Or: The French and the English just aren't that into each other...
Bouzy, 1611 S. Catalina, Redondo Beach 310-540-1222 chezmelange.com
After Sunday's jazz club meeting, we (Pat, Bob, Richie and self) ankled across the corner to Bouzy's. I'd read their positive ink (thank you, Richard Foss!) and it sounded perfect for what I wanted -- to have a nibble and raise a flute to Pat and Bob in honor of their up-coming 50th wedding anniversary.
Pat, a fellow grazer, was enthusiastic. The men were less than thrilled ("Where's the meat and potatoes, dammit!?") No worries, mate - management knows these differences and the menu reflects them.
Bouzy is touted as being a sort of a cross between a British pub and a French wine bar/bistro. The room is reminiscent of a pub with wooden walls halfway up, more booths than tables. The menu offers starters you would be offered with drinks in a French home -- olives, pate, salami, cheeses. Then it expands into pub grub -- hamburgers, fish and chips - staple items.
We ordered the chicken pate ($7) for the table. "Chicken Pate" also means "chopped chicken livers" to me and it's a mainstay on Jewish dining room tables. This one would not have been welcome - it's bacon-wrapped which made me grin.
Richie got the Knife and Fork Atomic burger -- a thick beef patty with cheddar cheese, a pair of crossed bacon slices underneath it, tomato, horseradish sauce, fried onions and vegetable slaw ($13) Centered on the plate; nice presentation.
Bob wanted the Shepherd's Balls (quite probably for the name; he relished it) consisting of mashed potatoes, short rib, mushrooms and corn with a beer, bacon, onion gravy. ($8)
Pat wavered between a couple of items and then said, "Southern Fried Chicken Salad, please." ($15)
Since I'd eaten most of the pate, I only ordered a pair of deviled eggs ($2) and the house-marinated salami ($4)
Quibbles: The chicken pate was listed as coming with baguette slices (it did) and pickles (most usually cornichons.) It didn't. Instead there was a tidy pile of marinated red and yellow peppers, a whole carrot and green beans.
Richie said the barbecue sauce (not horseradish as billed) was a little on the sweet side and he didn't care for it all that much. Pat's chicken nuggets were very dry (overcooked nearly to burnt) and the salad was simply lettuce and dressing. Bob ws happy; so was I except that the house-marinated salami arrived as a log and my dinner knife wouldn't cut it. It wriggled and shot around on the olive-oil coated plate. I finally got the waiter's eye and asked for a sharper knife. He eventually returned with a steak knife which really didn't work any better. I finally just used my fingers and bit off chunks. If you order it, ask for it to be sliced in the kitchen. Clearly that's where they keep the sharp knives.
Despite the fact that there were five or six servers and an echoingly empty room, service was slow. The servers (all male) were intent on a football game on the big screen TV over the bar. Previously, the outstanding service was one of the things I enjoyed at Chez Melange.
Still and all, I'll go back. Chez Melange's sophistication (even when it doesn't quite come off) appeals to the snob in me. Dinner for the four of us came to $49. Their food prices are, by and large, reasonable and portions are generous. I would advise you to stick to water. Avoid the "wine list" of beers (all expensive.) The cheapest wine was $6 for 3.5 ounces (and naturally that's what I ordered.)
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Monday, January 12, 2009
Out On the Dance Floor
Yesterday was the monthly South Bay New Orleans Jazz Club concert. They're held at the Riviera Village Knights of Columbus on Avenue I and run from around noon to 4:30 or 5 p.m. A very nice lady sells hot dogs, popcorn and slices of two kinds of cake for nominal sums. The bar is equally as, er, cost effective. We hooked up with Pat and Bob (Brodsky) and enjoyed ourselves.
It's a mixed crowd (mostly older people) and no particular dress code that I've ever discovered. The club's president usually wears a Hawaiian shirt, jeans and work boots. I spiff it up a little with a sweater, slacks and loafers (as opposed to Winter Sweats and Uggs.) One of the women officers has a dress that I love -- black like a priest's soutaine but with crimson buttons and underskirt. I always compliment her on her "bishop's dress."
