This is my town.

I moved to Los Angeles believing it to be the veneered, cliché-ridden city portrayed by many a reality show: an alienating urban sprawl bathed in sunshine’s constant glow by day and the near-blinding glare of Sunset Boulevard’s LED lights by night; overrun by opportunists, It-Girls and Boys in the making; and justly spoken of with contempt by my Northern Californian counterparts. In short, I moved there expecting to hate it.

Surprisingly, the opposite proved true. I fell completely, disgustingly in love with the city, which transcended every stereotype unfairly slapped onto it and gave me a lovely life during my two-and-a-half year living stint. If you are looking for a culturally and morally vacuous Los Angeles it is easy enough to find, but you would be doing yourself a great disservice by believing that L.A. begins at X Hollywood hotspot and ends at Toast. Not that there’s anything wrong with eating at Toast. (See below.)

My departure from L.A. was the impetus for me writing this guide to some of the city’s best restaurants, bars, and coffee shops, a list that is by no means exhaustive. The city is wont to rapid and trend-driven turnaround, where a restaurant may be anointed “Must Eat/See-and-be-Seen At” one moment then unceremoniously fall off the radar once something newer and trendier opens. (Remember Dolce? No? It’s probably better that way.) This may not be the definitive L.A. handbook, but “this is my town” and these are some of my favorite things about it.

Explore by Neighborhood:

Silver Lake/Echo Park/Highland Park

Los Feliz

Hollywood/West Hollywood

Mid-Wilshire/K-Town/Hancock Park

Downtown Los Angeles

Beverly Hills/West Los Angeles/Santa Monica

Multiple Locations

Mobile/Pop-Ups

Silver Lake/Echo Park/Highland Park

Bar Keeper

Bar Keeper is a cocktail emporium, a self-described “head shop” for master mixologists and those with similar aspirations. Stocking more than just shakers and spirits, this is where you go to find that brouilleur, pro jig, and StrainRay™ you’ve been searching for to complete your home bar. I don’t speak Cocktailese, but every time I wandered inside I was half-seduced into stocking up on exclusive bitters, rare label liqueurs, and fancy martini sets. Chin-chin.

3910 West Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.669.1675

Café Stella

Café Stella, located in Silver Lake’s Sunset Junction, is the ultimate date spot. Dinner here virtually guarantees a makeout session post-pommes frites, and there’s even a condom dispenser in the restrooms for hipsters feeling uber lucky. (In hindsight, I wonder why none of the guys I went out with were smart enough to realize this.) Stella’s presence amidst the neighborhood’s gentrified grunge feels strangely apropos, a slice of Paris nestled against a gourmet cheese store and artisanal coffee purveyor Intelligentsia next door.

L.A. is in love with brasserie-style cuisine right now (see: Delphine, Bouchon, et al.), but Stella serves my favorite French food hands down. In the mood for escargot, truffle oil fries, onion soup bubbling over with Gruyere, and filet mignon? Stella’s your gal.

3932 West Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.666.0265

The Cheese Store of Silver Lake

Creamy cuts of brie, artisanal olive oil, and lavender-flecked chocolate bars await inside the Cheese Store of Silver Lake, Sunset Junction’s one stop shop for local gourmands looking to stock their pantries. If you’re hosting a dinner party or feel like throwing together an indulgent charcuterie board for hedonism’s sake, the Cheese Store has you covered, but at an expectedly exorbitant price. The biggest danger upon entering isn’t O.D.-ing on samples, but leaving with a canvas shopper spilling over with superfluous, yet delicious, foodstuffs. Does anyone really need coffee syrup for home use? Eh, sometimes it doesn’t matter when something comes in pretty packaging.

3926-28 West Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.644.7511

Gingergrass

A commitment to authenticity is not the city’s strong suit, so Gingergrass’ take on Vietnamese might best be summed up as “hipster pho.” But is it good? Decisively, yes. Even on the warmest of L.A. days, I craved a big bowl of Gingergrass’ tofu, bean sprout, and basil-laden soup, with a side of shrimp chips and plum/peanut dipping sauce, or my go-to Jack and Ginger Salad (jack fruit, lotus root, poached shrimp, and shrimp sauce vinaigrette). Grab a casual dinner here after a day of working on your future pilot at next door’s Silver Lake Coffee Co.

2396 Glendale Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.644.1600

Intelligentsia

When it comes to coffee, the good people at Intelligentsia don’t fuck around. It’s a proper coffee bar, where your barista wears a vaguely affected sneer and will make you a palate-punching cup of espresso. Drinks average around $3.00, the high price paying for quality beans, preparation, and the privilege of getting caffed-up amidst its slick environs. There are Venice and Pasadena outposts as well, but this location remains my Intelligentsia of choice.

3922 West Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.663.6173

LA MILL

With ornate chandeliers, waitresses uniformed in high-waisted jeans, and an $11,000 Clover machine powering its drink production, LA Mill is just as attractive as its bourgeois bohemian clientele. Like fellow haute coffee purveyor Intelligentsia, LA Mill caters to coffee conoisseurs. Despite its fancy designer trappings, LA Mill manages to provide a comfortable work atmosphere—limited use of free WiFi included—and a casual meet-up spot, along with coffee that is wonderfully potent.

1636 Silver Lake Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.663.4441

Coleen's Caramel Cake from Lark Cake Shop

Lark Cake Shop

L.A. loves cupcakes, those fashionable baked goods that have borne a cult following and even spawned a reality television show on the Food Network. Rather than wait in line at Sprinkles in Beverly Hills or tackle one of Crumbs’ obscenely large versions, I opt for Silver Lake’s Lark. Stacey’s Old Fashioned Coconut and Colleen’s Caramel are favorites, but I’ve also heard raves about the Chocolate Mousse, Red Velvet, and even the vegan choices. Stop in on a Wednesday, order a coffee and get a cupcake on the house—the earlier the better so you have more flavors to choose from.

3337 West Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.667.2968

Pazzo Gelato

How do I love Pazzo Gelato? Let me count the ways: I love the flavorful depth and breath of their creamy concoctions, which range from traditional (Stracciatella, Strawberry sorbetto) to seasonal specialties (Chevre with a Farmer’s Market Peach swirl) and other unique offerings (Buttered Brown Sugar with Candied Bacon). They’re open ‘till 11:00, so you can get a sweets fix pre-bedtime, or before the headlining act at the Echoplex goes on.

3827 West Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.662.1410

Short Stop

It’s all about the photobooth at ShortStop. And the cute boys. But a significant pain in the ass about visiting this perpetually-buzzing bar is finding neighborhood parking. You’ll likely be relegated to one of Echo Park’s steep and heel-unfriendly hills, unless someone miraculously pulls out of their prime spot on Sunset Boulevard so you can swoop in.

Once inside, you’ll be elbow-to-elbow in the neighborhood’s skinny jean-clad residents, who radiate affected vibes but are a generally benign bunch looking to dance, drink, and have a laugh with their friends. Snag a couch in the back room and you can do the same.

1455 West Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles | 213.482.4942

Silver Lake Coffee Co.

Arrive midday and you will be hard-pressed to find a coveted spot near an outlet at Silver Lake Coffee Co., a popular makeshift office for the independently employed. Their sandwiches, coffee, and salads are passably satisfying at best, but I did have a soft spot for the vegan energy bars they serve by the register. (Others call them “mealy,” but I love them.) Really, if you’re spending any extended amount of time here it’s for the free WiFi, quiet surroundings, and motivating work aura, which silently and successfully urges you to buckle down and finish the five pages you promised yourself you’d knock out by day’s end.

2388 Glendale Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.913.0388

The York on York Street

The York is a Highland Park hotspot swarming with gangly would-be musicians and local art students with a shared predilection for horn-rimmed glasses. Its gastropub fare speaks to the discerning palates of its chef and owners, but you’ll find nary a touch of snobbery at the York. You consult a massive blackboard on the back wall for the day’s menu and everyone places orders at the packed bar.

