Postcard from LA

Ray Garcia at Fig restaurant.

Down in LA for my good friend Danielle’s wedding, Joe and I were lucky enough to be put up at the fancy Fairmont Miramar Hotel and Bungalows. We pulled our bug-splattered Subaru station wagon through the fancy gates where a battery of valets awaited us under the hotel’s famous Bay Fig—an immense, breathtakingly beautiful 150 year old specimen that reminded me of the Avatar home tree. I think James Cameron slept here.

I know I’m not the first one to say this, but I love LA. This is a newfound love, however. In snobby San Francisco fashion, I used to pride myself in saying that I hated it. I thought it was just an ugly, fake, strip-mall of a city compared to our pristine, walkable, European city. But LA has grown on me over the years. I’m starting to get it. I think my big revelation came when I started to appreciate its eccentricities, the sprawling wonder of it, the culture clash, the celebrity and the funk all intertwined.

And of course, the weather is ridiculous.

Which has bred a fantastic culture of outdoor dining—something I’m horribly envious of. And thanks to all the body-conscious health nuts here you can’t get a bad salad in LA. When I’m in LA, I become a voracious salad eater, something I’m not in SF.

The other thing LA does extraordinarily well is burgers. Oddly, this seems to go completely against the salad culture but I think it stems from LA’s embrace of Americana and retro. So when my family sat down outside (of course) to eat at Umami burger—the new hot spot my friend has been dying for me to try—we ordered both burger and salad and they were both made with great finesse. My favorite was the Triple Pork burger with chorizo, and Joe, of course, got the Hatch burger, with roasted green chilies and cheese (I’m now having visions of a late-night Mexican burger on the Tacolicious menu, but you’ll have to ask Telmo about that). This Santa Monica location of Umami burger is attached to Fred Segal so I ducked in for a little look-don’t-touch browsing afterwards. I think shopping, burger and salads might be the LA holy trinity.

It also could be argued that LA also has SF on Mexican. And people’s obsession with this food infiltrates everywhere you look. For instance, yesterday I had brunch at Fig, the Fairmont’s hotel restaurant run by chef Ray Garcia, who has cooked at the French Laundry and Cyrus. Joe and I looked at the menu, which has the usual brunch offerings (lemon ricotta pancakes, eggs benedict), to see that there was a “Taco Bar” offered as well. A quirky addition to say the least.

Turns out the chef was looking for a little outlet to his often corporate gig. We went up to the bar and had him prepare us a few antojito-sized tacos. Particularly delicious was one made with a soupy mix of roasted pasilla and poblano chilies oozy with cheese as well as one made with housemade chicharron and beans. All this and a beautiful hotel poolside view.

You know what I think? No matter the pedigree, every chef is just a taco waiting to happen.

Roasted chilies and cheese taco