substitute

From today's Los Angeles Times Magazine I bring you some pullquotes from an article about the Pelican Hill Resort in Newport Coast. The whole article is worth reading: Heaven is in the Details

Marie Friedlander, Certified YogaGolf Instructor
“Breathe through your nose,” says Friedlander in smooth, even tones. High atop the course at the Pacific View Tee, three middle-aged male golfers stand barefoot on mats with their arms stretched overhead and palms together. “Become aware of your stance. Stack your spine. Stare at your drishti.” The two-hour session concludes with the men remarking how much more flexible and relaxed they feel. One golfer, who had complained of lower back pain, heads to a canvas tent, where his swing is videotaped. He compares it with a previously taped swing playing on a nearby laptop. He smiles.

I'm not sure how a 5000-year-old Indian religious practice works with the conspicious-consumption ritual sport of the American executive, but I bet both can be done pompously. A brilliant move, though; now they can sell yoga hours to the men and not just the women. —Ed.

As for the attention to detail, it’s as if all the veteran hospitality professionals brought on board sat in one room and asked themselves, What detail would I like to add? What would contribute to the perfect experience? That’s why there are five types of coffee in each villa, a choice of soaps and Villeroy & Boch china; why no guest will ever have to request toothpaste, a razor or shaving gel; and why such touches as orchids in the sitting rooms and expansive patios with chaise lounges and tables contribute to the feeling that you’re staying at a close friend’s vacation home. The details go beyond the guest rooms: Risotto is finished in a 28-inch wheel of Parmesan and served in individual silver dishes; the spa features temperature-controlled beds and a waiting room full of art books; and the lobby is a study in opulent minimalism.

(The print edition has a photo of a chef spooning a saffron-rich risotto into a hollow that has been cut into an entire wheel of parmigiano. If there is a purpose here other than excess for its own sake, I'd love to hear it. —Ed.)

(Also, the phrase "opulent minimalism" deserves an award or a terrible punishment, probably both. —Ed.)

There is a miniature train for children, of the kind found in amusement parks, driving around my neighborhood making loud fake train noises.

I'll try to get MEDIA DOCUMENTATION if it comes by again.

O Daily Pilot, I can't resist your headlines:

Restaurant Review: Doria's Haus of Pizza's charm, crust fills seats

A rabid bat was found on the campus of Corona del Mar High School here. No really. Television watchers take note: The O.C. was basically a documentary about this school.

Early reports suggest the bat had dated almost the entire "Dance Team."

The news article incorrectly calls the bat a rodent. It is not. While messing around on the internet looking for batinfo I found this gem from Wikipedia:

At least two known species of bat feed on other bats: the Spectral Bat, also called the American False Vampire bat, and the Ghost Bat of Australia. One species, the Greater Noctule bat, is believed to catch and eat small birds in the air.

American False Vampire Bat!
American False Vampire Bat!
American False Vampire Bat!

I had one of the great meals of my life last night at Pescadou Bistro. They put on a holiday prix fixe, and mom and I went to the early seating, which was cheaper and also got us home before the... stuff started down on the peninsula.

Three courses, choice in each. I had the quail and foie gras over baby lettuce, with pears. Entree choice was filet mignon with peppercorn sauce, mashed potatoes, and endive. Dessert was a warm chocolate cake with creme fraiche. The other options were a first course of lobster bisque, a second of seabass or venison, and a third of an apple/camembert tart.

Pescadou is serious French food, which doesn't mean stuffy or expensive or pretentious, but it does mean attention to detail and tradition. It also means reasonable portion sizes, unlike the U.S. tradition in celebratory meals of forcing an entire farm down your throat.

Everything was made... just... perfectly. The owner and staff are friends after years of going there. It's more like showing up to someone's house in a medium sized southern French town for dinner than it is like a restaurant. It's nothing like any other restaurant around here, that's for sure.

The three course prix fixe was $52. With tax and tip and two glasses of wine for mom and some fizzy water for me, $80/person. That's about as expensive as a meal can get there. The usual dinner prix fixe is $25.

Please don't change, Pescadou.

http://substitute.livejournal.com/1491878.html?thread=7825062#t7825062

cackle

When they came in, Executive Slacks was skating. He wanted me to know that Spiky Blond Hair was "the weirdo Screech." They were flying.