Instead of beer nuts you can opt for Fried Chickpeas, or give their Truffled Grilled Cheese, french fries, or Steamed Mussels a try. Ever on the search for L.A.’s best burger, I consider the York’s a contender for the top spot. It is no-nonsense, with simple accoutrements (white cheddar, rocket, harissa aioli) that don’t overwhelm the juicy, pink drippings of its patty. Be damned, he or she who dares order it well-done. Get a frothy draft beer to go with your meal and a German digestif to wash it down. The wine list is well-curated, too, with several options to sate non-beer drinkers.

5018 York Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.255.9675

Los Feliz

Café Figaro

Ooh la cassoulette! Situated on Los Feliz’ busy Vermont Avenue, Café Figaro is a popular neighborhood bistro and prime people watching location. Locals will also recognize it as the setting of this State Farm Insurance commercial. Inside the candlelit dining room are leather chairs and low tables where patrons exchange conversation in French and share sautéed frog legs. I suggest the buttery Sole Meunière as a main, and stocking up on éclairs and tarts from the dessert case on your way out.

1802 North Vermont Avenue | 323.662.1587

Trails Café

If you’re brave enough to attempt the uphill trek toward Griffith Park’s breathtaking summit (in truth, not too painful for the initiated), fuel up beforehand with Trails’ signature Avocado Sandwich. You’ll find the tiny café at the foot of the park, its outdoor dining area shaded by a canopy of trees, the occasional butterfly flitting by your table. They serve excellent coffee, along with a mouthwatering selection of baked goods (Nutella S’mores, Lavender Vanilla Cookies).

2333 Fern Dell Drive, Los Angeles | 323.871.2102

Hollywood/West Hollywood

A.O.C.

A.O.C. knows wine*, and how. But they also know food of the small plate, California-French variety that lends itself well to group dinners of six or less—any more and I think seating/sharing might get uncomfortable in the intimate restaurant space. Start off with charcuterie and work your way through the menu to get a taste of dishes with market-driven flair. Prices here are somewhat hefty, considering that you’ll have to order quite a few things to feel satisfied. But if you are willing to drop some cash, you’ll be repaid with a host of solid dishes way better than the sub-par fare (overcharred octopus—blech) other tapas-themed restaurants serve.

Tip: If there’s anything from Flowers Vineyard on the menu, order it.

8022 West Third Street, Los Angeles | 323.653.6359

Butterflies on the Ceiling at Bar Marmont

Bar Marmont

Chateau Marmont is where tabloid legends are made, where Kirsten Dunst might bum valet fare off of you out front (true story; happened to a friend of mine), and where TMZ’s wily photogs know to creep for the next cover of US Weekly. I never visited Bar Marmont on a weekend, preferring early, quiet evening weeknights instead. Rather than battle an insufferable line out front, I would waltz in, order a nice glass of wine, and read a book or dreamily stare at the butterflies on the ceiling uninterrupted. The lesson: you don’t need to be a Scarlett, Paris, or Hills cast member to make Marmont your own.

8221 West Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.650.0575

Loup de Mer at Hatfield's

Strawberry Napoleon at Hatfield's

Hatfield’s

Now located on Melrose Avenue, Hatfield’s has enjoyed a revered reputation in L.A.’s fine dining scene for some time now. Husband and wife dream team Quinn and Karen Hatfield are behind the restaurant, where a soundtrack of Radiohead may accompany your Date and Mint Crusted Lamb entrée. Obviously the Hatfields’ good taste extends beyond their palates.

Tufted leather banquettes line a grand dining room, offering a view into the kitchen, where Le Creuset cookware hangs above the heads of chefs buzzing about with purposeful precision. Food is prepared in a familiar fusion style: it’s Hollywood Farmer’s Market meets French countryside. Naturally, the menu is wont to change with season and availability of ingredients, but when I visited my friend and I enjoyed elegant dishes including a Squid Ink Garganelle with Lobster Butter, Warm Cuttlefish Salad with Maitake Mushrooms, Loup de Mer, the aforementioned Lamb with green-tinted, light as air Potato Mousseline, and a Strawberry Napoleon and just-bitter-enough Chocolate and Caramel Tartlet for dessert. As if that weren’t enough, miniature chocolate cupcakes were served alongside our bill, fleetingly lessening the pain of handing over our credit cards.

6703 Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles | 323.935.2977

Hollywood Farmer’s Market

Of L.A.’s many farmer’s markets, Hollywood’s is among the grandest. By 11:00 AM on Sunday morning, the narrow pathway on Ivar just north of Amoeba is jammed with strollers and a sea of localvores with their Baggus. Visiting familiar vendors week after week offers a warm sense of community, and the assurance that you’ll return home with bagsful of the season’s produce bounty.

During summertime, I make a beeline for the farmer selling mango-flavored nectarines, who instructed me to look for russetting patterns on fruits’ surfaces for the sweetest pulls. There is also an amazing goat cheese stall—run by a sweet elderly woman I came simply to know as “the goat cheese lady”—stationed near the breads and baked goods, and Carmela Ice Cream often has a booth at the end of this same lane, usually helmed by a handsome, unshaven foodie who will walk you through the flavors available that day. Then there are the fresh-cut hydrangeas, the rotund, most likely high “incense dude,” and stall after stall of zebra-striped heirloom tomatoes at the height of summer. It’s a food lover’s dream come true.

Ivar Street & Selma Avenue | 323.463.3171

Joans Hollywood

Not to be confused with Joan’s on Third, this bar and restaurant, right ‘round the corner from a massive Target shopping complex, is one of the least pretentious places to grab a drink in West Hollywood. No need to get gussied up, worry about charming a doorman, or fret about having your name on a list. Come as you are and let the sexy blare of DFA 1979’s “Romantic Rights” receive you, as was the case on my first visit.  Drinks are reasonably priced and their pizza is ripe for drunken noshing.

7205 Santa Monica Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.850.1726

Lunch at Joan's on Third

Joan’s on Third

Since I started visiting L.A. as an awestruck 19-year-old, this casual West Third Street restaurant and marketplace has doubled in size. The pristine, bright white space is my favorite place to grab lunch in the city, and because I’m a creature of habit I order the same thing nearly every time: the Fresh Mozzarella, Tomato, and Basil sandwich with Joan’s signature vinaigrette. It’s always good.

Other favorites include the seasonal heirloom tomato salad, roasted carrots, berry muffins, delicious gelatos, fudge brownies, cheese/charcuterie plate, and nearly everything from their retail space (gourmet pastas, olive oils, etc.). Fresh ingredients of the highest integrity rule at Joan’s.

You’ll have to fight for a table if you want to eat outside on a sunny day, or you can opt for the communal table indoors, where you never know what interesting Angeleno you’ll strike up a conversation with.*

*So says the girl who once had a good looking Frenchman give her his number/e-mail address at said table, only to find out he was the same guy who, allegedly, stole and attempted to sell Paris Hilton’s cell phone. We did not go out on a date. Thank you, Google.

8350 West 3rd Street, Los Angeles | 323.655.2285

La Poubelle

Stepping into La Poubelle’s dim lit interior makes me wish that I was equipped with infrared sight. The lack of light makes for an undeniably sexy ambiance: witness table after table of attractive patrons seductively leaning toward one another over glasses of Cabernet. La Poubelle was the go-to drinks spot for me and my fellow Upright Citizen’s Brigade-loving crew, where we’ve sipped Cigare Volant with Ryan Gosling at the table next to us and waxed poetic about the phallic jokes just heard at the latest Facebook show.

