Monthly Archives: April 2010

Happy Birthday, Mother Drucker

Friday is my old-lady day and I’m not exactly delighted to be turning 63. But as my sister points out every year, having another birthday is certainly better than the alternative. (She also points out that I’m probably cold because I run around half-naked. Which is why I live in sunny SoCal.) I can’t find a birthday cake cocktail, so I need to invent one! Any suggestions? I’ve got the cutest glass:

Sweet, clever and cute. Like me!

And I know exactly what cake I want:

Definitely a candidate for thisiswhyyourefat.com.

That would be buttermilk chocolate cake, topped with vanilla mascarpone cheesecake, topped with red velvet cake, and enveloped in coconut-cream cheese frosting. And I know WHERE I’m going for my birthday weekend:

Oh when the saints...

So all I’m missing is the perfect birthday cocktail. I’m thinking Godiva White Chocolate Liqueur. Maybe a splash of Chambord, for the raspberry filling. A splash of soda would give it the creamy effervescence of an ice-cream soda. Served very cold, with a cloud of whipped cream and a generous mound of milk chocolate shavings all over the top. Candle. Fire. Done.

I’ll be at Jazz Fest ’til Monday, so laissez les bontemps roulez and have a great weekend, everyone!

6 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Druck Back a Dirty Marti at Jones, WeHo

I love a dirty martini. Even ordering it is sexy. “I’d like a dirty martini please. Extra dirty. Filthy, in fact.” There’s nothing cute about it. It’s not sweet, it’s not pink, it doesn’t have a sugar rim or a lime wedge or a cherry. Knock one back, rat pack style, and you’ve got license to forget you’re a lady — if you ever felt like a lady in the first place.

What Curly Sue did when she grew up.

Went to Jones in West Hollywood last night and had a delicious dirty, not even realizing that the place is famous for them. So famous, in fact that they’ve bottled their dirty marti mix under the name Dirty Sue, so you’ll be ready next time you want to pollute your martini and yourself.

Just in case you either A. live in a cave or B. have religious opposition to alcohol (shut up, one of my dear friends is Mormon!), these tasty adult beverages are just a regular martini with a splash of olive juice, which tinges the crystal clear vodka with a brown-gray cloud, not unlike the LA sky today.

Again, I digress. There are VERY FEW pictures of Jones, but here is a teensy tinesy one that at least will help you find it if you’re looking:

It's not hard to keep up with the Jones when he's this small.

Even on a Monday night, the bar was crowded with hipsters, neighborhood folk and migratory West-siders like me. The cozy red vinyl booths encourage canoodling, the lighting is low, the music is loud. The food is perfectly fine, and my chicken salad was generously adorned with crispy bacon and cute little balls of fried goat cheese, reasonably priced I might add at $8.50. It’s an Italian-type joint, with a lotta pasta and pizza on the menu, and they serve til 1 a.m., bless them. Gots to soak up the vodka! And did I mention that you can get dirty for just $9? That’s practically free by West side standards.

And speaking of hipsters (oh how I DO go on), must share this Hipster Puppies blog with y’all. MUST:

and that’s the last time goggles mixes codeine and pbr

I know, I know, I’m late to the party as per usual, you’ve known about this since February, I’m clearly a Mormon living in a cave, blahdy druckin blah. But I share because I care. 48 hours to New Orleans! Can’t wait.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Druckin Day Drinking at London Hotel, WeHo

When some English pals asked me what we should do on a sunny Sunday in LA (someone brought up Disneyland, shudder), I explained that drinking all day by a rooftop pool ogling hot models IS DISNEYLAND as far as most Angelenos are concerned. Luckily, they’re staying at the posh London West Hollywood. And the Sunset Strip neighborhood — across the street from the Whiskey and a few doors down from the Viper Room, quite literally rocks.

London calling.

The lovely friends are in town for MuseExpo, which bills itself (quite modestly) as the United Nations of Music & Media. Awesome pal David is here to promote his company, slicethepie.com, wherein you invest in your favorite indie bands and share their success, and the beautiful, sexy & delicious Nicol Dash Jones is here to perform at the Viper Room, tomorrow night, 8pm. Needless to say, GIRL CRUSH! I will be there.