There is a couple that we call "The Dancing Fools" -- he must be either a professional or a dance instructor and she matches him step for step. Yesterday they came whirling out on the dance floor at warp speed from behind my line of sight and it was as if they'd magically appeared -- Fred and Ginger!
The female half of another couple (he was so indistinguishable that I remember him not at all) was a sight to behold. I wondered how a streetwalker had gotten in the door. Her outfit had a longish skirt with a bright metal zipper extending from the waist, down over her left hip and opened at upper thigh level to a deep slit. She was wearing patterned black hose (think spider web) and long, pointy-toed, very high heels. Tall and slim with a mop of disheveled platinum-blonde hair, she had a kind face. She danced sedately enough, but we all kept an eye on that zipper -- if she'd pulled it any higher, she could have flashed us the Full Monty.
The featured band did something I'd never seen -- three or four of the wives (presumably) had piled opened, decorated umbrellas -- sequins, ribbons, bits of feather -- in front of the piano. At the intro to a particular number, they all walked over, each grabbed an umbrella and began parading around the dance floor. One lap and they went back to the piano and pulled out a second umbrella, offering it to the ladies ringside. Pat nearly broke her arm pointing at me. Abashed, I took it, held it to cover my face and started looking for the next victim. The ladies at the table behind us were uninterested, but across the room I found me a sucker. She was "slightly disguised" (drunk) and heaved herself up, took the umbrella and pranced away. I slunk gratefully back to our table.
After the featured band finished, the pick-up musicians took the stage and two pairs of teenagers took the floor. The boys may have been brothers; the girls were taller than the boys, who bounced most enthusiastically across the floor. For safety's sake, we all cleared the floor leaving them to it. What they may have lacked in poetic grace was more than made up for in sheer exhuberance.
However, when they sat down, fanning themselves after a couple of numbers, an interesting thing happened. An older Asian man and his wife took to the floor. She was wearing a summer '60s cocktail frock (fitted; think Jackie O) and sensible shoes. He was wearing high-waisted, belted trousers. Perhaps they were left over from the '30s, perhaps custom-tailored? I have no idea where they could be purchased today. He had to have been at least 80 years old and I would have put serious money on 90. He was very bowlegged which gave him a rather tottery stance, but he tore into the music, thrashing around like a teenager. I truly feared a broken hip! The climax of their duet was a rather arthritic, arm-flashing Charleston! He seemed to be looking at the teenagers' table .. I'd like to believe he was thinking, "Take that ya little punks!
I can hardly wait for the February meeting -- so many delicious possibilities.
It's a mixed crowd (mostly older people) and no particular dress code that I've ever discovered. The club's president usually wears a Hawaiian shirt, jeans and work boots. I spiff it up a little with a sweater, slacks and loafers (as opposed to Winter Sweats and Uggs.) One of the women officers has a dress that I love -- black like a priest's soutaine but with crimson buttons and underskirt. I always compliment her on her "bishop's dress."
There is a couple that we call "The Dancing Fools" -- he must be either a professional or a dance instructor and she matches him step for step. Yesterday they came whirling out on the dance floor at warp speed from behind my line of sight and it was as if they'd magically appeared -- Fred and Ginger!
The female half of another couple (he was so indistinguishable that I remember him not at all) was a sight to behold. I wondered how a streetwalker had gotten in the door. Her outfit had a longish skirt with a bright metal zipper extending from the waist, down over her left hip and opened at upper thigh level to a deep slit. She was wearing patterned black hose (think spider web) and long, pointy-toed, very high heels. Tall and slim with a mop of disheveled platinum-blonde hair, she had a kind face. She danced sedately enough, but we all kept an eye on that zipper -- if she'd pulled it any higher, she could have flashed us the Full Monty.
The featured band did something I'd never seen -- three or four of the wives (presumably) had piled opened, decorated umbrellas -- sequins, ribbons, bits of feather -- in front of the piano. At the intro to a particular number, they all walked over, each grabbed an umbrella and began parading around the dance floor. One lap and they went back to the piano and pulled out a second umbrella, offering it to the ladies ringside. Pat nearly broke her arm pointing at me. Abashed, I took it, held it to cover my face and started looking for the next victim. The ladies at the table behind us were uninterested, but across the room I found me a sucker. She was "slightly disguised" (drunk) and heaved herself up, took the umbrella and pranced away. I slunk gratefully back to our table.