5907 Franklin Avenue, Hollywood | 323.465.0807

Lou

Strip mall sushi joints are rife and generally respected in L.A., but strip mall wine bars? Don’t be put off by the nondescript location of this hidden gem, located in between a laundromat and liquor store on the corner of Melrose and Vine. Chintzy black curtains obscure a cozy restaurant inside, where the knowledgeable staff will guide you through a robust list of quirkily described varietals (think “rubbery” and “weird ass” rather than “peppery” and “fruit forward”). Order a side of Pig Candy (bacon caramelized with brown sugar) as a starter, a charcuterie plate if you’re meeting for a quick drink, and the scallops if want a main course. Lou also ranks highly in the good-for-dates department.

724 Vine Street, Los Angeles | 323.962.6369

Mozza2Go

While I’ve never sat down to eat at Mozza (Osteria or Pizzeria), I have ordered from Mozza2Go, the take away outpost of Nancy Silverton and Mario Batali’s joint restaurant venture. 2Go satisfies diners’ cravings for artisanal wood-fired pizzas without the hassle of having to make reservations, often long in advance.

The Prosciutto de Parma, rucola, tomato and mozzarella is a winner, as is the rich Butterscotch Budino for dessert. They even deliver, but you’re better off placing an order during early evening and picking it up yourself to avoid waits of an hour or more for your food.

6610 Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles | 323.297.1130

The perfect scallop at Providence

Snapper at Providence

Providence

Finally dining at Providence was like reaching the summit of Mount Everest: a foodie dream fully realized, but not without great effort. Five courses may not seem like a lot, but the portions at Providence are more generous than you’d expect for a fancy-schmancy Michelin-starred restaurant. By course three of the seafood-centric tasting menu, my dining companion and I were happily struggling to make it to dessert. And, oh, was the journey ever wonderful. Scallops, hamachi, snapper, and beef tenderloin graced our presence in the sometimes uncomfortably hushed dining room, each artful dish brought out with precise timing from the kitchen. It is worth the $85 (without wine pairing) Prix Fixe bill for one of the most memorable dining experiences you’ll have in L.A.

5955 Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles | 323.460.4170

Toast

I resisted eating at Toast for two solid years into my time as an L.A. resident. Why? The inevitably long wait, for one thing, coupled with a few too many sightings of stonewash denim-clad men and my inability to disentangle the café from its association with The Hills. It was Toast’s Soy Chai Latte, which I’m going to boldly call the best in L.A., that did me in. Toast serves straightforward, hearty sandwiches and a satisfying Chicken Chow Salad that isn’t built for nitpicky dieters.

8221 West 3rd Street, Los Angeles | 323.655.5018

The Roosevelt

Going out in Hollywood is nothing if not trying on one’s patience and sense of self worth. Even at the shittiest of clubs, there is a line of severely made-up females and gel-coiffed guys that will likely get smarmily close once you step inside. Lists are common, and if you want to get in without an “in,” you’d better show up early and make sure the male to female ratio of your party is low.

Though “Hollywood” in many respects, the Roosevelt one of few places in the neighborhood I could tolerate grabbing a drink. Part of it has to do with the sheer history of the hotel, which is said to be haunted by the glam ghost of one Miss Marilyn Monroe. (A good friend can attest to having had a paranormal experience in the hotel’s elevator.) Cocktails are good, and I have fond memories of sitting poolside at the Tropicana, gimlet in hand, giggling with girlfriends while gawking at the crowd around us. And, oh, is that Thom Yorke who’s showed up for a surprise DJ session? If you’re lucky enough, yes. Yes it is.

7000 Hollywood Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.466.7000

Square One Dining

Behind the imposing Scientology Center on L. Ron Hubbard Drive lies a tiny restaurant whose claim to fame is its brunch menu. Here, thick slabs of French toast are sweet enough to eat without syrup, but a drizzling of maple takes the flavor of the moist bread slices over the top. So rich are these triangular pillows that they’re best shared, split with a savory egg dish and side of fruit. I am partial to their fresh-baked pastries, the scones and muffins especially. While the name of the restaurant suggests a back-to-basics approach, the products of their labor are anything but ordinary, eliciting a “Hallelujah!” from a friend on one brunch visit.

4854 Fountain Avenue, Hollywood | 323.661.1109

The Village Idiot

The Village Idiot is my favorite restaurant in all of L.A., mainly because it very quickly became my friends’ version of the Cheers bar. This gastropub is a popular watering hole and pick-up joint for locals, but its food supersedes its cool cred. I usually take out-of-towners here for a drink and an elevated take on British pub fare, and without fail everyone falls hard for the Idiot. Not to be missed are the Ale-Steamed Mussels with Garlic Bread “Mops” (butter, butter, butter), pies, Pub Burger, and, if it’s on the menu, their take on ice cream cake.

7383 Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles | 323.655.3331

Mid-Wilshire/K-Town/Hancock Park

Bricks & Scones

Larchmont Boulevard plays home to no less than four coffee shops, from a certain Seattle-based goliath to Bricks & Scones, a two-story sanctuary for the area’s many freelancers. Pastries are baked with love “by mom,” the coffee is Intelligentsia, the tea Lupicia (mmm, Champagne Rose), the WiFi free, and the atmosphere ideal for getting a day’s worth of writing done. Or messing about on Facebook.

403 North Larchmont Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.463.0811

Larchmont Village Wine and Cheese

This nondescript wine store and grocer on Larchmont makes simple sandwiches with the finest of ingredients: Iberico ham, moist and fresh buffalo mozzarella, tapenade spread, fruity olive oil, and so on. They serve lunch “until [they] run out of bread,” reads a sign out front, and such is the case nearly every day.

Beware of monopolizing one of the sidewalk tables during the busy lunch hour, lest you be scolded by the store’s surly owner, who I’ve seen crack a smile only once. The wine retail space is small but well-stocked, and it’s possible to go home with a quality bottle for $10-12, or splurge on something to impress your dinner host.

223 North Larchmont Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.856.8699

Larchmont Village Farmer’s Market

Fantastic as the Hollywood market is, I found myself shopping at the Larchmont market more often because it was within walking distance of my old apartment. Depending on your POV, Larchmont is either one of the most charming streets in all of L.A., or an upper-middle class trainwreck. Truth be told it’s a bit of both, but my favorite place to spend a lazy Sunday morning nonetheless, stuffing my canvas bag full of kale, pears, and the like. Not to be missed stalls include the fish vendor, who sells scallops so fresh you can eat them raw, the balsamic vinegar stand, and baker selling buttery croissants, gigantic apple-banana bran muffins, and tartlets.

Larchmont Boulevard | 818.591.8161

Downtown Los Angeles

Bottega Louie

On any given weeknight, Bottega Louie’s dining room swarms with lawyers and business folk itching for a stiff drink to match their conservative workwear, or one of the restaurant’s wood-fired pizzas. The restaurant is among Downtown L.A.’s most attractive dining destinations, a massive white space with an open kitchen, mini in-house patisserie, and gourmet grocery items prettily merchandized for sale.

Much of the menu is served tapas-style, encouraging you to order several dishes to share. Fail to do so and you may receive a terse smile and disapproving, “Oh, are you sure?” from your waiter/waitress. Fried eggplant fries are a crowd pleaser, as are the aforementioned pizzas. For lunch, you can mix-and-match a few sides from their deli case and finish it off with a few colorful macarons or a Voges Bacon Chocolate Bar.

700 South Grand Avenue, Los Angeles | 213.802.1470

Chaya Downtown

There are a few Chaya outposts in L.A., plus the niche cuisine-serving M Café, but this location became my “spot” while I was working Downtown. Architect/Designer Anthony Poon, who I interviewed for this article in SOMA magazine, was responsible for turning the former bank into a space whose eclectic design influences mirror the fusion (Japanese/French)-themed menu. Decked out with a whimsical, neon-hued plastic chandelier by Stuart Haygarth, pop art posters, and a traditional Japanese mural along its rear wall, Chaya Downtown looks just as good as its food tastes.