But I digress. While we were lounging poolside, some poor dude slipped and cracked his head clean open, like a melon dropped from a high-rise window. DRAMA! And though we didn’t have any celeb sightings (sigh), Nicol does have a chart-topping single called Heartbreak, so maybe we were the celebrities! (Yes, you may touch the hem of my garment.)

If you have the stamina to drink all day and into the night (I recommend sugar-free Red Bull), this is what the pool would look like:

Come on baby light my fire.

Awesome pal Arianna has eaten at the London restaurant, helmed by this British soccer hooligan, and sadly, felt underwhelmed and overcharged:

Gordon Ramsay seems like an ASS. So of course, I find him attractive.

But my drink was DELICIOUS and fresh with real citrus bits and muddled berries (even if it did cost about the same as my monthly car payment), and the sun was shining, and the views from the roof were enchanting. (Not unlike a small hobo. Right Adra?) And when David (who has known me longer than I care to admit) teased me about my longstanding love affair with alcohol, I was actually flattered. I mean, you’ve got to COMMIT to something if you ever want to ACHIEVE anything. Sheesh.

Mother Drucker loves her some screenshots. All shots, for that matter.

3 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Tartine Bakery Gets Up Druckin Early

People sleep late on Sundays in LA. You can go to Target when it opens (1o am) and practically have the place to yourself. Even the Culver City Starbucks doesn’t get hopping until close to noon. So as I strolled to Tartine Bakery & Café in San Francisco’s Mission District at 9 a.m. on Sunday morning, I felt smugly superior to all the lazy bun-lovers whom I imagined were still in bed. WRONG.

Tartine is the foodie equivalent of a Star Trek convention.

These San Franciscans are SERIOUS about their baked goods. I waited for 45 minutes to even get a peek at the glorious golden goodness in the sparkling pastry case. I chose a Morning Bun, which is a tarted-up version of a cinnamon roll. (See what I did there?)

Four buns are better than two.

Delicious. Golden and toothsome on the outside, tender and delicate at heart. (Which is also how I like my men.) A little crunch of sugar, a sticky-sweet caramel glaze and just a hint of orange essence — PERFECTION. I just read an article that calls them “butter bombs” which is not entirely inaccurate. Tartine offers so many decadent, irresistible items that I experienced buyer’s remorse before I’d even made my purchase. Why did I get a boring pain au chocolate? Why didn’t I get one of these?

Probably because those cream tarts are perfect for a pie in the face, but not so much for air travel. I took my goodies to nearby Dolores Park and ate most of them in the surprisingly warm spring sunshine, reserving that pain au chocolat for a late-night snack back home in LA.

Next time, San Francisco, I get up at 7 A.M.!! Then maybe I’ll have room for another round by 10.

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

A Druckin Coffee Ritual in SF

As a writer, I tend to suffer from frequent bouts of paralyzing self-doubt. I will write nothing good today. I may not write anything of any value ever again. I will go to my grave — hopelessly alone — with nothing to show for my modicum of natural writing ability but a urinal cake catalog and a few stale spec scripts. Ah, but then. I have one of these:

Ritual Coffee Roasters latté. Photo credit Scott Beale/Laughing Squid.

And suddenly, everything is going to be okay. In fact, I might just open a bakery. Or purchase a cheese-making concern in Vermont. Not only can I write, but my IQ seems to have doubled and my vocabulary is as vast, deep and accessible as the day I graduated from college. As for dying alone, no worries — I’ll move awesome pal Alison into my Vermont dairy-farm. We’ll share child care expenses and re-name it the House of Blonds and Babies.

All that hope, energy and initiative from just one little cup. It’s no wonder, then, that I must seek out SERIOUS coffee shops in every city I visit. San Francisco was no exception, and I fell truly, madly, deeply in love with Ritual Coffee Roasters in San Francisco’s gritty meets gentrified Mission District.

We have ways of making you drink our coffee.

Their site gives you all kinda background on why they have a line out the door from the minute they open. But I think their logo (which indicates that they are coffee communists in the purest, most Marxian sense of the word) says it all. My mocha was creamy and rich — the happy marriage of cocoa and coffee without the unpleasant intrusion of too much sugar. My only quibble is that they need to make them hotter so I don’t drink them so fast! Guess I’ll just have to order a second one, but I’m afraid that would send my hyper-ometer to 11. (It already hovers somewhere around 10.)

