Deep End Dining 2.0 (beta!)

You've Seen the Movie - Now Eat It! Snakes on a Plate. Phong Dinh Restaurant. Rosemead, CA.

A beacon of edible exotica.

I’ll just get this part out of the way now. Let me clear my throat. * ahem ahem ahem*

THERE ARE MOTHERFUCKIN’ SNAKES ON MY MOTHERFUCKIN’ PLATE!!!

Oh yeah. That felt good.

By now Snakes on a Plane is out in theatres everywhere and is either:

a) thrilling audiences, or

b) unintentionally making movie goers squirt milk out of their noses.

Most reasonable people who see the film will be expecting “b”. After all it’s the movie’s undesigned campiness that the fans are embracing. Some have dubbed Snakes on a Plane as this summer's The Blair Witch Project due to the film’s grass-roots support which spread across cyberspace like a celebrity sex video on YouTube. Snakes on a Plane’s strange symbiotic relationship with its rabid internet following has even resulted in reshoots of the movie’s key scenes because a blogger said it would be cool.

Yo, fool, if some blogger was giving me notes on my script and I had to make those changes because the studio said so, my agent will be pumpin’ gas the next day, beeyatch! Hollah!!

I know, I know, but I suppose this is the new media age where stuff like this happens and you have to grin and bare it.

Then there’re the spoofs. Spoofs! Send ups. Parodies. Whatever you want to call them, there are lots of them poking fun at Snakes on a Plane albeit good-naturedly. You can view many of them on Snakes on a Plane's official website. Some of them are wacky, but most are more like, um, Lame on a Plane.

On the other hand, not all of this Snakes on a Plane business is wacky or harmless. Because of recent terroristic events I noticed that airport security is banning almost all liquids from being brought on by hand or in carry-on luggage—these items can be anything from shampoos to Slurpees. However, nowhere on that extensive list do I see snakes. It is so obvious that terrorists get their ideas from movies. Just look at Star Wars. The rebels aka the terrorists fly spaceships to the Death Star (the Death Star here represents democracy) and try to blow it up. Some of the rebels actually crash into the Death Star doing very little damage, however that’s all Osama needed for inspiration. Snakes on a Plane doesn’t even require a terrorist to connect any dots—zero imagination. The instructions are in the title of the movie for chrissake! Get snakes on board a plane and terrorize freedom lovers. How simple.

I can’t believe the irony either. Terrorists hate Hollywood and yet they totally steal ideas for their terroristic plots from Bruce Willis and Arnold Schwarzenegger films. The ultimate irony would be terrorists using snakes to take down a plane that has Snakes on a Plane as its in-flight movie. TSA needs to be on the look out for suspicious snakes rather than “no tears baby shampoos”. Besides who would want to see a movie called Herbal Essences on a Plane?

My way of pissing off the terrorists is eating snakes. If you aren't with that, then you're against freedom.

However, tracking down a restaurant in Southern California that serves snakes was going to be tough. It seemed more like a job for MI5, but they’re a tad preoccupied right now. So I did the next best thing and fired off a quick query at Chowhound's So Cal forum. In a few hours I was directed to Phong Dinh Restaurant in Rosemead, California (about fifteen minutes east of Downtown LA).

Phong Dinh is a Vietnamese restaurant, sort of. It actually serves up more of a convoluted fusion of Vietnamese and Chinese cuisines, crossing between borders whenever it feels like it and, most of the time, without any papers. Further, Phong Dinh’s menu offers many things that aren’t typically Vietnamese and even some that aren’t typically Chinese—which is saying a lot because the Chinese eat everything. On top of that, the menu reads like an inventory list for a small zoo.

Welcome to the jungle.

When I first scouted Phong Dinh the only thing I wanted to find on the menu was snake because I wanted to call the article Snakes on a Plate because I thought it would be wacky. I did find snakes on a plate, but I also found…

Rabbit on a plate.
Squab on a plate.
Quail on a plate.
Venison on a plate.
Goat on a plate.
Boar on a plate.
Eel on a plate.
Frog legs on a plate.
Snails on a plate.
Ark shells(?) on a plate.
Alligator on a plate.
Ostrich on a plate.
Kangaroo on a plate.
Fox on a plate.

What. No rhinoceros?

Anyway, I could hardly believe it. A tear ran down my greasy cheek. I had found the Holy Grail of exotic cuisine. I simply wanted to hug the menu. I wanted to dance and buy the biggest goose in the butcher shop for the Cratchits. I was aglow with creepy culinary joy. I would’ve pinched myself if the waitstaff had better things to do than just stare at me. Then a waitress approached and asked me if I wanted to order take-out. She recommended the chicken fried-rice.

