The Running Goose - Los Angeles, CA

CAUTION: WALK don’t run…to The Running Goose.

Just to play it safe, I made our reservations at 5:30pm since we had 7:30pm tickets at the Pantages Theater - glad I did! A flock of hungry customers descended on the dining room around 6pm, disarming the only two servers who began running around like headless geese in the maze of two-top tables set only inches apart, providing zero wiggle room and forcing patrons to play an unwelcome version of dinnerware Jenga, stacking and passing wobbly totem poles of plates throughout the meal.

Eats

The first section of the menu was a variety of tostadas ($3 each), so we chose:

1) Arugula: Avocado, sweet onion, zapaca crema, arugula, queso seco = bland nothingness.

2) Corn: burnt corn aioli, lime, basil, parsley = charred, whole kernels sent a second shock wave of concentrated, grilled corn flavor to the subtlety sweet aioli for an overall sensation that mimicked the layered depth of soul food, while staying California cuisine clean.

Papaya salad: burrata, garden herbs, radish, lime, sesame, balsamic ($12)

Why-a why-a, why-a, did I order this papaya?! Ready for a rant?! THIS SALAD MADE NO SENSE!!! A heaping mound of orangey-pink overwhelmed the bowl in a freakish array of disproportion. If this salad was a person, it would be the Elephant Man. If this salad was the globe, papaya would be the Colonial British Empire in its heyday, its sunset-like hue blotting out anything else on the horizon.

Half a ball of buratta was shoved to the side like a forgotten exile, and two sprigs of greens seemed to have inadvertently landed there as a fluke like a flower sprouting through a crack in the cement. Both the radish and balsamic glaze were near figments of the imagination, but would have been a welcome reality. Not under this fascist fruit regime. It didn’t matter what the masses wanted, Grand Puba Papaya would prevail.

Duck Chancla: thick tortilla, black beans, chilaca chili, safflower crema, pickled red onions, pepitas ($17)

I had to admit, this was something special. The chancla consisted of a crispy, extra sturdy flour tortilla that reminded me of a down-stuffed, winter coat - fluffy on the inside and ruggedly secure on the outside to endure the elements.

In this case, the elements were tasty ones – crackled duck skin over tender, brown meat; hearty earthiness from black beans; the perk of pickled onions; a spike in spice from chilies – it lit up the palate’s senses like a pinball machine, full tilt.

Horchata crème brulee: blueberry, almonds, red rice krispies ($8)

*Rant: Round 2* Shame! SHAMMME!! This should have never left the kitchen. Never saw an almond. Never saw red rice krispies.

What I did see a whole lot of curdled chunks, scorched sugar, and a sloppy blueberry cover-up in what would be remembered as LA’s “crème brulee crime scene of 2017”.

This Goose was cooked…

Son of a Gun – (Los Angeles, Ca)

The Young Men and the Sea

The swordfish pointed the way into this life-sized diorama of, The Old Man and the Sea - a nautical wasteland of anchors, thick, frayed rope, and rusty compasses, now navigating Son of a Gun’s (SOG’s) walls, washed in a crisp, soft blue to brighten what could easily have steered towards a musty motif, and instead sailed into “fancy fisherman” waters.

SOG was the sister restaurant of Animal, where I had enjoyed a BOAT (Best of All Time) meal a few years back. Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo had won me over about a decade ago as shaggy-headed, easy-going, hard-working, twenty-somethings with their short-lived, Food Network show, "Two dudes catering". Since then, they had taken over the LA food scene with their own ventures, along with a couple of collaborations with Chef Ludo Lefebvre.

SOG’s seafood-driven menu was a bit more demur than Animal, but the family resemblance was undeniable. Each ingredient was treated as an individual, stripped down to exemplify its genuine essence, dynamic complexities, and integrity.  But it was how these individuals worked in a choreographed union with one another that cranked up the assembly line of olfactory senses to maximum capacity. “Food Whisperers” was the term that came to mind when dealing with Shook and Dotolo, as if every morsel they touched, gladly bent to their will.