I’ve had a three-course meal here along with many happy hour sessions (whose prices last all night, FYI) many times after work. Sushi is the star attraction, but I’ve never been disappointed by other menu items, including a heavenly Milk Chocolate Croissant Bread Pudding for dessert.

525 South Flower Street, Los Angeles | 213.236.9577

Beverly Hills/West Los Angeles/Santa Monica

Chego

If you like Kogi, you’ll love Chego. But Roy Choi’s Westside restaurant is no designer imposter, so to speak. Chego specializes in hearty rice bowls packed with big flavors, enough for a full leftover serving the next day unless you’re feeling particularly gluttonous. I sampled the Pork Belly Bowl, also splitting an order of the Ooey Gooey Fries topped with sour cream, melted cheeses, chilis and garlic, and the Tres Leches cake for dessert. Sinful satisfaction resulted.

Chego’s late hours and proximity to UCLA makes it great drunk food for the college crowd, but it’s also worth the trek at any time of day for those in surrounding neighborhoods. Make sure you double down on the Sriracha.

3300 Overland Avenue, Los Angeles | 310.287.0337

The Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel

Los Angeles’ famed Pink Palace has long been a sanctuary to the rich and famous, from Elizabeth Taylor to the Osbournes. The hotel, steeped in a mixture of local history and lore, exudes a dreamlike dazzle. It is Hollywood glamour incarnate, with early 20th Century-style bungalows surrounding its palm-lined grounds, and other tinseled touches—ornate chandeliers, graphic wallpaper—peppered throughout its interior.

To be honest, you don’t really go to the Polo Lounge for the food; you go for the romance of it all. Maybe there’s an Oscar winner seated to your left, a movie deal going down to your right, or maybe you’ll just have a laugh playing a game of Count the Birkins over brunch time mimosas. Waiters may, unprompted, ask you if you want the goat cheese on the side of your egg white omelette rather than mixed in (“It cuts down on fat.”), but you can balk at the hotel’s silly calorie cutting ways and order the fine Polo Lounge Burger instead.

Awards season is a good time to visit, as the hotel’s ambiance is boosted by the excitement of Hollywood’s so-called “biggest night” and the impending Vanity Fair Oscar party, which was held at the hotel in 2010.

9641 Sunset Boulevard, Beverly Hills | 310.276.2251

Multiple Locations

Bodega

There are a few outposts of this low key wine bar in the L.A. area, from Santa Monica to Pasadena, with a newly opened location at Sunset and Vine. If you’re intimidated by wine lists and proprietors who sneer when you order Rosé, Bodega is a godsend. Wine is served in glass cups at a flat $7.00, and with a Red-‘n’-Coke cocktail on the menu (yeah, I think it’s gross, too), it’s clear that attitude isn’t the bar’s forte. Appetizers are cheap and decent enough, and it’s fantastic for happy hour if you happen to work nearby.

Hollywood | 6290 Sunset Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.464.3400
Santa Monica | 814 Broadway, Santa Monica | 310.394.3504
Pasadena | 260 East Colorado Boulevard, Pasadena | 626.793.4300

M Café de Chaya

Gwyneth and Madonna made macrobiotic cuisine cool, but M Café keeps it relevant, not to mention tasty. Whether you’re refueling after a Hatha yoga class or want to feel “cleansed” after a meal, M is the place to do so. Recommended are the Big Macro Burger (get it?), Kale Salad with Peanut Sauce, Sesame Soba Noodles, Curried Cauliflower, seasonal Mushroom Soup, Spicy Tuna Rolls, and Fudge Layer Cake, which tastes nothing like you’d expect a dairy-free dessert to taste: that is to say, ridiculously gooey and rich.

West Hollywood | 7119 Melrose Avenue, Los Angeles | 323.525.0588
Beverly Hills | 9433 Brighton Way, Beverly Hills | 310.858.8459

Mendocino Farms

Sandwiches are, in my opinion, the perfect meal: a compact way to cover all of your basic food groups with creative flavor combinations. Mendocino Farms has perfected the art of sandwich making, which is why I found myself eating here upward of three times a week when I first started working Downtown. That, and I managed to get chummy with most of the Flower Street staff, scoring a free chocolate chip cookie with my orders.

Doing Alice Waters proud, “Mendo” has adopted the Slow Food credo of sourcing sustainable ingredients from local purveyors. I’m partial to the Chicken MBT, Caprese, Curried Chicken Salad, and Pork Belly Bahn Mi, but you can also build your own sandwich, get nearly anything “salad style” (sans bread—but why would you want to?), or choose from a selection of daily soup and salad specials at the case up front.

Downtown | 444 South Flower Street, Los Angeles | 213.627.3262
Downtown | 300 South Grand Avenue, Los Angeles | 213.620.1114
Marina del Rey | 4724 Admiralty Way, Marina del Rey | 310.822.2300

Mrs. Winston’s Green Grocery

When I worked in Santa Monica’s massive Water Gardens complex, I ate lunch at Mrs. Winston’s nearly every single day. This build-your-own salad and sandwich shop promises nirvana for the health conscious, where a smörgåsbord of organic vegetables and pre-made sides (curried tofu, vegan egg salad) greet you upon entrance. It’s also a mini green grocery, stocked with vegan cookies, seaweed snacks, Have’a Corn Chips, Chocolove bars, and much, much more.

Santa Monica | 2450 Colorado Avenue, Water Gardens Complex, Santa Monica | 310.315.2777
Santa Monica | 3150 Ocean Park Boulevard, Suite A, Santa Monica | 310.452.7770
West Los Angeles | 1999 Avenue of the Stars, Suite 132, West Los Angeles | 310.553.4100

Scoops

Located on an odd corner in the K-Town/Los Feliz-y area, the O.G. Scoops belongs to L.A.’s brood of highfalutin ice cream parlors. Thirty-one flavors it is not, but you will get vegan options—tastier than some of the dairy ones, in my opinion—and an ever rotating menu of cool flavors like Wasabi, Brown Bread, and Mango Chili. Here, a “scoop” is actually two scoops, so you can try more than one quirky variety on each visit. There’s also a Westside outpost for those closer the way of the Pacific.

K-Town/Hollywood-ish? Uh, yeah. That way. | 712 North Heliotrope Drive, Los Angeles | 323.906.2649
West L.A. | 3400 Overland Avenue, Los Angeles | 323.405.7055

Umami Burger

Umami is the fifth taste, producing a subtle, maybe indescribable effect on the palate. Does this local chain manage to infuse umami into its burgers? Honestly, I have no clue, but I do know that their patties are cooked to perfect medium-rare doneness and that the Hatch Burger (four chilis, house cheese) rocked my world. The Onion Rings aren’t shabby either, but portions of these, fries, and ketchup tend to be small, much to the chagrin of many diners.

Mid-Wilshire | 850 South La Brea Avenue, Los Angeles | 323.931.3000
Los Feliz | 4655 Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood | 323.669.3922
Hollywood | 1520 North Cahuenga Boulevard, #7, Space 15 Twenty | 323.469.3100
Santa Monica | 500 Broadway, Fred Segal, Santa Monica | 310.451.1300

Urth Caffe

Urth Caffe Melrose is a scenester clusterfuck, but don’t let the parade of cutoff denim shorts and pouty 20-somethings deter you from sampling Urth’s awesome pastries, coffee, and lunch items. Their muffins—even the non-fat, made-for-L.A. version—are fluffy and delicious, their Apple Bread Pudding “famous,” and their salads, sandwiches and soups satisfyingly bursting with fresh ingredients.

There are actually four Urths in the L.A. area (and I’ve been to all of them), my favorite being the one off a semi-dodgy area Downtown frequented by the Fashion District set. Melrose is always great fun for people watching, especially during Sunday brunch hour.

