House of God PIES: Sunday Confessional

After three years of living on the East side, I managed to fulfill a long-standing foodie fantasy of mine last night: A late night slice of pie and a cup of joe at House of Pies in Los Feliz. I've always had a soft spot for coffee shops, at any hour, and I couldn't wait to try some pie. And HOP meets all expectations. It's a pleasant little diner that envelops you in a safe blanket of coziness the minute you walk in. It's 24-hour coffee-shop familiarity at it's finest. You know the menu by memory, you've eaten breakfast there a hundred times—as a 5-year old with the family, as a 15-year old with your friends after a football game, as a 22-year old, hungover with your college pals. And you'll probably dine there a hundred times more. So perhaps it's that relaxing sense of security the HOP conjures—when you can stretch out, two to a big, plasticy booth—that nudges one to spill personal secrets, but Sunday night with pie was a delightful confessional.

And whether there's a real link between sinfully-sweet slices of pie (Southern Pecan for me, Blueberry for my partner in crime) and the urge to swap guilty confessions, I'll never know. But bite after bite, as stomachs grew heavier, hearts felt lighter, and the moment of food and friendship set in, I realized that sometimes there is no better cure-all (for the guilty or innocent) than a 24-hour coffee-shop confessional good conversation.

The House of Pies, 1869 N Vermont Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90027; (323) 666-9961

South Carolina's Low Country Highs

The weekend before last, I went on my very first Southern Adventure. Well, that's not exactly true, but considering I didn't eat much besides PBJ sandos, corn dogs and french fries for the first 12 years of my life, the family Alabama trip back in '92 doesn't count. My dear friend Natalia tied the knot in the very quaint and delightful town of Charleston, and I couldn't have been more thrilled to satisfy some of my Southern food fascination. After checking into my hotel in the historic downtown area, I rented a beach cruiser, and had the entire weekend to trek around town discovering all sorts of yummy treats.
The highlights of the Low Country included:

Kitchen soap at Charleston Cooks! They call themselves the maverick kitchen store, and it really was one of the most amazing specialty cooking shops I've been too. There was a class going on as I was in there that I got to peek my head into (culinary school, ahh, so excited), and they sell a ton of unique spices geared for cooking Low Country cuisine. The oyster bar at Hank's Seafood.
The baskets at the City Market near the waterfront
The Shrimp & Grits at Nat's wedding, yummmm... And the Citrus Mint Martini (I didn't think a mint julep could be rivaled!) at the bar at Fig

I could have stayed another week!

Killer Shrimp!

On Friday night, my best friend and I ventured out of Silver Lake to try a restaurant by the name of KILLER SHRIMP [sweet logo,right?]

I have never been so excited to try a new restaurant since my Dad visited L.A. last year and we went to A.O.C. (a meal I will never forget) We walked in, and I seriously was so excited I couldn't talk. The low-lying haunt in Studio City exudes the dark, seedy aura of a dive bar but with the lively decór of a 70's disco roller rink (yes, those are plastic beads hanging from the ceiling). They serve one thing for dinner: Shrimp. It's served Louisiana-style in a big bowl of cajun-spiced, buttery broth. A heap of crusty french bread in a paper-napkin lined metal colander arrives with the broth, along with some naked spaghetti noodles and a serving of white rice. Classy. And killer. In fact it's so good, you can only eat about 15 bites before you die. But not from the shrimp. From the let down that ensues when eating a dish you get sick of so fast [Side Note: there needs to be a phrase for that..."killer shrimped" perhaps. As in: "The pasta was good at first, but then the overpowering flavor of fennel killer shrimped it."]

Killer Shrimp promises a lot, and it does deliver—but only for about the first 10 minutes. Then it's over, and your taste buds are left, wanting, needing more. So we ordered a bottle of wine and asked for the dessert menu. We certainly weren't leaving this one-of-a-kind, killer environment just yet. And it's a good thing stayed, because the ginormous slice of chocolate cake with raspberry filling could never be killer shrimped.

Killer Shrimp, Ventura Blvd. & Colfax, Studio City, 818-508-1570

Death By Mole (poblano)

Two words: Las Glorias.
One Special of the Day (everyday!): Mole.

"Las Glorias del Buen Comer" is the unpretentious little taco stand on Silver Lake Blvd. that may have the best mole I've ever discovered stateside. Since my first bite of their mole enchiladas, a serious addiction began developing and I'm beginning to think it may kill me. (Full disclosure: I've been there for a Mole fix 6 times in the last two weeks.) What's so different about Las Glorias' mole? For starters, it takes the form of Enchilada, Pollo, even special-order Burrito and/or Tacos. You can order Mole on everything. On anything. You can never get sick of it, because it's constantly changing form. And it's insanely affordable, making my addiction even more justifiable. Who could pass up a plate of 3 Mole enchiladas (chicken), a side of refried beans, rice and a handful of chips for $5? Exactly. And the ingredients are delicious and fresh—i'm yet to encounter a nasty piece of chicken. I've never been disappointed.

Go now. I dare you. Get your mole addiction on.

Las Glorias is located right across the street from the very baffling Silver Lake haunt: Mom's Donuts & Chinese Food To Go. There are two ways to enjoy your mole: the lovely, lush outdoor patio where the sounds of soft jazz muffle the traffic on Silver Lake Blvd., or you can get it to go and eat at home—where no one can judge you.

Dining Out: Supper Club, LE experience!

My dad called the Saturday we had reservations, around 4 pm, to confirm. The voice on the other end of the phone asked him very pointedly if we would mind wearing all black. Everyone was being asked to wear all black. Say what? "Just what is this place," I wondered. Well, it's The Supper Club. From the minute you begin to think about what you will wear for the evening, the supper club in San Francisco is an experience. With food. My three sisters and I (all visiting the folks at home for the first time in ages) dolled it up. My parents even pulled out the stops with their own very chic noir ensembles. From the minute we stepped inside the unimpressive, non-descript building on Harrison between 2nd and 3rd, the experience continued to reveal layers of ridiculousness, equally mixed with delight and it was..le exciting. Diva Dan took our coats. Diva Dan is a transvestite with a great smile, a coy attitude and one hell of a rack. He also means business, especially when doling out birthday/bachelorette/anneversiary “spanks” with a knarly paddle straight out of woodshop class in Dazed and Confused. No freshman allowed at the supper club, though. 18 and up only. And appropriately. Between the flowing booze and the cross-dressing cabaret style performance art that takes place in between courses, this private dining experience (one seating a night, no in-and-out) is outta control fun. You lounge on cushions for three hours, all while being served hand and foot. Massages cost extra, but, hey, they're available. Our server was a cross between cupid and Angel from X-Men III and was particularly skilled at passing plates of food up through the balcony to more efficiently serve the upper level diners. The food was excellent— impressive, even considering it was a five course plated extravaganza for 200. Can't wait for the excuse to go again...though I wouldn't recommend a birthday unless you don't mind Diva Dan's paddle...