head?  Saba painted it herself, natch.  There are bits of beauty in every corner of this home.  Little dishes of dried fruits, nuts, and Persian sweets covered the coffee table, and she whipped us together a homey version of the traditional Norouz dish of sabzi polo mahi, which sat in my heart much more comfortably than the giant mounds of rice I'm used to at Persian parties.  An avocado and cucumber salad, and a bowl of some of the freshest leaves of basil, tarragon, and mint I've ever seen completed the spread. 

 sabzi polo with perfect tahdig, lemons from Saba's tree

And, oh the company!  As we sat on Saba's deck watching the fire burn, she and her friend Asal (Persian for honey) -- a San-Francisco-based artist in town preparing for an opening in Tehran -- fed my endless hunger for stories of current life in that city: this world of thrift store shopping, daily protests in the streets, conversations with cabbies, tea made from leaves freshly picked, pimps decked out in their finest standing on street corners in the middle of the night, and a youth population perfectly well versed in sex, drugs, and rock and roll -- all the delicious details CNN does not cover.  I got to speak Persian (nothing new, but lately it's been especially fun), and these lovely women even complimented me!   All the while, Asal's husband Bijan kept the vibe going as our DJ for the night.

Like any good Iranian hostess, Saba would not let us leave without tea and a little dessert.  I'll tell you this: I might never again eat ice cream without a sprinkle of rosewater on top.  But before we got dessert, we had to do the jump.  You start with a mantra you direct at the fire:  "my yellow is yours, your red is mine".  It's a pledge that as a one year comes to a close and spring pops up all around us, we'll feed the fire all our sickliness and cowardice, and leap into the new year with all the heat and glowing life of the fire.  The world seems rife with challenges right now.  Sometimes it seems like they're too overwhelming to even begin to know how to deal.  Tonight, a declaration of the fire within us all is a good place to start.


--
Oh, and since the sabzi polo page on this blog has now surpassed the homepage in hits, let me give you people what you want:  Here is my detailed sabzi polo recipe, and here are a couple photos of the delicious finished product.  Let me know if you have any questions!

Secret Places

Have you been to 55 Degree wine shop in Atwater Village?  Nice place, lots of wine, blahblahblah.  But did you know that if you step towards the cash register, there's a stairway that goes way down to a cellar that is a secret wine bar?  It's a treasure.

It's a pretty special space.  Much larger than the store itself, it's cavernous, and yet with its dim light, it's intimate.  It's a place for telling secrets.  Order a drink from the lovely person behind the counter -- in our cases, it was a flight of cavas, whose Spanish names the British barmaid lovingly pronounced with an Italian accent.  Maybe pick up a bite to eat from the food truck outside, or just grab a handful of almonds from the counter.  A few sips in, you'll find yourself sharing things you'd squeezed super-tight not to let out.  Your non-judgmentalness muscle will be challenged as your companion starts sharing taboo secret things of her own.  As you dip into the glass of mineraly Santa Barbara Giallo that you probably didn't need after the generous flight of bubbly, you'll find that that muscle is stronger than you'd even imagine.  And so are you.  Which, maybe, is a fact worth sharing.

--
55 Degree is at 3111 Glendale Blvd., just north of Glenfeliz.