Eats

Raw Hamachi, Galbi Vinaigrette, Pink Lady Apple, Radish Sprouts ($18)

Unexpected euphoria arrived in this pristine plate of pale, pink fish with a Mardi Gras party of garnish. Flavors shifted like an edible kaleidoscope, giving new shape to the dish with every bite, flowing seamlessly, yet all remaining singularly identifiable – the delicateness of the Hamachi, the striking sour of apple and vinaigrette, the bitter crunch of radish sprouts – all somersaulting into endless, taste-bud, twisting configurations like the Kama Sutra of cuisine. I swallowed. Contentment…followed with an unyielding desire to recapture its swift, elusive magic immediately.

Lobster BLT, Pain de Mie, Nueske Bacon, Potato Chips ($32)

“Ms. Vanilla Milquetoast, party of one.” I was kicking myself for being such a bore, and felt like I’d wasted my entrée order. Of course this lobster BLT was decadent, chock-full of fat-clawed crustaceans, and the golden doubloons of crisp potato accompanying it, still warm from the fryer, coated my fingertips in a lustered sheen of glistening oil. But…I’d had this dish before. Many times. I’d grown up on the east coast, and this was nothing new, although done flawlessly. I’d safe harbored it, and missed the boat on sampling SOG’s five-star, select eclectics like octopus salad, mirepoix, chile ($18) or lemonfish poke, black radish escabeche, citrus, crispy sunchoke ($18). Don’t make the same mistake I did! Take the plunge!

Fish and Chips, Malt Aioli ($16)

Replicating, while elevating, and not dumbing down this iconic, greasy, pub fare was a further testament to SOG’s abilities. Breading was a barely-there corseted nuance of crunch that lovingly held the fish’s flesh in place like a flawlessly tailored gown. Red carpet worthy and a rarity in LA as the unpretentious, talented, deep-fried, stunner.

SOG and Sensibility: It sounded corny when people proclaimed they, “Cooked with love”, but what else count account for that intangible, cosmic thing which transformed meals into revelations? Shook and Dotolo had found this hidden vortex and created what I called, “Morsel Code”  = tapping into the tongues’ alphabet through an emotionally triggered taste spectrum. Notes of vulnerability, respect, love, commitment, hard work, fun, invention, and individuality were on the plate - the deconstructed human condition. The real deal. An honest-to-goodness, Son of a Gun, in the best possible way.

Herb and Wood (San Diego, Ca)

A Tale of Restaurant Redemption

I arrived wearing my favorite, steel-studded sneer; my shoulder adorned with a chip larger than the Hope Diamond. This was yet another venture by Brian “Mediocre” Malarkey, the former, Top Chef contestant who traded his culinary soul to any investor looking to make a buck off his newfound celebrity. But every layer Malarkey piled on his fabric-themed, restaurant empire (including Gingham [CLOSED], Gabardine [CLOSED], Seersucker), exposed one common thread - the Emperor had no clothes (aka full of Malarkey).

But my judgmental dress made me look a fool, as Herb and Wood (H&W) emerged the stunning fashionista, subtly dressed to the nines, in classy grays and museum-like lighting dimmed over vibrant canvases; the front bar, sleek and glittering like a crowned jewel, beckoning us in…or out (seating for both), to this forgotten warehouse transformed into a larger-than-life, Pinterest wet dream of design, art, and space.

Drinks: Mocktails

Non-alcoholic drink menus were usually absentmindedly thrown together, similar to the way vegetarians were endlessly offered the same, generic option of pasta primavera. There wasn’t much thought put into these elixirs, which only seemed to exist out of an exhausted politeness for the dry duds and former drunks, who wouldn’t be bulking up the tab with booze. But this mocktail menu was surprisingly thorough, and my concoction of pineapple juice, soda, lime, and cinnamon syrup doled out a heavy-handed, fizzy, brain buzz. Cinnamon syrup = my new obsession.

Eats: Small Plates/ Entrees

Wood-fired pizza: Pesto, Cippolini Onion, Escargot, Bone Marrow

Let's be honest. Bone marrow had become the Justin Beiber of the restaurant world. It was everywhere - annoyingly so - though you still couldn’t help but love it, no matter how hard you tried.

