Jenga: Talk Dirty to Me.

A retrospective on the profane Jenga game at the Daily Pint:

Kinky isn't really what comes to mind when I think of stacking blocks, but then again, the object of Jenga is sticking the right piece in the right hole, and then pulling it out with (hopefully) no consequences. Sound familiar?




I'm pretty sure this isn't a reference to a rooster.

Eyeballs? Concentric circles? Mammaries? You be the judge.

The hazards of hooking up with a gargoyle.

I've never had one of these . . . Dear readers, if you have experienced a Thai Ladyboy Surprise, please share your story.

A sampling of sentiments.

Babs and I have mad Jenga skills. 'Nuff said.

The end.

Animal Restaurant

I've officially fallen in love. Its been a few years since I've said that about anyone or anything, but I am head over heels for Animal. Owned by Jon Shook and Vinny Dotolo, formerly of "2 Dudes Catering" on the Food Network, Animal is a funky little restaurant on Fairfax & Rosewood, near Canter's. The space is small -- 45 seats -- with warm wood accents and simple cream walls. The focus is definitely on the food, and with good reason. Animal, as the name implies, is not meant for dainty eating. Although there were some seafood options (we tried the halibut crudo) the action really lies with the inventive (and often pork-centric) meat dishes. Definitely a splurge meal, at least in terms of calories, but worth it. The menu is divided into small plates (18 choices the night we went), large plates (7 items), and dessert (2 options). My friend and I decided to make a meal out of the small plates, and everything we had was absolutely delicious.

We started with the six hour bolognese served over warm parmesan polenta. The picture doesn't really do it justice. This elicited excited "wows" from my dining companion, who was worried that rest of the meal would not live up to this dish. Fortunately (although perhaps unfortunately for my tummy, since I stuffed myself) it did.

Next we had the crostini with burrata, olive oil and sea salt. Mmmmmmm burrata.

The baby halibut crudo, with radish, pickled beets, tangerine and tarragon followed as a "palate cleanser." The tarragon was subtle, and the tangerine and pickled beets were a really great combo. A little out of place with the rest of our heavy food, but we were the ones who chose to order only meat, cheese and carbs.

This brings me to the Poutine. Poutine is a Quebecian/Candian comfort food, consisting of french fries topped with cheese curds and brown gravy. Canadians are often subject to mockery for being peaceful, having funny accents, etc. but they are onto something with Poutine. More refined than chili cheese fries, yet still plenty low brow, Poutine is my new favorite nosh. The version at Animal had oxtail gravy and vermont cheddar, and it did not disappoint.

At this point we probably should have stopped eating, but we chose to charge bravely ahead into two final dishes: smoked pork belly with lentil and butterbean salad and a banyuls vinaigrette, and the foie gras "biscuit and gravy."

The pork belly was literally melt in your mouth. There was another version of pork belly on the menu, with kimchi, peanuts and chili soy, that I definitely want to try when on my next visit to Animal. The foie gras, with a biscuit and maple sausage gravy, was completely over the top. Each component on its own would have been decadent, but the combination of the two was just outrageous. It took all of our combined eating power to finish off the foie gras decadence, but we rose to the challenge. Needless to say, we did not have room for dessert

Not to worry though. In the immortal words of our Governator, I'll be back.

Two Broad Salute: Facial Hair

Welcome, friends, to the first of what I hope will be many Two Broad Salutes. There's a lot out there a broad can tip her hat to in this wretched (yet somehow irresistible) city, and I intend to do justice to the whopping lot of them.

I am a sucker for facial hair. Dirty, filthy, prickly, bushy, unkempt, hell, even Amish, just let me nuzzle it. Every Christmas season, I fully expect to be arrested for mauling the Salvation Army Santa, but he always turns out to kinda like it (in a way that inevitably makes me run off crying in horror, but still, win-win, I say!).

Turns out Santa came a wee bit early this year to yer ol' Babs. While enjoying a ritual glass (or two) of Chimay at the Pint with Betty Boom Boom (one of our roving reporters), we made a delightful observation-- well over 85% of the brothers in the building were sporting some form of glorious facial hair!

