Eyes Wide Shut

Recently I found myself, not unlike some Pixar lemming, flying off a cliff and meeting a fate I never imagined for myself (if it's Pixar it makes it slightly less harrowing than if it were say...Japanimation?).

I had Korean BBQ.

It reminded me of attending sporting events in high school.  Not because of all the carnage spread out before me - sports weren't really that intense in Butterfly Town USA (i.e. Pacific Grove, California) - but because, truth be told, I was really just there for the company.

In high school I'd find myself bundled up and shivering in the bleachers while gossiping with my pals about how much I wanted to bang so-and-so's brains out (meanwhile I hadn't even kissed another human being...All Talk, Chapter 1 of my autobiography).  I'd happily wander to and from the snack shack with different friends while touchdowns were scored, ties broken, and overtime entered.  I was oblivious.  I was there to stalk crushes, drink hot chocolate, and snicker at filthy jokes.  The fact that I always left with zero sensation in my hands and feet - one notch away from Voyage of the Mimi style hypothermia - was a small price to pay for a night out with the gang.

I awoke the other morning, after visiting Chosun Galbee in Koreatown, with a mild case of fetus face and a descending colon like a snare drum.  As I headed into my day, after gulping down copious amounts of water and flax oil (obviously), I found myself full of the joys of living.  While the food from the night before had imposed a lock down on my digestive track (and still left me wondering what the hell people are going on about re: Korean BBQ), the company had delivered a shot of joy right to the vein.  Sitting and blithering on about the good, the bad, and the ugly in our lives, made the fishy soy bean curd and the gristly meat fade into the background.  I was happy to plough through my bowl of brown rice and sip my Sapporo while keeping this company.

While I have zero intention of returning to Chosun Galbee, if my posse wants to meet next week at Buca di Beppo?  I'll still go.  Sometimes, surprisingly, it's not about the food.

Though, let's be honest, next time?  I'll pick the damn restaurant...believe it!

final word:  Skip Chosun Galbee.  Unless, of course, some of your favorite people in the world want to go with you.  In that case, order a side of brown rice and a large Sapporo and focus on the friendship.  Cheers!

Cubed

I have two current obsessions.  One is embarrassing and one is completely legitimate.

Let’s get the awkward one out of the way:  I am really into a car. 

And if that’s not bad enough:  I’m really into a Nissan. 

And to make matters even more humiliating it’s some sort of “cute”, “modern”, “sleek” car that serves as Nissan’s answer to Toyota’s Scion.  It’s name?   The Cube.

AH!

Just writing its name takes me back to that fateful day when Enterprise Rent-a-car handed me the keys.  I scoffed at them.  I made sad, obvious jokes about how “funky” it was and who in their right mind would buy such a piece, and this is almost as bad as the PT Cruisers Avis hocks off on us at LAX, etc.  (I know, sometimes after my morning coffee I am that guy…I never said anything about not being an asshole). 

Let me tell you something:  I drove that bitch up the 101 and when I got to San Louis Obispo I was enjoying myself so much I took Highway 1...all the way to Monterey Bay!

This Box of Love, not to be confused with the one God gave me, makes the whole world appear more beautiful.  The seats are oddly upright so you feel closer to a pilot than a driver and the windshield is so vast you have absolutely nothing hindering your view of the world.  The whole thing is so panoramic it makes you wonder whether you’re driving a Nissan Cube or at the Arclight Cinemas watching a cinematic epic called YOUR LIFE.

As you might imagine, since my tryst with the Cube I’ve been bemoaning my old Volvo (Volvo Station Wagon 240 DL, 1989 – burgundy).  The poor Volv.  She seems creakier than ever; her seats sink with each passing day, her paint thins, and her stops and starts increase (along with my blood pressure).  I step on the gas and twenty minutes later I’m going the speed limit.  I’m the safest driver on the road because, unlike everyone else, I’m driving an actual ship.  Instead of the wildly efficient Cube, I am turning the Mayflower onto La Brea every morning and cursing like a pilgrim pre-Plymouth.

But, not unlike the Mayflower, the Volv gets the job done – and better yet?  It’s free! Also, she just turned 20 so I can’t very well leave her now.  I figure I’ll see her to the bar and then maybe leave her at the ripe age of veinte y uno (21, in case you didn’t take Spanish with Bob Anderson in high school).  In the meantime, I can be found nursing my humbling, automobile obsession with an honest and shared passion:  Cube Restaurant and Marketplace.

