Food Fraud

Food fraud, it's something that happens all over the world. Countless amounts of tourists and even locals have fallen victim to it. Food fraud, is exactly what it sounds like, food which possess characteristics of authenticity, but in reality is over-priced, poor quality, and a misrepresentation of the item it's attempting to mimic. For instance, tourists flock to Italy for world-famous culinary indulgences and the Italians are very well aware of their cultural allure and the capital that can be made. In the piazzas these restaurants are lined up, shoulder to shoulder, competing for customers. They use the illusion of falsified romanticism covered in pink table cloths and lace to capture the pedestrians' attention. Most, sadly, are ignorant to the over-priced and ill-prepared food they are about to happily digest.

During my time in Italy, I did my best to recognize the signs of food fraud, but back here, in the United States, I was woefully duped in my very own neighborhood, Culver City. Meet Restaurant, a so-called "French bistro" is anything but. It's cozy exterior and warm lighting enticed me, and in a hypnotic haze I decided to eat there. I wish I could say the food was boring, but that would be an over-exaggeration. The cheapness was palpable and the prices were insulting--my artichoke didn't even pretend to have never been frozen. As I disappointingly played with my food I looked around me to find families and even dates filling the restaurant to a moderate capacity. They seemed content--I suppose in this case ignorance is bliss.

Right next-door to Meet is Saint Amour--a bistro so authentic that even the French waiters ignore their tables for just the right amount of time; enough to be annoyed but not to leave. Saint Amour's menu is creative and comforting. It's filled with such treats rarely found in The United States, as Ris de Veau, seared sweetbread, frisee, capers, and lemon, and Cassoulet de Toulouse, duck leg confit, sausage, and white beans. The few bites of these dishes that I stole from my dinner companion were delightful. For my main course I ordered Boeuf Bourguinon, red wine braised beef cheeks, carrots, and gnocchi. The beef cheeks were cooked so precisely that it almost literally melted in my mouth. For dessert I indulged my sweet-tooth with a Croustade, which was warm and just right--if I wasn't in public I might have licked the plate afterwards. Also the prices were reasonable for the food and quality served. All-in-all Saint Amour was a refined remedy to Meet.

Narcissistically yours,

D.

Jewish Christmas 2010: A Definite Victory

There are certain times of year where, as a Jew (and please forgive me for speaking on behalf of the entire Jewish community) we feel more like outsiders than other times, and Christmas just happens to be the pinnacle of this frustration. Over the years, as Christmas developed into a commercial success, Jews have found different ways to cope with this cultural isolation. For instance, we wrote Christmas songs, which topped the charts such as, "White Christmas" by Irving Berlin, who was originally Izzy Baline, and "Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow" by Sammy Cahn and Jule Styne. Once those catching jingles didn't seem to quite console us like we intended them to, we searched to create our very own festive winter celebration. Conveniently, Hanukkah, the festival of lights, just so happened to take place close to Christmas. Hanukkah was never a holiday of significance, in fact it's not even in the Torah, but luckily for us there was enough gimmicky traits to turn it into what we hoped would be the Jewish answer to Christmas. Alas, Hanukkah, despite all our exploited attempts fell short of the euphoric joy Christmas brings the gentiles. So what was a modern Jew to do? Well, Jewish Christmas of course!

The concept of Jewish Christmas is simple: Chinese delivery and a movie, either at the theaters or at home. Why? Because Chinese restaurants are the only places that will deliver on Christmas, and the movies are a great make-believe consolidation. We can pretend it's not Christmas, rather some other mundane day, which we all, regardless of our religious heritage can enjoy.

This year King Fu in West Los Angeles catered to our (me and my two other wandering Jewish friends) fickle Yiddish needs. When one orders Chinese food not much is expected, except the promise of greasy mysterious food, which will surely add to our high cholesterol and make our doctors "oy" and "vey" in protest. King Fu is speedy, fairly cheap, and surprisingly good in more than just a "I can feel the MSG pumping through my arteries" kind of way. We ordered, with the intention to share: the assorted appetizers, moo shu pork, due to the fact that we were feeling slightly more blasphemous than usual, eggplant with szechuan, which was a disappointment and not my choice, and finally moo goo gai pan, because we didn't know what it was.

Once our gastronomical desires were met, a few others joined us for the second portion of the evening: beer and watching Scott Pilgrim vs. The World. Out of the six of us two were not Jews--a huge victory on behalf of Jewish Christmas. We had achieved, what we believed was impossible, the non-Jews actually wanting to attend our Jewish Christmas celebration, instead of the traditional one--it was truly a Christmas miracle. I think I can safely say that we as Jews are finally on to something a bit more fulfilling (pun intended) than kitschy tunes and spinning dreidels.

Happy Holidays!

Narcissistically yours,

D.

Hey, Are You Gonna Finish That?

Blogging has been something I have avoided for sometime now, which seems strange for an aspiring journalist. I cannot call it laziness, but rather a fear: "What if I have nothing to say? What if "they" hate me? What if I am boring?" Enough with the what ifs--the New Year is approaching quickly and with it I have promised myself to find a new fear; a fear that is less impractical to my aspirations and find one that is a bit more logical, like heights. Well, here it is, a blog dedicated to what I know best: food, culture, and me.

As a little girl I went through a series of careers I wanted to pursue as an adult; an event which seemed mythical and impossible. One of the more memorable occupations was when at the age of 5 I decided I wanted to be a dentist. Dentistry was perfect for several reasons, one of which was because I didn't want to be like all the other girls in my class who dreamed of being an actress, singer, or gymnast; rather I wanted something uniquely me and flavored toothpaste, bad jokes, and the treasure chest was where it was at. Another reason was because I was naive--I had never had a cavity or any other dental problems until my late teens, and looking back on it now I would have made a much better rock-star. Once I realized that being a dentist meant being bitten daily I decided to explore other options, and one that continuously lingered in my mind was becoming a food critic. I may or may not have went through a chubby phase during my elementary school days and I knew officially announcing that I would like to eat for a living would only welcome harsh teasing. Now that I can confidently say that I can whoop all their miniature butts in hand-ball, writing about food (partially) doesn't feel so scornful.

Food is essential, and in my humble opinion (which really isn't so humble) having a developed palate is as important as having good taste in music or some sort of coherent fashion sense. Though this blog won't solely be about food, but rather my life and the world as I see it now, it will be something I refer back to often. So here I am, on top of my soapbox, doing what I do best: critiquing and judging.

Narcissistically yours,
D.