West Hollywood | 8565 Melrose Avenue, West Hollywood | 310.659.0628
Beverly Hills | 267 South Beverly Drive, Beverly Hills | 310.205.9311
Santa Monica | 2327 Main Street, Santa Monica | 310.314.7040
Downtown | South Hewitt Street, Los Angeles | 213.797.4534

Village Pizzeria

Village doesn’t do the artisanal thing a la Mozza, but this L.A. institution is my favorite pizza place in the city: a tiny and casual joint that claims to dish out “New York style” fare. Whatever that means (Is it crust thickness? Foldability?), it’s good all around. Three-odd dollars will get you a satisfying slice of cheesy goodness with a few toppings, and Village’s homemade sausage should always be one of them. Lunchtime and evenings are busy without fail, but the staff moves quickly, making this a better place to scarf-and-go rather than exchange long and leisurely conversations.

Hancock Park | 131 North Larchmont Boulevard, Los Angeles | 323.465.5566
Hollywood | 6363 Yucca Street, Hollywood | 323.790.0769

Mobile/Pop-Ups

Kogi

Kogi did not invent mobile food, but Chef Roy Choi can be credited with leading the recent food truck renaissance and inspiring several nationwide rip offs. This Korean BBQ-Mexican fusion project serves up tasty Short Rib, Spicy Pork, and Tofu tacos, an unexpectedly good Kimchi quesadilla, with a rotating menu of excellent desserts as well. Follow them on Twitter for the latest updates.

Locations vary | Follow @kogibbq on Twitter

Heirloom Tomato Salad at LudoBites 5.0

Confit Pork Belly with Mustard Ice Cream at LudoBites 5.0

LudoBites

LudoBites has been described as a “guerrilla restaurant” by the New York Times. Appropriate, considering the decidedly non-traditional approach its rebellious culinary leader, Ludo Lefebvre, has taken in crafting a dining experience for the public. It is impermanent; rather than finding a directory listing for the pop-up venture, you’ll have to follow Chef Ludo or wife Krissy on Twitter, keep tabs on his website or one of many L.A. food blogs.

Local restaurants host short-term runs of LudoBites. These are sporadic events when the tatted, charismatic Lefebvre and his rag-tag crew show up to whip up dishes worthy of Michelin stars without hefty price tags or pretention attached. Be forewarned: LudoBites reservations are difficult to score these days, owing to a growth in popularity and the incessant, though deserved, fawning of Jonathan Gold. When a location is announced, be sure you’re at your computer ready to double-click and secure your spot once online reservations open.

Lefebvre’s dishes are inventive, gracefully crossing genres, cultural influences, and marrying unexpected flavors with extraordinary skill. Poached Egg with Potato Mousseline and Chorizo, Grilled Octopus with Hazelnut Polenta, a Cheese Cupcake with Foie Gras-Chicken Liver Mousse “Frosting,” and Confit Pork Belly with Mustard Ice Cream were just a few of the dishes I sampled at LudoBites 5.0. My friend and I ordered and ate nearly the entire menu, well worth the food coma afterward. P.S.: depending on the venue, it may be BYOB, so check the website beforehand to ensure you’re not vino-less come dinnertime.

Locations vary | Sign up for LudoBites updates

Trosman A/W 2010 and S/S 2010; Photo credit: www.trosman.com

Generally I avoid shopping on Melrose for obvious reasons: Fairfax eastward is touristy, congested, and stores hawk kitschy stripper wear, while boutiques around Melrose Place are too expensive and don’t really appeal to my style anyway.

Wasteland is a Melrose exception, though my main gripes with the store—unlike its more vintage-oriented San Francisco counterpart—are that pieces tend to be overpriced and the designer selection very stereotypically L.A. (You’ll find no shortage of Corey Lynn Calter dresses or Mike & Chris cropped leather jackets, with wayward Juicy Couture items here and there.) And God forbid you try to sell pieces to Wasteland L.A., a notoriously difficult task that often results in would-be consigners being sent to Crossroads, rejected items in tow.

Bartering aside, if you dig—really dig—through the racks you’ll probably walk away with more than a few gems. Today I lucked out, mentally instructing myself to “put down the Margiela” at one point and discovering a new label during my trip.

Jessica Trosman is a Buenos Aires-based designer whose clothing is inspired by everything from National Geographic magazine to Mid-Century modern architects. After flipping through a few recent collections online, particularly the Autumn/Winter ones, I saw some Rick Owens/Haider Ackermann seeping into her work—and I approve. It’s nice to connect with a designer outside of the New York-Paris-London-Milan network; the colors and textures of her spring collections speak to a South American sensibility that I find refreshing and youthful.

My find was a simple racer-back tank that skims the body then flares out with loads of deconstructed ruching, a mere $35. Slim jeans and slouchy pirate boots and I’m good to go for my next show outing.

Trosman ad campaign; Photo credit: www.trosman.com

Va-Va-Vuitton; Photo credit: Style.com

If I could sum up Marc Jacobs’ Fall 2010 presentation for Louis Vuitton in one word, it would be “breasts.”

Fashion journalists and bloggers have been abuzz about Jacobs ushering in the “return of the curve” with dresses that Mad Men’s costumers should take note of. Waists nipped in by long belts and flared, A-line skirts dressed women of notably more shape than the usual crop of rail-thin models employed for runway shows. Though the latter had a presence at Vuitton, attention was showered on the heaving bosoms of Laetitia Casta and Adriana Lima (both new mothers), and model-turned-lingerie designer Elle Macpherson, the show’s queen bee in a voluminous pink strapless gown.

The clothes were indisputably gorgeous, hearkening back to one of my favorite ’50s-inspired Jacobs collections, that of Spring 2003, but done up with the exaggerated opulence that the House of Vuitton demands. Lately I’ve found myself trading minis for high-waisted, below-the-knee skirts and Mary Jane heels, and come fall I can see myself pairing them with cashmere (okay, faux cashmere) sweaters, new tortoise shell glasses*, and a vintage schoolgirl’s satchel that I really wish was Proenza Schouler’s PS1 bag.

Miuccia Prada’s Fall collection was also a celebration of shapeliness, a term I use with reserve. When reporters say “bigger” women graced the catwalk at Vuitton and Prada, they’re referring to models over a size 2. If these are diversity efforts, then we are eking toward variety at the slowest possible pace. My instincts tell me this is the best we can hope for at the moment, the swerve and bounce of these women’s figures labeled “radical” by an industry accustomed to denying difference—denying bodies—altogether.

But in Paris and Milan many of the collections themselves were glorious, leading me, a sun-worshipping Californian, to daydream about colder climates and donning nubby knee-high socks or Hannah MacGibbon’s rust colored turtleneck jumper for Chloé. Brilliant.

*Thanks to my friend Luisa of Free The Inspiration for introducing me to Warby Parker’s awesome glasses.

Proenza Schouler PS1 bag; Photo credit: Net-a-Porter

Prada and Chloé Fall 2010 RTW; Photo credit: Style.com

"Miles" Glasses; Photo credit: Warby Parker

The first strawberries of the season

I spent last weekend surrounded by rain-soaked vineyards in Napa, warmed by meals prepared in the localvore tradition that us Californians love. That is to say, simple, rustic, and dictated by market-fresh produce, paired with wines that left a lasting impression on both my tongue and psyche.