When I returned a few days later, about one week prior to Snake on a Plane’s U.S. release, I was so excited I almost forgot my digital camera and notepad. I did forget the address but fortunately Phong Dinh sits on a major boulevard and is easy to spot thanks to the green neon light framing its sign. Phong Dinh “Famous Baked Fish” the sign boasts. I laughed to myself. That’s not all you’ll be famous for. Not after I get through with you, Phong Dinh, if that really is your name.

I prepared myself for this place all week. Nobody could sidetrack me. A waiter came to the table. He tells me that the “famous baked fish” is very good. Even before he could finish his pathetic pitch for the house special, I interrupted him and asked, nicely, which snake plate he would recommend. His face grimaced a little. He contemplated and then qualified his answer by saying, “If you like snake, then you might like charbroiled grounded snake in grape leaves (Ran Luong La Lot).” I ordered it even though it wasn’t exactly what I was hoping for because the snake was ground. How menacing is a ground snake? I may as well be eating ground turkey. So I improvised—sometimes you just have to. I inquired about the eel. You know, eel. Kinda snake-ish. Serpentine, I believe is the word. Also I asked if the eel was presented whole. The waiter quickly got my drift and immediately suggested the “eel with lemon grass and chili” (Luon Xao Xa Ot). I ordered that too.

Charbroiled, grounded snake in rolled "lot" leaves.

The first dish delivered was the charbroiled, grounded snake in grape leaves craziness. Was this a Vietnamese, Chinese, Greek wedding of an entrée? How was this fusion fused together? The ground snake meat was tightly stuffed into grape leaf packets. The accoutrement dressing up this dish were slivers of marinated carrots and daikon, a mole hill of vermicelli rice noodles, some raw bean sprouts and crushed peanuts. Grab a grape leaf packet of snake and little bit of everything else, roll it up in a micro thin sheet of rice noodle wrap, dip it into the tamarind-nuoc mam sauce and eat.

Shredded snake.

I almost choked on the snake. The flavors were overpowering. I wasn’t sure if it was the venom (kidding) or the sour-bitter grape leaves or the heavy-handed dose of black pepper combined with too much lemon grass which was mixed in with the ground snake or the thought of Snakes on a Plane potentially choking badly on the opening weekend. New Line Cinema better hope the movie doesn’t choke that way they can do the sequel…

Eels on a Ship.

Eel with lemon grass & chili.

On this night, however, what followed snakes on a plate was eel on a plate. And there would be no mistaking the creature from which this feast came. Far from being ground or charbroiled, the eel arrived dramatically coiled around itself, even though it was cut into bite-sized segments. Presentation was everything with this dish, but, unfortunately, it was the only thing. The kitchen proved again to be seasoning and spice happy and virtually obliterated any of the eel’s natural flavors by overseasoning. It was like eating stalks of lemon grass weaved together to resemble an eel. Or, perhaps, the eel, before getting to my plate, subsisted on a diet of lemon grass and nothing else.

Phong Dinh had real potential to be the Holy Grail of Deep End Dining, if it could only tame the wild side of its menu by chilling out on the spices. Finally, sort of like Snakes on a Plane’s elusive genre, this meal played out to be both terrifying and comical at the same time.

Feast and West. Rock Star for a Night. West Restaurant. Los Angeles, CA.

Last weekend I told my wife Diane that I was taking her to a fancy new restaurant at the top of the old Holiday Inn building off the 405 near Sunset Blvd—“the circular hotel”. Most people who’ve lived in Los Angeles for more than a few years are familiar with it. When I first learned my way around LA, I used to confuse it with the Capitol Records building in Hollywood. I told Diane there was supposed to be an amazing panoramic view of the Westside and that our reservations would be timed around sunset. I asked her to put on some make-up and do her hair nice, maybe dress up a little. I told her that the name of the restaurant is West and they specialize in Italian, Mediterranean and Tuscan food.

What I didn’t tell Diane was that West was comping (paying for) the entire meal. Their PR rep sent an email over a month ago inviting me and a guest to try out this new restaurant-lounge in Brentwood. Bad Eddie.

She didn’t need to know. Plus she wasn’t really listening to anything I was saying anyway. She was more concerned about the parasite in her belly.