Once we noticed this growing LA trend, we couldn't stop. Everywhere we looked, we saw face muff. Not a smooth visage in the house! We were smart enough to have a camera on hand, and were able to capture some of these Metro-roughnecks in the wild, which I'll provide at the end for your viewing enjoyment (you'll see we also stumbled on another growing trend, the Ugly Sweater Party, which will be featured in tandem). Thankfully, Betty's got a sunny disposition (and by "sunny disposition," I mean a sweet set of cans) and our subjects seem more than happy to oblige.

There seemed to be a real art form to the style and presentation of this facial hair, and we managed to identify some key categories:

The Cloak of Darkness

There's a guy I dated briefly a few years back who never took his hat off. Ever. I mean, it was some Leif Garrett kind of shit.

Wanna watch some TV at home? Ballcap. Wanna go on a date to an expensive restaurant? Beanie. Didn't matter if it was a black-tie event, he'd just get some kind of matching doo-rag made. It just screamed I'm BALD as a bagel and I just can't let it go. Sure enough, I saw him two weeks ago for the first time in years, sans head gear, finally embracing his hairless destiny.

I suspect that facial hair serves the same purpose for a lot of hideously ugly guys who can't get laid. Broads, be careful out there when you're zeroing in on one of these subjects. It's the modern-day version of kissing a bunch of frogs to find a prince, except that by the time you realized you kissed a bad one, he has all of your phone numbers, e-mail address and knows where you live.

The Jeremiah Johnson

This guy is the polar opposite of The Cloak Of Darkness. He is literally so hot that he's willing to grow a wild vagina on his face to conceal his bronzed, perfectly chiseled features. It's like a sick joke he likes to play on the world.

This guy is so gorgeous that he has to devise a test in order to find true love or some shit. Will she still love me if I look like a transient, and my face has greasy bits of fried chicken stuck to it from the meal I got out of a dumpster 4 days ago? Who cares, I'm fucking awesome under here.

The Overgroomer

As a general rule of thumb, the only grooming that good facial hair should require is some basic neck maintenance, to keep your face hair from blending into your carpet chest or back. This simple task is impossible to fuck up, takes no more than 30 seconds and simply prevents you from being mistaken for a Wookie or a Yeti.

But that is IT, folks. I'm serious. No chinstraps, soul patches, goatees, mutton chops, Fu Manchus, NONE OF IT.

You might as well just carve lightning-bolts into your fade for all I care. You're just trying too hard, and there's something very fussy and effete about it. I was surprised to see quite a few of these specimens at the Pint. I was not surprised, though, to find that they weren't getting laid.

If facial hair grooming takes you longer than it takes me to put on some lip gloss, give your face a Brazilian and move on.

The Non-Committal

There seemed to be a lot of specimens in this category. These guys have skipped the shave for a minimum of three days or so, but they never seem to really move beyond a week of growth-- some mysterious force snaps them back to the Bic.

This type of facial hair requires very little effort or commitment. It's almost not even worth categorizing. It's like these guys tipped their toe in the Trend Pool and then went back to the clubhouse to get their floaties. Meanwhile, all of these burly bears got to splashing around in their kiddie pool, getting the drains all clogged up with their majestic matted hair.

These Non-Committals could be moved by any combination of these inspirations:

I'm lazy and I want chicks to think I don't give a shit.

It's my little "fuck you" to Corporate America.

I've been on a junk binge for four days and shaving isn't top of mind.

I look really good with a 5 0'clock shadow, but after a week I look like I have Mange.

I don't want to be the first guy my age with a beard so I'm gonna sit here with these skinny jeans on and see what everyone else does.

My ex-girlfriend told me I look really sexy this way.

Chris Martin looks really sexy this way.

It's an effective prop to illustrate how long I've been cooped up in my editing bay working on the most recent M. Night Shayamlan project.

