Hearty Cream of Chicken Soup

Today I helped prepare a magnificent soup. I didn't cook it, but I was there during its preparation. It was called Hearty Cream of Chicken Soup, a long royal name since this is a queen soup.
 To make it you need cream, chicken broth, carrots, potatoes, and of course, my favorite - leek. I haven't had soup in almost a year, and this one was amazing. So much so, that I had to go with my friend pick up ingredients at three supermarkets, Ralph's, Trader Joe's, and my favorite LA supermarket Gelsen's over in Century City. Gelsen's is a bit overpriced (a kind of supermarket for the rich) but its meat, pastry, and bread selection is the best you can find in a Los Angeles supermarket.
Looking for ingredients and slow cooking the chicken was what my Sunday afternoon was pretty much all about. Then we also cooked the bread in the oven and opened a bottle of Tuella. I don't want to be nationalistic, but the Douro valley Tuella, they are selling at Trader Joe's for twelve bucks, is the best red you can find in LA right now in the quality/performance ratio. It's a solid buy that gives you the taste of Portuguese grapes and not the dictatorship of the Pinot Noir, Merlot and Cabernet that passes by variety around here. The meal was amazing, and if everyone could eat this chicken soup I am sure there would be World Peace. Amen.

Tuella is your best wine guess in LA if you are not rich.

Chicken breasts next to the recipe book before they get added to the soup.

Hearty Cream of Chicken Soup Recipe open to make magic. A royal name for a royal soup.

The finished the product, glorious.

Good soup, good wine and good bread. May the games begin.

Lesson

The other day I was going home, and when I was changing lanes on La Brea a guy hit my car in the rear left bumper destroying it. I got nervous. I didn't know exactly what to do, but I tried to keep it civilized. We always tend to see the car as an extension of ourselves and seeing the tire of a jeep Silverado destroy my Honda's bumper was like being hit in the face. I told the guy to pull over and I asked politely for his name and insurance. He was a tall black guy, between 18 and 20 probably younger, and acceded to my requests. He said his name was Timothy Thompson, and I photographed his insurance with my phone and also gave him my name and phone number.
As I drove away the guy texted me saying he could fix the damage on his body shop, and I told him it would be better to leave it with the insurance companies. I reached out to "Timothy's" insurance company, and I was told his policy was not active, meaning the guy had no insurance. I called him, but he didn't answer. So I went to the police to warn them there is someone driving a black Silverado with no insurance. The police answered that driving with no insurance is not a crime.  Surprised, dear reader? I will repeat it. In the United States unlike Europe there are no friendly declarations, meaning if a driver has no valid insurance that is not a crime. However driving without a license is a crime. Well, it must also be said I didn't ask for his driver's license which was particularly careless of me.  But after Timothy's stunt, all I could charge him with was giving me false information, and that might take weeks to get solved.
In the meanwhile, Carmen, my former landlady stepped up to the plate and introduced me to Luis, an amazing mechanic who fixed my damaged car in one day. I paid Luis for the damage caused by Timothy Thompson and so much for compensation.
In the United States kind people, amazing kind people like Carmen (and all of us), have to step up to solve the short comings of an ever smaller state and a system that gives out 300 dollar tickets for jay walking but considers an uninsured driver something normal. This seems to be a country for the Timothy Thompson's of the world and not for the Carmen's. Sic transit gloria mundi.

The damage, that a guy who called himself "Timothy Thompson" made to my car and that I had to pay. Learned my lesson.

The Hearing Excelence

A friend of mine went to Sundance some weeks ago and received a pair of Altec headphones. The friend was very kind and gave the headphones she received to the writer of these words. I was looking for a pair of headphones but nothing prepared me for the quality of this product. I can hear the celo in Beethoven's fifth, Nicky Wire's bass in "If You Tolerate This your Children Will be Next" and Paul Mccartney's genius in pretty much any track in played bass on. The sound is crisp and the box where the headphones came smells like an old classical music shop. I've always been a Senheiser fan but these headphones are glorious. It comes with two chords one longer for music and one shorter with a mic for chatting.

Now even my skype conversations will be with heaphones :-P

Great Box

Innovative design Altec gets 5 stars from me.

The Table

I went to Ikea to get a table, but the cheapest thing around was 250 dollars. The 250 dollar table was made for dwarfs because it was really small. To those 250 dollars I would have to add 99 dollars which Ikea charges for the transport and also the time I would need to take to figure how to put the damn thing together because I was not born a pragmatic instruction reading Swede.
I didn't say "Fuck off!" because of my good manners but I did say a heart felt "Fan ta dig, Ikea!" and went to the church thrift shop near my old place around USC. My expectations, were low but when I got there I saw a gorgeous table for 20 dollars. It seemed to good to be true, but they had no space for it at the shop so they lowered the price from 100 (which would still be a bargain) to 20. They gave me the number of a guy called Adolfo (no anti-Semitic reasons for the name hopefully) a Mexican ex-marine dude to help me carry the table home. I called Adolfo he got to the shop in 20 minutes and for 50 bucks this huge man who looked like he could kill me with a punch helped me carry the table to the first floor where I live.  The table is solid wood and it was really hard to carry it but now in the wise words of Jeffrey Lebowski "it really ties the room together."