This all sounds silly if you view food in unromantic terms. Certainly food is fuel; I’m of the strong belief that what we put into our bodies is wildly important, as is knowing its provenance—the who, what, where, and how of its growth and delivery. Food also happens to be one of the few things which assaults multiple senses at once. I recall pink, falling-off-the-bone pieces of porky flesh nestled against a whipped cloud of potatoes at one meal; the deep, deep burgundy of an as-of-yet unlabeled wine spoke to its peppery richness before I took the first sip at Friday supper; caramelized baby root vegetables added bursts of orange and purple to my pasta dish at Bottega. Food stimulates; it beckons; it conjures meaningful memories; it taps into our hedonistic tendencies. For many women (and men, for that matter), myself included, food is/has been a source of great fear and anxiety at times. I know all too well what it is like to suffer an embattled relationship with food, a dynamic that persists but that I fight at every turn to overcome.

Dining among fellow “foodies” these anxieties fell away, replaced by slow and savory meals and conversations spoken in high-pitched Napa-ese. We discussed the merits of using Anjou versus Bartlett pears for fruit tarts, raved about the punch of a long-simmering duck ragu drizzled over pan-fried gnocchi, and drank to a comfortable buzz, not wretched intoxication.

I write about my Napa experience in light of two articles I recently read, one an essay written by model-turned-cookbook author Sophie Dahl in Vogue, the other a brief overview of Tamasin Day-Lewis’ Supper for a Song in ELLE. Dahl, once fetishized for being the “curvy girl” during her modeling days, much like Lara Stone (at a shocking size 4-6) is today, writes about being a fleshy deviant on and off the runway, and how an illness later robbed her of pounds but earned her the envy of women “tight-lipped in the face of a chocolate brownie.” Her new cookbook, Miss Dahl’s Voluptuous Delights, is a celebration of seasonal ingredients and the communion of feasting. Her essay was a profound personal reminder that, yes, food is fuel, but it is also a life source in the esoteric, spiritual sense.

The article about Day-Lewis (sister of Daniel, but a celebrity in her own right) spoke about her no-nonsense philosophy to cooking and eating: use quality, ethically-sourced ingredients and preparing delicious meals need not be cumbersome. Her Spanish Chicken with Saffron and Almond Sauce, pictured simmering in a gorgeous yellow stew, is a recipe I vow to try soon.

Is it a coincidence that these women, who, along with fridge-picking Nigella Lawson comprise a trinity of respected female food personalities, are British? In America we herald Giada De Laurentiis (who I spotted at Lou on Vine last week, apparently enjoying the pork candy) and—gulp—Rachael Ray as our culinary mavens. While I adore Giada, there is something unique about the sophistication, sexiness, and vivaciousness with which these British women celebrate food. Here in the U.S., we do it quick and so often get it wrong. Semi-Homemade my ass.

Yet, I understand the sad reality that eating the Alice Waters way is a financial impossibility for many families, not to mention a matter of access. This is why food politics matters: health is a human right, and food is a core component of this complicated issue.

As I explore what it means to properly nourish myself, I hope to take a page from the Sophies and Tamasins of the world. There is no pleasure like that of good food shared among good friends, nothing more sensual than that of seeing a woman who enjoys eating. Decadence and health are not mutually exclusive, though the diet industry makes money off of this schism.

Instead, I propose that we all be active, be mindful, and always relish the sacred act that is eating. Artisanal cheese affords great joy, I’m learning.

Related Links:

Food for Thought, Q&A with Sophie Dahl, Vogue.com

Chocolate Brownies à la Tamasin Day-Lewis (Video)

A cloudy view from Silverado Vineyards

Market fresh asparagus

Perfect pear crisp

Photo credit: Gauldo, via Flickr

Five words, together so ambiguous except to the handful of friends who actually know the real-life referents that bore this Facebook status update. On a screen cluttered with links to songs I like, articles I find interesting, a 10-comment-long thread on Coachella 2010, and a photo of the book I’m currently reading, the text gets lost—lost in a trash heap of social networking miscellany that is supposed to represent me, the person.

“Strange week in coffee shops.”

About every six months, I have a full-blown Facebook anxiety attack, during which time I try—and fail miserably—to stay away from the website, wondering why I feel the need to broadcast my hunger pains (”Desperately Seeking Soba”) and other absurd fragments that have no business being on the internet. I do not see how, on a site where information is dispatched with Bloomberg ticker rapidity, the lives of my 300-odd “friends” could be enhanced by seeing a picture of my birthday cake.

The idea of nurturing online friendships is another issue altogether. There are unspoken rules to using Facebook. For instance, if a friend “likes” your status, you duly repay them by commenting on a photo, or something adequately reciprocal. Perhaps this isn’t done on the same day, but within a week’s time should suffice so as not to bruise anyone’s ego. And who, exactly, should you let into your online clique? I’ve just spent the past 24-hours scrubbing my Friends list of people I never speak to, don’t know, can’t remember, and so on. Nearly 50 innocent souls were lost in the process (sorry, Alain Macklovitch and Dana Cowin), and that was only a very hurried first-run. I will quit for the time being, but watch out this summer, because you could be next.

I take issue with the ways in which the Internet intervenes in our lives, but moreso with my complicity in the process. I’m concerned that we’re inundated with information for the sake of information, and that nothing meaningful sticks. I’m concerned that my online behavior is sometimes a cry for social approval. I’m concerned that experience is devalued in favor of recording said experience. I’m concerned that it’s all a terrible farce.

Having deleted my Twitter account months ago, I wonder if I’ll ever have the fortitude to axe my Facebook account for good, too. The answer is probably “no,” because I, like fellow addicts (admitted or not), get voyeuristic fulfillment from seeing what my “friends”—always in scare quotes—are thinking, feeling, doing, and I give them the same in return. I enjoy seeing the tiny red notification flag pop up in the lower right-hand corner of my screen, as if I’m the fucking Sally Field of the web.

Facebook, web-specific news outlets (more like aggregating tools and platforms for punditry), and yes, blogs, too, all belong to a family of new media that I am as apprehensive about as I am an active agent in ensuring their survival. The moment I become overtly concerned I’m living out a Huxley novel, I banish the upsetting thoughts and status update (verb) that I’ve just seen Jason Bateman at my local Peet’s (four comments, six likes).

Maybe I’m a neo-Luddite, don’t “get it,” or am just hopelessly uncool. All I know is, I derive far more pleasure from taking the time to truly breathe, participate in and ingest the world around me rather than worrying that I’m missing out on an online world that is mainly meaningless noise.

I value those indescribably wonderful moments that can’t be reduced to 140-characters or less, the richness of real-life conversations that GChat’s paltry window can’t contain, sitting down with a real, ink-and-paper magazine filled with articles that writers labored over—not some repost of a post of a thing that was seen on a blog. I find the bright light of my laptop screen blinding and somewhat paralyzing at times, and not just because I had my eyes dilated this week.

If I were to status update right now, I would have but eight words:

The road to hell is paved with tweets.*

*Pretty sure I stole this from my friend Chas, but at least he’s getting credit on my blog.

Jane Birkin in all her bohemian glory

Note: I wrote half of this yesterday and the other half this morning after waking from a Bordelaise and butter coma. My actual birthday was the 9th, but posting today gave me the chance to include a couple things I wouldn’t have otherwise.

Today is my birthday, giving me permission to be unabashedly indulgent for one day, and one day only. Truth be told, I prefer that these 24-hours pass with little fanfare, which is why I’ve planned a quiet dinner with a few close girlfriends tonight.

Since I have a free pass to be self-serving, though, I’ll use it to share a few of my favorite things in—you guessed it—list form. There’s no binding thread among what follows, save for the fact that I’m really loving, wanting, listening, thinking about, and/or admiring them.

1. The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolaño

I recently read a description of this novel, about a crew of “visceral realist” poets on a madcap quest for an elusive literary heroine, that pegged it as Y tu mamá también meets Gabriel García Márquez. That’s somewhat accurate and perhaps complimentary, but also reductive. Unwieldy as its character threads may be, Bolaño’s writing is controlled and lyrically singular. The last time I felt this way about an author was when I picked up Murakami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which I now consider sacrosanct text. Only 200 pages in, and I can’t wait for the next 400.

