Had so much fun last night at Tasca Wine Bar in WeHo with my gorgeous pal Han. They have an all-night happy hour(s), which includes an impressive array of $3/$4/$5 small plates. BE WARNED. When they say small, they’re not kidding. ($4=one dainty skewer of beef, bacon, mushroom and cherry tomato.)
The food is gorgeous (the only thing prettier in the bar was Han!) and they had a lovely variety of wines by the glass. We sat at the bar and indulged in plate after plate, including garlic shrimp (which the LA times called lusty — love that!), the beef skewer, delicate ceviche, creamy burrata on crispy toast wrapped in prosciutto, chicken liver mousse… Somehow, in $3/$4/$5 increments, we managed to spend $60. Well done us!
I was also impressed by our attentive, well-informed bartender AND the nice manager or owner lady parked on a barstool right next to us sampling a plethora of different dishes herself. As my ex (and Detroit-area restaurateur extraordinaire) used to tell me: If the waitstaff/owners haven’t tasted it, neither should you.
So in honor of Han’s imminent departure for her Australia homeland, I wanted to make her an American classic — a lemon meringue pie:
Seriously, Pillsbury? Are you kidding me with this? Easy and foolproof my arse. More like time-consuming and fool-hostile. The meringue was flat and the custard was weepy, runny, ICK. I think my pal Steve who took this photo did a great job of capturing the shiny puddles of run-off that attended this pie-tastrophe. Should’ve made a pavlova, right Han? Then we’d have been happy as Larry. (Who IS this Larry, anyway, and why do Aussies consider him the pinnacle of earthly bliss?)
Thank God I’m not responsible for the pies at our upcoming Thanksgivingpalooza in Chicago. Two days and counting! Can’t wait.