Outside a temple in Chiang Mai, Thailand.

There are days when I wish I lived anywhere but LA. I can't face the traffic battle to my job in Beverly Hills, can't stand the looks from women with Botox-frozen faces and their tiny dogs, can't fight the tide of noisepeoplesmogmallscarsbillboardsmoney. It makes me want to find a small cabin in the woods and move right in.

But then I go somewhere like Wat Dong Moon Lek, a new Thai restaurant just a few blocks from my house, and remember there are no Thai noodles in the woods. It's a major flaw in my plan.

The chalkboard menu.

Wat Dong Moon Lek has been open for a few months, but since a write-up in the LA Times last week, business has exploded. I stopped by with Jessica, who has been talking to me about the place for several weeks, and the owner immediately recognized her and greeted us warmly. "You came here even before the article!" she told Jessica. On this Tuesday night all the tables were full, but service was speedy and exceptionally attentive.

Rambutan salad.

I had to get the rambutan salad, cool slippery orbs of fruit dressed with coconut milk and garnished with sesame seeds, sliced onions, Thai chilis and cooked shrimp. Rambutans are a pink, prickly-skinned, lychee-like fruit which I don't think I've ever even seen in the U.S., let alone eaten in a salad that so expertly balances the sweet and the savory. Tiny explosions of nuttiness and heat went off in my mouth as I chewed, the sweet rambutan flesh mingling with the salty coconut milk, and I was reminded of how when I was growing up my dad would fill a plate with sliced pineapple from the salad bar at Sizzler and eat it dipped in salt. Sweet, salty, sour -- it's a synergy even my nine-year-old self appreciated, though I still found the whole pineapple-with-salt thing super weird.

Wat Dong Moon Lek noodles with beef.

We both got small bowls of the restaurant's namesake noodles with beef, surprisingly large portions of medium-rare meat, rice stick noodles and bean sprouts swimming in beefy broth, garnished with thinly sliced lettuce and a sprinkle of white pepper. The broth tasted familiar though I had never before eaten this style of noodle soup, which is the specialty of a particular shop adjacent to a temple in Bangkok. I realized it reminded me of beef Cup Noodles, which sounds terrible but listen! Obviously the fresh broth in Wat Dong Moon Lek's noodle soup is worlds away from the thin, sad stuff you find in a paper-topped cup, with a body and intensity Nissin could never replicate, but to tell you the truth I loved beef Cup Noodles as a kid. And these noodles are like the grown-up version I never knew existed.

Chile peppercorn with pork.

I had wanted to round out the meal with khao man gai, Thailand's version of Hainanese chicken rice, but they had already run out so we ordered chile peppercorn with pork, tender pieces of meat in a dry red curry speckled with Thai basil leaves and a branch of soft green peppercorns. Each mouthful was a spicy, balanced blast of flavor and I found myself picking out the peppercorns to nibble on even after I was full.

Coconut smoothie.

Linda Burum's description of the sophisticated dessert offerings had my betsu-bara rumbling, but unfortunately they had run out of dessert so I had to content myself with the icy dregs of my refreshing, not-too-sweet coconut smoothie.

I couldn't be happier to finally have a good Thai place in Silver Lake. A GOOD Thai place with inventive food, friendly service and an exuberant turquoise interior complete with colorful chalkboard pictures of Obama and Elvis. The LA Times coverage has the small space bursting at the seams right now and a midweek visit is the way to go, but hopefully things will settle down soon. I'll be checking back for khao man gai and desserts next week.

(Psst...it's cash only, so bring your Hamiltons.)

Wat Dong Moon Lek
4356 Fountain Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90029
(323) 666-5993

The two best things about summer are:

1) That it is acceptable to eat ice cream at least once a day, every day.

2) That riding my scooter becomes the perfect pastime.

Don't get me wrong, I almost always like riding my scooter. But chilly midwinter scootering can't compare to a sunny August afternoon ride, sunglasses on, arms recklessly bare, my little Buddy 125 humming happily beneath me. There's nothing better than that. Except maybe ice cream.

Which is why fellow scooter rider Javier (a.k.a. Teenage Glutster) and I decided to combine the two and have an ice cream scooter crawl, starting with scoops at Scoops, ending with beer floats at The Golden State and trying to avoid any sugar-fueled collisions in between.

We met at Scoops in the early afternoon, so early that the ice cream was mostly untouched, still mounded in creamy swirls and somehow looking even more irresistible. Javier, his lady friend and I split two double scoops: one cup of vegan salty chocolate and coffee-cardamom, which Javier wisely sprinkled with chopped peanuts, and one cup of black currant-sour cream and vanilla-whiskey. I view the combining of two flavors of ice cream in one cup something of an art form and I think we really nailed it this time, especially the salty chocolate and coffee-cardamom with the peanuts. The peanuts were crucial. The other cup worked just because the black currant-sour cream was one of the best Scoops flavors I've ever eaten, rich and tangy with a deep berry taste.

As we were finishing, Jessica -- my passenger/lady friend -- arrived and we worked out a game plan while she polished off a scoop of ice cream.

The next stop was Helados Pops, just a couple blocks away. A tiny shop specializing in sorbets flavored with Central and South American fruits, it was the place I was most excited to bring Javier to, mainly because I was so curious about all the flavors. Javier immediately started chatting with the woman behind the counter, who dished out brightly colored samples of nance (a yellow crabapple-like fruit with a slightly funky taste), arrayán (a kind of guava), marañón (cashew apple, a yellow fruit with a sweet taste reminiscent of pineapple) and lúcuma (egg fruit, a dry-fleshed fruit from Peru with a unique caramel flavor). We ended up getting scoops of the last three in a pint container, along with a half-scoop of the nance because we asked nicely. Lúcuma, the only non-sorbet of the bunch, was the flavor that most interested Javier due to its rarity outside of South America. My favorite was the arrayán: green, slightly sour and utterly refreshing. They also make arrayán paletas!

Next we made a brief savory stop at Mush Bakery for fresh lahmajun, to halt the onset of acute sugar shock. At 90 cents each, they were an amazingly affordable curative.