Honey, I’m six months pregnant. I really can’t handle eating fetus or baby anything, not even veal. Nothing weird at all. Please tell me we’re going to a normal restaurant.

We are going to a normal restaurant. It’s like an Italian steakhouse or something. It’s new and really nice. So I hear.

You promise?

It’s called West. How weird could it be?

Remember that restaurant called The Prince? That was weird. Moving tentacles.

Okay, that was an exception. I swear this place is totally normal.

I wish you would’ve told me sooner so I could have someone babysit Chloe.

No, I want her to go to. It’s a family date night.

Fine, but I’m ordering for Chloe.

It was a pleasant Southern California summer evening, the kind that brought back memories of summer vacations with nothing to do but have twig races in the gutter. The sky was slightly hazy, maybe from smog, maybe the marine layer, probably both, but it wasn’t enough to obscure a wondrous sunset that the dusk promised.

We got free rock star parking on Church Street right in front of the Hotel Angeleno, home of West Restaurant. The easy parking started the night very nicely and kept in line with the “free” theme.

The Hotel Angeleno is a modern, luxury hotel with a boutique sensibility. The Angeleno’s design influence rings with that of Phillipe Starck like so many of today’s modern styled hotels, restaurants, bars and even restrooms, though the Angeleno has a warmness to it that prevents it from feeling too Starck.

The 17th floor of the Angeleno is where West resides and as soon as you decompress via the reception area and enter the dining room you begin to appreciate the real estate mantra: Location. Location. Location. The splendid and enveloping panorama of the Westside cities greeted us like the mother of all plasma televisions. From my vantage point I was treated to a grand view of the Getty Center’s South Pavilion. Diane enjoyed the lush, green vistas of Brentwood’s hills. While Chloe had a breathtaking view of the—screech!—edge of our table since there wasn’t a high chair or booster to be found in the place. To be fair, they didn’t know Chloe was having dinner with us otherwise I’m sure they would’ve accommodated our shorty. The fact that they didn’t have a single high chair or booster did make it obvious that this wasn’t supposed to be a kid-friendly restaurant. After all, it was drum & bass and not Barney & Friends playing on the restaurant’s sound system. Thank God.

A Mojito Sunset.

A waiter (but not our waiter for the night) came by to drop the wine list and a couple of menus. To save time—let me rephrase that—to maximize drinking time, I quickly ordered a mojito, which I felt would be a nice bar-o-meter to gauge the bar's skills. I then gave Diane quite specific instructions to…

Order anything you want. Money is no object. Here, the 36 ounce porterhouse sounds perfect!

Are you crazy? It’s fifty-six dollars and it’s enormous! You want me huger than I already am? Are you one of those guys who like to fatten up their woman so nobody else is attracted to them? I’ve heard about men like that. It’s really insidious.

Forget it. How about the rib eye and the ahi? It’s like surf n’ turf.

(Studying menu) That’s not a combo. Those are two separate items. Why do you want me to order so much?

Just order whatever you want but order a steak for Chloe too, like the petite filet. That’s like a kid’s meal here.

Eventually, we did place our order and all at once. I meant business. After all, I was working. Well, sort of.

A Long, Tall Drink of Diane.

The starters on the menu were broken down into three sections: Antipasti, Crudo and Small Plates. I love raw seafood so West’s Crudo section was irresistible and it offered a little bit of everything like oysters on a half shell, a fluke carpaccio, yellowtail and avocado tartar, cured salmon, a sea scallop ceviche, etc.

I’m one of those people who never understood the widespread “no anchovies on the pizza” sentiment. I’ve been hearing it all my life and I just can’t relate. Anchovies are seductive and salty little strips of superb seafood snacking. (Okay, I admit it, alliteration gone wild. Sorry.) So when I spied the antipasto “white anchovies, celery & almonds”, I had to try it.

But as far as the crudi were concerned, I could’ve made a meal of just those. However, I showed amazing restraint and ordered only the “fluke, meyer lemon, hot peppers & sea salt” while Diane asked for the “yellowtail and avocado tartar”. However, my wife was hesitant to order any more starters. I insisted that she did.

Diane, I got it handled. Don’t worry about the money. Here, let me show you a trick. Just look at the numbers on the right of the menu where the prices are and pick the highest one and order that.

Something’s weird. You usually won’t even let me order a Coke with a hamburger.

True but tonight’s different, order a Coke. Shit, order Cristal. Pretend you’re on a first date with a romantic, generous, rich guy. And you want to test his credit limit. And he’s incredibly good looking. Okay?