Great 20 dollar table!

The Coen Brothers

Two years ago while visiting my friend Guy Eddon in Brooklyn, New York, I decided to go to Manhattan for a walk. I went to the Hoyt - Schermerhorn Station (love this name) to catch a subway train and when I was about to slide my card to pass the iron gate into the station I spotted a familiar face.  A long haired man making a film on the other side of the fence with his iPhone. I thought, "I know that guy. Who is he? Where do I know him from?".  I passed the iron gate and I remembered "Of course! It's a Coen brother!" but I immediately asked myself "Which Coen brother is this one?" because it would be so much stronger if I could address him by his first name and there was no way I was going to let one of my idols pass by me without a word. I put my hand out and said "Ethan Coen, I'm a big fan." He smiled shook the hand and answered "Thank you." Later when I got home I googled Coen brothers and realized I had just shaken Joel Coen's hand and he was politely laughing at the fact I switched his name with Ethan's.
Serves this small anecdote, dear reader, to introduce my latest West Hollywood adventure. Last week I went to Beverly Boulevard looking for the children's garment shop, Gymboree. I have a friend going to Japan and I want her to take something for the daughter of my friend Kiyoko. I got lost because apparently North Beverly and Beverly are different streets. Anyway I passed on Wilshire at around 5ish and saw four executives walking up the street in work casual clothing. One of them looked just like Ethan Coen. No, not like the guy I met in New York but like the other one, the one I confused with the long haired Joel. These four guys got into a building. I took a mental note of where the building was and continued to walk. I didn't find Gymboree (found their Palms store the morning after) I made the mistake of eating dinner and walked back. On my way back to my voiture I saw a group of Australians (wouldn't miss that accent if I tried) go into the same building where Ethan had entered. No one asked them shit at the entrance and the valets outside couldn't give a bigger fuck about who went in or out of the party. I got to the end of the block and turned back thinking "This will be the day I meet the second Coen brother." I got in the building, inside a fancy reception with waiters serving food to well dressed guests. I ordered a beer in the counter knowing fully well it might be 10 bucks or more, but it was worth it, I would soon meet a Coen brother. I tried to pay but the bartender said it was on the house because he thought I was part of the little gathering. I looked for Ethan, and realized the guy I had seen before was not him. Now I found myself in dire straights standing with a beer in a room full of fancy people whom I didn't know. I tried to walk around but I was isolated. I ate some hors d'oeuvres cursing the fact I had had dinner before and on the way out I took a slice of pizza.
In the end I had a second dinner but didn't find the second Coen brother. One day I hope to find the Coen brothers not accidentally, but professionally. Till then I anticipate more free food in the attempt.  

Pacific French Bakery

Today I went to buy bread in the intersection of Bronson Avenue and Washington Boulevard in a place called Pacific French Bakery. Now the name is very important because it not only sums up the place it also explains a bit of LA and the way things work and are perceived around here. The bread I go there to buy is this magnificent French bread - a mini baguette of sorts- that the costumers call "bolillos" - the Spanish word for French bread. So the "French" in the title is accounted for. The owners are Korean, since the place is near Korea Town, and in my opinion that accounts for the "Pacific" in the title. What's not in the title of the place and probably should be is that the costumers are all (with my honorable exception) Mexican salt of the Earth people.
So in the Pacific French Bakery you have a very LA situation, in which Korean people sell French bread to Mexicans. And who finds the tasty warm mini baguettes they serve there really good to eat with goat cheese and wine?  Yes, your very own Portuguese  man in "Havana". It's this diversity (and this bread) that I love in LA.
I found this place when I was studying at USC and lived near by. The place still maintains the charm. There is a couple outside the bakery that sells fruit on the weekends at great prices, so you can also stack up your vitamins for the week there. The prices at the bakery are also competitive, one dollar for five pieces of bread. The pastry is not bad either.  The clientele of the place though leads me to believe that American angelinos either don't appreciate fresh baked bread or don't know where to find it. More for me! Today I bought 30 bolillos! May the wine, cheese, bread games begin! 

Great pastry.

Quality, good prices and the occasional line at Pacific French Bakery.

Musso & Frank

I went to meet my friend Jonathan at the Musso & Frank Grill. We were looking for the most famous dry martini in Los Angeles. Musso & Frank has been open since 1919 in the heart of Hollywood, a block away from the Egyptian theater and two from the Chinese theater (and 7 from my place). The place looks like it hasn't been decorated in 90 years.  Everyone who's anyone in Hollywood has passed through the distinct oak room, the Chaplin booth is still there near the window and the bartender who serves you the dry martini can tell you anything about any celebrity's drinking habits. Today he told us how Orson Wells was a bit out when he met him in the 70's.
There is this old world touch to Musso & Frank, this old Hollywood flair that makes you think you are in a Stroheim bourgeois extravaganza or in a Chaplin skit in an expensive restaurant. The chef is French (like in the day of the opening) and when I've eaten there I've noticed the salads are acceptable. Nothing has changed, the register machine seems to be the same as in the opening day and there are still wooden phone booths. You can sometimes find an agent or a familiar celebrity walking around especially at happy hour. Shit, whenever I'm there I always feel like Douglas Fairbanks can walk in at any moment and sit next to me.

Restaurant

Bar