Bhan Kanom is my favorite place in Thai Town for sweets, so I assumed they would also serve a good Thai slush, but although the ingredients were intriguing -- palm toddy? -- the ice was chunky rather than slushy and drowned in a syrup that tasted like children's cough medicine. Never again.

Thankfully, our last stop was a sure thing: award-winning beer floats at The Golden State. The ride from Thai Town to Fairfax was the longest of the day, so by the time we arrived we were more than ready to get out of the sun and relax with our floats. Jason, one of The Golden State's co-owners, welcomed us with his usual laid-back friendliness and set about making us a couple floats when we told him our ice cream mission. First up was Old Rasputin with Scoop's signature Brown Bread gelato, a now-classic combination of rich, dark stout and creamy, brown sugar-tinged ice cream. Our second float was a lucky off-menu score, a summery combo of The Bruery's Hottenroth Berliner Weisse and strawberry-basil gelato. Jason pointed out that the sour ale makes the float taste almost like it's made with champagne. It was light and refreshing, undoubtedly my favorite of the two, at least on that warm summer day.

After draining our glasses, we sat back and sighed, contented and full of ice cream, looking forward to a leisurely ride home. We're already discussing our next scooter crawl: a San Gabriel Valley winter hotpot marathon. Who's in?

Scoops
712 N Heliotrope Dr
Los Angeles, CA 90029
(323) 906-2649

Helados Pops
1010 N Vermont Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90029
(323) 660-2900

Mush Bakery
5224 W Sunset Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90027
(323) 662-2010

Bhan Kanom
5271 Hollywood Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90027
(323) 871-8030

The Golden State
426 N Fairfax Ave
Los Angeles, CA 90036
(323) 782-8331

Taking pictures of noodles.

I was jet-lagged after a four-day trip to Massachusetts, tired from a late-night arrival and subsequent full day of work, and cranky after a long search for parking. But there was no way I was going to pass up the Thai boat noodle battle organized by Tony C. of Sinosoul, a soupy showdown in Thai Town sure to satisfy my craving for real Thai food. (An ill-advised visit a couple days before to Thai Place in Salem, MA -- not my idea and not recommended -- had only sharpened my craving.)

Jade noodles.

In one corner: Sapp Coffee Shop, made famous by its appearance on No Reservations with Anthony Bourdain. Our table of eleven annexed the center of the restaurant, but the staff was smiling and calm despite the big group. At my end of the table, Jessica, Louise , Maya and I chowed down on jade noodles -- a tangle of pale green soup-less noodles dotted with peanuts, herbs and chunks of barbecued pork -- while waiting for our boat noodles.

Sapp's boat noodles.

We didn't have long to wait. We moved our plates aside for the steaming bowls of thin rice noodles and dark broth, the table quickly filling up with orders of #2 (boat noodles) and #3 (boat noodles with offal). In Thailand, where boat noodles (kuaytiaw reua) were once sold from boats floating in the canals in the central region of the country, you are given your choice of noodle type and meat. What anchors the bowl is the intensely dark, chili-flecked broth which, if made well like Sapp's, hits you with a wave of beefy flavor that just keeps going, deep and endless as the ocean. (Mmm...boat noodle ocean...) As an added bonus, the bowls at Sapp are garnished with chicharrones, which soak up the broth and turn into beautiful little sponges of juicy, chewy porkiness. Before I knew it, my bowl was empty and it was time for round two of the showdown.

Dad finishes the noodles.

But first Tony came around to check on us. One thing I really enjoy about eating with Tony is that afterward he inspects your plate to make sure you ate everything and urges you to eat more if you didn't. He's like a Chinese mom. But at Sapp he also turned into our dad and finished off the noodles that didn't get eaten, head bent over the bowl, intent on not wasting a single noodle. It was awesome.

Ord exterior. Ol' Grumpy Jackson is inside.

After a brief stop at the dessert shop next door, we walked down the street to the second competitor: Ord Noodle. With its peeling white Eames shell chairs and chartreuse walls, Ord looks a bit like a down-at-the-heel Pinkberry, young families and tattoed Thai kids filling the tables and posters of weird comedy acts covering the walls. Unfortunately the staff seemed none too pleased to see such a large group walking in about 15 minutes before closing and we were grumpily told to wait while they pushed a few tables together. Most of us were already pretty full, but luckily Ord offers boat noodles in both small and large sizes. They also give you a choice of noodles, so I tried the wide rice noodles for variety. I wouldn't bother specifying a spiciness level, though -- while distributing the bowls, the waitress responded to "Is this the medium spicy?" with "It's the same thing!" while stalking moodily back to the kitchen. Excuuuuse me, Crabby Gabby.

Ord's boat noodles.

Ord's broth was quite different from Sapp's: sweeter and spicier with a more pronounced star anise flavor. It was also murkier, settling into layers after sitting undisturbed for a minute, and missing that mile-long finish. I liked the slippery bounce of the wide rice noodles, but the tripe and beef slices didn't seem as fresh as Sapp's, and let's be honest: noodle soups are all about the broth. From a brilliant stock comes brilliant broth, and I am not alone in my obsession with the ideal stock; in Le Guide Culinaire a certain Mr. Escoffier writes, "Indeed, stock is everything in cooking...Without it, nothing can be done. If one's stock is good, what remains of the work is easy; if, on the other hand, it is bad or merely mediocre, it is quite hopeless to expect anything approaching a satisfactory result."

Sounds so dire, doesn't it? It is quite hopeless to expect anything approaching a satisfactory result. HOPELESS.

If you couldn't already tell, Sapp's boat noodles were the big winner for me, as were the panchi from Bhan Kanom we got on the way back to our cars. Crisp and toasty on the outside, warm and soft on the inside, these sweet little cakes of griddled taro and coconut were just the right finish for our boat noodle battle.

Thanks to Tony and the other bloggers/eaters not mentioned above -- Alexandria, Marie, Pauline, Rick, Sook, Wesley -- for a fun night of noodle gluttony!

Sapp Coffee Shop
5183 Hollywood Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90027
(323) 665-1035

Ord Noodle
5401 Hollywood Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90027
(323) 468-9302

Bhan Kanom
5271 Hollywood Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90027
(323) 871-8030

Jerk goat and accompaniments.