That’s a lot to pretend. Maybe Chloe can do it. (to Chloe) Sweety, can you pretend Daddy has a lot of money and looks like Johnny Depp?

Believe it or not, Diane more or less bought my whole “money is no object” routine so she ordered the small plates “short rib ravioli” and “porcini gnocchi”, which both came highly recommended by our waiter Josh.

And also believe it or not, for my large plate, I didn’t even opt for the premium grade, twenty-one day aged black angus 36 ounce porterhouse. Instead, I answered the sweet, gamey call of the “dijon crusted rack of lamb” while Diane took the advice of one of the managers and ordered the New York strip steak. I asked her if she wanted an additional large plate, the cacciucco (seafood stew), perhaps. She shot me a dirty look that inspired me to order a Dirty Martini, extra olives.

While we waited for our starters we grazed on the chunky, crumbles of Parmigiano-Reggiano, rejoiced in the savory assortment of Italian olives and dipped our crusty bread into the seasoned extra virgin.

Anchovies Antipasto.

About half way through my Martini a disoriented runner came to the table (after passing it a couple of times) with our antipasto: the anchovies. This wee plate was the embodiment of freshness, from the sparkling sheen on the anchovies to the crispy snap of the celery wedges to the invigorating bite of the just cracked pepper and sea salt. Bling, even the almonds were peeled! A drizzle of vinegar tied this bouquet of freshness together. The deboned sardines were surprisingly delicate in flavor and plump and juicy like ocean cherubs. The absolute wonder about really good antipasto like this one is that the seasonings are spare but still the flavors manage to explode and this is all due to the focus on the extraordinary freshness in each ingredient.

The credo for crudo is also utmost freshness as demonstrated with our selections.

Crudo Fluke.

The fluke, a funny looking bottom-dwelling flatfish also know as summer flounder, was carved into fine sheets of carpaccio. It's a gentle tasting fish and is simply drizzled with fragrant olive oil and fresh lemon juice, sprinkled with quick dashes of sea salt and red pepper, and topped with feisty sprouts. This fluke was far from being just a fluke; its preparation was quite deliberate and the execution was very satisfying. Each element of this crudo was well defined and together was able to achieve flavor harmony. Again, freshness is the key.

Crudo Yellowfish & Avocado Tartar.

Cream rises to the top—specifically to the 17th floor of the Hotel Angeleno. But the cream I’m talking about is the yellowtail and avocado tartar. This is one helluva velvety mashup of luscious yellowtail and bold avocado. Fasten your seatbelt. The circular dining room almost spins after a couple of bites.

Short Rib Ravioli.

Ravioli to me usually means a dumpling stuffed with something squishy, creamy or soft. West’s short rib ravioli, on the other hand, was a manly billfold of pasta stuffed silly with tender shreds of pork short rib, all smothered in a robust sauce that teased with a tangy-sweet, barbeque flavor.


Porcini Gnocchi.

Magic is the only way I can describe this small plate of intoxicating mushroom gnocchi. The “porcini gnocchi” are creamy nuggets of fragrant mushroom infused euphoria. Even before the first bite, the gnocchi casts its spell with an intense earthy aroma only a great mushroom can conjure up. And as you go ahead and take the bite, the gnocchi fools you with uncharacteristic textures of soft and delicate rather than its more common chewy and dense. The headiness of the porcini gnocchi only amplifies when you actually eat and savor it.

Rack of Lamb.

All this build-up from the openers only made it that much tougher for the headliners. However, when my “dijon crusted rack of lamb” was set before me, all visual indications—from the batter’s golden spicy crust that segues into a lip-smacking char at the bone/stick to the exquisite crimson flesh which can just about transmogrify any vegan into a flesh tearing lycan—were excellent. The mellow gaminess of the lamb and the surprisingly fried chicken flavored crust (I didn’t detect much dijon) really delighted me. I wasn’t expecting anything like it. Could this just as well be served as a Southern fried rack of lamb? Do I dare—a finger lickin’ lamb? Don’t bother with the mint vinegar that comes with it, not so good. Even worse, it turns a perfectly cooked piece of meat into a pucker-faced encounter. Josh the waiter warned me about the sauce and he was right on.

Josh was also right on with the wine pairing. He coupled an Aussie wine named Annie’s Lane, a Cabernet Merlot, with the lamb. It was a real spicy partner but well suited for the gamey meat. Our waiter proved to be not only knowledgeable about the menu but was very accurate too, like he’s actually sampled every item—imagine that.