The list is not exhaustive, my friends, and the categories are endless, but my Spiked Egg Nog is getting warm, and I don't know how I feel about room-temperature dairy products. Decide for yourselves which categories we discovered below, and be sure to hug a loved one this holiday season.

Top 10 Things To Do While Listening To: Certified Air Raid Material by edIT

10. Hunt Sea Donkeys with latex bait.

9. Clean the house in your chonies (not that I have. I'm just saying).

8. Cry tears of inferiority that you are not, and never will be, as awesome as this music.

7. Practice pole dancing (not that I have. I'm just saying).

6. Shuck corn.

5. Stand your dog up on his hind legs and make him dance with you (not that I have. I'm just saying).

4. Impress your friends by remarking on the wonders of "glitch-hop" and IDM and reference this wizardry as a fine example.

3. Hop in your sweet Prius and hit the open road with the windows down, pretending you're in a futuristic Asian-inspired music video (not that I have. I'm just saying).

2. Rock out with your cock out.

1. Jam out with your clam out (I have. I'm just saying).

Fudge & Sea Salt Brownies

I brought these into work the other day and they were a huge hit. Everyone in the office was clamoring for more. The salt makes the brownies taste extra chocolaty and fudgy. The recipe is very easy to follow. Just be sure to use good chocolate -- I use Scharffen Berger unsweetened baking chocolate and Valhrona cocoa powder -- and don't overbake the brownies. These look really pretty if you sprinkle them with a bit of flaky sea salt like Maldon just before they finish baking or right as you take them out of the oven. After baking and cooling as directed in the recipe, the brownies can be refrigerated for three days or frozen up to one month.




Ingredients

1 1/2 sticks unsalted butter
2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, finely chopped (it helps if chocolate has been refrigerated or if knife is cold)
1/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons unsweetened cocoa
2 cups sugar
3 large eggs
1 1/2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
1 cup all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon Maldon sea salt

Directions

• Preheat the oven to 350°.
• Line a 9-inch square metal cake pan with foil, draping the foil over the edges. Lightly butter the foil.
• In a large saucepan, melt the butter with the unsweetened chocolate over very low heat, stirring occasionally. Remove from the heat. Whisking them in one at a time until thoroughly incorporated, add the cocoa, sugar, eggs, vanilla and flour. Pour the batter into the prepared pan and smooth the surface. Sprinkle the salt evenly over the batter. Using a butter knife, swirl the salt into the batter.
• Bake the brownies in the center of the oven for about 35 minutes, until the edge is set but the center is still a bit soft and a toothpick inserted into the center comes out coated with a little of the batter. Let the brownies cool at room temperature in the pan for 1 hour, then refrigerate just until they are firm, about 1 hour. Lift the brownies from the pan and peel off the foil.
• Cut the brownies into 16 squares. Serve at room temperature.

Note: This recipe is from Food & Wine magazine.

Hungry Cat

What can I say . . . I love Hungry Cat. Indeed, some might say my love of Hungry Cat borders on obsession, and maybe it does. But if I am obsessed, it is completely justified. The food at Hungry Cat is amazing, and truly seasonal. I've eaten at Hungry Cat three times in the six weeks, and the menu has been slightly different each visit. The Pug Burger (with bacon, avocado, blue cheese and an optional fried egg) is always on the menu, but don't get too attached to anything else. Despite the kitchen's penchant for mixing it up, though, everything is always incredibly well executed and just plain delicious. Here are the details on my last visit:

The drinks:

I went with my standby cocktail at Hungry Cat: the Greyhound Proper. Hungry Cat does the greyhound better than anyone else in LA, with Plymouth Gin, fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice (squeezed in an old-fashioned citrus press) and a piece of candied grapefruit. Yum! Everyone else tried the persimmon margarita. Mellow yet tart, with a cinnamon salt rim. It tasted like a margarita, not a syrupy fruit bomb. Two people in our party wanted something a little sweeter, and two of us liked it as is. Thus, the persimmon margarita isn't for everyone, but I thought it was a great use of an underrated seasonal fruit. In any event, they ran out of persimmons after our first round, and the non-greyhound drinkers made the switch to tangerine margaritas.