I finally went there last weekend after all of my clients told me to get involved with it.  Well, here I am, running after the pack with abandon.  I had the most delicious meal which included three different types of wine, two different types of pasta, octopus, seasonal side dishes that made me moan with delight, and a staff that made me believe they actually like their jobs.  They’d be insane not to…

Run don’t walk!  Get CUBED!

Cube Cafe, Cheese Bar, and Marketplace
615 N. La Brea Avenue
Los Angeles, California  90036
p:  323.939.1148
http://www.cubemarketplace.com
Monday - Saturday 11AM - 10:30PM

final word:  They do lunch AND dinner so - if you want to just dip your toe in the water - try lunch and then head back for dinner with someone you adore.  I also feel the need to mention that I still haven't even approached the "secondi" portion of the menu.  All of the small plates and pastas were so fantastic I didn't have room for the crispy black cod or veal saltimbocca I was eyeing.  Ah, well, all the more reason to return - DO IT!

New Attitude

It's official:  Autumn has arrived.
I know, I'm a little slow on the uptake here.  Some poor asshole has known it's fall for at least two months.  I, on the other hand, just got the memo AND the new scarf to match.
This is my favorite time of year in Los Angeles - hands down.  Autumn is beautiful all over the place - I'm awares - but in Los Angeles?  I'd like to argue that there's another layer of magica come November.  It's not just the angle of the light, the sudden drop in temperature post-sunset, or the absence (finally!) of visible tan lines - it's something less tangible and slightly less obvious.  There is a distinct Autumnal Attitude that makes Los Angeles the best, crazy village to inhabit come November.  And what drives this attitude?  The same giant ball of fire that inspires life all over this planet:  the sun.

I know, who cares?  So it's sunny all the time - big fuckin' deal.... Yes.  It is a big fucking deal.  It's a big fucking briliant deal.  It's a big deal when you moved here from some groovy city that insisted on pissing rain and shitting ice all over your life come ye olde Autumnal Equinox.  It is a big deal to wake up prepared to listen to Morrissey for the next five months only to realize you CAN'T because it's 75 degrees outside and beautiful all over.  It is a big deal to be questioning every inch of your life only to look out your window at pure splendor which, at the very least, affirms your decision to haul your ass 3000 miles west and stop performing in shows too absurd to share with your friends (never mind it's the first time you've been able to see those glorious San Gabriel mountains...yes, they were there all summer long they were just hiding behind a large cloud of...smoke?).

The Autumnal Attitude, I believe, stems from a deep seeded sensation that you made the right call.  Not only did you make the right call but you escaped something.  You got out alive.  You got out intact and so did that guy, and that girl!  And that awesome tranny!  And that lady at the dry cleaners!  And even that douche that always waits for you to pull out of your parking space so he can grab it before anyone else - we all did it!  And now, suspicions of being special and clever affirmed, we are here sharing in the light!  The healing, autumnal, Hockney-documented, light!  God is good!  And so are you!

This attitude seems to extend deep into the gyms and studios of Los Angeles.  Everywhere I teach old faces are reappearing prepared to shake it, new people are showing up thrilled to have found a gym that welcomes people with necks (picture it, please) and in general the population seems to have rediscovered the mind/body connection (I know, a disgusting phrase but one that applies here).  It's a wonderful site for a fitness lady.  I can't help but think it has a lot to do with this glorious time of year.  I know Ella Fitzgerald sings beautifully about Autumn in New York, but I think at this stage in my life I'd prefer to stay put, turn up Joni Mitchell's California, and bask in the healing light of this surprisingly sunny state of mind.  And if you're not feeling it - come to class!  I'll make sure you see la luz.

final word:  run don't walk!  come and visit me in class or visit a friend in Los Angeles - now is the time. I can be found at Equinox in Century City or Swerve Studio on Third Street making people sweat it out.