2. The xx, “Intro”

The xx was on many a critic’s Top [insert number] list of 2009’s Most Notable Releases. I wasn’t convinced the first time I listened to the album, but I’ve since come to like the group’s self-titled debut and love “Intro,” its succinct opening track. It’s become one of those songs I stop midway, then jump back to the beginning because I don’t want it to end. Hypnotic and moody, just like I like ‘em.

Photo credit: LuisaViaRoma

3. Rick Owens Padded Leather Jacket

If I could make sweet, sweet love to an item of clothing, this would be it. After trying it on earlier this winter, I can attest to the fact that it fits perfectly and feels like a sumptuous second skin. Now, who has an extra $1,500 they can spare (and that’s on sale)?

Photo credit: Future Classics

4. Future Classics

When I first saw this draped dress in person, I believe my first words were, “this shit is ridiculous.” And it is—ridiculously beautiful, coupling femininity with layered and intricate figure-conscious cuts. I appreciate designer Julie Wilkins’ nod to vintage clothing and the deconstructive edge of each piece, especially. And who needs jeggings when you have sexy, buttoned, stirrup-like leggings like those above?

5. Style a la Jane Birkin

When I get dressed, I’m usually channeling Jane Birkin to some degree, or doggedly attempting to. While I may not be able to pull off the signature bangs, the high-waist jeans, square mini-dresses, and slouchy boyish/feminine look I can do. Pout not included.

Garance, left, and me, right, trying to tame my Canon Rebel XT (ignore the disgusting stained mirror)

6. Garance Doré

Photographer, illustrator, partner of Scott Schuman (a.k.a., The Sartorialist), and the French woman I secretly wish I was. She’s a woman of impeccable style, with an effervescence that comes across in photos and her playful musings about fashion. Devoid of pretense, Doré’s blog offers a refreshing and simultaneously erudite take on what’s happening on and off the runway.

Photo credit: Neiman Marcus

7. Chloé Eau de Parfum and Tom Ford Champaca Absolute

My grandmother on my mother’s side was a rigid disciplinarian who sold fish on the streets of Manila to provide for her family—far from being a fashion or beauty maven in the traditional sense. I only know her through stories my mother has told me, one of the more memorable anecdotes being that she was never without designer perfume. How the woman, who was partial to Nina Ricci and Chanel No. 5, managed to get her hands on high-end fragrances in the face of dire financial straits is equally confusing and impressive.

She passed her love of perfume down to my mom, who in turn cultivated the same appreciation in me. Growing up, I remember my mother smelling of Yves Saint Laurent’s Opium, Coco Chanel, and Jaipur, and my own taste tends toward forward florals and spicy aromas. At the moment, Chloé is getting the most play in my scent wardrobe (because I do indeed have a wardrobe, including Jo Malone’s Nectarine Blossom and Honey for bedtime), but Tom Ford’s Champaca Absolute is at the top of my wish list. Did I mention it’s my birthday today?

Photo credit: Neil Leifer

8. The Annenberg Space for Photography

Located on the same hallowed grounds as the CAA fortress building in Century City, the Annenberg Space for Photography is one of my favorite places to spend an afternoon in Los Angeles. I typically like to come here alone (more meditative), and I’ve seen every exhibit since it first opened last year. My favorite of the three rotating collections was themed around L.A. photographers/photojournalism, the work of Julius Shulman and Carolyn Cole being standouts for me. Best of all, visiting Annenberg is free; you’ll only have to pay a meager $1 parking fee post-validation. I visited the space today to see the Ioose/Leifer exhibit and left with a newfound appreciation for sports photography.

Mmm. Caramel icing.

9. Lark Cake Shop, Silverlake

As this is being written post-birthday celebration, I can include Lark on my list. My friend Frances, having heard me endlessly prattle on about wanting to sample the Caramel Cake from this adorable bake shop in Silverlake, surprised me by bringing it to dinner at Café Stella. It was as fantastic and moist as I imagined it, the sprinkle of Kosher salt in between layers of white cake and caramel icing subtly balancing out its sweetness.

Photo credit: The Louvre

10. Lists

My obsessive-compulsive love of organization was recently reinforced by a segment that aired on NPR. Famed Parisian museum the Louvre has unveiled an exhibit about “The Infinity of Lists,” curated in part by Italian writer Umberto Eco. Eco believes lists, even those as mundane as the phone book, can be “poetic” provided the correct intent is present. And that’s where this particular list ends.

Photo credit: Style Rookie

You’ve no doubt heard of Tavi, the 13-year-old wunderkind who belongs to a new garde of fashion writers: teen bloggers. She is as ubiquitous a front row staple as Anna Wintour; she counts the Mulleavy sisters as friends; she is a Pop magazine cover model. She’s a girl, not yet a woman, and let’s not forget that.

A self-professed “Style Rookie,” Tavi maintains a blog of the same name, but if we’re to believe her acutely fashion-literate entries, she’s nothing of the sort. That is, unless the Tavi phenomenon is an elaborate ruse in the same vein as J.T. Leroy. My impressions of Tavi are scattered, but I will cop to occasionally reading her blog and being curious about who this boffo, Rei Kawakubo-loving young lady is.

My issue is less with the wide-eyed aesthete herself than the world that has shepherded her transformation from anon to internet superstar. I wonder under what circumstances, for what purpose such a budding icon is constructed, and by many, revered. What is Tavi’s writing—which seesaws between hyper-mature and rambling tween-speak—teaching us? Have we accepted her as a legitimate expert (Bazaar has), or an avatar of the kind of 13-year-old us adult fashion lovers wish we were at her age—hell, even now?

I am both fascinated and unnerved by the rising Cult of Tavi. The fashion industry routinely turns out star designers, models and false gods, then carelessly discards of them when they are deemed unnecessary. How true Heidi Klum’s tagline rings. It’s admittedly youth and image obsessed (I’ll save the curious sexualization of teen models for another time), and Tavi-idolatry exaggerates these qualities. What this means for a young woman undergoing puberty alongside peers like Aggy and Hamish Bowles is concerning.

Just ask Tim Blanks, whose furrowed brow in Part One of Loic Prigent’s Habillees (several minutes in) says it all:

Wave to the future.

We call this "The Danger Zone"

As I sat huddled under a blanket next to my space heater, laptop screen aglow in the throes of early morning insomnia, it occurred to me that I have a problem. Sleeplessness is one thing, but worse yet is the dangerous form of online behavior that I’m wont to participate in. I don’t troll for anonymous sex partners on Craig’s List or play Texas Hold ‘Em at 3:00 AM, but my eBay Watch List consistently spirals out of control, virtually endless in number. Right now it’s bursting with items I want but don’t need, however I might find a way to justify that vintage Dior belly dance belt, Junya Watanabe cape sweater, mustard yellow Ungaro leather skirt, and on and on.

I vacillate between being ashamed and unabashedly proud of my eBay savvy—skills honed since my first triumphant win: a magenta Marc Jacobs Sofia bag, named after the fashionable Coppola and purchased for $410 all told. Riri zippers signaled its authenticity, it came in a pristine white duster, not a pen mark sullied its interior, and I snagged it for over 50 percent off retail. My hands were trembling in the aftermath of bidding, and I struggled to calm euphoric heart palpitations as I drove to my film class that evening.

Here I am five years later, even deeper in the dregs of my addiction. My retail taste tends toward vintage clothing, and most of my eBay finds end up being loved pieces I wear to the point of damaging them. My favorite vintage pirate boots ($30) are in the shop being resoled as I type this, along with a pair of early 2000s Costume National booties won for $41.99, including shipping. When I shared that tidbit with my local “shoe guy” he blanched, saying I had brought in “the Rolls-Royce of boots” as he caressed the smooth Italian leather, appraised for at least $500.