NY Strip Steak.

As mentioned before, one of the managers enthusiastically recommended the New York strip steak for Diane. Medium rare. That’s what she got. At worst, it was underwhelming. At best, it was competent. Her opinion: Very flavorful but not very tender for a premium grade, twenty-one day aged cut of black angus. I knew she should’ve gotten the big, fat porterhouse ($56).

To make up for her steak, I handed her one of my seriously good lamb on a stick and we both waited to turn into werewolves.

At an embarrassing moment of fine dining ecstasy—just as Diane’s eyes were rolling to the back of her head and I was moaning with the satisfaction of a force fed foie gras goose—Chef Josh Moulton strolls up to our table for a visit. Executive Chef of West, Josh Moulton attended Yale and was trained at the illustrious Culinary Institute of America (CIA). Chef Moulton asked if we had any questions for him, but the only itch I had to scratch was whether he was related to Sara Moulton of Food Network’s Sara’s Secrets. He reluctantly answered yes—they’re cousins. He then told me a funny anecdote about how there was a point when virtually everyone in the Moulton family had appeared on her cooking show but him. Eventually he said she invited him on to the show…but he was the last relative to be on. Better last than never.

Diane is visibly impressed.

Wow. The chef came to our table. I don’t see him going to anyone else’s table. Do you think he recognizes you?

Well, I do have my photo on the blog.

Yeah, but you were skinny then.

C’mon, I don’t look that different.

I wouldn’t even recognize you now if I didn’t know you.

Josh the waiter returns to give us the dessert menus.

I hope you folks saved room for dessert.

I reply, I guess none for tubby hubby. Right, honey?

Well, of course, we did have dessert. Mine was a gin and tonic, heavy on the gin. Diane’s were the fruit fondue and the “moulton chocolate cake with caramel center”.

Fruit Fondue.

I defy anyone to dis fondue. It’s probably the most fun you can have with dessert, the only exception being a can of whip cream and a stripper. Our fondue came with a pot that held a melted dark bitter chocolate and another other pot had a bright and sweet caramel. (But oddly neither of the candles under the pots was lit.) When you have two very different dips to plunge into, it’s entertaining to experiment with what food tastes good with what sauce. For example, pineapple and dark chocolate—bitter as bile, yuck! Pineapple and hot caramel—sweet sugar high. The pillowy soft marshmallow bars went with both really well.

Moulton Chocolate Cake.

The “moulton chocolate cake with caramel center” is pastry chef Thomas Deville’s signature dessert. Diane seemed to really, really enjoy the provocatively rich cake, making porno sounds while devouring it. Okay, honey. We get it. You like it. A lot. Please, no When Harry Met Sally reenactments tonight.

At last we called it a night and had the uneaten half of Diane’s steak boxed up. Chef Moulton came back to wish us a good night and patted Chloe on the head. Always gracious, Josh the waiter was happy to hear how much we enjoyed the evening. He handed me the pretend bill. All I had to do was print and sign my name. The grand total was a bit over two-hundred dollars for two and a half people—very fair for the quality of the food, the venue and the service. I tipped about 30% of the bill.

Sure, our table was probably assigned to West’s best waiter, our plates were probably fussed over slightly more by Chef Moulton and we definitely received rock star treatment i.e. the chef’s table visits and the completely comped dinner. But would I go back again on my own dime…and, more importantly, not lie to my wife.

Absolutely.

Eddie, that was such a perfect evening. It would’ve been just as good if we paid ourselves.

How’d you find out?

Honey, you never tip 30% unless something is free or you’re super drunk and you only had five drinks tonight so you weren’t that bad. It doesn’t matter because I had a great time. It was wonderful. Give me a kiss, my cow penis munching honey.

Sweety, not in front of the baby. By the way, cows don’t have penises.

Shut up and smooch me.

WEST
170 N. Church Lane, Los Angeles, California 90049
“Where Sunset Blvd. Meets the 405 Freeway”
(310) 481-7878

Small plates $6-$16
Entrees $22-$56
corkage $20

Breakfast: 6:30 AM – 10:30 AM (weekdays)
7:00AM – 10:30AM (weekends)

Lunch: 11:30 AM – 2:30 PM
Dinner: 5:30 PM – 10:30 PM

2 hour validation, anything over that time limit is $4.50. Free street parking available.

Hotel Angeleno and West Restaurant website

And The Winner Is...

So close.

With any luck, Eric Alba, my most excellent friend and Deep End Dining collaborator, will walk away with one of these golden beauties on September 25, 2006.

