Monthly Archives: April 2010

Zum Drucken Deutschen Kuchen

Several things I learned last night:

1. Never drink wine in a can. (This should be obvious.) I have a HUGE bottle of vodka (thanks awesome pal Allison!) but in my haste to get baking, I forgot to procure mixers. (Rookie mistake.) So in sheer desperation, I turned to a tiny pink can of sparkling Sofia Coppola wine that my pal Garns got as a wedding favor and left in my fridge approximately one year ago. Needless to say, it didn’t get better with age.

One is clearly a can. The other looks like a can-DLE.

2. German chocolate cake — NOT German at all. No deutschen. Amerikaner. It’s named for Samuel German, who developed a sweet baking chocolate for Walter Baker & Co. in the mid-1800s. More on that here.

Someone made a pretty cake. (Hint: wasn't me.)

And speaking of baking chocolate, did anyone else sneak some out of their mom’s stash of baking paraphernalia as a kid, thinking woo hoo! This is my lucky day! Really got one over on the old lady now! Only to find that it was unsweetened, and thus a cruel joke? No?! Liars.

I made a Not-So-German chocolate cake for awesome pal Steve’s birthday today, and it smells AMAZING. You have to stir the frosting for what feels like an eternity over a hot burner. (Which almost, but not quite, set my robe on fire. Note to self: when cooking AND drinking, wear short sleeves.)

But the end result is a frosting that’s just short of fudge. Creamy, buttery, coco-nutty and caramelly, all at once. I got the recipe from good old Baker’s, where else? Give it a go, and if you use this TOP SECRET cake recipe, I certainly won’t tell anyone. PROST!

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Lala’s Cafe is Up in My Druckin Grill

Don't fry for me, Argentina. I'll have rice instead.

Though I am not the biggest WeHo fan, Melrose Street is, in fact, a treasure trove of gustatory and sartorial fulfillment. (Food + shopping = happy.)

There’s the fun and friendly Village Idiot, where I literally ran into Jay Leno taping a segment last week. There’s a Mao’s Kitchen outpost, if you’re into that. There are shops that sell the same designer knockoffs you’ll find downtown, considerably marked up but hey — they saved you a trip. And there’s the infinitely luscious Lala’s Grill. (Thanks to awesome pal Richard for introducing us.)

I usually get the 1/2 pollo a la brasa picante, and then eat it with my hands like a cave-woman and end up with attractive smudges of rust-colored picante sauce all over my face and forearms. SEXY!

But last week when I dropped in with awesome new pal David, I went rogue and got the Melrose Salad — chopped grilled chicken with lettuce, tomato, onion, feta cheese and warm rice tossed in honey mustard dressing — and it’s my new jones/soulmate. I ordered the full-size and ate the whole thing. I must have it again. Soon.

Cute lil Lala's.

Tomorrow, we need to talk about Manchego on Main in Santa Monica and Porta Via in Beverly Hills. (Mama had a busy weekend.) But for now I’m just gonna undo the button on my new skinny jeans:

How does this woman have no hips? Or is it a woman...

And dream about the new Double Down sandwich from KFC, which has (and this is no coincidence) the same initials as me. Happy Monday!

This is why you're fat. And HAPPY.

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Sweden Drucks at Making Movies

Last night, awesome pal Babar and I had a lovely drink at the Westside Tavern, followed by the worst movie ever, followed by a delicious Hickory Burger at the always amazing Apple Pan. (They are too old school to have a website, apparently, so the link is to their mouthwatering menu.)

Didn't see this on the menu. Wish I had!

I found the worst movie ever (The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo) on Rotten Tomatoes, which claims it has an 83% approval rating. But as we purchased our tickets, and I heard it was Swedish, with subtitles, 2 hours and 40 minutes long — I thought, uh oh. Babar will never let me pick the movie again. (RIGHTFULLY SO. Failure of epic proportion.)

The movie is described as a murder mystery/thriller/suspense. It’s more rapists/Nazis/boring. Which isn’t easy to do. Horrifying rape sequences punctuate hours of brooding, silence, and snow. (It is Sweden, after all.)

Plus, I’m just kind of OVER the Nazis, cinematically. (Though obviously, not all of us are.) I liked Inglourious Basterds, because it was kind of a new take on a tried and true topic. But this movie treated the discovery that the murderers had Nazi ties as a HUGE plot development, and I was like, really? It’s a shocking revelation that Nazis liked to kill people?

Apple Pan's Hickory Burger. Hope you're not wearing white.

Anyway. I may have to see Hot Tub Time Machine this weekend as a brain cleanser. Followed by another round of Apple Pan, of course. Happy weekend, y’all!

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A FILF (Frenchman I’d Like to… Find Druckin Time For)

Remember when Bonnie Tyler sang, “Where have all the good men gone?” (And how awesomely 80s is that video?) Looks like we’ve answered that question. France. Seriously. How CUTE is this brave, baby-rescuing Frenchman? And how CLEARLY do his beautiful blue eyes say that he’s madly in love with me but just doesn’t know it yet?

Hero Julien Duret and a woman who is clearly his sister.