Especially when it sprang up in an extra catchy version of wood-fired pizza topped with pesto, escargot, Cippolini onions, and a bone sawed in half, left open-faced, and brimming with gelatinous globs of grandeur. Wait, was that a miniature spoon for scooping?! So dainty! A schmear of marrow as a pizza topping?! Genius!! I had to admit it…they “Beibered” the shit out of this one.

Gnocchi, Oxtail, Roasted Garlic, Parsley, Chive, Sherry, Parmesan & Horseradish

The fine dining world had learned long ago that they could charge big money for cheaper cuts of meat like short ribs and oxtail - the ones that most home cooks weren’t willing to take on because of the extensive amount of fatty tissue woven throughout. But when braised long enough, every inch of their fatty highways melted away, bathing the meat until it morphed into a succulent, shreddable, treasure.

H&W's oxtail wafted nostalgic notes of grandma’s pot roast, but with heightened luxury from a potent, sherry-infused influence and horseradish kicker. My guess was the gnocchi was homemade because it squished like a bite of Play-Doh in a subtly, soft pillow of pasta = worthy of a reorder.

Crispy Potato, Lemon Vinaigrette, Black Pepper, Fresh Horseradish, Parmesan

Ah, here was the "mediocre" Malarkey I knew. I'd imagined the preparation much differently than a stark plate of whole, red potatoes topped with Parmesan and thrown in the oven. Just sub-par enough to bring back those resentful feelings of Malarkey’s past.


Dessert: Twix (Caramel, Crème Friache, Milk Chocolate & Lava Salt)

I felt like I was eating the back of a particle board shelf from Ikea. Grainy, chalky, chokingly dry. Need I say more? Fix your Twix!

H&W Earns an A

But as bitchy as I was, I couldn’t deny my obsession with H&W and my plans to return whenever I had the chance. H&W’s taste left its mark on both the eye and palate in a way that hit all the right olfactory senses and left you wanting more. I hated having to eat my words, but it was a little easier with a mouthful of bone marrow pizza.  

Tally Ho(tel)-ing in Tahoe

Lapping waters and an air quality shaped by pine trees and high elevation was my first mental snapshot of Tahoe. It was summer. There would be a wedding. And I was able to breathe it all in, even if the altitude made that a bit difficult at times (elevation level: 6,224 feet).

Hyatt’s Lows (Incline Village, NV)

Room without a view: This Hyatt definitely topped one of my lists, but not one that anyone’d want to be on. Our room was chokingly overpriced and had no admirable amenities worthy of the cost. Just an ordinary room…with an empty mini-fridge, the in-room menu missing, and one, tiny, windmill-shaped window, which looked out on to the parking lot and allowed us a glimpse of the Lake, if we craned our necks enough.

For the birds: The Lone Eagle Grille was one lame duck - this menu was a real snoozer. My tomato salad looked like a mother bird had regurgitated it onto the plate. Red and yellow tomatoes were mercilessly tossed around with fresh mozzarella, until they were all soggy, splintered, and spent. But even more offensive were the box croutons. Really? At these prices, the croutons should have been sculpted in the shape of the Lake by in-house, bread artisans. Mushroom soup, mediocre paninis…zzzz.

Pool shade: Even our poolside play was overwhelmed by a black cloud. Our waitress’ standoffish sneer was only outdone by her skull and crossbones, neck tattoo - a tangible foreshadowing of the amount of shit in her britches that she was ready to dole out to any Ned or Nancy that looked at her sideways…or ordered a drink from her. Yikes.

What’s up? Dock Bar:  Weathered planks extended over a watery walkway and ended at a gently bobbing raft of wood, equipped with a full bar. Watching the mountains swallow the sun, cocktail in hand, made for one solid afternoon (its one Hyatt point).

Sunnyside’s Ups (Tahoe City, CA)

I have an affinity for charming dumps. Hotels which have held up over time and maintained their original character. Good bones. Comfortable in their skin. A fixture from a former era whose genuine sense of self casually waltzed their way into the present. Sunnyside fit that bill almost better than any I’d ever seen.