The food:

We started with a half-dozen oysters (self-explanatory) and the marinated diver scallops, served with asian pear, green curry vinaigrette and peanut brittle. Sounds odd I know, but everything worked. There was just a hint of spice, and the natural sweetness of the scallops paired really well with the small morsels of peanut brittle. We were really really hungry and I forgot to take a picture of this course, so you'll just have to take my word for it.

We tried four mains (rather unsurprising since there were four of us):

(1) Grilled arctic char with sunchoke puree, roasted carrots, mustard greens, beets and hazlenuts.

(2) Black grouper with braised octopus & fregola sarda stew, almond gremolata and romesco.

(3) Chorizo stuffed squid, grits, slow cooked peppers, basil and saffron aioli.

(4) Monkish stew with coconut milk.

The artic char was the hands down favorite. Despite the varied ingredients, the differing flavors and textures meshed beautifully. The mild fish paired fantastically with the creamy sunchoke puree, bitter mustard greens, crunchy hazlenuts and sweet beets. The squid and the monkfish stew were the two runners up. The squid was savory and tender, and the creamy grits were a nice counterpoint to the bite of the spicy chorizo-stuffed squid. There were two people in our group who had never eaten squid before; once they got past the ick factor (one woman thought there would be suction cups and tentacles) they really enjoyed it but still found it to be a tad adventurous. The monkfish stew was light yet creamy, and the sweetness of the coconut milk was tempered by a hint of curry spice. It was more of an appetizer than an entree, but given all of the other food we ordered, I suppose it was good that the monkfish stew was on the "lighter side." The grouper rated last only because we were divided on whether the octopus was on the right side of charred. One person in our group found the charred flavor overwhelming, although she found it less so as the meal went on . . . perhaps the flavors just needed more time to meld. The romesco sauce and gremolata, however, were bright and flavorful, and the grouper was cooked perfectly.

For dessert we shared the apple fritters with caramel and sea salt. Little warm bites of deliciousness, and perfect for sharing if you're already stuffed full of well, everything else. A nice alternative to the over-the-top (but utterly wonderful) chocolate bread pudding.

The verdict: MEOW!!!

(Sorry -- couldn't resist the bad pun!)

R.I.P: Sharkeez

In my continuing efforts to rid my life of all things asinine, I present to you the next installment of R.I.P:

Behold, Sharkeez-- a Tijuana knock-off bar that has actually become so popular for perennial frat boys and party tramps that they actually keep making more of them.

I'm not the only one who's tried to lay Sharkeez to rest for the critical survival of the human race. You know who else gave it a shot? God. God actually tried to smite Sharkeez.

One of these Whorehouse Training Camps spontaneously combusted in the middle of the night a couple of years back, which seemed to me a divine foreshadowing. And God said, "it is good."

Unfortunately, God didn't factor in that Sharkeez must've fucked a Gremlin sometime in the late 80s-- nowadays, you pour water on one and *poof!* another dreadful little nightmare pops up. And the fate of mankind rests once again in the hands of neanderthals who like to drink shots from a plastic syringe and head-butt each other.

I was lured into one of these for the LAST TIME yesterday, you hear me? Last. Time. I walked in there for Happy Hour and walked out with a missing dignity and a full 17 minutes closer to my expiration date.

To illustrate my outrage, here's a quick hit list of reasons I'd like to give the owners a swift slap in the mouth after my horrendous trip to Sharkeez:

1. It's called Sharkeez.

I mean, really? Something about that "eez" really punching up the profit marginz? Waz "Sharkey's" or even "Sharkees'" just too classy for you? Nothing sayz passing fad like a bar with a lame name and an even lamer intentional misspelling. But you post-undergrad Peter Panz just keep showing up in drovez, proving me wrong. And it makez me just want to euthanize you all.