People, there's no reason to ever eat crappy food on an airplane again. Front Page Jamaican Grille is less than 3 miles from LAX, so an extra 30 minutes and a short trip down Manchester is all that stands between you and a container full of curry goat or oxtails or jerk chicken with a side of rice and beans. Doesn't that sound better than a soggy $8 turkey sandwich wrapped in plastic? I thought so.

I was lucky enough to be invited to a lunch at Front Page Grille last weekend by an intrepid eater named Josie, whom I met the last time I visited Breed Street in Boyle Heights. She, Javier, Jessica and I met at the restaurant, just a counter and a few tables in a small space painted a dazzling green, tucked into a nondescript strip mall in Inglewood. It is, as Javier put it, like sitting inside a giant Jamaican flag.

Jamaican patties.

We started with a couple appetizers. Vegetable patties, which were like savory handpies stuffed with spinach, are not made on the premises but produced in some other magical Jamaican patty location where the crusts are always flaky and the fillings never soggy. Festival bread was like an unsweetened, slightly dense donut hole, proof that fried dough is the right way to start any meal.

Roasted perch. I swear it tastes a million times better than it looks.

I had been 30 minutes late (navigating tip: Manchester Avenue is not the same as Manchester Boulevard, although the two do eventually meet), so by the time I arrived the others had already put in an order for the roasted perch, which takes 30-40 minutes to prepare. It is well worth the wait, even if you do spend most of the time driving up and down an abandoned block of Manchester Avenue wondering if the restaurant is behind a car wash maybe. Our foil-wrapped fish was brought to the table by John, the chef and co-owner, who has a smile as bright as his green-painted walls. The steaming fish was buried under a pile of chopped cabbage and peppers, totally unphotogenic but so good, the whole mess fragrant with jerk spices and tender enough to cut with a plastic fork. John says the roasted fish is a favorite among the ladies, but he doesn't know why. Gentlemen, get on board. You're missing out.

Okra, plain and simple.

We loaded up our "plates" (actually opened-up takeout containers -- it's kind of awesome) with fish, rice and beans, sticky green okra pods and sweet slices of plantain. The jerk goat was coal-black with a wonderful chew and the oxtails fell apart with the tap of a plastic tine. Nothing was particularly spicy until topped with a little of the homemade hot sauce, a slurry of Scotch bonnet peppers that made my lips tingle. The plainness of the vegetables, boiled and only lightly seasoned, offered an occasional break from the complex spicing of the meats.

Sorrel drink!

The drinks at Front Page Grille are as intriguing and authentic as the food. Pine ginger beer's spicy bite was tempered by its subtle pineapple sweetness. Cran moss is a bizarre mix of cranberry juice and Irish moss, a.k.a. carrageen moss, a sort of seaweed that lends a slightly gelatinous texture that was certainly unique, but not exactly thirst-quenching. For that, I turned to my favorite of the day, the sorrel drink. Brewed from hibiscus flowers, it is basically like jamaica, but imagine the most perfect jamaica ever, one that is not tooth-achingly sweet but instead slightly tart, like a well-made lemonade. I could drink buckets of this.

Carrot pudding/cake.

We finished the meal with a couple slices of carrot cake -- really more of a carrot pudding, dense with shredded carrots and barely sweet. When we told Pam, the other owner, that we liked it, she seemed baffled but pleased to hear someone enjoyed her husband's latest creation. "He never tells me what he's going to make," she said. "He just tells me what it is when he's done."

Showing us the Irish moss.

The vibe is mellow, the music is good, the service is friendly and the whole place reminds you why LA is a great place to live -- because if you don't have time to pick up some cheap and authentic Jamaican food on the way out of town, you can always get it when you return. Just make sure your ride doesn't mind taking a little detour on the way home from the airport.

Front Page Jamaican Grille
1117 W. Manchester Blvd.
Inglewood, CA 90301
(310) 216-9521

Southern barbecue is sort of the antithesis of parking in LA. Think about it: barbecue is slow and generous -- piles of meat infused with the sweet scent of smoke, tended for hours and often served at large gatherings -- while LA parking is quick and ruthless, a hair-pulling experience liable to leave you hating your fellow man. So it was in the spirit of slow and generous living that I proposed a Foodbuzz 24, 24, 24 meal* for my friends on May 30th, with food from Territory BBQ & Records, a brand-new Southern-style barbecue joint just at the end of my street. No car required.

Territory is the brainchild of Tony Presedo, a former indie record label co-executive, and Curtis Brown, ex-frontman of the band Bad Wizards. A North Carolina native, Brown is also behind the Brooklyn taco truck Endless Summer, so he's used to bringing regional foods to the hipster masses. The restaurant itself is sparse; all the seating is at outdoor tables covered with checked tablecloths, alongside a refrigerator that diners can open up to grab sodas in glass bottles. It's charming, but no match for my own apartment, where my friends and I can stay as long as we want and go back for seconds or even thirds -- slow and generous, remember? I got our meal to go.

Back at my apartment, my friends gathered around the kitchen table as I opened to-go containers brimming with pulled pork, beef brisket, fried chicken, fried catfish, collard greens, mac and cheese, baked beans and gigantic biscuits. Two small boxes were filled with apple butter, caramel-brown and flecked with spices, to be slathered on the biscuits. One container held only sauces: pepper vinegar and sweet red barbecue sauce, to appease fans of various barbecue styles. To drink there were sodas from Territory -- Bubble Up, Jolt cola, orange and grape Crush and cherry-flavored Cheerwine -- or the fresh mint limeade I had made that morning. Without ceremony, just a communal "Let's eat!," we started loading up our plates and filling our glasses.

The chicken with its thin, crunchy skin and juicy, flavorful meat was quickly voted a crowd favorite, as were the baked beans, which had a big ham bone planted like a flag in the middle. The cornmeal-dredged catfish was crisp yet succulent, but tasted a little bland until I dabbed on some of Territory's tartar sauce, a light, wonderfully smoky version of a condiment I normally dislike. Of the two barbecued meats, the brisket seemed more deeply flavored than the pork, more redolent of smoke, and was a great match with the fresh-tasting barbecue sauce and plain white bread.