Polarized

In 1999, fresh out of college, I landed a job in the development department at the Alvin Ailey Dance Theater Company.  I worked in the heart of the dance community with Baryshnikov, one of my childhood crushes/heroes, stopping by the studios regularly and Judith Jameson reigning supreme as Artistic Director at Ailey.  The company that brought the world Revelations - one of the best known and most powerful dance pieces of the 20th century - would now be my home 45 hours a week.  This sounds cool - in theory.  In practice, this looked like me sitting under fluorescent lights, folding thank you letters to generous (or semi-generous, let's be honest) donors, while some of the most beautiful dancers in the world rehearsed overhead.  I'm not exaggerating for the sake of story telling (or blithering, to continue on the honesty tip), the dance studios were directly overhead.  As I sat atrophying in my adjustable desk chair, I would hear the sounds of hard working feet making contact with the floor as muscles contracted, pores sweat, and someone's body got even more beautiful.  My tits, meanwhile, were drifting towards my naval.

During this stage in my life I began taking my pulse at regular intervals, playing with my ears as some regressive act of comfort, and asking my long-suffering co-worker, Joanne Ruggeri, if I looked pale or if my ears were getting bigger from all the tugging.  I was, in no uncertain terms, a hypochondriac.  To throw another log on my neurotic bonfire, when I got off work I would see double.  My eyes had grown so accustomed to the monitor being 18 inches from my face that anything outside of that radius was a challenge - proof, as you might imagine, of the enormous tumor that was paying rent behind my cerebellum (or so I believed, in my bored and obsessive brain).
In short:  I was a wreck.

Lately, I've been taking my heart rate regularly and am reminded of that miserable time.  Although now I use this insanely fancy wrist watch/heart rate monitor/calorie counter/mini-wrist computer/might save my life if I program it successfully/contraption made by Polar.  I got it at an employee sale at Equinox.  I wear it while I workout and also while I teach.  I'm working ye olde target heart rate as much as possible.

Today, during a cardio sculpt class I was instructing, I looked down at my wrist and flashed back to that cubicle on West 61st Street; I remember how I would gingerly place two fingers on my pulse and feel it racing as the best asses in the world grand jete'ed above and beyond the fluorescent lights.  My resting heart rate those days was about twenty beats a minute faster than the one I clocked today.  A nerdy fact, for sure, but one that brought me such relief today.  Polar didn't just dictate a number this morning, it reminded me that I'm no longer decaying at a desk, that I don't have to see double at the end of my workday,  and I can kid myself that - if I work hard enough - I might have half as good a gluteus maximus as one of those Gods that once danced over my head.

Oh, go on...a girl can dream, can't she?

final word:  If you want a heart rate monitor Polar will not let you down.  To learn more about why on earth a person would track her heart rate, what sort of monitor might rock your world, and/or where to find one near you, go to http://www.polarusa.com/us-en/.  Track it!

Confessional

I have been remiss.  I intended to write throughout my summer, weekly if possible, but something happened that made it hard to share.  Something so shocking, so horrifying, so embarrassingly lame I just couldn’t bring myself to write about it.  Even attempting to type it now makes me wince and look away from my computer screen, close my eyes and hope that somehow history will rewrite itself, maybe the story of my life will change despite the facts, I’ll wake up tomorrow and realize it was all just a bad dream… 

I purchased The Hip Chick’s Guide to Macrobiotics. 

There.  I said it.  I feel so God damned naked.

And what’s worse?  I read it and I liked it.  I’ve even recommended it to friends and clients.  It’s so lame.  It’s so stereotypical.  I immediately want to defend myself and write about evenings of wine and meat that will make your head spin, the importance of coffee karma, and breakfast pizzas that are clear proof that there is a God who is a firm believer in the consumption of white flour…I’ve wanted to share it all but I just had to get this off my chest.  I liked that fucking book.  It’s full of good information.  The recipes are only so-so but all that other stuff about balance and putting meals together…it’s really good. 

There’s still another detail I have to share.

I bought it at M Café.  Yeah, that place on Melrose and LaBrea where six Priuses and one diesel BMW vie for 4 parking spaces; where skinny girls and dirty boys eat their daily meal (in between smoke breaks, let’s be honest).  That place.

It’s good.  The dinner bento is a veritable feast for under $20 and the chocolate cupcake has a Hostess like quality that is truly the best margarine has to offer *. I find the food deeply comforting.  Plus it’s open until 10pm which – in this gerbear (as in geriatric bear, duh) town is as good as a 24 hour diner.  Lately, on Tuesday nights after working 12 hours, I pull the Volvo up next to the Prius pile and bask in the healing light of brown rice and perfectly prepared salmon (wild caught, of course) with a miso glaze.  It is so comforting and so healing.  And, let’s be honest, I mean with all that meat and working out?  I was getting pretty fucking yang.