But this job ad in "Squeeze OC" is convincing. Speaking of Squeeze OC, they were having a fashion show in the strip-mall denim store next to Kean as I left there tonight. It was just starting to roll as I fled. They were blasting "Lust for Life" and the DJ was instructing everyone to "gather round the runway." Bro and ho types were sipping wine from plastic cups and gazing across the street at... the other strip mall. I left before America's Next Medium To Low Models began striding about in $500 jeans.

I may go down to take pictures of the city's 100th birthday fiasco tomorrow. I'll dodgeball if I do. Might be interesting. Maybe get a shot of Dick Dale mummified onstage, or food on a stick or something.

Had dinner at Zubie's Chicken Coop last night in celebration of berg74's birthday. Happy birthday, Dan! It was great to see him and other friends I've missed, including a rare appearance from Jeremy & Vicka.

When I was a kid we used to drive all the way out to Lancaster on some holidays to visit my Aunt Midge (Mildred) and Uncle Lee. They were actually great-aunt and uncle, and were old my whole life. We would sit in their drawing room and munch on Jordan almonds and talk, and then sit down to a classic Midwestern/Southern holiday meal of some kind of Large Meat, potatoes, overcooked vegetables, two kinds of bread, a ceremonial salad, and great big glasses of iced tea. It was a trip back down the family tree, and they'd tell us stories of the family going back to the turn of the century and before. That side of the family had come to California on covered wagons, so the family stories were and are fascinating.

Zubie's is that place to me.

People who know old Orange County punk music may dimly recognize the name, because their original place is mentioned in the Vandals' "Urban Struggle" as the cowboy bar. It was next door to the old Cuckoo's Nest punk club, and the cowboys and punks used to get into it, which inspired that song.

That Zubie's is long gone, but the family has the Chicken Coop restaurant, which took over a former French place in the 90s sometime. It's eccentric. They serve pretty big portions of standard American home cookin' cheaply, which is an attraction. A full chicken dinner is $8.95. Their specialty is fried chicken but they don't call it that; it's "broasted," which is something old-fashioned restaurants advertised in my 1970s childhood. I think it must have been a fad around 1960. It's a brand name process for pressure-cooking chicken as you fry it that supposedly results in less grease. No one under 40 even knows that broasted chicken is fried chicken.

The sides are mashed potatoes with gravy and green beans. By mashed potatoes I mean very, very smooth whipped potatoes and bland light-brown gravy. The beans are prepared the way my grandmother did, southern style: a bit overcooked but with enough salt and grease that you do not care about that.

There is a house salad that comes with your dinner. The salads got all confused but I think that's what I got. For some reason it had shrimp in it. It was the iceberg lettuce salad of my childhood with a tremendous quantity of dressing. There were also rolls which were very soft and warm and required immediate buttering.

The chicken was pretty good if a bit dry, and there was a decent amount of it. The other diners got more food and many of them had to ask for to go boxes. Apparently overfeeding is one of the attractions of Zubie's. I'm glad I got the right amount of food, myself.

The menu was full of weird quirks and errors. The "Oyster Bar" page was also labeled as the To Go menu, and had two entries for fish taco at the same price with different descriptions: one was the "Grande" and other was advertised as having two filets and being the house favorite. The pizzas were advertised as being sixteen feet in size due to an apostrophe/quote confusion; it was not stated whether that was diameter, radius, or thickness. When the check arrived it was totally incomprehensible so we just did our best and made sure enough money was there.

As you probably figured out most of the clientele was over 65, with a few families. In general it wasn't a restaurant; it was a trip to someone else's grandmother's house. The food was home-style in both good and bad ways, there weren't many options, and everything was up to the standard of a conservative farm-style dinner in 1960. I assume they remain in business because of old people and because of the bar.

It's not the best restaurant in town but it's a gem. Mostly because it's a little piece of my great-aunt Mildred's generation sitting smack in the middle of go-go millionaire decadent Newport Beach within sight of nightclubs where strippers and mortgage brokers are doing tequila body shots and stuffing coconut shrimp into their faces. I like the contrast.