After the featured band finished, the pick-up musicians took the stage and two pairs of teenagers took the floor. The boys may have been brothers; the girls were taller than the boys, who bounced most enthusiastically across the floor. For safety's sake, we all cleared the floor leaving them to it. What they may have lacked in poetic grace was more than made up for in sheer exhuberance.
However, when they sat down, fanning themselves after a couple of numbers, an interesting thing happened. An older Asian man and his wife took to the floor. She was wearing a summer '60s cocktail frock (fitted; think Jackie O) and sensible shoes. He was wearing high-waisted, belted trousers. Perhaps they were left over from the '30s, perhaps custom-tailored? I have no idea where they could be purchased today. He had to have been at least 80 years old and I would have put serious money on 90. He was very bowlegged which gave him a rather tottery stance, but he tore into the music, thrashing around like a teenager. I truly feared a broken hip! The climax of their duet was a rather arthritic, arm-flashing Charleston! He seemed to be looking at the teenagers' table .. I'd like to believe he was thinking, "Take that ya little punks!
I can hardly wait for the February meeting -- so many delicious possibilities.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
American Schmuck
"American Prince, A Memoir" by Tony Curtis (nee Bernie Schwartz) with Peter Golenbock Harmony Books $25.95 364 pages
Curtis' tale is so trite -- rags to riches to rags, persecuted as a Hungarian Jew (who apparently never went to temple,) the mandatory drug interlude (cocaine in the '80s) constantly-arguing parents (and bad parenting on his part -- his children are largely estranged from Dear Old Dads) and what he thought of various co-stars. Naturally, he was best friends with Sinatra, Dean Martin, Cary Grant, Rock Hudson -- on and on. Happily, they're all dead and can't sue for misrepresentation.
Still, it's an amusing read, probably because of all of the expected (not "surprising") twists and turns. Curtis seems to have confused "lust" with "love" no less than four times in the marital field and countless times on the loose. His first wife, Janet Leigh, was the only "star;" the next two were starlets, who abused him in various ways. He has been married to #4 for 10 years, something of a record for him. He had four daughters and two sons, one of whom was dead at 23 from a drug overdose.
Best of all (and funniest) is the fact that he never learns. At the end of the book, he talks about squeezing in time for his grandchildren!
He contradicts himself throughout -- "I was dead broke" then some pages later, he boasts, "I made more from my real estate deals than I ever did acting!" Inference being, "So who needs it?" Followed by, "My life was over -- I couldn't get any (acting) work!"
He is 83 and his last chapter is titled, "Maybe I'll Live Forever!" If it's possible for libido to out-live common sense, maybe he will!
Curtis' tale is so trite -- rags to riches to rags, persecuted as a Hungarian Jew (who apparently never went to temple,) the mandatory drug interlude (cocaine in the '80s) constantly-arguing parents (and bad parenting on his part -- his children are largely estranged from Dear Old Dads) and what he thought of various co-stars. Naturally, he was best friends with Sinatra, Dean Martin, Cary Grant, Rock Hudson -- on and on. Happily, they're all dead and can't sue for misrepresentation.
Still, it's an amusing read, probably because of all of the expected (not "surprising") twists and turns. Curtis seems to have confused "lust" with "love" no less than four times in the marital field and countless times on the loose. His first wife, Janet Leigh, was the only "star;" the next two were starlets, who abused him in various ways. He has been married to #4 for 10 years, something of a record for him. He had four daughters and two sons, one of whom was dead at 23 from a drug overdose.
Best of all (and funniest) is the fact that he never learns. At the end of the book, he talks about squeezing in time for his grandchildren!
He contradicts himself throughout -- "I was dead broke" then some pages later, he boasts, "I made more from my real estate deals than I ever did acting!" Inference being, "So who needs it?" Followed by, "My life was over -- I couldn't get any (acting) work!"