Sunnyside was a wilderness lodge on the Lake with only 23 rooms, all named after the surrounding area (we had the Emerald Bay suite). Our room resembled a small apartment with a living space and separate bedroom, along with a private patio that opened out onto the water. Hotel guests also had access to a secluded deck on the second floor (ideal for soaking up some sunny silence).

But if it was a party you were looking for, the restaurant downstairs was hopping all day long. Sunnyside's deck had been a landmark since the 50's and was famous for the way the expansive, wooden structure hung over the water, along with the endless stream of flawless food pumped out of the kitchen with the consistency and quality of a four star restaurant. Fresh fish tacos and crisp salads loaded with hunky salmon fillets, perfectly cooked burgers, chicken wings worthy of awards - casual fare done at its best. Whether you came for lunch or an overnight stay, anywhere on the property would land you on the Sunnyside of the street.

Casino Row (Crystal Bay, NV)

Southwest Airline’s system crashed on the day of our return flight, so we were forced to spend a couple extra days in Tahoe. Not too shabby! Until we realized that every decent hotel was sold out for the weekend. No problem, there was a Biltmore on the Cali/Nevada border.

The Filthmore: An omen of rotting wood, 20 feet high, bearing the name, “Biltmore”, rocked unsteadily like a roach-filled pinanta waiting to fall from the sky. 40 years of nicotine and mildew infiltrated every mote of my nostrils. Musty, dusty, and crusty. Our cottage at the "Filthmore" was the equivalent of indoor camping. Raw, exposed beams of plywood, which looked as if they’d been salvaged from a pile of garbage, framed windows that let in just enough light to see whether anything was about to crawl across my face while I laid in bed.*cue Beastie Boys* “No. Sleep. At Biltmore!" One star, one eye open, and one foot out the door.

Tasty and Alder (T&A): Portland, OR

T&A is the Tits

Tasty and Alder (T&A) stretched itself out on the corner like a fully, splayed skeleton with windows nearly as large as its walls. This loft of bare bones hugged itself in raw, crisp minimalism and drew the eye to a ceiling of exposed duct work, before dropping down into the full view of an open kitchen, whose chronic clank of cast iron mimicked an “order-up” bell that melodically dinged with outgoing, brunch orders.

Radicchio salad: bacon lardons, manchengo, 6 minute eggs

Radicchio, aka Ricci, was like an obnoxious younger cousin that you couldn't help but have a soft spot for. Ricci came on strong and wasn’t easy to miss with his frigid frame splattered in violent purple over stark white. Sometimes you loved him, sometimes you hated him…and some days like today, you realized Ricci's underestimated ability to come forward as lovable front man.

I guess Ricci’s shining moment was heavily dependent on the symbiotic relationship with the other ingredients. These key players turned down Ricci’s brassy, bitterness and amped up his deeper, earthier self, while highlighting their own strengths. It was like the perfect jam session. Each had their own fine-tuned singularity; their own presence. But when this foursome came together, they became greater as a whole. They were The Beatles in a bowl. Please, welcome to the stage:

Bacon lardons: thick-necked and burly like a lumberjack, smelling of campfire. Dense, but exhibiting a complex tenderness that accepted Ricci’s bite.

Manchego: though this Spanish cheese wasn't as well known as his Italian cousin, Parmesan, once you met "the Man", he was a welcome guest at any table. Here, he showed up shaved and softly stacked like a fresh blanket of snow, but his brash brand of saltiness was noticeably ingrained beneath the clean composure . 

Six Minute Egg: Talk about six minutes of pleasure - yowy!! This educated egg’s precision and technique split seamlessly into a great white shock of savory protein and oozy yolk, which melded with the lardon drippings and Manchego to create the first notable sequel to Caesar’s reign in the dressing world.

Until T&A, I’d never seen such depth or potential in Ricci’s character, and instead of leaving his usual bad aftertaste, he only left me with afterglow.

Pan Fried Halibut Sandwich: served with fries

I hated to compare T&A’s sandwich to the likes of Chic-fil-a, but this halibut came coated in some cosmic batter that brought me back to that first recognizable moment, when a piece of protein I’d consumed a million times before was elevated to VIP status - all because of a simple, lightweight coat.