2. They sell a drink called a Donkey Punch.

Do you people even know what a Donkey Punch is? I mean, really visualize a Donkey Punch for a couple of seconds (that is, what you think a DP is, since you all know Goddamned well no one you know has ever done it) and then look down at your drink. Do you want to drink a whole bucket of liquid named after a brain contusion and a contracted sphincter? Whatever, have fun.

3. They hold shouting contests for free booze.

4. There are more flat screens per capita than a Circuit City Best Buy.

5. They host regular Flip Cup Tournaments. Seriously.

6. Their Shark Attack requires a minimum of three drinkers and very closely resembles Jungle Juice (refer to inaugural R.I.P post)

7. The place is crammed with the best our gene pool has to offer (see above and below) relentlessly and shamelessly propositioning each other:

7. They have breathalyzers in the bathroom.

8. The bartenders and wait staff wear sports jerseys.

9. Every item on the food menu was fried in the same vat.

10. Perfect strangers play grab-ass to and from the coed bathrooms and proceed to text each other about this very meaningful experience on their iPhones for the next 30 minutes.

(11. Because ours go to eleven.)

G'bye, Sharkeez. I'd like to say I'll miss you, but clearly I won't. Call me when you decide to host a Donkey Punch tournament, and you just might see me around.

TV On The Radio at the Wiltern 11/6/08: A Haiku Review

T.V.O.T.R.
I don't know your music well
But your set was cool.

I got free tickets!
Thanks, K.C.R.W.
Vivian came, too.

I love the Wiltern.
Art Deco and trendy kids--
Who could ask for more?

I could ask for less:
Vests, Plaid, Skinny Jeans on guys.
Maybe I'm just old.

Maybe you're just lame
If you're a guy, and were there
Wearing skinny jeans.

Sorry, I digress.
I didn't see the Dirtbombs,
Who opened the show.

I needed to eat,
So I hoovered some nachos
in the lobby first.

Then we were ready,
Nourished by chips and vodka,
To see the main act.

They were good, I guess.
Big hype's tough to live up to,
But they held their own.

Thank God for earplugs,
Or feedback and distortion
Is all I would have heard.

I'm apeshit for horns,
And they had four horn players
As guest musicians!

So that part was fun.
The energy started low,
But swelled quite nicely.

Songs were inventive,
The band was technically sound,
But overall? Meh.

Am I just un-hip?
You know who seemed to like it?
Jonas Brothers clones.

Maybe it would help
If I got more familiar
With some of their tunes.

I won't give up yet
On you, T.V.O.T.R.
We will meet again.

R.I.P: Jungle Juice

Jungle Juice? Hey, it's me.

How are you? Good, that's good. Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm cool. No, I was just-- no, were you gonna say something? Uh, no. *** sigh ***

*** awkward silence ***

I was just going to say it was really good to see you on Friday. It's-- yeah, it's been a while. What, God, my 21st birthday? Whoo! Yeah, I know, right? Man, we had some good times that night. And that one St. Patrick's Day party a couple years back, when we ran out of Bailey's for the Car Bombs? I know, God. Neither one of us were expecting what happened after that.

It's just, uhm. Like, Halloween on Friday was really awesome, but I don't want you to think that it's back on or anything. No! I'm sure you didn't think it was, it's just-- it's really painful to run into you like that, Jungle Juice. I mean, it's really painful. I've been in pain all weekend, and I just-- I don't think I can see you anymore.

Clearly I can't control myself when I'm around you, and you completely take advantage of me. At first I think I can play it cool with you, you know? Stay in control? Well you and I both know I'm never strong enough. By the time I realize you've crept back into my life, it's too late. The next thing I know I'm trying to find Dignity, who totally takes off with Morals and Moderation every time you're around, and then WHAM! I wake up five hours later on the freezing bathroom floor tile, curled up in the fetal position in my Blade Runner costume, shivering in my own sweat, wondering how I could have let you leave me cold and alone, like you always do.