Speaking of bread, let's talk about the biscuits. When I picked up the food, there had been a short wait because the biscuits were still in the oven. Freshly baked biscuits? No complaints from me. I carried them home in a roasting pan, their toasty, buttery smell drifting into my face, tempting me to just bite into one there on the street. I refrained, just long enough to get inside and grab a plate. Then I split one open, spread on a thick layer of apple butter and bit into warm biscuit heaven -- one stop past cinnamon roll paradise, just before croissant nirvana -- a place of moist, buttery layers and browned, deliciously crusty edges. If you love bread, you will love these biscuits.

Some of us went back for seconds. A few of us even went back for thirds. Miraculously, though I had ordered enough food for 15 people, the nine of us managed to finish almost all of it. This was not due to paltry servings on Territory's part, I feel, but to the general spirit of the gathering. We ate a little, we talked a little, we ate a little, we listened to some records, and then we ate some more. Slowness and generosity and eating till you bust -- isn't that what Southern barbecue is all about?

Territory BBQ & Records
534 N. Hoover St.
Los Angeles, CA 90004
(323) 662-4100

* Every month Foodbuzz, the company that sponsors the ads on my blog, chooses 24 bloggers in 24 different places to have a meal within the same 24 hours, paid for by Foodbuzz. The meals are all wildly different in concept, so it's an interesting snapshot of eating around the world. You can see all this month's meals here.

I don't know how I ever survived childhood summers in the sunbaked San Gabriel Valley without the help of mool naeng myun. A cold Korean noodle soup anchored by in an intensely flavorful, slightly tart beef broth and garnished with kimchee, shredded vegetables, a couple slices of meat and a handful of ice, it is both refreshing and fortifying. Like taking a cold shower while eating a pastrami sandwich, but not as soggy.

Though it's not quite chilled noodle weather yet here in LA, I asked Marie of the food blog Starchy Marie, a fellow naeng myun lover, to suggest a good place when we met for lunch. She came up with Yu Chun in Koreatown, a restaurant known for its naeng myun made with chewy black arrowroot noodles (called chik naeng myun in Korean) and gigantic dumplings (mandu).

Marie confessed later that she was worried I would get to the restaurant ahead of her and they wouldn't know what to do with me since I don't speak Korean. But the guy who greeted me in Korean at the door just waved me toward a table near the kitchen and a few minutes later dropped two menus in front of me with a thwap. Marie arrived shortly after and ordered for us in Korean (two bowls of chik naeng myun, one order of super-sized dumplings), but the menu is translated and has pictures, so even the Korean-challenged should be fine.

The mandu were as big as tennis balls, soft, elastic tennis balls filled with a flavorful mince of pork and kimchee. Wrangling one into my mouth bite by bite took all my chopstick skills, but was well worth the challenge.

And then there was the naeng myun. Served in big metal bowls kissed with condensation, the ice-flecked broth held julienned cucumbers, some sliced beef and a bright red dollop of chili paste. We added a squirt of vinegar and stirred, revealing the translucent black noodles and ribbons of pickled zucchini. Marie said she had been worried the arrowroot noodles would be too chewy, but because they were so thin, like soba noodles stretched to twice their length, it was never a problem.

The soul of any noodle soup is its broth and Yu Chun's is good enough to make it through the pearly gates, no problem. Lurking below its vinegar bite and slow chili burn is a beefiness of staggering depth. I would have drained the bowl, but I had to leave room for our post-lunch visit to Scoops. Also, I already had two tennis balls of dumpling in my belly.

Were it possible to fill a swimming pool with Yu Chun's naeng myun, I would spend the summer happily paddling past crunchy vegetables and slippery noodles, gulping down icy broth for sustenance. Until I figure out the mechanics, I'll just settle for lunch once in awhile.

Yu Chun Chic Naeng Myun
3185 W Olympic Blvd.
Los Angeles, CA 90006
(213) 382-3815

Chef Don Dickman, slicing.

I first moved to Silver Lake when I was 19. Going out for dinner and a drink back then often meant choking down a watery chicken tostada at El Conquistador while sipping a potent margarita and being dazzled by the explosively colorful decor.

Ten years later, my tastes have changed -- and so has Silver Lake. How else to explain my thoroughly enjoyable evening at Barbrix, the sleek new wine bar on Hyperion? Seated at the back bar, I got to watch the kitchen action while looking over the menu and reasonably priced list of wines by the glass. I picked the Kogl Mea Culpa Saemling, a white wine from Slovenia our server described as "crispy" -- yes, it is difficult for me to resist crispy things -- which turned out to be a great match for the meal.

Veal meatballs were juicy and delicate, sitting in a pool of herb-butter sauce that was so good mopped up with chunks of the La Brea Bakery bread, I had to get a second round of bread. The McGrath Farmer's Plate was like a slice of garden on the plate -- dark, earthy beets, sweet sunshine carrots, curling green pea tendrils -- exactly right for a cool May evening. We asked a passing server about the saba mentioned in the menu description (the only saba either of us knew was the Japanese mackerel) and he deferred to the chef, Don Dickman, who came over and gave us a quick but thorough explanation of the process of making saba, a sort of unfermented, deeply concentrated grape juice. He squeezed a few droplets of balsamic vinegar onto a plate for us to taste and contrast -- an unexpected and welcome lesson from a chef who undoubtedly had better things to do.

The Greek sardine, grilled until the skin was crisp and slightly blackened, was meaty with an oiliness nicely offset by a squeeze of the lemon wedge served alongside. Is there any better way to get your omega-3s? I only wish it had been sardines, plural, so I could have eaten more.

The roasted halibut with sunchokes, chard and mushroom was slightly overcooked, veering from Silky-Supple Town into Dense-Flaky-ville. The flavors were spot-on though, and I loved the contrast between the slightly crunchy sunchoke slices and slippery mushrooms.

We didn't order dessert, though I was sorely tempted by the ginger shortcakes with berry compote that kept passing by. Jessica, the ideal dining partner in so many ways, seems to unfortunately lack betsu-bara (literally "another stomach" in Japanese), the affliction I was diagnosed with during my first week in Japan when I could eat five courses of food and still have room for dessert. I always have room for dessert.

The dining room.

I'll undoubtedly be returning to Barbrix, and not just for the shortcake. The service was friendly, the space intimate without feeling cramped, and everyone in the room, whether patron or employee, seemed genuinely happy to be there -- including me.