Gorgeous AND modest. To summarize, Julien risked life, limb and serious shrinkage by unthinkingly plunging into NYC’s icy cold (and filthy dirty) East River to save a baby girl.

Check out this quote from The Daily News, who hunted this good Samaritan down in Lyon and who have probably secured him an agent, a book deal and an acting career, “I don’t really think I’m a hero,” Duret said. “Anyone would do the same thing.”

Um… I have to go now, because I’m buying a ticket to Lyon. This one might be with girlfriend. But I bet there are more where he came from! I owe y’all a post about the yummy Argentinian cuisine at LaLa’s on Melrose. Don’t let me forget.

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Druck the Cubs & A Diversion or Two

My awesome pal Dean says that I must share the following: the Chicago Cubs and I are officially on a break. I don’t plan to see other teams, though I might flirt with the Dodgers and the Angels. I’m sorry, Cubs, but after a century without a World Series, it’s time to call a spade a LOSER.

I just give, and give, and give — believing in you long after common sense would dictate otherwise. This has gone on long enough. Get off your asses, get to the playoffs, and we’ll revisit our relationship. Until then, don’t call me. Unless I happen to be in Chicago, and you’ve got bleacher seats.

So this was entertaining to me:

As was this letter to Sir Richard Branson of Virgin Airways fame, complaining about the food en route from Mumbai to London. I can’t help but snicker every time I read this passage:

Only you open the present and it’s not in there. It’s your hamster Richard. It’s your hamster in the box and it’s not breathing. That’s how I felt when I peeled back the foil and saw this: [see image 3, above].

And speaking of peeling back the foil, awesome pal Adra had some AMAZING barbecue chicken quesadillas last night at South and I must have them one Sunday very soon. They were bursting with copious amounts of cheese, barbecue sauce, and MORE CHEESE. Like this pic, but double the queso:

It's your hamster, Richard.

I would even watch the Cubs if quesadillas like these are involved. Clearly, I can be bought.

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See Drucko Drink Margs at El Cholo, SM

On good Friday, I celebrated the resurrection by getting high on tequila at El Cholo in Santa Monica with awesome pal Adra. It’s a great place for day and/or night drinking, with a lively bar and a very pleasant outdoor patio. The restaurant is HUGE, great for parties, and I particularly enjoy their cheese enchiladas — tomato-y tortilla tubes overflowing with melted, mouthwatering bliss and generously topped with even more cheese:

Cheesier than a sock full o'toes.

I could show you a picture of a margarita, but you know what those look like. Plus it will make me homesick for the weekend, which seems so far away… Luckily Adra is always ready with a diversion, like this one:

A cake that's bound to get a frosty reception.

I have been aware of the Cake Wrecks blog for sometime, as it combines two of my favorite things, namely CAKE and COMEDY. And this cake is but the tip (just the tip) of the icing-berg, which you’ll discover once you waste an hour digesting the buggy toenails cake and the flesh-eating Easter lamb.

Going out tonight to watch the NCAA Championship game, are you? I feel a bit bad saying this because Coach K hails from Chi-town and I tend to roll with my homies, but this time I’ve gotta give it up for the underdog. (Plus my Grandma came from Indiana, which is apparently the home of Butler U. See how FICKLE women are?! These kind of arbitrary loyalties are no basis for a system of government.)

Go Butler. GO.

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Druck the Bunnies that Be

Hooray for Friday. This morning in the shower, I composed a song for my lover. Would you like to hear it? Sung to the old Simon & Garfunkel chestnut, The Sound of Silence:

Hello vodka, my old friend.
I’ve come to need you once again.
Because the dudes I date are creepy,
And you make me good and sleepy,
And the visions that you plant within my brain,
Numb the pain.

Vodka and I were due for a tearful reunion, and last night’s outing at Copa D’Oro with awesome pal Alison was everything I expected and so much more. Faithful readers will remember Mother Drucker’s vast appreciation for fresh grapefruit juice, and Copa’s sexy, bicep-baring bartender squeezes those little suckers right in front of you. Bless him.

If it makes you cry, is it a boo berry?

I had a greyhound, of course, and Allison had a pretty champagne cocktail with a bitters-kissed sugar cube at the bottom, creating a geyser of Happy Bubbles. (My name in prison. Humor me, it’s been awhile.) Copa D’Oro is dark and slightly noisy, but there are lots of nooks and crannies for intimate conversation, or other intimate activities. (Flossing.) Sometimes they have live music, and it gets crazy up in there on the weekends.

Bow wow wow yippy yo yippy yay.

In other news, it’s almost EASTER! I was WAAAY sadder to find out that a mutant, globe-trotting bunny wasn’t real than I was about Santa. Not sure what that says about me, but maybe it’s because Easter is centered around chocolate which, at six, was my raison d’etre, and my sister was allergic so it was the only time of year when I really got to cram in the cacao. (Resisting the urge to make another prison joke…. And it’s gone.) So for your Easter giggling pleasure:

Caption reads, "This one is raping a dog."

So wrong. And here are some more sketchy bunnies — maybe not quite as disturbing as Santas Be Sketchy, but disturbingly close. Take a peek, then put on your Easter bonnet and hop away from your computer. Hoppy Easter, everybunny!

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