But forget about the likes of Chil-fil- a, or about any other coat you'd seen before! You thought, Joseph and the Technicolor Dream Coat, was impressive?!

Well check out, Halibut and the Technicolor Trench Coat! Because this little fishy was still quivering with freshness, all but naked - aside from the two pickle pasties peeking out from a potato bun, and a burlesque showing of batter that stayed swathed in a thin sheath before it gave way to the goods – buttery, lush, fresh fish that made me weak in the knees.

What can I say?
I like big halibuts, and I cannot lie.

Lardo Love: Dirty Fry Fetish (Portland, OR)

Anything with the word, “pork scraps” in its description commanded my full attention. And I had to admit that this massive pile of pig and potatoes from Lardo, which would normally be considered a side dish, was possibly my favorite meal of the trip. Here’s why:

1) The component that I originally turned my nose up at, ended up being my favorite part (I secretly poo-pooed the banana peppers' entire existence in the dish. What a fool I'd been!).

2) The strange simplicity of three or four ingredients, the likes of which I’d seen and tasted a million times before, combined in a way that made me feel like we were meeting again for the first time.

3) PORK SCRAPS!!!!

Dirty Fries: pork scraps, marinated peppers, fried herbs, parmesan ($7)

What exactly was a pork scrap? Well, apparently it was all the crispy odds and ends left over from Lardo's array of pork parts which graced their menu. 

Dirty fries were the potato equivalent of a Ben and Jerry’s pint chock full of chunky treasures, but instead of chocolate chips and cookie dough, pockets of bacon curls and shredded pork popped up between crackly trees of fried parsley and basil. Half melted pearls of grated parmesan were melted just enough to wrap it all together into one cosmic cocoon of cheesy, pork fatty, potato goodness.

But what really threw me were the marinated, banana peppers. I was worried they were going to overwhelm the dish, the way many marinated items often do, their liquid seeping heavily from their pores into every aspect (I’m talking to you sundry tomatoes!).

But this stayed balanced with sour bursts comparable to English “chips” doused in malt vinegar; dressed, but still with an audible crispiness and stiff heartiness that easily bore the load of toppings with the effortlessness of Atlas. It was a feat of French fry strength, and I couldn’t wipe the pig-eating grin off my face.

Donut Duel:Voodoo vs. Blue Star (Portland,OR)

Voodoo Donuts (22 SW 3rd Ave)

No matter what kind of research you did on Portland, Voodoo Donuts was bound to come up, so we hit the dingy section of Skidmore (immediately sending my sophomoric mind to the thought of "skid mark", which wasn’t too far off from the general vibe of the neighborhood), and went to see what all the hubbub was about.

Out of the grungy gray (catty-corner to the, “Keep Portland Weird” sign), pink and purple peeked out  like an arrow pointing to a larger than life gingerbread man impaled with a pretzel stick stake through the heart - we had arrived.

Illuminated dessert cases spun in hypnotizing circles of doughy offerings mounded with fruit loops, Oreos, candy, meats, and mayhem. It was like a child playing dress up and covering their face in lipstick, not knowing where to draw the line (literally). But that’s what gave Voodoo its spark – the novelty of it all; the lack of rules; the countless options that pumped fresh blood into that childlike artery, that rarely tapped vein of endless possibilities.

ODB: Of course, I got carried away with the over-stimulating visuals and silly names, so I inevitably opted for an, “Ol’ Dirty Bastard” (circular, no-hole donut topped with chocolate, peanut butter, and crushed Oreos), which was better in theory than flavor. The mixture of peanut butter and Oreo cream gave a weird (Wu) tang to its tongue-searing sugar content, and caused me to go “taste-blind” for a while, much like seeing spots after a camera’s flash, but burning my tastebuds instead of the corneas.

Pumpkin Spice:  Unfortunately, my petite, pumpkin treat was fully muted by ODB’s residual waylaying of my palate, but when I went back and ate the other half a couple of hours later (yes, I saved my donut!), the nutmeg and pumpkin spice were fully present, though it was nothing special enough to order again.