Well, I'm calling to tell you I can't do it anymore, JJ. Listen, you're really sweet. You make me feel so good sometimes but I just can't trust myself to resist you. When you leave me, it hits me hard, and I just can't handle the pain anymore. I need you out of my life for good. So this is goodbye. Goodbye forever, JJ.

Anisette: WTF?

The food blogs and message boards have been abuzz about Anisette since it opened – unsurprising since the restaurant marks the return of Alain Giraud, one of LA’s foremost chefs. Reviews have been mixed, especially among the Chows and the Yelpers, but I was still very excited to try it. I tend not to have specific expectations about how food should be prepared; if there is good food and good wine, then I’m happy.

Our reservation was for 8:30 on Friday night. When we arrived (to a packed house) the hostess told us it would be a few minutes before our table was ready, and to have a seat at the bar. The space is lovely, albeit loud, and we were duly impressed by the wall of bottles. After squeezing ourselves in near the end of the bar, we bought a round of cocktails to pass the time. All of us tried an elderflower/cucumber cocktail. Very au courant and well made, but I’d go with something more basic next time.

At around 8:45 we went to check on our table. It still was not ready, but we were told the table was finishing dessert and that it would be ready soon. As the driver, I decided to skip the next round of cocktails, but one of my dining companions opted to try the absinthe. The preparation was traditional, yet impressive. The bartender placed a sugar cube on a slotted spoon on top of the glass of absinthe, lit the cube on fire so it would melt into the drink, and then poured cold water into the drink to put out the fire and dilute it slightly. The absinthe was very alcoholic, with a strong medicinal aftertaste, but definitely a fun diversion.

However, at this point it was 9 p.m. and there was still no word on our table. For the next half hour we sat dejectedly at the bar waiting for our table to be ready. The bartender gave us each a gratis glass of bubbly as an apology (not what we would have ordered, but a nice gesture), and after several more inquiries as to our table, we were finally seated around 9:35. That’s right folks. Over an hour wait for our table, and we had a reservation!

The manager gave us a basket of gougeres for the table in apology for the wait, and the sommelier took our wine order immediately. We wolfed down for the gougeres (which were lovely) and then waited for our server to take our order. And waited. And waited. Did I mention there was a lot of waiting? Our server finally came to take our order around 10:05 p.m. – about the time I’m used to finishing dinner – and didn’t seem too concerned that we had been at the restaurant for an hour and a half already. After a comment to the manager about the further wait, however, our starters came out rapidly. We had a Frisee au Lardon salad, a smoked salmon plate with brioche, and a cheese plate. The egg on the Frisee au Lardon was overcooked, such that the yolk was completely solid and did not run at all. Still tasty, but a restaurant helmed by someone with Alain Giraud’s pedigree should be able to execute a traditional dish like this better. The smoked salmon was good but nothing special. We really enjoyed the cheese plate, although I have no idea what was on it – our server did not know and never came back with the info even though we asked him to.

Things really fell apart with our main courses. We ordered the Beef Daube Provencal, the Gnocchi, and the Black Cod with Chorizo and Clams. Of the three, only the Beef Daube was standout. Really delicious, with melt in your mouth beef, and an almost carmelized reduction. The Black Cod was cold and bland. Only the chorizo had any flavor. I’m not sure how long it had been sitting, but the wait didn’t do it any favors. Next to the Gnocchi, though, the cod was delicious. The Gnocchi – purportedly made with black truffle and parmesan – were mealy, devoid of any flavor, and slightly undercooked.

While halfheartedly eating dessert around 11:15, we marveled at just how mediocre the food was. Only the cheese plate, the Beef Daube and the chocolate ice cream (part of a trio we ordered) could be classified as flavorful and satisfying; the rest of our food ranged from pedestrian (the Frisee Salad, and the Salmon) to downright offensive (the Gnocchi). Bottom line – for a top chef, about $100 per person and an hour + wait for our table, I expected a lot more.

If I’m on that side of town again I might go to Anisette for a drink at the bar and maybe a cheese plate, but with so many other delicious French options available in LA these days (Little Next Door, Comme Ca and Café Stella to name a few) I won’t be eating dinner at Anisette again anytime soon.