Silver Lake, it's official. We've grown up.

Barbrix
2442 Hyperion Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90027
(323) 662-2442

In front of Zanzabelle.

"Wait, this is a toy and candy shop. And it's closed."

Rob sounded mistrustful. But I couldn't really blame him. I had, after all, told him we were going to a prix fixe dinner at a sort of supper club in Silver Lake, but I had forgotten to mention the location -- Zanzabelle, a candy-slash-toy-slash-ice-cream shop on Rowena. No wonder he was confused.

But once we stepped onto the wooden porch and saw candles twinkling on the butcher paper-topped tables inside, we knew we were in the right place. As our eyes adjusted to the dim interior, we saw six tables fit neatly into the small store, four of them occupied by diners happily eating and chatting.

Jackie, half of the husband and wife team behind Freight, welcomed us as warmly as a hostess greeting her dinner guests, then showed us to our table and opened our bottle of beer. "How do you say your name?" she asked. "Anjali. Is that right?" Rob looked at me in surprise -- I hadn't given my name when we walked in. But I had emailed for a reservation and Jackie had been the one to respond, so she remembered my name. And even said it correctly the first time, no mean feat. I relaxed into my seat and sipped some beer while we waited for our meal: bourbon-glazed tri-tip, cowboy beans, homemade pico de gallo and buttermilk cornbread.

But after a moment we had another reminder that we weren't at just any restaurant. Matt, the chef, appeared at my elbow, greeted us and said he had our meat seared rare at the moment. How did we want it? "That was kind of cool," Rob said after he left. Having the chef come to our table to inquire how we'd like our meal cooked made the dining experience feel intensely personal and very friendly.

The meal.*

And then there was the food: tender slices of perfectly cooked beef edged with bits of crunchy char, plump beans with a drizzle of crema, fresh pico de gallo and a big hunk of cornbread, soft and light as a newly fluffed pillow. Or a just-born baby chick. Something soft and wonderful anyway. As I worked my way methodically around the plate -- topping a bite of the meat with a tangy smidge of pico de gallo, taking a buttery bite of bread -- I glanced over at Rob's plate. His bread was gone. But Jackie had only just put the plates in front of us. I peered closer and saw he was holding his chunk of cornbread and eating it pretty much exclusively. "Yeah," he said when I pointed this out. "I picked it up and never put it down again. I think it was the best cornbread I've ever eaten." A bold statement from a man whose pronouncements usually involve nerd movies and video games.

Oh, and by the way? The cost of this meal? An incredible $12 per person.

Jackie stopped by to ask how we were enjoying the food and told us a bit about how Freight at Zanzabelle got started. She and Matt were on the lookout for a place where they could bring a nice bottle of wine and eat dinner without breaking the bank, but they came up empty -- so they decided to create the sort of place they were looking for. In October of last year they had their first dinner and have been quietly giving weekend prix fixe meals ever since. They've been written up on Eating LA and Eat: LA, but the bulk of their promotion is a weekly email letting people know the menu and cost of the upcoming meal. They don't even have a website. It's like the anti-thesis of the Kogi phenomenon, which is I think what makes it so special, like you've stumbled onto this rare and wondrous treasure and NOBODY ELSE KNOWS ABOUT IT which makes it a hundred times more precious.

But ironically, because it is so special and wonderful, you want to tell everyone about it. And so this:

Get yourself onto the Freight email list by emailing info@freightfoods.com. Or, if you like the sound of this week's meal, just email or call 626-243-3686 to make a reservation between 6-9pm. There's no corkage, so bring along a nice bottle of wine or your favorite beer. This Friday and Saturday they are serving roasted celeriac soup with candied lavender; lamb osso buco with firm polenta, sauteed greens, fennel and gremolata; and a Calvados panna cotta with caramel sauce and bruniose apples for dessert. All of that for $26 per person. Sound good?

...I thought so.

Freight at Zanzabelle
2912 Rowena Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90039
(626) 243-3686

* Sorry for the blurry, craptastic food photo in this post. It was really very dark. To make up for it, here's a (blurry, craptastic) photo of Rob taking out his Invisalign, which those who eat with him know is the prologue to every meal. It's like saying grace, but with more saliva.

The holder of the meat bag.

In the magical town of my dreams, the work week ends with everyone heading out to a quiet street, where the best cooks in town make their favorite dishes from scratch and everyone eats -- standing up, plate in hand -- while the kids and dogs run around, dipping in and out of pools of street lamp light.

Who knew Boyle Heights was the magical town of my dreams?

My friend Jessica had been talking for weeks about the Mexican food fair set up on the corner of Breed Street and Cesar Chavez, so on a recent Friday evening we made the short trek over. As we drove through the torn-up streets bordering the freeway, we were distracted by a small clump of people waving hand-lettered signs that said "RICO'S TACOS" with arrows pointing left. The people holding the signs, however, were pointing emphatically to the right.

How could we resist? We turned right and a little boy in the group let out a whoop, then broke away to run ahead and announce our arrival. We found Rico's Tacos in a large, empty warehouse, the griddle set up incongruously in a corner next to a small table. Unfortunately my barbacoa taco was woefully underseasoned, a fault no amount of the very good salsa could mask. We said our thanks and moved on.

Walking across Cesar Chavez, I saw a line of food-covered folding tables and portable griddles edging a parking lot dotted with vendors selling Disney blankets, flashing-light jewelry and even more food. We started in the middle, at a table run by a woman in a hairnet who periodically pulled large, flat pieces of raw meat from a plastic shopping bag on her table and threw them on the griddle to sear. I was fascinated by the meat bag. Needless to say, we had to try one of her asada tacos, as well as a chile-cheese taco, an oozing joyful mess of tender green chiles and melted cheese.

Chopping barbacoa.

We searched in vain for the pozole lady next to the table selling cups of flan and other gelatinous desserts. A smiling man selling barbacoa and consome was set up in her place, but a peek in his soup pot didn't entice us and two guys eyeing us creepily nearby kept us walking. We stopped by the tacos al vapor stand, the steamed meat resting under white terrycloth towels, which for me conjured mental images of a sauna populated by sides of beef. I tried one of the tacos and marveled at the extremely tender spiced meat. Sitting in a sauna apparently relaxes even the most tense of meats.