M Café
7119 Melrose Avenue
Hollywood, CA 90046
P: 323.525.0588
F: 323.525.0310
www.mcafedechaya.com
Monday - Saturday 9am - 10pm, Sunday 9am - 9pm

final word:  The dinner bento is delicious but everything in the deli case is fresh and tasty, the soups are solid, the salads are giant and more original than some of the other stuff around town. They have a lot of faux meat options but I recommend going with the macrobiotic specials: vegetables, grains, and fish. They stick that landing every time.

* On the cupcake front, I have to take a moment and recommend the lemon cupcakes at Café Flore in Silver Lake.  It's a vegan joint that has nice fair but KILLER baked goods.  If you find yourself on West Sunset hit Intelligentsia for coffee and then pair that hot magica with a sweet treat from Flore - there will be no regrets!

Pie in the Sky

I used to have a face that could only be described in two words: Moon Pie.

Now, before you start thinking I'm being hard on myself, it couldn't have been that bad, didn't we all have moon pie, etc...I would just like to make it clear: The edge of my face used to form a full - 360 degrees strong - circle. In case you missed the full moon this week, my face was similar throughout bits of college and even (gulp) shortly after graduation; round, pale, and shining into the night sky - this was my face (to be read: fah-chay).

I look at pictures of myself at the time and cringe. How did I ever get laid? Should we give a grant to those men? Were they secretly paid by a non-profit organization to buy me a few drinks and show me a good time? A group funded by individuals like myself today? Women who look back on their young adulthood and remember what those few moments of feeling heterosexual and alive did to get us through the sad years? I can only assume it was a privately funded or even government funded (it was the Clinton era) operation. In hindsight, I'm not sure I would've humped me - but a small stipend? Could have pushed my poor ass right over the edge.

Ah, well, either way a few good men were living in New York City in the mid-nineties. They're probably all homosexuals now but, God love them, for awhile they were brave citizens of a Moon Pie loving society.

Tonight I was reminded of how that Moon Pie came to be. At about 9:45pm I was on the verge of collapse. I was driving home after a yoga class (half of which I spent hunched in child's pose because my muscles decided to go on strike), stopped to pick up a medicinal bottle of red at Almor (my favorite wine store in the hood), and then came home to a bit of left over salad and the best meal in the world: egg on toast.

Let's be clear about something: Moon Pie did not form due to a routine egg on toast. Moon Pie was born out of a hearty routine of drinking and late night eating. I used to drink myself into the kind of stupor only a 21 year old considers socially acceptable and then charge into diners at 4:15am to order, "Two eggs over easy with a side of fries and white toast - yeah, and go ahead and butter the toast for me. Thanks." Sometimes I'd have it with a beer (if I was close to home), a Coke (to get me in the cab if I was drifting in Brooklyn/Queens), or water (if I was with a friend who actually needed me to listen and form sentences). And then I'd wake up at noon and have it all over again with coffee and (if I was lucky) a friend.

Tonight I had my egg over medium. I cooked it in olive oil with some red pepper flakes and threw it on a piece of Ezekiel bread (you know, the creepy, hippie bread with quotations from the Bible on it?) and a dusting of cayenne pepper. Oh, and yes, a glass of 2007 Borsao (some sort of cheap, Spanish magica). Not exactly Moon Pie's order but, then again, Moon Pie left town about 9 years ago and hasn't been heard from since. Meanwhile, the egg on toast?

Still going strong.

Final word: get your eggs and toast at home, in a diner, or at a fancy restaurant. Just notice the inevitable bliss that follows. As for wine, please visit my pals at -

Almor Wine and Spirits

7855 Sunset Blvd

Hollywood, CA 90046

323.874.0410

www.almorwines.com

I picked up a 2007 Borsao for about eight dollars that is full of cherry and spice but very light on the tongue (sick! I did just write that...). Best part of Almor? The staff. Go in with a budget and a flavor and they'll point you in the right direction. Do it!

Breakfast Club

Summer has arrived: The return of back and crack sweat as I drive, the desire to drink Mexican beer all day, and an overwhelming feeling to fuck-all and rush to the ocean for my resurrection.