Real Life: I Was Seduced By KCRW's Tom Schnabel

Like many LA music nerds, I'm a whore for KCRW's music programming. Not a single day goes by that I don't tune in and burn with envy (at least I hope it's envy. Otherwise, I probably should see a doctor) at the latest musical discovery.

Normally, I'm a hussy for Nic Harcourt, Jason Bentley, Raul Campos, Garth Trinidad-- hell, I'd even let Chris Douridas roofie me. But last Sunday afternoon, I was lured into the babe lair of one silver fox by the name of Thomas Daniel Schnabel. Observe:


Now, admittedly, Cafe LA is a little too World Music for my taste. I am one of those shameful creatures whose musical interests aren't sophisticated enough to endure more than a song or two of Brazilian lounge music or some obscure European import without shaking it up with a little something I can sing to-- like the entire discography of Hall & Oates, for example.

Let's cut now to my Sunday afternoon. I'm finishing up my LA Times Sunday crossword puzzle, quietly praising the good Lord above to be listening to anything but Le Show, which I openly despise (sorry, Harry, but this one does NOT go to eleven), and I hear it: a little bit of magic that made me tickle in my funny parts:



I know, you guys! I know. It kind of just crept up on me. It's like one of those guys that's been friends with you for like 10 years, and he's giving you what appears to be a harmless platonic massage on the shoulders, let's say-- which you willfully accept just to ease the ol' girl's tension from the day, and who wouldn't?-- when suddenly you feel a stiff poke on the lower back, and then it gets awkward because it's like, do I ask this guy if it's something in his pocket? I mean, besides his erect penis? And now do I have to have this weird conversation with my old friend, that I never thought I'd have to have, because I always kind of thought we were on the same page? You know, that page about being totally out of his league and him never having a snowball's chance in hell?

I mean, I'm not saying that happened. But if it did, my creepy friend's boner would be like my realization about one minute into this sweet little ditty that maybe, just maybe, I kinda like it.

I gotta go call my friend. My neck is stiff and I don't wanna watch Project Runway on DVR alone.

Sincerely,

Babs

Update: I just watched Diner for the first time (Good thing I'm not a movie critic. I know this is supposed to be some timeless classic, but Jesus. What a snoozefest.) and was pleasantly surprised to hear this panty-dropper featured in the soundtrack! What can I say, I'm an old soul.

Kiss my Bundt Bakery

After brunch at Little Next Door this morning, I decided to check out Kiss My Bundt Bakery http://www.kissmybundt.net/. Kiss My Bundt is devoted almost entirely to (you guessed it) bundt cakes. The bakery offers three sizes of bundt cake -- Mini Bundt, Baby Bundts, and Big Ol' Bundts. Big Ol' Bundts are available only by special order, and I didn't see too many Baby Bundts in the case, but not to worry -- the Mini Bundts are the perfect size for these moist yummy cakes! There are 32 flavors of bundt, and various frostings to choose from. The 8 most popular flavors are offered every day:

1. Callebaut® Chocolate Cake with Chocolate Glaze
2. Callebaut® Chocolate Cake with Vanilla Buttercream and Belgian Chocolate sprinkles
3. Callebaut® Chocolate Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting
4. Vanilla Cake with Chocolate Buttercream
5. Vanilla Cake with Vanilla Buttercream and white chocolate shavings
6. Red Velvet Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting
7. Luscious Lemon Drop Cake, featuring a house-made lemon syrup and lemon glaze
8. Carrot Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting

The other flavors offered vary daily, with as many as 15 flavors available some days. Kiss my Bundt also serves brownies, fair trade coffee and tea, and now that the weather has sorta cooled off, homemade hot chocolate.

The shop is very cheery, with a pink, brown and white decor. There were Halloween decorations up, and a Halloween theme to certain of the cakes (i.e. orange-colored frosting and brown and orange sprinkles on some cakes).