So next time you’re feeling stupid, cozy up to a cuppa. And next time you’re in SF, make this your morning Ritual.

7 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized

Polenta Fries = Druckin Genius

Stayed in The Mission district of SF last weekend and had a Mother Druckin’ BALL. (This after my mom repeatedly told me that getting mugged in that neighborhood was not a question, but an inevitability.) I ate and drank so well that it may take three posts to cover it all. Just so we don’t forget: Bocce Cafe, Ritual Coffee Roasters and Tartine Bakery.

For now, just Andalu, sweet Andalu.  We had a table on the mezzanine, overlooking the bustling main dining area, and it was a perfect people-watching perch. We started with ahi tuna tacos:

Those look like tongue tacos. Taste like tuna.

Mild, perfectly-portioned tuna with a mango salsa on a taco shell crispy enough to be a Pringle. (Signs of my misspent youth that I compare haute cuisine to Hostess and Frito Lay.) Then there was this:

Curly polenta fries, spicy tomato vinaigrette. Oh happy day!

I have been DREAMING about polenta fries ever since I read this Orangette post (which includes a recipe if you scroll down far enough) and they were everything I dreamed of and MORE. I love the mild, vaguely sweet flavor of polenta, and when combined with butter and a little salt and crispy, golden edges — oh my. They were good. And the tomato dipping sauce is somewhere between vinaigrette and ketchup, with a welcome kick of heat. YUM. Need this polenta person on my payroll. (Better start making some money, stat.)

We finished with this:

Fresh donut holes with Castilian hot cocoa. I drank both cups.

Which reminds me so much of the taza de chocolate (AKA insanely rich hot chocolate) I had in Majorca, many moons ago. You start with a BAR of chocolate, add a little sweet milk, and end up with a cup of chocolate. Most of my fellow travelers couldn’t stomach it’s cloying sweetness, but I had no such problems, and upped the chocolate ante even further by pairing it with a pain au chocolat, or whatever you call the Spanish equivalent of a chocolate croissant.

But I digress. Andalu is lively and eclectic and wonderful and I feel that we’ll be in each others’ lives for quite some time. I miss it already. And while I’m not much of a fry girl, meaning most things I attempt to fry end up greasy and flaccid instead of light and crispy, I may just have to give that Orangette polenta fries recipe a go. Hasta manana!

Leave a comment

Filed under Uncategorized

Manchego Does Tapas Druckin Well

Awesome pal Bri calls herself a sushi slut, in that she’ll pretty much eat sushi anywhere, anytime. By this definition, I’m definitely A. a vodka trollop and B. a cheese whore. And I know there are some MD readers out there who share my passion for the moldy milk. You know who you are. (Christelle & Molly.)

Those are figs, but they look kinda like squids...

So imagine my DELIGHT in finding a tapas place right in my own backyard (Santa Monica) that’s actually named for a cheese! Manchego is an adorable Spanish enclave, steps from Wolfgang Puck’s Chinois, the Library Ale House and other Main St. staples. One tiny room, about a dozen tables. The night we went, they didn’t have enough chairs for our party of five, so they gave me a bar stool and I benevolently ruled over my friends from my lofty perch for the better part of 15 minutes, until a normal chair became available.

BTW, it’s BYOB and currently, no corkage fee! OMG! It looked like they were giving people free hummos while they waited for a table, SCORE. Everyone loved their buttery, bite-sized empanadas (Spain’s answer to the hot pocket), the big fresh ensalada, and the goat cheese, honey and dried figs on bread. Sadly, this dark picture is the only image I could find, and it’s from Manchego’s own site:

There's cheese in there somewhere.

But I guess you get the idea? Now, just to be clear, Manchego is good, but nothing can compare to my beloved Emilio’s Tapas in Chicago. (Caution — loud link!) But if someone wants to fly me to Spain so we can try to find a better one, I’ll suck it up and take one for the team.

I know. I’m a giver.

12 Comments

Filed under Uncategorized