As I cruise through the residential streets of Beverly Hills, I notice fewer ladies walking in their wondrous terry cloth (they now descend on Malibu before 8am? perhaps?), the elementary schools are closed (further proof of a higher power), and the certifiable maniacs that call themselves crossing guards have hung-up their STOP signs for the next couple of months (but no doubt are still wearing their laniards and orange vests, bless their little hearts).

I too am still wearing my uniform: every morning I continue to strap on synthetic fibers in hopes that gravity will have mercy on me. I make summer playlists involving songs by the Black Eyed Peas and The Pussycat Dolls digging through my iPod for inspiration. I sit with my schedule each morning and identify the windows of time that will facilitate the feeling of summer as if I didn't have a client at 8am - stop by the pool at noon, a moonpie from Milk at 3pm, happy hour plans before my class at 7:30pm - but there's one moment in my day, my favorite summer ritual, that I don't even have to note in my calendar because there's no way on God's green that I'd ever forget it...

Meat for breakfast.

Yes, that's right: meat for breakfast.

Normally I eat toast with an egg, or toast with peanut butter, toast with jam and always a large espresso beverage of some variety - clearly. But as summer sets in? I'd like a medium rare steak with my toast, please.

It's something about the heat. Once it gets really hot I can't eat much of anything but before it gets hot? I want something that wakes me up, flips me over, and - before I'm even fully awake - lets me know that this is gonna be a great fuckin' day and gives me something to believe in.

This morning I had the second half of a roast beef sandwich purchased from Clementine's in Century City. There was nothing wrong with it. Stacked high with rare roast beef, arugula for days, and a horseradish mustard dressing that was just enough to awaken the senses and compliment (as opposed to crush) my Americano (made with Black Cat Espresso from Intelligentsia...duh). I could have ascended then and there.

Not to mention: I was sated for HOURS. I have this awful theory that some days I only get 30 seconds for every minute before 12pm. Life seems to be racing by and I spend the first half of my day playing catch up. But with meat for breakfast? It's the energetic equivalent of getting two minutes for each one...and in summer? I don't just feel full but, dare I say it, I feel kind of smug. I feel like I've already been and seen the show for which everyone else is still trying to scrounge tickets.

While I highly recommend the rare roast beef at Clementine's, there's also a deeply satisfying breakfast sandwich at Food + Lab that is available before 9am. It involves perfectly toasted wheat bread, a hard boiled egg, farm raised bacon, watercress, and a garlic aioli that leaves you wondering: what took you so long?

Don't question it - just eat it.

Food + Lab

7253 Santa Monica Blvd

West Hollywood, CA 90046

323.851.7120

www.foodlabcatering.com

open 8am - 8pm daily

Clementine

1751 Ensley Ave

Los Angeles, CA 90024

310.552.1080

www.clementineonline.com

open 7am - 7:30pm Monday - Friday;

8am - 5pm Saturday; closed Sunday

final word: Clementine is a delight but can get crowded - call in advance and take some quarters because parking sucks. Food + Lab has a parking lot located off of Poinsettia (just behind the store front) and no phone calls or quarters necessary...you do the math!

Play It As It Lays

I'm listening to Joni Mitchell...on vinyl.  Court and Spark.  One of my favorite albums of all time.  When I hear the opening chords of Court and Spark (and yes, that perfect fruitcake of a song is my favorite on the album) I want my life to look like something from The Long Goodbye:  I want to drive a Mercedes coupe, have no tits, a heart-shaped ass, and a great big blow job mouth like Carly Simon.  I want to wake up in Laurel Canyon with a strange, hairy man lying next to me while wondering how I got to this place from my nice midwestern upbringing.  I want to fulfill outsiders impressions of what a life in Los Angeles might entail circa 1976.  I want to be Erica Jong, Joan Didion, and Julie Christie all at once (the balls, the brains, and the beauty respectively).

As it is, I wake up a block away from Grauman's Chinese Theater, next to a man whom I know very well, and have no doubts about how I got here from Central Coast California - I've been driving on Highway 1 my whole life.

Perhaps, as a result of my years on the coast, I do manage to fulfill at least one LA stereotype:  I love to juice.  Yes, that's right, out here it can be used as a verb.  "Juice" as in make fresh fruit and vegetable juices.  