Chrysta Wilson, the proprietress and creator of these yummy confections, was at the register when I came in. She offered me samples of "anything and everything." I opted to sample the day's special offerings -- pumpkin cake with cream cheese frosting, and pumpkin cake with cinnamon glaze. As I can attest from both the samples and and my later consumption of a mini bundt in each flavor, both were fantastic. The pumpkin cake was moist and not-too-sweet, and both the cream cheese frosting and cinnamon glaze were great complements to the cake. Also, each had the perfect amount of icing/frosting. Enough to satisfy a frosting enthusiast, but not so much that the little cakes were overwhelmed.

I bought several flavors of mini-bundt to try -- I knew my colleagues at work would be more than happy to help me taste test. Aside from the aforementioned pumpkin combos, I bought red velvet with cream cheese frosting, dark chocolate with dark chocolate glaze, and the Halloween-themed vanilla with vanilla buttercream . All were fantastic, with the dark chocolate and red velvet voted the favorites by my co-workers. Like me, they appreciated the frosting/icing to cake ratio. I can't wait to go back and try the other flavors, especially the lemon and carrot, and am looking forward to some hot chocolate when it is a tad cooler.

The verdict: I will happily support this neighborhood gem. The mini-bundts are as good if not better than any cupcake in LA. I suggest you check it out next time a cupcake or sweets craving hits.

Kiss My Bundt Bakery, 8104 West 3rd Street, Los Angeles, CA 90048, (323) 655-0559.

Bristol Farms: Fine Food and Fine Men

I have a love/hate relationship with Bristol Farms. Everything in the store is fantastic. Delicious prepared foods, an astounding array of cheeses and charcuterie, perfect produce, Method cleaning products, AND a miniature wine heaven. I stop in for a block of cheddar and leave with pre-sliced mango, veal stock, rosé champagne and 6 bottles of the boutique Syrah I had at Canteen in San Francisco and was previously unable to find ANYWHERE. However, the mark-up at Bristol Farms borders on the offensive. Whatever the product -- milk, eggs, horseradish, toilet paper -- it costs at least 25% more at Bristol Farms than it does at the Ralphs directly across the street.

But Bristol Farms -- at least the Beverly & Doheny location -- has something Ralphs does not: ridiculously hot men. Whereas Whole Foods is the domain of doe-eyed models, aspiring starlets and (gasp!) even attractive regular gals like me, Bristol Farms is where winners of the male genetic lottery shop for groceries.

I’ve never actually spoken with any of these men, other than the time a gorgeous but clearly taken actor type asked me for wine advice. Part of this stems from the fact that I’m too shy to make eye contact with anyone I think is attractive unless I’ve had a few drinks. The remainder of my reserve is based on the fact that I was approached by a man in the grocery store once, and it was really really creepy. So creepy, in fact, that one of the store employees offered to walk me to my car. Thus, from my perspective, Bristol Farms is merely a place to observe man candy in its natural habitat. But if you are bolder than I, add the Beverly & Doheny Bristol Farms to your to-do list.

I am currently contemplating camping out in front of Bristol Farms in hopes of “running into” the man I saw there last Thursday. The love child of Patrick Dempsey and the brawny man, I almost followed him out of the store and offered to have 10,000 of his babies. Luckily, my path was blocked by an elderly woman contemplating the virtues of black licorice (I prefer RJ’s soft-eating licorice, she is a staunch Panda fan), saving me from humiliation and/or a stalking charge.

Like bigfoot, unicorns, and the Loch Ness Monster, I don’t have any photographs of the Bristol Farms hot man phenomenon. What can I say? I don’t usually bring a camera with me to the grocery store. From here on out though, I will carry one with me, and will post any pictures I am able to obtain. So stay tuned for updates to this post, and keep your fingers crossed that neither the men in question nor Bristol Farms will mind being the subject of an occasional candid photograph. Though a story involving me getting punched in the face by a dude while trying to take his picture at Bristol Farms could make for an interesting post . . .