He is 83 and his last chapter is titled, "Maybe I'll Live Forever!" If it's possible for libido to out-live common sense, maybe he will!
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Hope for the Best, Prepare for the Worst
This would seem to be Saveur magazine's not-so-thinly veiled attitude towards fiscal 2009. The February issue presents recipes to make your own deli-style mustard, Worcestershire sauce, Louisiana-style hot sauce and ketchup! saveur.com
These are not things to make that would have occurred to me. There's a bottle of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce in the hall closet; none in the refrigerator - I find it too salty to use. I'm hooked on Maille Dijon mustard; no need to make something different. I collect hot sauces, why would I want to make my own? We never use ketchup.
You, however, may be of a different mind, so have at it! Bragging rights are all yours.
WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE (This has a ton of ingredients. My advice? Buy some!)
2 cups distilled white vinegar
1/2 cup molasses
1/2 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup tamarind concentrate
3 T yellow mustard seeds
3 T kosher salt (OMIT)
1 teas. whole black peppercorns
1 teas. whole cloves
1/2 teas. curry powder
5 cardamom pods, smashed
4 chiles de arbol, chopped
2 cloves garlic, smashed
1 one in. stick of cinnamon
1 anchovy, chopped (optional and no, I wouldn't use this)
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 1/2 in. piece of ginger, peeled and crushed
1/2 cup sugar
Combine all of the ingredients in a saucepan -- except the sugar -- and boil. Simmer for 10 minutes. Cook the sugar in a separate skillet until it becomes dark amber and syrupy - about 5 minutes. Add the sugar to the vinegar mixture and whisk; cook the sauce for 5 minutes and put it in a glass jar with a tight lid. Refrigerate for three weeks; strain to remove the solids and put it back in the jar. It'll last in the refrigerator for up to eight (8) months.
KETCHUP
Make a spice bag (cheesecloth tied with string) of:
4 whole cloves
1 bay leaf
1 stick cinnamon
1/4 teas. celery seeds
1/4 teas. chile flakes
1/4 teas. allspice
2 lbs. tomatoes, roughly chopped
1/2 cup white vinegar
5 T brown sugar
1 onion, chopped
1 Anaheim chile, chopped
1 clove garlic, smashed
Put the spice bag in with the other ingredients and cook until the onion is soft, about 40 minutes. Take it off the fire, take out the spice bag and discard; let it cool a bit and puree it. Strain the puree and cook the rest for another 30 minutes. Let cool and put it in a bottle.
These are not things to make that would have occurred to me. There's a bottle of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce in the hall closet; none in the refrigerator - I find it too salty to use. I'm hooked on Maille Dijon mustard; no need to make something different. I collect hot sauces, why would I want to make my own? We never use ketchup.
You, however, may be of a different mind, so have at it! Bragging rights are all yours.
WORCESTERSHIRE SAUCE (This has a ton of ingredients. My advice? Buy some!)
2 cups distilled white vinegar
1/2 cup molasses
1/2 cup soy sauce
1/4 cup tamarind concentrate
3 T yellow mustard seeds
3 T kosher salt (OMIT)
1 teas. whole black peppercorns
1 teas. whole cloves
1/2 teas. curry powder
5 cardamom pods, smashed
4 chiles de arbol, chopped
2 cloves garlic, smashed
1 one in. stick of cinnamon
1 anchovy, chopped (optional and no, I wouldn't use this)
1 yellow onion, chopped
1 1/2 in. piece of ginger, peeled and crushed
1/2 cup sugar
Combine all of the ingredients in a saucepan -- except the sugar -- and boil. Simmer for 10 minutes. Cook the sugar in a separate skillet until it becomes dark amber and syrupy - about 5 minutes. Add the sugar to the vinegar mixture and whisk; cook the sauce for 5 minutes and put it in a glass jar with a tight lid. Refrigerate for three weeks; strain to remove the solids and put it back in the jar. It'll last in the refrigerator for up to eight (8) months.
