Running and Eating (But Mostly Eating)

On Labor Day, I drove an hour and half through the (very un-summery) pouring rain to meet up with some friends for the Acushnet 4 Miler Road Race. Fortunately for us, the storm cleared for the race. Though the humidity was still oppressive, at least we didn't have to contend with soaking feet and the attendant blisters.

Acushnet is an old whaling town with a large Portuguese population. My own heritage is mixed (think vigorously shaken, not stirred), and some of my ancestors were Portuguese whalers from the Azores who made their way to Honolulu, Hawaii. On lazy Sunday mornings, my dad would often fry up a batch of the Portuguese deep-fried pastries called malasadas that he loved so much as a kid.

But then, everyone loves malasadas. You could say that malasadas are to Hawaii what beignets are to New Orleans. Leonard's is the most popular place to get them (though I like Liliha Bakery). 

Malasadas at Leonard's Bakery in Hawaii

In short, I have really, really happy memories of eating malasadas. As an adult, I would often pick up a box of malasadas when I visited my parents on the weekends, stopping by King's Hawaiian Restaurant or standing in line for the "malasada lady" at the Torrance Farmers Market. They were, though, never as good as the ones my dad tossed into a vat of lava-hot oil and then into a brown paper bag of sugar.

Before the race, I asked my friend's husband where I could get a malasada nearby. As luck would have it, there was a Portuguese festival running through the holiday weekend. We could get malasadas there! The line though, he warned me, could take as long as 2 hours.

After the race, we sauntered over the festival, tired, grungy, and stinky. Luckily, the line wasn't terrible - yet. When we got to the front of the line, we waited several minutes for our order to be filled, allowing us to observe the malasada-making process up close.

Bits of dough were patted out into discs (like a small pizza dough). Then, into the fryer they went before being coated with sugar.

The finished product looked like this:

Sweaty but happy.

Note the empty picnic table behind me. By the time we left (after eating other delicacies like clam cakes and linguica sandwiches), the line was at least an hour long and every available seat was taken. In fact, people were camped out on their own folding chairs.

If you happen to find yourself near Acushnet and there isn't a festival going on, I have it on good authority that the place to go is Lydia's. 

It must be fall because...

The Pumpkin Spice Latte is back!

A Day in Downtown L.A.

Yesterday, I joined a group of Junior Leaguers for a Day at City Hall. It was an opportunity for us to watch the city council in action, meet with city staffers, and, for a brief moment, act like big-wig politicians. We wasted no time getting down to business.

The JLLA Beach Cities girls are ready for our interview.
(Merry Wife, second from left)

The last item on the agenda was a trip to the wrap-around observation deck on the 27th floor.

The Times Building in the foreground.

Grand Park

You call it smog, we call it haze. You can just make out the
Hollywood sign.

Union Station

In true socialite style, our "day" of "hard work" was over at noon, so we high-tailed it over to Bottega Louie on 7th and Grand for lunch and some of their famous macarons. The macaron has been the New Cupcake for a few years now, but if the crowds were any indication, no one is ready to move on the next big thing yet.

So many macarons, so little time.

It was hard to decide what flavors to bring home and share with the Merry Husband, but I finally settled on this box of five.

Left to right: Pistachio, Earl Grey, Rose, Strawberry,
and Grand Cru

The Earl Grey macaron is the prettiest I have ever seen - pale blue flecked with gold. It was as if Marie Antoinette came back as a cookie.

If you happen to find yourself in downtown, I highly recommend stopping by to gawk at the pastry counter. I have it on good authority that the best time to go is at brunch, and that the thing to get (besides the macarons) are the lemon ricotta pancakes.

Thematic Option - Sunday Night Dinner at Lucques

Theme nights have become a time-honored tradition at LA restaurants, from grilled cheese Thursdays at the recently-closed Campanile to Donut Shoppe Wednesdays at BLD.  Last night, the Merry Husband and I met friends at Lucques in West Hollywood for its Sunday Supper.

From the menu:

"stracciatella"

leek egg drop soup with kale,

young pecornino and basil

***

grilled market fish [albacore] with white bean purèe,

eggplant peperonata and bottarga breadcrumbs

or

beef brisket with ricotta gnocchi,

grilled escarole, mushrooms and fried sunchokes

***

warm persimmon cake with streusel,

crème fraîche and maple-pecan ice cream

 

Fifteen hours later, I am still thinking about the soup. Our fellow diners deemed it "interesting" (not a particularly encouraging word in the language of food), but I noticed that every single drop disappeared from our bowls. Egg whites formed delicate layers around a poached yolk sitting in a broth that tasted primarily of parsley and leek.  It seemed that the flavors would fight for domination at any moment, but somehow, magically, they all worked.  I am now obsessed with getting this soup again, but as next week's menu will be entirely different, the chances for this happening are nil.

 

This is, I suppose, the allure of theme nights for restaurants.  After six days of listening to picky LA diners whine about their gluten allergies and dairy aversions, chefs must feel some satisfaction in saying Mom-like to their customers, "You'll eat it and you'll like it."

 

And we did.