Funny Druckin Dinner Party

Have you played this game, Apples to Apples? All you really need to know is that I SUUUUUCK at it. Like, a group of 1st graders could kick my butt. (Come to think of it, that’s exactly what happened last night.)

Had a delicious dinner at the gorgeously appointed D&C Ranch in the hills of Beverly, and with such a smart group of kids (see above), plus a pack of wild dogs in attendance, the hits just kept coming.

"I eat cranberries like you for breakfast."

I wish I’d had a camera to capture the buttery sautéed zucchini, the perfectly grilled steaks or the curiously addictive Parmesan-crusted tomato slices, not to mention that HANDLE OF VODKA (!!!) my hosts so graciously had on ice. But alas.

What I DO have, however, is this hysterical Walmart commercial, thanks to awesome pal Richard:

I actually LOLd, which OMG I never druckin’ do. I’m not sure what this says about me, that I find a clown in agony so amusing, and that I can’t win ONE STUPID ROUND of a game for ages 6 and up. All I can say is I’ll do better next time. See you at the Superbowl, suckers!

"I too am also fierce."

Another Druckin Hipster

I was going to post about the charming, candlelit courtyard of the Cat and Fiddle pub on Sunset; one of my favorite places in town. I was! And I will. But my lovely new friend Babar reminded me that this inspired silliness has been making the rounds with the LA cognoscenti, glitterati, and maybe even paparazzi, and I just had to share.

"LaFawnduh is *the* best thing that has ever happened to me. I'm 100% positive she's my soul mate. Don't worry Napoleon, I'm sure there's a babe out there for you too. Peace out."

Apparently (thanks, Facebook!) I know people, who know people, who know the funny guy who created this ode to the weird, the wonderful, the male catsuit and/or meatsuit. Warning: there’s a dirty word in the title of this blog, and it rhymes with ‘druck.’

Enjoy!

Druckin Dine LA. It’s BAAAACK!

I suppose even our Great Recession (as I recently saw it called) has its perks. One of them is dineLA Restaurant Week, where normally snooty restaurants offer a prix fixe menu, which fools cocktail lovers like me into thinking that I can use the money I save to drink more and still come out ahead. (Note I said FOOLS.)

Kind of like the idea that exercise allows you to EAT more.  (See this oft-forwarded Time Magazine article that pushed me off the treadmill and into the produce aisle.)

dineLA offers three-course lunch and dinner menus at a plethora of fancy-pants eateries, priced from $16 to $44. I’ve always wanted to try BLD Restaurant in WeHo, and they are bargain priced at $26 BDE. (Before Drinking Ensues.)

Take your date to BLD. Look like top banana.

I simply cannot find an acceptable picture of ANY of the courses (what UP, Flickr peeps!) but here are some tasty banana and nutella crepes, just to tease you. (BLD’s actual dineLA menu is here.) And my pal over at Pocket Lint wrote this mouthwatering BLD post and even took a PICTURE. Some writers are multi-talented, apparently.

As always, if you go — to any of the dineLA events or anywhere, really — let your Mother know. She misses you!

Druck Day Afternoon

Because my parents are so devoted to their mixed-breed dog, I got them the BioPet Vet Lab DNA Breed Identification Kit for Christmas this year.

His breed has been an ongoing topic of discussion, given his unique shape. (Long back, short legs, big feet.) He looks like a dachshund und a German Shepherd had zum hanken panken, und ach de lieber! Jack vas born. Since I can’t seem to locate an online picture of the mutt himself, this is a close approximation:

Not Jack! But a reasonable facsimile thereof.

Jack has sweet, soft ears that flop over — but other than that, this dog could pass for him in a criminal line-up to see who’s been eating the garbage. And what breed do we think this pup might be? Well, $60, one cheek swab and two weeks later, we were told that Jack is:

30% German Short Haired Pointer

30% Great Dane!!!!!

30% Pekingese

The great dane seems more likely.

10% Dachshund

10% Shi Tsu (properly spelled Shih Tzu, according to AKC)

I left in my mom’s exclamation points next to Great Dane because they are AWESOME. But like a Basset Hound wearing a Sherlock Holmes costume, I feel compelled to sniff out the truth, here — and in all honesty, I’m skeptical.

Now, my Dad’s a bit of an expert on DNA. It’s hard to argue with a PhD in biochem and years of genetic research. But if Jack isn’t at least part German Shepherd, I’m checking my own ancestry for a trace of pygmy goat. (And hello, BioPet? Learn to spell shitzu. Tharnk yus.)