I am cocksure of my eBay intelligence, having near-perfected the art of last minute-bidding and winning without the aid of an auction sniper. Yet the shame of conspicuous consumption has a way of plaguing me, especially when I see how many items have been put on Watch in a single week. However, very few of these items end up in my closet—maybe one or two per month at most. I tell myself it’s more an exercise in judicious spending, and my way of preparing for the auctions that I will actually rearrange my schedule to win. It’s loathsome.

I wrote this with the hope of thinking more rationally about my behavior, to combat my need for that post-win elation. Make no mistake, eBay-ing can drive you to a hallucinatory state, hence its appeal. A concerned girlfriend recently, jokingly asked me what void I’m trying to fill with occasional impulse shopping, a question I gave serious thought yet couldn’t respond to. The easy answer would the empty spot in my closet soon-to-be occupied by a high-waisted wool Libertine skirt, if all goes well today. And so the cycle continues to turn, turn, turn.

On a final note, to novice users who pointlessly bid days in advance, I’d just like to say that you’re fucking things up for the rest of us.

The man, the myth, the legend: Tim Blanks; Photo credit: men.style.com

I credit my older sister, in part, for pointing me toward the wilds of fashion. This is the same sister who as a 13-year-old would write me letters about her occasional trips to Los Angeles, where she would eat at Georgia (Denzel Washington’s erstwhile restaurant venture) and shop at the Beverly Center—the pinnacle of consumer greatness for any teenager, be it a decade ago or today. “Georgia was popping off back then!” she said in defense when I reminded her of her ’90s romps through L.A.

On weekends, we’d forgo Saturday morning cartoons to watch back-to-back showings of Videofashion Weekly! and Fashion File, which introduced me to the schizoid backstage world of runway shows and the woman I still refer to as my “spirit model,” Christy Turlington. The two of us would lounge around in our pajamas, eating our grandmother’s thin, practically deep-fried pancakes while reviewing the latest collections and engaging in pseudo-intellectual shop talk about what the designers were putting out that season.

Fashion File trumped viewings of Pepper Ann, which made me feel infinitely cooler than my tween classmates, even though I was chubby and awkward and soon to be brace-ridden. Endearing, if a little austere, host Tim Blanks was our lifeline to Gianni Versace’s skintight bodysuits, Isaac Mizrahi at the height of his career, Tom Ford when he made Gucci synonymous with sex, and even long-lost casual wear king Todd Oldham—remember Todd Oldham?! For a sartorially-minded young thing, there was nothing like Fashion File, no one like our man Tim, no better way—save for reading Vogue—for a girl living in the black hole of suburbia to connect with a world far removed from a horribly bucolic quotidian. There were cows in my hometown, so I’m calling that bucolic.

The illustrious Mr. Blanks is no longer affiliated with Fashion File, and when I, on a whim, decided to see what had become of the show since his departure I came across one hell of a hot mess. Maybe it’s because I’m perpetually nostalgic these days (and I’m only 25, for Chrissake), but the show is a specter of what I remember it being as a teen. It delivers fashion coverage produced in the same vein as EXTRA. In a word, blah. There is an interesting segment on “A Day in the Life of Coco Rocha” on the homepage, but I think its appeal owes more to its jig-dancing subject than the way it was put together. And there’s of course no replacing Blanks, whose name I recently saw grace a few Runway Reviews during Style.com’s coverage of London Fashion Week. Good to know he’s still out there rubbing shoulders with Amazonian models and eccentric designers.*

I found a clip from Fashion File’s heyday on YouTube. Watch and be reminded of the show’s former greatness.

*Update: Most of this paragraph should have been written in the past tense. I’ve since discovered that the show was canceled in early 2009 and that Blanks’ replacement was sourced from a reality show titled Fashion File Host Hunt. ‘Nuff said.

Photo credit: Omar Omar, via Flickr

After a year-long run of critic’s screenings and what a friend and I call “The Junket Circuit,” I have to admit that I’m quite the apathetic filmgoer these days. I hate to call myself a former film critic, because I don’t think the title is accurate at all. While I feverishly punched out reviews at my old job, I was often disillusioned by the process and frustrated by the quickfire pace of internet publishing. I myself don’t really read film reviews—maybe the occasional Andrew O’Hehir, Anthony Lane, or LA Weekly article, but not much else.

What the job demanded I do was keep up with every theatrical film release known to (wo)man, from Quantum of Solace to more obscure fare like Reprise, a really lovely Norwegian film that quietly came and went last year. The fact is, during my tenure as an active member of the film journalist cabal, however low on the totem pole, I was uniquely wise to how the game works. You start to see things differently when you’re privy to the special dance that critics and PR reps do, especially when you’re a part of the sometimes-sordid process.

I was also spoiled. Free movies were a given, as were afternoons at The Four Seasons in Beverly Hills, eating really good pasta salad, swilling Pellegrino, then chomping on a chocolate chip cookie while waiting to interview Colin Farrell. I would often emerge from junkets with a stupid or nonsensical story to tell, like smelling of Colin’s cologne after our one-on-one (we never touched, it was just that strong); trying to escape a roomful of pervy porn journalists at the Girlfriend Experience junket, only to run into Larry Flynt at the hotel restaurant; or sitting down with Gael García Bernal at the Chateau Marmont, listening to him speak about how purposely singing badly (in Rudo y Cursi) was kind of like losing one’s virginity.* Those were the days.

Now, I feel really disconnected from film. What’s coming out this week? You got me. Someone had to explain what I Know They Serve Beer in Hell was to me, and apparently it’s some kind of vulgar cultural phenom. This is due in part to the fact that I don’t own a television (true story), but more because I don’t really care. It’s like someone’s poured a vial of “I don’t give a shit” tonic into my morning tea. I’m not sure what caused the shift, but movies just don’t excite me very much at the moment, and they haven’t for a while. My Netflix account has gone from “long dormant” to “cancelled,” and I’ll only pay to see something if a group of friends wants to go. Even then it’s more about the pre- or post-movie drink or milling around the Arclight bookstore afterward.

All this cogitating came about because I noticed that Lars von Trier, a director who I’ve long admired, released a new film in the States yesterday—a movie I have zero interest in seeing. If you’re at all familiar with von Trier, you know that watching one of his movies is often tantamount to emotional torture, but at least they’re well made and say something about life’s absurdities, heartbreaks, contradictions, and on.

Antichrist I’m judging based solely on the violent descriptions I’ve read online. Usually I’m much more diplomatic about this kind of stuff, but do I really want to see a film about a child’s death, the parents’ psychological undoing, and featuring a climax (literally?) of genital mutilation? The answer is a resounding “no.” I just don’t want to go there. I don’t wanna.

It’s not that I don’t want to be challenged—for the love of God, I wish more movies were challenging in a good way. This just sounds like self-imposed cinematic flagellation, and after experiences with Salò, Irreversible, and Funny Games (both versions), I think I’m over the whole “shock tactics for profundity” approach. Antichrist may be nothing like any of those films, but as moviegoers we’re blessed with the power of choice. Sometimes you’re in the mood for Gomorrah, and other times you need an afternoon filled with perennially-rerun TBS favorites; I’m talking Back to the Future followed by She’s All That, and maybe you’ll luck out and catch Robocop on one of the basic cable stations around dinnertime. Not that I know anything about this, because I don’t own a television. Sigh. So right now, I want less Criterion fare and more British Elle, scoops of sorbetto, re-runs of the O.G. 90210, sunshine, bunnies, et cetera. Jeanne Dielman will have to wait.

On the other hand, there’s always room for more 90210.

*I think I still have the tape of Gael saying this. I hope I do. At the time, it necessitated several rewind-and-relisten takes because I really am that pathetic and helpless when it comes to hot, Spanish-speaking men.