Our last stop was the champurrado and huaraches table, where a friendly mustachioed man answered all our questions about the various hot champurrado flavors. I tried the guava, a thick corn-based drink with a mild fruit flavor, and Jessica had the walnut. The drinks are all made from scratch and sweetened with "...What's that called?" asked the mustachioed man. "That sweetener?" I thought of piloncillo, those rustic cones unrefined sugar, and pictured a Mexican auntie slowly stirring the champurrado in an iron cauldron. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Splenda. It's made with Splenda."

My Mexican auntie deflated like a pierced balloon.

Taco sauna.

We finished the evening with huaraches (flat corn cakes resembling the shoe of the same name) topped with huitlacoche, corn fungus, which sounds strange but has a very agreeable funk. They were good, but not as good as the huaraches at Huarache Azteca in Highland Park.

As I left the food fiesta, champurrado in hand, I sighed, satisfied in both soul and belly. (And wallet -- I spent less than $10.) Is there a better way to end the week? Maybe only in the magical town of my dreams...and that's just because someone there is making Thai som tam.

Boyle Heights food fair
Breed Street & Cesar Chavez Avenue
Thursday - Sunday, 7-10pm

Ever since I read Thi Nguyen's roundup of the best places to eat Asian breakfasts, I have been seriously craving fried dough and fresh soy milk. A Sunday excursion to the San Gabriel Valley was the perfect chance to try out Ye May Restaurant, a small cafe where the soy milk is hot, the prices are cheap and the breakfast buns are usually stuffed with pork.

I have a theory about foreign breakfasts. I think that while it is relatively easy to dive headfirst into a new cuisine while you are traveling, during the breakfast hour it's tough to do more than just dip in a toe. I'm not talking about French croissants or Italian cappuccinos or plates of peeled tropical fruits; I mean raw egg on rice, chunk of stinky dried fish, big handful of chopped green onion on my salty morning porridge. And it goes both ways. When I asked some of my Japanese students who had spent a year studying abroad in the U.S. and Canada what Western food grossed them out the most, they said without hesitation, "Oatmeal."

But I think when you fall for a foreign breakfast food, you fall hard, which may explain some people's undying love for natto or my six-month quest for Japanese yogurt. Breakfast is so deeply comforting, no matter the country of origin, and a specific craving cannot be quelled by anything but the exact morning meal you are carrying around in your head. Fried dough and hot soy milk had been taunting me for weeks.

I like the illustrated pictures of the food. And I wanted to steal this little girl.

Ye May is a nondescript restaurant tucked into the corner of an equally unremarkable mini mall in San Gabriel. Mid-morning on a Sunday, the stream of patrons placing their orders at the bun-filled bakery case is steady and the women behind the counter are friendly and quick. The menu is translated into English, but as with most literally translated Chinese menus, it helps to ask what's actually in whatever it is you're looking at. Or just point at one of the other tables. They all hold bowls of steaming soy milk and sticks of fried dough as long as the friendly counter lady's forearm.

Soft tofu.

Our order emerged minutes after sitting down: my bowl of soy milk with a spoon, Jessica's soft tofu soup, a stick of fried dough helpfully cut in half and a steamed pork-vegetable bun. I had ordered the "sweet" soy milk instead of salty, but I didn't taste any added sugar in the first steamy sip. Just the essence of soy, pure and clear.

The fried dough was equally simple but sublime, the outer surface crinkled and crisp, the insides soft and satisfyingly chewy. Torn pieces dipped in the soy milk transformed into gushy soy sponges with crackly edges, exactly the right thing to eat on a hazy Sunday morning in China. Or San Gabriel, whichever.

Pork gao bun.

The pork and vegetable bun was the perfect accompaniment, the sweet bun and savory filling a nice counterpoint to the mild flavor of the dough and soy milk. And I would certainly go for the pork gao bun again, the star of our second round of ordering, a sort of bun sandwich filled with pork, herbs, pickles and a chunky peanut spread.

I think I've found my new breakfast craving.

Ye May Restaurant
608 E. Valley Blvd., Space G
San Gabriel, CA 91776
(626) 280-8568

Ordering at La Super Rica.

When you want to get out of LA for the weekend, but you don't have time to get out of LA for the weekend, an impromptu road trip to Santa Barbara for a taco crawl is a very good solution. My friend Meg came up with that one. She's a smart one, that Meg, and a good eater to boot.

After a mandatory pre-trip coffee stop at Intelligentsia, we were on the road under a perfectly sunny and blue sky, tacos shimmering on the horizon. We exited the 101 freeway on Milpas, where three of the four (or was it five?) taco spots on Meg's map were located, including the famous La Super Rica.

El Bajio.

But El Bajio was our first stop, a small and spotlessly clean taqueria with a large menu. We had eyes only for the tacos and ordered four: asada, adobada, chicharron and lengua. The aguas frescas were appealing, but since Meg only had $13 in cash and I had $0 in cash, and -- you guessed it -- El Bajio is cash only, we made do with ice water. The first rule of any good taco crawl is BRING CASH. How could we forget?

Lengua and chicharron tacos.

The second rule of any good taco crawl is probably ORDER THE ORGANS because the lengua was my favorite, followed closely by the asada. The adobada had a little too much cinnamon and the chicharron was a major fail, we both agreed. Skin is best when it's crispy, something I didn't realize until I tried to eat a taco filled with limp, soggy skin-sponges.

Refreshed by tacos and good salsa, we hit an ATM down the street and continued our crawl down Milpas. After a brief peek into another taqueria left us uninspired and kind of blinded by the bright orange and yellow decor, we decided to make La Super Rica our next stop. They had just opened for the day, but there was already a line of tourists outside.

Line outside La Super Rica.

"This was Julia Child's favorite Mexican food place." This is the first thing you will hear in line at La Super Rica and the last thing you'll hear before you leave and in between you will hear it approximately one kajillion times. Is it horrible of me to say that while I love Julia Child, love her books and her voice and her influence on American cuisine, I don't know if I exactly love her taste in Mexican food? She quite famously hated cilantro. Cilantro!