I have a new juicer and I've been relishing in a regular cornucopia of cocktails.  Fresh and frothy orange juice, tomato, carrot, parsley and fennel, pear and apple with a thumb of ginger root...I could go on.  I drink stuff that would make a nice man from Wisconsin roll his eyes at me and explain, "She's from California."  

Listen, I love a medium rare steak as much - arguably even more - than the next guy but at this time of year?  Sometimes a plate of food seems unnecessary.  Sometimes what I really want is something that feels like the spring cleaning I've been giving my home, my Volvo station wagon, and my rooftop garden.  Why not give my descending colon the same treatment?  Juice it!  And if I fulfill the stereotype of some flax seed obsessed, yoga practicing, juice drinking fruitcake trainer from California?

Well, guess what?  

I am.  

Below is my favorite juice.  I found it years ago with a bunch of other recipes.  It was listed as "Digestive Cocktail" but I've given it a more apt title.  It probably does help with digestion but, more importantly, it tastes fucking great.

Court and Spark

1/4 lemon (with peel)

1/2 grapefruit (peeled)

2 oranges

Find a decent juicer (I recommend the Belville Compact or the Belville Elite if you're nickname is Big Spender), throw the ingredients down the chute, and catch them in your favorite 10 oz tumbler.  If you're feeling like an extra kick feel free to juice a knuckle of ginger root or add flax seed oil to the finished product.  

Namaste. 

Spring Awakening

God damn it I'm horny.  This time of year always makes me crazy...and with a boyfriend in Ghana (not all the time, please, he does actually live in the States - and yes, I did just say "The States") I can easily be classified as Desperaux.  

I'm regressing with each passing day...returning to my adolescent days of chronic masturbation and prolonged eye contact with boys leading to nothing (except early stages of carpel tunnel perhaps).  I blame Spring.  Just because I live in Los Angeles where it's Spring everyday of the fucking year doesn't mean I don't still feel the push and pull of of the Big Four.  It's a little more subtle but there are three, clear, red flags that Spring is upon me (or in me, if you will). 

1.0  The Jacarandas - trees I ignore all year long burst into purple blossoms and rain petals like something from a Disney cartoon...or nature. 

2.0  My ability to find the biggest car crash of a human being attractive sans alcohol (e.g. there's a picture of Mel Gibson going around the web right now.  I think it's supposed to scare me but I immediately shot up on a lady geyser upon seeing that homo erectus with that Jew hating look in his eye...beard burn?  I'll take it!)  

3.0  The gin and tonic.

Back in the day, I lived in an apartment building called The Barcelona (the awning would remind you in case you forgot) along with one of my best pals, nickname:  Fahx.  Come springtime, circa 5pm, I would go a'knocking at Fahx's door in search of gin.  He had the Sapphire (our pick at the time) and, more importantly, the secret weapon:  Elderflower Syrup... from Ikea.  A tablespoon of this special treat, a couple of fingers of Sapphire, some TJ's tonic and it tasted like we were actually drinking Spring. 

Every night after I teach class I think I'd like to have one of these, but I no longer live in The Barcelona.  So plans have to be made, texts sent, and spontaneity abandoned.  Sometimes we still get together for homemade G&Ts, but more often than not I'll get my fix at The Hungry Cat in Hollywood.  It's a wee bit pricey, sure, but I tasted Spring there recently...and for $12?  It was a hell of  a lot easier than trying to fuck a jacaranda.

Run don't walk!

The Hungry Cat

1535 North Vine

Hollywood, CA  90028

323.462.2155

www.thehungrycat.com

final word:  The food is great, yes, but the cocktails are some of the best in town.  Trust your bartender.  The daily specials - at this time of year - are guaranteed to sate any Springtime cravings (well, most).  

On my last visit I had a tangerine gin and tonic that almost made me weep.  They were kind enough to give me the recipe.*  Do it!

* A Midspring Dream

(from The Hungry Cat)

1.5 oz. of Plymouth Gin

1 oz. fresh lime juice

1 muddled tangerine

3/4 oz. simple syrup

splash of tonic

Put everything but the tonic in a low ball packed with ice.  Muddle to your heart's content, top with tonic, stir once and enjoy.    

I Heart Mexicans

I don't consider myself to be particularly racist.  I mean, I pass copious amounts of judgement on people based on their ethnic background but...racist?   That's some strong language - until now.