It's been over twenty years since I met Eric Alba when I was working my first summer job at Disneyland in Anaheim, California. Since then we've had many unforgettable adventures at home and abroad. These days we spend a lot of time on the phone just reminiscing about the "good old days" while knocking back many vodka cranberries. He patiently (most of the time) tolerates my inebriated gabbing even though he's in a time zone three hours ahead of mine. It's wonderful to see him continue to grow and achieve great things in his craft of visual effects – although he's also an extraordinary photographer with a witty eye. (Check out his website.)

Eric has been nominated for an Emmy for his work on the National Geographic and PBS four-part documentary Strange Days on Planet Earth hosted by Edward Norton. Strange Days on Planet Earth is a riveting and sobering investigative documentary on how man's interaction with his environment has adversely affected the Earth's. This series is more than just "an inconvenient truth", it reveals an incomprehensible reality.

ERIC ALBA NOMINATED FOR OUTSTANDING INDIVIDUAL ACHIEVEMENT IN A CRAFT: GRAPHIC AND ARTISTIC DESIGN.

Everyone think good thoughts for Eric on Sept 25th, that's when they announce the winner. Thanks!

Eddie Vs. Bull Penis in the OC Weekly.

Check out the OC Weekly's remix of my Apocalypse Chow! post. It's shorter with more dick! Enjoy, I think?

If you actually live in the OC or are passing through, then tell Summer Roberts to hit me on my celly. Oh, you mean it's only a tv show. Well, then, at least pick up a hardcopy of this week's OC Weekly (August 10, 2006)

Seven Courses of Sin. The Outlaw Dinner. Noé Restaurant at the Omni Hotel. Los Angeles, CA... Damn, It Feels Good to be a Gangster.

Thelma: You're a real live outlaw, aren't ya?

J.D.: Well, I may be an outlaw, darlin', but you're the one stealing my heart.

– Scene from Thelma & Louise

Do these cooks look like outlaws?

The end is near. The future is now. And I have seen both. The food fascists and those who are arrogant enough to legislate “what foods are acceptable to eat” are closing in on our consuming choices. The anti-animal protein faction abandoned their impotent sweeping strategy of the evangelical, i.e., screaming to anyone who walks by that “meat is murder”, but like zealots foaming at the mouth, they will not stop threatening our epicurean independence until we develop three more stomach chambers and start chewing cud. So instead, their tactic de rigueur is the surgical strike, blasting away entrée by entrée, delicacy by delicacy, and, potentially, food group by food group until we are essentially embalmed by soy products. Put all of the various foes of food together and you get the slippery slope you hear about all the time; now your refrigerator and pantry have become very slippery places. Ban foie gras here, sous vide illegal there, live lobsters not allowed for sale at supermarkets, wild morels need to be domesticated. Eerily this approach mimics modern warfare where the object is no longer the massive invasion but rather a more precise picking off of particular targets: Culinary assassinations.

Rarely do I venture into Downtown Los Angeles, especially after nightfall. I’ve lived in LA for most of my adult life and have a variety of excuses of why I don’t go there after dark: excuses that span from the skid row undead who rule the town at night to nightmarish visions inspired by the cinematic masterpiece Blade Runner to the fact that there still isn’t much of a downtown nightlife which doesn’t involve conventioneers or crack.

Tonight was different. I was more than willing to go into the bowels of downtown to confront all my downtown, after dark hang-ups just so I could get a taste of the future of dining. Illegal dining. Black market meals. The Outlaw Dinner.

“Nobody tells me what to eat,” I seethed to myself, “Nobody but my mother.” And she would have no problem letting me eat all that promised to be on the night’s tasting menu.

As I handed my keys to the valet, I looked up to the third floor of the Omni Hotel Los Angeles towards Noé Restaurant and wondered if what I was about to experience was to be the speakeasies or eateasies of tomorrow, as the case may be. Noé is a sleek, modern place with its alluring lighting design and clean composition. It faces the gleaming California Plaza which has the unique charm of being the end of the line for the legendary funicular railway Angels Flight. The front desk and waitstaff have the manner and appearance of an international utopian space program – multi-cultural, neat, clean, well groomed, professional, pleasant and efficient. The guests in the dining room were not much different from the staff. Many were actually dressed for an evening out. (I’m not talking a pair of True Religions and a t-shirt either.) This place doesn’t reek of the clandestine, back alley, smoke-filled speakeasies of Prohibition decorated with eager showgirls and fueled by illicit ale. I can’t imagine a small army of jack booted Feds raiding an elegant establishment like Noé and roughing up its clientele while a foie gras fighting Eliot Ness flashes his sparkling badge and shouts out everybody’s Miranda rights. We are, however, diners in a brave new world, so anything is possible.