That said, it’s been great fun, this discovery process, and MORE than worth the 60 bones. Find out what your mutt is and tell me all about it! WOOF!

Fried Green Druckers in Washington DC

Sorry I’ve been MIA, my friends. I was in Washington DC visiting my friend Lento and his family. While I was there, he introduced me to “Que Hora Es,” the Mexican soap opera for people who took three weeks of Spanish in the fourth grade:

He also introduced me to Georgia Brown’s, an upscale DC eatery specializing in low-country cooking. I liked it. I like almost any place with super-friendly service and all the cornbread and biscuits you can eat. They also offer these highly addictive fried green tomatoes:

This pic's small but perfectly formed.

This one's bigger, but lacks finesse. So which do we prefer? Ladies?

These tomatoes — stuffed with an herbed goat cheese atop a bed of green tomato relish finished with green onion mayo — are to-die-for yum. The mac and cheese I scraped/licked off Baby Lento’s plate was decadent too, if a bit oily.

There were some misses, like the deviled eggs. Yawn. My mom’s are SO much better! And my fried chicken was dry enough to have died of natural causes. (Sorry Lento! Forgiva-me, por favor.)

But I would go back for the tomatoes alone! If you have a recipe, please share. And if you have a production company, can we please make the French version of “Que Hora Es,” entitled, “Et Voila! Une Cabine Telephonique” Translation, “And Here Is A Phone Booth.” Merci.

Finally two quick, but KEY shout-outs: Happy birthday to my favorite little person in the whole wide world. You know who you are! And congrats to the Saints on their well-deserved Super Bowl berth. Who DAT, indeed.

A Druckin Inspiring Story

Today, I’d like to give a long overdue shout-out to two of my favorite things: My awesome pal Noemi, and New Zealand. (As she endearingly explains to güeras like me, that’s No Emmy. As in didn’t win one.)

Since only 30% of Americans actually have a passport, it never ceases to amaze me how even the most travel-averse among us will wax rhapsodic about a lifelong desire to visit Aotearoa, or the Land of the Long White Cloud.

It's not just for hamsters any more. Why is HAMSTER so fun to say?!

Italy, schmittily. Give ’em a bungee jump off the Auckland bridge, or a roll down the hill in a big plastic hamster ball (Zorbing). From the ski-slopes of the South to the beautiful beaches of the North, it’s a great place to visit.

But MOVE THERE from LA? That’s a 6,000 mile leap of faith, my friends. Sure, I did it, but was lucky enough to find a safe place to land. (And a warm, loving Kiwi family, for which I am eternally grateful.) Noems did it the old-fashioned way. She EARNED it.

She started a house-sitting business, so she doesn’t even pay RENT. This is the current view from her window. SERIOUSLY:

God must be a Kiwi because the sky really is that blue.

Noemi also designs jewelry. Sings in the odd musical production. And keeps a toe on the corporate latter remotely (very remotely!) by hiring herself out as the web design/content expert she most certainly is.

So for those of you who would love to follow in her adventurous footsteps, you can! (You may even be able to get a Kiwi work permit for certain in-demand careers. There’s a list posted online somewhere. If you find it, please share in the comments!)

And for those of you who are perfectly happy right where you are, I envy you from the bottom of my restless, wandering heart. But even still,  it’s nice to know that someone like Noemi is out there. Rolling down the hill in her hamster ball. Living the dream.

Taken on Noemi's way to market. Lucky girl!

Fraiche, But Still Stinky As Druck

Can I get some creme with this Fraiche?

Isn’t that pretty? Awesome pal Sam and I went to fancy-pants Fraiche in Culver City last night. It was delightful, de-lovely, and delicious, especially with Sam’s big, bold bottle of Turley zinfandel. (Sorry I cheated on you, vodka, but that wine had great legs).

We shared a burrata and speck appetizer, with a drizzle of balsamic that contrasted beautifully with the silky mildness of the cheese. For our meals, we shared monkfish “Francaise” and fork-tender braised beef short ribs on a pillow of buttery polenta.

For dessert, fromage:

I nicked this pretty pic from an Aussie. Oi oi oi!

Fraiche may mean ‘fresh’ en Francais, but these people are serious about their moldy milk. Two of our 3 cheeses were perfection, but the brie — EW. I know you can’t call yourself a foodie if you loathe salmon (me) and stinky cheese (that’s me, too), but there are some pungent cheeses that all the butterfat in the world can’t convince me to eat.