The third rule of any good taco crawl must certainly be CILANTRO IS NOT OPTIONAL.

Veggie tamale.

So here we must part ways, Julia, here on the road to Mexico. I do apologize. I liked that the woman in the kitchen was making corn tortillas by hand, but then I put a spoonful of the house beans on one and bit into it, and it tasted flat. (The tortillas at El Bajio, on the other hand, were so good we had peeled pieces away from the chicharron taco and eaten them plain.) And Julia, the special vegetable tamale we got was so odd, like it was made of potatoes instead of corn, and the white sauce on top was mysterious, but not in a good way.

Beans!

But upside of La Super Rica was that there were no empty tables. There were no empty tables and as we were settling ourselves onto a side bench, a couple sitting nearby invited us to sit with them. They laughed at us when I started snapping pictures of the food ("Those are frijoles!"), but not meanly. They were an odd pair. He looked ancient and frail, but his mind and wit were razor-sharp. She was nearly half his age, expansive and warm, with a cracked, explosive laugh. Bob and Jasmine. They had both spent their whole lives in Santa Barbara and Jasmine got down to the business of deciding what we should do with the rest of our day. "Um? We were planning on walking all over town eating tacos?" was clearly not going to cut it.

At Franceschi Park.

She told us about Franceschi Park, a tiny park with the most incredible views hidden away in the hills above us, where she and her friends used to hang out and get stoned in high school. "You'll never find it though. We'd better show you there." And somehow we were back on the street, nearly running back to El Bajio to get Meg's car so we could follow them up the hill. "This is kind of crazy," we said to each other. But also kind of awesome. After all, the fourth rule of any good taco crawl is TALK TO STRANGERS.

The view from the park was as breathtaking as she had promised, especially on such clear and golden day. After soaking it up for awhile, we got back in the car and followed Bob and Jasmine to the mission, where they pointed us to the parking lot and waved goodbye from their car window.

The mission.

"I bet Bob told her, 'You need to leave those girls alone!' in the car," Meg said as we wandered aimlessly over the mission's flat green lawn. To be honest, we didn't mind missing out on the other places Jasmine had in mind for us, like the bird sanctuary or the old-school bar where we were sure to find "action" -- whatever that meant -- a description which had prompted a disagreement between Bob and Jasmine about whether or not we were girls who liked action. All I have to say is: I take pictures of beans. Does that settle it?

The day ended with Thrifty's ice cream cones on State Street and a peaceful drive home, which was spent mainly talking about muffins.

Who needs action when you can have tacos?

El Bajio
129 N Milpas St
Santa Barbara, CA 93103
(805) 884-1828

La Super Rica
622 N Milpas St
Santa Barbara, CA 93103
(805) 963-4940

Isaan, the northeastern region of Thailand, is the poorest area of the country, beset by droughts, floods and depleted soil, making for a hard-scrabble life as far as eating goes.

Yet somehow the food is seriously great. Isaan cuisine is more sour and spicy than what is found in nearby Central Thailand. Som tam (green papaya salad) -- a.k.a. the dish I'd most like to be stranded on a desert island with -- is from Isaan, where it is served with sticky rice rather than the usual steamed jasmine rice. Sticky rice is the staple crop I'd learn to grow on my island, in case you didn't know. If it wasn't for the whole girls-getting-married-when-they're-as-young-as-14-for-the-dowry thing, I'd wish I had been born in Isaan, so I could have spent as many years as possible eating the food.

Perfect sticky rice.

So I was excited for Khun Dom, a Thai restaurant in a barren region of Melrose, an area beset by graffiti, exhaust and generally awful traffic, making for a hard-scrabble life as far as eating goes. The place secretly specializes in Isaan-style salads, a fact apparently unknown to most of the patrons, who load their tables with pad Thai, fried wontons and the other usual Thai menu suspects.

Nam tok and greens.

With that in mind, Rob and I ordered three salads: beef nam tok (grilled beef salad), nam kao tod (pork and crispy rice salad) and som tam with dried shrimp, along with the essential sticky rice. After the rice arrived, wrapped neatly in foil, the beef nam tok appeared, accompanied by a plate of Thai basil, Chinese long beans, cabbage and other greens -- the perfect thing to munch on between fiery bites of beef. (It wasn't until my first visit to Thailand that I realized why my dad used to often chow down on, say, a fourth of a head of cabbage alongside his stir-fry and rice. I always just thought he really liked cabbage.) The nam tok ended up being Rob's favorite dish, the grilled beef dripping with spicy lime dressing and meaty juices.

Lovely and tasty nam kao tod.

The nam kao tod was the highlight of the meal for me -- I loved the gingery bite and the slick, crispy bits of rice -- but what made it even better was following up each mouthful with a chomp of fresh greens and a chunk of perfectly cooked sticky rice. Isaan synergy! The rice was a restaurant sticky rice revelation, delicately chewy, without the unfortunate soggy spots often found at the bottom of bowl.

Som tam, you are too sweet.

The only disappointment was the som tam, which was overly sweet and not spicy at all. Next time I'll try the blue crab som tam instead of the dried shrimp.

There's no alcohol on the menu, but I bought a beer at the shady liquor store next door, which the waitress kindly opened for me and poured into a frosty glass. Sitting in Khun Dom sipping a cold beer and munching on nam kao tod and greens could almost make me forget I didn't go to Thailand with my sisters this summer. I'll just pretend it's my own Isaan desert island.

Bliss.

Khun Dom
4681 Melrose Ave.
Los Angeles, CA 90029
(323) 663-1086

When I lived in Japan I would often find fliers from pizza places in my mailbox. With their lurid photos of pizzas dotted with cocktail wieners, corn or seaweed, topped with a thick swirl of mayonnaise, they existed on a whole different plane of revolting, far worse than the latest cheese-dipped-and-stuffed, meat-coated Pizza Hut monstrosity. (For example: a giant hot dog on top of bacon on top of cheese stuffed into a pizza crust. Drizzled with mayo, of course.)

But it's a funny thing about nostalgia: you never know what you're going to miss.

Okay, so I don't miss wieners crammed into everything, but I do sometimes crave creative pizza toppings bordering on the repellent, like french fries or poached eggs or mentaiko (spicy pickled fish roe). I miss pizza makers thinking outside the dough circle.