Maple Bacon Bar: But Voodoo did come through on the maple bacon bar. Ah, yes – bacon maple donuts were everywhere nowadays. The new “thing” as it was. Most bakeries (including duel opponent, Blue Star) opted for the classic circle donut, coated in maple glaze with a handful of crumbled bacon on top. And though this may have looked more appealing, the fact was, I really didn’t want a donut full of Bac-Os.

The whole point was to recreate the magic that happened on a breakfast plate when pancake’s syrup snuck over to the bacon’s bedside for a salty/ sweet serenade that evolved into a love affair whose likes hadn’t been seen since peanut butter and jelly first shimmied between two slices of bread together.

Voodoo pinpointed the vulnerability of that romance, stretching out two strips of bacon on a fluffed, queen-sized mattress of square dough, fitted with a smoothed, flat sheet of maple glaze. This was a romance (and a donut) for the books.

Blue Star (1237 SW Washington St)

As much as Voodoo resurrected the kid in you, Blue Star brushed you off, cleaned you up, and snapped you into adulthood. They were, in essence, the fine dining of donuts. But just because Blue Star took their work seriously, didn’t mean they were stuffy by any means. 

I considered them to be the Mary Poppins of pastry. The type of adult you wanted to be: inventive, intelligent, fun-loving, but with a precise, professional nature which saw work as an opportunity to excel, while still keeping it enjoyable. Flour flew around the open kitchen and a tower of to-go boxes balanced to the tippy-top of the ceiling like a child’s building blocks constructed with an engineer’s accuracy.

They served several variations of dough - buttermilks, classic white, stuffed donuts, and fritters  - providing a blank canvas for multiple techniques and their extensive pantry, which churned out recipes as involved and thought-provoking as any entrée.

This included options like Marionberrry pepper jam with peanut butter powder, hard apple cider fritters, blueberry bourbon basil, and crème brulee puffs adorned with an injection of Cointreau to squirt into the center – welcome to adulthood!

Chocolate almond ganache

You could never go wrong with chocolate and nuts, especially when it involved quality chocolate spun into a thick ganache and chopped, roasted almonds transformed into a buttery topping.

This was a finger-licking, face-muddy-ing kind of donut, where a bite into its center led to a nostril full of chocolate for both a satisfying and playful experience.

Raspberry/Rosemary Buttermilk
I made the mistake of involving the kid behind the counter in my Sophie’s Choice of donut dilemmas when it came to which buttermilk I should choose - lemon poppy or plain? What I wasn’t expecting, was for him to come out of left field with a third (unmentioned) option of raspberry/rosemary. “It’s my favorite. You’ll love it.”

As far as Sophie’s Choice, it was pretty much like saying, “Forget the kids, and take the dog.” But even though I knew it wasn't the right decision, I listened to his suggestion - and regretted it immediately. Its explosive, hot pink hue practically flashed a neon sign that read, “high sugar content” and the cloying raspberry glaze was like a needy girlfriend that you couldn't escape.  

But the actual donut itself was perfection – rich, moist, crisp on the outside, tender on the inside. It was a thing of buttermilk beauty and the best base dough by far...though I still regretted my misstep of not going with my gut (why did I forsake you, lemon poppy, why??!!).  

Beignets

Biting into a beignet was like having a pillow fight with your mouth, but instead of feathers flying around the room, powdered sugar billowed above in candied clouds.

These were pretty big for beignets, but they still remained light and airy, though they didn’t have that fried, funnel cake quality that I craved from this donuty delight.

Meyer lemon/ Key lime curd donut

*We have a winner! And a new cham-peen!* This curd-filled donut curled my toes. I always thought I hated jelly donuts, but what I realized, was that I just hated that they were filled with (usually cheap, corn starchy) jelly.

When pregnant with the love child of what tasted like lemon meringue and key lime pie, I realized it was all about conception and choosing the right parents for the pairing. This little bundle of joy deserved congrats. It’s a…winner!

Final Judgment:

Best base dough:  Buttermilk (Blue Star)

Best bacon maple donut: Voodoo

Best donut overall: Meyer lemon/ Key Lime curd (Blue Star)

Overall winner: Blue Star = gold star!! (Sorry Voodoo, don’t hex me!)