In the same way that I won’t eat that week-old Chinese in my fridge because my nose tells me that I shouldn’t, I can’t eat something that smells like a Frenchman marinated his feet in it for a week or two. Just can’t. So I guess Chester Cheetah was right. It ain’t easy, being cheesy. And… scene.

Thanks for all your awesome cheat day comments! You kids have given your Mother a LOT of foods for thought. Keep ’em coming!

Cheat Days Are For Druckin

Have I introduced you to my cheat day yet? It’s usually Sunday, and it’s the happiest day of the week. In fact, I composed a song about it (sung to the tune of Reading, Writing, Arithmetic):

Cheat day, cheat day, all-that-you-can-eat day,
Cupcakes and candies and pizza pies, no need to worry about my thighs,
You keep the feelings of guilt down low, oh my cheat day how I love you so!

When I lived in Ireland, cheat day was often sliced sausages on buttered white bread, or scones heaped with jam and cream. (Or both, who am I kidding.) In New Zealand, sweet potato (kumara) fries with sour cream and sweet chili sauce. In LA, this:

$10 for 6. Or, $60 for 36. Math is yum.

Now, I’ve been known to stop at SusieCakes. I’ve run a few red velvets up the flagpole at Bluebird Cafe. But variety is the spice of cheat day, so I rely on the Cupcake Babies at Vanilla Bake Shop in Santa Monica.

I’ve got it down to a science:  Snag a parking spot on Fifth in front of Whole Foods. Stick with delightfully familiar Mom’s Birthday Cake (vanilla with fudge frosting, oh yes), experiment with a flavor of the day. Or two. (Yesterday, Toasted Coconut.) Procure dinner so you can justify dessert:

Bears no relation to actual chicken, but I could eat a shoe if it was fried and dipped in honey mustard.

Eat healthily all week and repeat the following Sunday. What would/does your cheat day look like? Vegan cookies and tofu corn dogs? Steak, seafood, salad, Sizzler? Talk to me. There are no judges here.

Stuffed Happens at Bigfoot Druckin Lodge

Lodge in name only. You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.

Turns out, I’m not really into taxidermy. I once stayed in a condo at Mammoth with a huge moose head over the fireplace, and I swear it’s big, mournful eyes followed me EVERYWHERE.

But I can make an exception for the Bigfoot Lodge West. Awesome pal Nicole and I stumbled into an advertising ‘event’ there last night (of all things), and soon we were collecting business cards quicker n’ Dick Cheney can shoot a dude full o’ buckshot.

This being CA, the pine bar is cut from naturally fallen logs. They feature outdoorsy drinks that beg you to light a campfire and crank up the Kum-Bah-Yah, like the Toasted Marshmallow and the Girl Scout Cookie. But even after two vodka tonics, I never caught a glimpse of this guy:

This came out in 1987. John Lithgow still hasn't come out, as far as we know.

I did, however, see a deer head and that white weaselly thing over the fireplace. They really should have a stuffed beaver, just to set up Naked Gun references. Why? Because they can.

I was feeling poorly when we left (what’s UP with that, vodka? we need to talk) but next time we go out, I plan to stuff myself at the nearest taco truck. And who knows what creatures of the night we’ll run into there!

Have a great weekend!

Druckin Good Deli in Culver City

Pastrami is umami.

Even though everyone will tell you that some of LA’s finest dining can be found in strip malls, it’s hard for a Midwestern gal like me to believe. Case in point: Roll ‘n Rye in Culver City. I drive by frequently on my way to the airport, or Target, and it just looks like — forgive me — but as my father would say, early nursing home.

You can almost smell the tapioca and Ensure. This place would look right at home in Boca Raton. Or Sun City. Or any number of retirement communities nationwide. So in four long LA years (which is like 40, in actual years), I never once stopped to smell the matzo balls nor tiptoe through the kishke.

OH HOW WRONG I WAS. Awesome pal Emanuel treated me to dinner there last night, and that matzo ball is in a broth even a bubbe (grandma) could love. Beautifully seasoned, with generous chunks of chicken, carrots and celery. And the pastrami — tender and peppery with just enough of my mandatory greasy sheen — more than passes muster.

The price was a little high and the coleslaw a little suspect. (Might be as old as some of the patrons. Okay, I’ll stop! I’d better; it’ll be me before I know it.) But I can’t help myself. Sarcasm and deli, it’s the way of my people. I guess that’s just how we Roll n Rye. Groan. Okay. I’ll go now. Quietly. But before I do, are these cookies for everyone? No? Okay. Bye. Bye.