So it was with great joy that I sat down for a meal at Mr. Pizza Factory, the first U.S. branch of the Korean pizza mega-chain. The decor is appropriately garish, like a foreign relative's interpretation of Italian Old World elegance, involving red velvet, columns and a large trompe l'oeil mural with "Mr. Pizza Factory" fake-carved in fake stone. YES.

Did you know Mr. Pizza Factory is the very heart of L.A.? It's true.

The menu is similarly pleasing, offering a number of head-scratching pizzas and pastas, as well as the history and mission statement of Mr. Pizza Factory. Regarding the imminent world takeover by Mr. Pizza Factory:

It has been estimated that approximately 13 hundred million Chinese will love Mr. Pizza and remember it as the best and biggest pizza-maker in China in the years to come.

...Wait, so who exactly figured out these numbers? Esteemed Korean pizzalogists?

The specialty pizzas all sound incredible and have names like "Shrimp Nude" and "Grand Prix." The latter apparently features a scone crust which, at the end of the meal, you break off and dip into strawberry jam. For dessert. You know, after you've eaten the middle of the pizza, which includes such inappropriate toppings as cooked hamburger, cheddar cheese and salsa.

Do you feel like your head's about to explode? Me too, but in a good way.

We went with the Potato Gold, which features potato wedges, bacon, corn kernels, ground beef, a drizzle of sour cream, a sprinkling of crushed tortilla chips and a crust stuffed with sweet potato puree. We got a pitcher of Stella on the side, a wonderful accompaniment to what is essentially five types of carnival food on one pizza. The strangest thing about this pizza, however, was that it was actually kind of good, the junk food flavors melding with the cheese and tomato sauce into some kind of warped yet wonderful funnel cake.

Also, sweet-potato-puree-stuffed crust? Best idea ever.

Sweet potato genius.

I did leave feeling like I had been hit by a bus bearing ten different kinds of starches, but in addition to all those potatoes, I was also full of joy -- joy and gratitude toward all the hardworking Korean pizzalogists out there who are coming up with combinations you and I would never dream of. I salute you.

Mr. Pizza Factory
3881 Wilshire Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90005
(213) 738-0077

The first floor of Clifton's Cafeteria.

On a recent Saturday my friend Meg and I headed to the Fashion District in Downtown LA for lunch and fabric shopping. We were both hungry (Meg because she had swum probably two hundred laps that morning at the pool and me because I had slept in until 11 AM and hadn't eaten breakfast -- sad, that contrast), so we went to Clifton's first to load up on hearty starches and gravies.

Clifton's Cafeteria is one of the oldest remaining cafeterias in Los Angeles and undoubtedly the most bizarrely decorated. The first and second floors have a cabin-in-the-woods feeling as seen through a Disney lens, with a giant forest mural, faux caves and a moose head mounted on the wall. After shuttling through a narrow mirrored passageway, you step into the sort of bustling, bright cafeteria serving area loved by geriatrics and small children everywhere. There is Jell-O. There is three-bean salad. There is a man getting a medieval-looking, ginormous turkey leg smothered in gravy, with mashed potatoes on the side. Awesome. You pile your tray with the cold sides, breads and desserts of your choice, and then the nice ladies manning the entrees will plunk whatever hot dishes you want onto a plate. To drink, giant cups of fruit-adorned Olé are set out alongside the usual soda, coffee and tea. I always get the Olé.

The non-woodland area of Clifton's.

The first floor has the forest mural and moose head and the second floor has low ceilings and giant light-box photos of idyllic outdoor scenes. But it's the third floor that I always go for, with its red flocked wallpaper and crown molding that you know must have been so chic and elegant in 1935. It's also usually the least crowded. People who frequent cafeterias generally don't like to walk up stairs.

So much ham on my plate....

Too bad the food isn't very good. On this day, the three-inch layer of ham slices paving my plate was far too salty. The biscuits were, as usual, fluffy and inoffensive. The bean salad tasted only of vinegar and had a funky smell. Meg's turkey enchilada was decent, though, and we both finished at least half of our desserts. It's hard to mess up strawberries and whipped cream.

After eating we walked around the third floor, looking at pictures of children's meals at Clifton's through the ages and marveling at the now-demolished South-Seas-themed Clifton's, which had also been in Downtown LA and was notable for the giant waterfall tumbling down around its entrance.

Inside Paletería La Michoacana.

We left the cool dimness of Clifton's and waded through the bustling heat of Broadway toward our next destination: Paletería La Michoacana. Paletas are Mexican ice pops, way better than, say, Rocket Pops because they come in flavors like cucumber-chile, peanut and soursop. I don't even know what soursop is, but it's really fun to say. The freezers in Paletería La Michoacana were stacked neatly with colorful bars, too many to choose from, and when I asked the adorable girl behind the counter what she recommended, she pointed out the mango-chile ("it's so spicy") and guava ("it's so sour"). Meg got the mango-chile and I considered the guava, but wanted to go for something totally different -- there's a pico de gallo flavor on the menu, but I didn't know if I could handle that. I asked about chamoy. "It's so spicy." It was red, studded with yellow chunks of fruit. I got it.

Meg's mango-chile paleta.

My chamoy paleta.

Outside we peeled away the plastic and started in quickly, the bars already starting to drip in the heat. Meg's was full of mango chunks and chile flecks, sweet and spicy and sour. Mine was spicy and salty, the red chamoy frozen around pieces of pineapple. More than anything, it tasted like someone made a popsicle with Sriracha. Which isn't surprising, since chamoy is the brine used to pickle fruit, concentrated and seasoned with chile. It's basically spicy pickle juice. I like pickle juice, but this paleta was too salty for me and I sadly abandoned it halfway through. I might have been better off with the guava. I hear it's so sour.

Paletas stacked, ready to be eaten.

I'll definitely be back to try more paletas the next time I'm in the area; the nut-based flavors sound awesome. But no more pickle juice desserts for me.

Clifton's Cafeteria
648 S Broadway
Los Angeles, CA 90014
(213) 627-1673

Paletería La Michoacana
306 W 7th St.
Los Angeles, CA 90014
(213) 623-2650