I'm obsessed with Mexican Coke.  Not cocaine you partying fool:  Coca Cola.  The Coca Cola that is bottled in Mexico is far superior to the stuff made in America, certainly the United Kingdom, and God love me if I ever get near an Indian Coke.  But Mexican?  I'll take it.  And on a hot day?  I'll take TWO.

Two Mexicans, por favor.  Por que?  (that's "why" in Spanish - just in case you thought I was speaking in tongues...or code).  Because it is made with SUGAR or AZUCAR to use the language of my new best friends.  Corn Syrup - worse then any Moonshine your daddy used to drink - is the lead player in American Coke.  Yeah, that's the main ingredient in the "Secret Formula" they keep going on about.  Hence why it leaves that awful coating on your teeth, that acidic sensation in your tummy, and that layer around your middle if (got forbid) you make it a habit.  

But Mexican Coke?  First ingredient:  SUGAR.  Something found in nature (as opposed to a lab).  It tastes like American Coke but...better.  Lighter.  Like a Pimm's Cup but more familiar.  And refreshing...God is it refreshing!  Straight out of the fridge is pretty f'ing good or you can dress it up on the rocks with a wedge of lemon if you really want to blow your socks off.  

Now is the time to put down your Santa Cruz Natural, your Reed's Ginger Beer, your fill-in-the-health-food-store-soda-blank down and race to the closest deli, bodega, or supermercado and stock up before the mercury hits 90 (again).  It's like sensory air conditioning.   And, I mean, Mexico is pretty hot so they'd know how to make a refreshing beverage down there, right?

Right.

Coca Cola:  La bebida numera una de Mexico - y ahora, America!  Salud!

How to Avoid Shingles

I am a trainer...a fitness trainer.  

Recently one of my clients accused me of eating healthy all the time.  Clearly, she has not been stalking me.  If she had, she would have realized that - as she accused me of staving off indulgences - I stood opposite her with a savory treat from Umami Burger (850 South LaBrea, Los Angeles, CA  90036) making its way through my small intestine.  I got their signature burger:  sirloin cooked medium rare with roasted tomato, shitake mushroom, and a parmesan crisp wedged in between a perfectly sweet, soft-on-the-inside-crispy-on-the-outside bun (that I'm pretty confident) descended from heaven.

I could have lied.  I could have nodded and smiled, flexed my abs, and told her I swear by Yoplait and think Bob Greene is a God.  But that would have been a bold-faced bag of trash.  The one time I tried a diet (The Fat Flush by Ann Louise Gittleman) I got shingles.  I'm not lying.  I broke out in this strange rash (on only one side of my body - that's how it works...cheers!) whilst guzzling the "Long Life Cocktail" (a cleansing tonic which involves flax meal and cranberry concentrate) and shoveling various vitamins and minerals in my face.  Perhaps it was a coincidence.  Maybe ye olde Fat Flush didn't give me the shingles...  Maybe Barack Obama isn't hung like a moose?  Who's to say?  Alls I know is:  I've been faring a lot better since I embraced my Grandpa's favorite adage:  Everything in moderation - even moderation.  

I have set aside the ways of many a fitness crazer and continued on my own food foot path...one that involves meat, cheese, bread, alcohol, caffeine and the occasional recreational drug.  I think it's good for us...all of it.

That AND I'm pretty much starving all the time.  I use my body a lot.  I run around a lot.  I teach group fitness classes which is like being in a musical and trying to get the audience to do it with you.  I love it - don't get me wrong - but I burn some serious calories.  Way more than I ever did working sixty hours a week in an office (which almost killed me - worse than the Fat Flush...seriously).  Now I work concentrated hours pouring my energy into people, workouts, and the occasional machine (which, I realize, makes me sound like a chronic masturbator addicted to her Hitachi Magic Wand but I was thinking more along the lines of a treadmill in this case).  I need food.  My mother says she eats to live.  I think, at this stage in my life, I may have crossed over...and now:  I live to eat.

Run don't walk!  

UMAMI BURGER

850 South LaBrea Ave

Los Angeles, CA  90036

HOURS:  11am - 10pm, Monday - Sunday

www.umamiburger.com

Final word:  it's all about the burgers.  Sides were a little weak in comparison to the rockin' burger, the Mexican Coca Cola, and the Cake Monkey sweet treats.