KETCHUP
Make a spice bag (cheesecloth tied with string) of:
4 whole cloves
1 bay leaf
1 stick cinnamon
1/4 teas. celery seeds
1/4 teas. chile flakes
1/4 teas. allspice
2 lbs. tomatoes, roughly chopped
1/2 cup white vinegar
5 T brown sugar
1 onion, chopped
1 Anaheim chile, chopped
1 clove garlic, smashed
Put the spice bag in with the other ingredients and cook until the onion is soft, about 40 minutes. Take it off the fire, take out the spice bag and discard; let it cool a bit and puree it. Strain the puree and cook the rest for another 30 minutes. Let cool and put it in a bottle.
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Middle Managers Lunch Room
Houston's, 1550 A Rosecrans, Manhattan Beach 310-643-7211 hillstone.com
The first thing we saw when we walked in was a gaggle of servers clustered around the pass-through, milling about, looking for their particular plates. Male and female alike wore black pants and vests, white shirts and aprons.
The room is big, dark (with lampshades that look like upside-down Outback Bloomin' Onions.) Banquets line the wooden walls and tables and chairs sprout along the windows which are cellar level -- you can see legs and shoes going past on the sidewalk - quite amusing if you like the NY basement feel. The whole place is a bastion to men - has a very "I say, old chap" clubby feeling to it.
Males are catered to with buttonhole napkins, macho steak knives and such manly items as True Idaho Baked Potato - $5; Black Beans and Brown Rice - $4. Desserts are five-nut brownies or apple walnut cobble, both $8. Our server rattled off about five specials of the day (all fish and all entrees.)
Richie ordered a bowl of tortilla soup ($7) and a French dip on a house-baked bun with cole slaw ($16.) I ordered a cheeseburger and fries ($13.)
The tortilla soup was extraordinarily creamy with generous chunks of white chicken and avocado and a veritable forest of tortilla slivers jutting up from the center of the dish. I tasted it and remarked, "It could have been a little warmer!" and Richie added, "Could have been a little more of it, too!"
My cheeseburger had melted cheddar top and bottom, half a head of shredded lettuce, two tomato slices and perhaps 1/2 teaspoon of chopped onion. "Can't reek of onion all afternoon -- do think of the stawff..." The burger was so big I was reminded (fearfully) of Big John's Cafe's 32-oz. version. To my amazement, I ate easily two-thirds of it and didn't feel "full" afterward. Shoestring fries, quite tasty.
Richie said his roast beef was very good. The cole slaw had a lot of parsely in it ("stawff" again?) but the horseradish sauce was strangely bitter. All in all, it was "good enough" but not a place that we'll be salivating about until we can return.
Especially as the tab was $38.97 (no drinks, just water.) I tipped $7.97 (the suggested 20% on the ticket bottom) and we walked out of there $46.76 later. Bit rich for my blood, old chap.
The first thing we saw when we walked in was a gaggle of servers clustered around the pass-through, milling about, looking for their particular plates. Male and female alike wore black pants and vests, white shirts and aprons.
The room is big, dark (with lampshades that look like upside-down Outback Bloomin' Onions.) Banquets line the wooden walls and tables and chairs sprout along the windows which are cellar level -- you can see legs and shoes going past on the sidewalk - quite amusing if you like the NY basement feel. The whole place is a bastion to men - has a very "I say, old chap" clubby feeling to it.
Males are catered to with buttonhole napkins, macho steak knives and such manly items as True Idaho Baked Potato - $5; Black Beans and Brown Rice - $4. Desserts are five-nut brownies or apple walnut cobble, both $8. Our server rattled off about five specials of the day (all fish and all entrees.)
Richie ordered a bowl of tortilla soup ($7) and a French dip on a house-baked bun with cole slaw ($16.) I ordered a cheeseburger and fries ($13.)
The tortilla soup was extraordinarily creamy with generous chunks of white chicken and avocado and a veritable forest of tortilla slivers jutting up from the center of the dish. I tasted it and remarked, "It could have been a little warmer!" and Richie added, "Could have been a little more of it, too!"