Every speakeasy has a password and an admission price: Tonight’s was “Outlaw Dinner” and ninety-five bucks. Every speakeasy has a specific purpose. At Noé’s Outlaw Dinner, the purpose was to celebrate and to indulge in those foods that will be forbidden, restricted or are already banned in places where the very act of cooking or eating certain foods can be punishable under penalty of law. Although nothing served was illegal in Los Angeles (at least, not yet), the spirit of the evening was still one of delectable defiance.

Outlaw Dinner Chef, Robert Gadsby.

Executive chef Robert Gadsby is the mastermind and the mob boss behind the Outlaw Dinner. Glen Ishii, the chef de cuisine, is his enforcer. This kitchen combo of a culinary Al Capone and Frank Nitti demonstrated to the packed restaurant how very delicious it was to be bad, with the embattled foie gras as the star of the night.

It’s the final countdown for the eradication of foie gras in the City of Chicago. August 22, 2006 is when the Windy City’s controversial foie gras ban goes into effect. So it was only appropriate that foie gras took the stage first. The “Foie Toast Bacon and Eggs” was the modest moniker for this fancy nibble of fatty goose liver snuggled by a strip of smoky serrano bacon atop a stamped out piece of toast. Maybe it was just nostalgia but this dab of foie gras was the best I’ve ever had. But how could I already be looking back on something when it’s still here? I’m overly sentimental that way. To paraphrase Alfred Tennyson: “’Tis better to have eaten foie gras and lost than never to have eaten foie gras at all.” I thanked the goose that produced this dreamy and creamy piece of absolute pleasure. Research has claimed that maltreatment of livestock results in inferior tasting food. If that is the argument, then the goose from which this fatty liver came must have been living quite well.

First Course: Foie Gras Menu.

Coupling with the “Foie Toast Bacon and Eggs” was a whimsical, pre-dinner dessert: “Foie Gras Bonbons with Pop Rocks”. The chocolate covered round of foie gras crowned with cherry flavored Pop Rocks looked like something out of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Research Institute. And in an odd Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup maneuver, the marriage of chocolate and foie gras actually results in a peanut butter flavor but on the slightly salty side. “Hey, Chef Gadsby, your foie gras fell into my La Maison du Chocolat chocolate! What’s up with that?”

First Course: Foie Gras Menu.

Foie gras’ offense for making it onto the most hated food list is well known, but Pop Rocks has its own notorious past full of gossip and murder. “Mikey”, that ‘70s kid from the Life Cereal commercials who would eat anything, was rumored to have taken his gluttonous reputation too far by ingesting a lethal combination of Pop Rocks and soda pop. The mixture of the two items proved to be explosive and killed John Gilchrist aka “Mikey” by blowing up his stomach. This is why the death-dealing candy was taken off the market in 1983. The Outlaw Dinner’s “Foie Gras Bonbons with Pop Rocks” was paired with champagne, a bubbly beverage, thus making this naughty dessert potentially a very volatile and very deadly endeavor.

If you grew up with that incredibly well-distributed, pre-internet, urban legend about Pop Rocks, then you know by now (hopefully) that it was just a very imaginative tale that possessed enough rationale to make it seem credible. I’m not sure if even Chef Gadsby realized the candy’s sordid past when he used it as a topper. Gadsby’s reasoning for using Pop Rocks was to include an aural dimension to food which is rarely experienced. So was the champagne pairing just a coincidence? Or was he really trying to kill us all and turn us into Soylent Green?!

Second course consisted of the momentarily restricted in Los Angeles, morel mushroom. The morels were gently suspended as a terrine and teamed up with “Sweet Bread Nuggets”. The slurpy morels terrine was the most satisfying slime I’ve ever sucked down. The pork gelatin (I suspect) and the lusty morels succeeded in achieving an optimum flavored terrine – essence of earth and swine – and therefore making this outlaw diner very happy.

Second Course: Morels Menu.

“Sweet Bread Nuggets.” Sounds like something divine you’d wait in line for at Krispy Kreme, don’t it? Sorry. Sweet bread is euphemism for the thymus organ. But to me thymus organ is just as seductive as an illuminated Krispy Kreme “Hot Now” sign. This ingenious deep fried nugget of organ parts testifies to the fact that anything deep-fried is really, damn tasty.