My cheeseburger had melted cheddar top and bottom, half a head of shredded lettuce, two tomato slices and perhaps 1/2 teaspoon of chopped onion. "Can't reek of onion all afternoon -- do think of the stawff..." The burger was so big I was reminded (fearfully) of Big John's Cafe's 32-oz. version. To my amazement, I ate easily two-thirds of it and didn't feel "full" afterward. Shoestring fries, quite tasty.
Richie said his roast beef was very good. The cole slaw had a lot of parsely in it ("stawff" again?) but the horseradish sauce was strangely bitter. All in all, it was "good enough" but not a place that we'll be salivating about until we can return.
Especially as the tab was $38.97 (no drinks, just water.) I tipped $7.97 (the suggested 20% on the ticket bottom) and we walked out of there $46.76 later. Bit rich for my blood, old chap.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Good Pretzel; Bad Pretzel
"The Deen Bros. Cookbook - Recipes from the Road" by Jamie and Bobby Deen Meredith Books $24.95 223 pages
Jamie and Bobby are the sons of Paula Deen, "The Bag Lady" who got her culinary start selling box lunches to office workers. She eventually made it to the Food Network and her boys followed her into television.
This book is kind of a bait and switch in that the boys drive across our country, sampling roadside food and praising it to the skies (usually with the sycophantic murmur "Almost as good as Mamma's") but then giving us their version of the dish described. Very few chef's/cafe owners would give them their recipes.
Super Bowl Sunday will be here soon and here are two recipes that amused me --
GOOD PRETZEL!
Package of six frozen pretzels, thawed, split in half and toasted
Slices of deli turkey and lettuce with this dressing:
1/3 cup mayonnaise
1/8 cup chopped cilantro
1/4 cup whole berries cranberry sauce
Bad Pretzel (shame!)
1/2 cup of milk
2 T sweet butter
8 oz. sharp cheddar cheese
4 oz. cream cheese, softened
1/4 cup sosur cream
1 teas. deli-style mustard
splash of hot sauce
Bring the milk and butter to a boil, reduce the heat and add the cheddar cheese and whisk until smooth. Add the cream cheese, sour cream, mustard and hot sauce and whisk again. Serve the dip warm with pretzel sticks (fat or thin) for dipping.
Jamie and Bobby are the sons of Paula Deen, "The Bag Lady" who got her culinary start selling box lunches to office workers. She eventually made it to the Food Network and her boys followed her into television.
This book is kind of a bait and switch in that the boys drive across our country, sampling roadside food and praising it to the skies (usually with the sycophantic murmur "Almost as good as Mamma's") but then giving us their version of the dish described. Very few chef's/cafe owners would give them their recipes.
Super Bowl Sunday will be here soon and here are two recipes that amused me --
GOOD PRETZEL!
Package of six frozen pretzels, thawed, split in half and toasted
Slices of deli turkey and lettuce with this dressing:
1/3 cup mayonnaise
1/8 cup chopped cilantro
1/4 cup whole berries cranberry sauce
Bad Pretzel (shame!)
1/2 cup of milk
2 T sweet butter
8 oz. sharp cheddar cheese
4 oz. cream cheese, softened
1/4 cup sosur cream
1 teas. deli-style mustard
splash of hot sauce
Bring the milk and butter to a boil, reduce the heat and add the cheddar cheese and whisk until smooth. Add the cream cheese, sour cream, mustard and hot sauce and whisk again. Serve the dip warm with pretzel sticks (fat or thin) for dipping.
Odds and Ends
Garlic: I can report that squeezing a clove of garlic between thumb and index finger does pop the skin right off. Unfortunately, the French grandmother trick didn't work for me. Either French forks have thinner, sharper tines or else French grandmothers have greater upper body strength, always a possibility.
The Dentist: I had my teeth cleaned yesterday and at the end, the technician gave me a little, tiny toothbrush - think "suitable for a mouse" - and said that as we age, our gums recede (much like our hairlines, libidos and investments) and to use it between my back teeth.
The Dentist: I had my teeth cleaned yesterday and at the end, the technician gave me a little, tiny toothbrush - think "suitable for a mouse" - and said that as we age, our gums recede (much like our hairlines, libidos and investments) and to use it between my back teeth.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