Third Course: Absinthe Menu and Cocktail.

Before the Outlaw Dinner’s third course I was an absinthe virgin. I’ve heard the wild absinthe stories. I knew of its famous and infamously unstable enthusiasts like Van Gogh, Toulouse-Lautrec, Hemingway. I learned of its ill effects such as seizures and hallucinations. And of course I was aware of the Green Fairy who has an uncanny resemblance to Kylie Minogue. But like a dumb groupie, I didn’t care. I just wanted to be with absinthe for the first time in my life. I wanted to party with it. Burn down a five star hotel room with it. Go on a hundred-city Monsters of Metal tour with it. I finally surrendered myself to absinthe and it rocked! Some call it liquid crack. It's as wonderful as a chilled shot of Nyquil. I call it lust at first sip, and, for my sanity, I’m glad it’s illegal.

Fourth Course: Hemp Seed Menu.

Naturally what follows a nice, wet smooch from the Green Fairy is hemp seed. “Ceviche of Kampachi with Hemp Togarashi” or Chronic of the Sea as I like to call it. I’m just playing. Hemp and marijuana aren’t the same thing. Sure, they’re both cannabis but the THC (a psychoactive ingredient) level in each is different. The psychoactive content in hemp is substantially small and has virtually no intoxicating effects. THC is what gave hemp such a hard time crossing over to the mainstream. Hemp seeds are a part of the mix of spices used to make the togarashi sauce that flavored the oh-so-buttery, fatty Kampachi (related to yellowtail). Yes, your honor, I’m guilty of gluttony in the first degree. Make my last meal kampachi with hemp togarashi.

Fifth Course: Sous Vide Menu.

Sous vide is a cooking technique Jane Jetson would embrace and probably use. It’s like space age cooking with the use of vacuum sealing and plastic bags. But she’d better not be cooking sous vide in Manhattan in the year 2006, otherwise she’d best be ready for a visit from Robocop. Like many other low and slow cooking methods, the point is to retain as much flavor, texture and nutrients as possible. Sous vide is a less forgiving technique than, say, braising, and authorities fear that in the wrong hands sous vide cooking may be a health risk though there hasn’t been any reports of any illnesses resulting from vacuum cooking. The fifth course's sous vide swordfish was unremarkable. The blocks of fish were flash grilled after their sous vide treatment which I felt resulted in a coarse and dry product – isn't that what sous vide shuns? I'm not quite sure what the technique added to the fish but it actually tasted inferior to swordfish I’ve enjoyed in the past cooked by traditional means.

Sixth Course: Unpasteurized Milk/Cheeses Menu.

My family owned and operated a drive-thru dairy back in the late ‘70s. Aside from the easy access to Hostess Sno Balls and beer signage, we could guzzle down as much raw milk as we wanted. My mother encouraged this because she believed in all the health benefits attributed to raw milk and felt raw milk was superior to pasteurized milk. The taste of raw milk was burned into my taste buds thanks to its boldness and supremely creamy texture. The unpasteurized cheeses in the sixth course consisted of a sheep’s milk Camembert, Langres and Spanish Manchego. I am a believer in the notion that raw milk makes a more dynamic tasting cheese, and it was true for all three of these luscious, imported wedges.

Seventh Course: Forbidden Dessert Menu.

Heaven in the seventh course. Chef Gadsby and his outlaw posse started off the dinner with foie gras and concluded with foie gras, bookending the evening in a most decadent way. The entire outlaw dining room washed down the night’s criminal comestibles with a killer foie gras hot chocolate dotted with toasted marshmallows and spiked with volcanic chili. Chef Gadsby thrilled us all night with his culinary mischief and pulled off a final prank with a dainty demitasse of frigid “foie gras hot chocolate” where the “heat” comes from a nice sprinkling of chili powder.

There are many meals I’ll never forget for many different reasons. Chef Gadsby’s Outlaw Dinner is one I shall forever remember because of his intense passion for food, his desire to communicate this passion to food lovers, and his admirable talent for breaking the rules.

“You are remembered for the rules you break.” – Douglas MacArthur.

(The Encore Outlaw Dinner will be served at 7pm on Monday, August 21 - Foie gras will be banned in the City of Chicago the very next day - Location: 676 Restaurant & Bar, Omni Hotel Chicago, 676 N. Michigan Ave., 312.944.7676. $95. Reservations highly recommended. The last one in Chicago was sold out.)