Stardust Donut Shop is a way of life
Retro Issue contribution
The view from inside Stardust Donut Shop
"People say they're still good tomorrow, and the next day," Arnold says. "Not too many donut shops can do that. I don't sell anything beyond today because I know people buying them will keep them two to three days."
Hanging out with Arnold, if only for an hour, reveals how highly customers regard his treats. Returning visitors make themselves known, while others approach and confess they've never had one but have heard about them. There are smiles and pleasantries passed from the other side of the window that looks out on the busy intersection (698 Hwy. 75), but Arnold sticks to the business of dealing donuts. Straightforwardness has earned him a reputation as a grouch, exaggerated, of course, through nearly five decades of lore.
He's been running Stardust alone since July, when his brother and partner of 45 years, Ed, died. The brothers are third generation San Diego donut makers—their grandma had a shop, Keen's, in City Heights—and they worked together at Stardust since taking it over from their parents.
"I don't know what else I'd rather do if I wasn't making donuts," Arnold says. "And everybody wants to know how long I'll keep doing it, and I keep telling them, I'll probably just keep going till I fall over dead. I don't have any plans of stopping."
Arnold's routine starts when he gets to the shop at between 5 and 5:30 a.m. every morning. He switches on the coffeemaker, warms up the proofing cabinet and mixes the first batch of yeast-raised dough for cinnamon rolls and glazed, chocolate-frosted and jelly donuts. The old-fashioned donuts are made from a cake dough, and buttermilk twists are a variation of that recipe.
"The whole process, start to finish, for one batch takes about two hours," he says. He makes anywhere from three to four batches a day, and he admits that his selection is far smaller than other shops, with only eight or so varieties.
"I know what people like, so I make those donuts," he says. Each kind tastes homemade and wholesome. These aren't Dunkin' Donuts.
It's down to a science for Arnold—he and his brother figured out a way around every variable of donut making, from the outside air temperature to the "formulas" with which the confections are made every day, except Sundays and Mondays when Stardust is closed. On Saturday, Arnold opens at 11 a.m.; every other day it's 10:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. or until the donuts sell out.
"You've got to like them if you're going to make them—particularly these ones I have. They're all good—everybody asks me what my favorite is when they can't decide for themselves what to take."
Ask Arnold for yourself the next time you see Stardust's "Open" sign and eat those donuts like they're going out of style. They clearly aren't, but still—Stardust by Cliff Arnold won't be around forever.
The old soul of Harry’s Coffee Shop
A spinach, bacon and cheddar omelet and chicken fried steak ’n’ eggs
The tasty American food here is all you’d ever want it to be: fast, consistent and honest. Throw in that it really is a place where everybody knows your name, or will after a few visits, and it becomes obvious why Harry’s (7545 Girard Ave.) is a La Jolla icon that doesn’t have to trumpet the words “first” or “best” across the front window or along the top of the menu. Legit restaurants don’t have to spell it out; they prove it just by doing what they do. I’m wary of places whose owners talk a lot. Save your sermon for a staff meeting and just feed me, dammit.
With touches like soft, classical music playing overhead, carafes of coffee, a long hallway (also the back entrance/exit) lined with photo memorabilia dating way back and free parking—in La Jolla!— Harry’s is of another era. I think fondly of my grandparents when I’m there, in part because of the blue-haired clientele but mostly for the non-fussy, just plain goodness of everything, particularly breakfast.
I’m hardly one of those people who order the same thing every time. But somehow, I almost always end up with an omelet, and at one point, when I worked around the corner, that meant up to three times a week. Oink!
On the menu, under “ummlettes cause a stir,” there are all kinds of options. I’m partial to the sausage link and cheese—oh, yes, chopped-up breakfast sausage folded right in—or building my own with spinach, mushrooms, cheese and sometimes bacon in there, too. Servers recite the side and toast options, with hash browns and sourdough toast doing it for me, cottage cheese for nana.
Open from 6:30 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily, Harry’s serves breakfast till closing, and the lunch fare includes all the greasy-spoon standards from B.L.T. and tuna melt to burgers and milkshakes.
I don’t think I’ve ever waited more than 10 minutes for my always-solid brekkie. The hash browns are the best: crisp, golden and salty on the outside with a moist interior. And you won’t want to miss the salsa, red-hot and potent, blended smooth, best enjoyed drizzled on eggy dishes every few bites.
No single thing on Harry’s menu is over-the-top great; it’s the sum of all parts and the authenticity that makes eating there a value. Little things like the counter seating, old-school service and the cast of characters flowing in and out make it a joint that’s easy to get sucked into. I can see myself sitting at the counter 20 years from now, still ordering my bacon omelets and probably not chuckling at the cute old timers quite as much.
With touches like soft, classical music playing overhead, carafes of coffee, a long hallway (also the back entrance/exit) lined with photo memorabilia dating way back and free parking—in La Jolla!— Harry’s is of another era. I think fondly of my grandparents when I’m there, in part because of the blue-haired clientele but mostly for the non-fussy, just plain goodness of everything, particularly breakfast.
I’m hardly one of those people who order the same thing every time. But somehow, I almost always end up with an omelet, and at one point, when I worked around the corner, that meant up to three times a week. Oink!
On the menu, under “ummlettes cause a stir,” there are all kinds of options. I’m partial to the sausage link and cheese—oh, yes, chopped-up breakfast sausage folded right in—or building my own with spinach, mushrooms, cheese and sometimes bacon in there, too. Servers recite the side and toast options, with hash browns and sourdough toast doing it for me, cottage cheese for nana.
Open from 6:30 a.m. to 3 p.m. daily, Harry’s serves breakfast till closing, and the lunch fare includes all the greasy-spoon standards from B.L.T. and tuna melt to burgers and milkshakes.
I don’t think I’ve ever waited more than 10 minutes for my always-solid brekkie. The hash browns are the best: crisp, golden and salty on the outside with a moist interior. And you won’t want to miss the salsa, red-hot and potent, blended smooth, best enjoyed drizzled on eggy dishes every few bites.
No single thing on Harry’s menu is over-the-top great; it’s the sum of all parts and the authenticity that makes eating there a value. Little things like the counter seating, old-school service and the cast of characters flowing in and out make it a joint that’s easy to get sucked into. I can see myself sitting at the counter 20 years from now, still ordering my bacon omelets and probably not chuckling at the cute old timers quite as much.
Leave these lame food trends in 2012
Most of these burger toppings must go, but the ketchup can stay.Oh, burger, where art thou?: Once upon a time, onion rings were an avant-garde addition to a burger. Fast-forward to 2012 and fried veggies atop the once working-class staple is tame compared with the likes of fried cheese curds, runny eggs and even all the components of Thanksgiving dinner. Oh, yes, that last one really happened. When I’m craving a burger, nothing is more satisfying than a juicy beef patty, melted cheese and a toasted bun, but I don’t expect everyone to echo my purist sentiments—just keep that duck egg away from my sandwich.
Squatting servers: Feet are for standing, and butts are for sitting—so why is a server squatting next to the table taking my order? Besides cozying up in a booth alongside restaurant guests, one of the cheesiest service tactics is for wait staff to pop a squat next to diners’ tables. Diners don’t want to see inside their server’s nostrils; they want a bite to eat. This will be the year of good posture—make it happen, kids!
Pass the red sauce: House-made ketchup needs a new name. It doesn't and never will taste like Heinz. Suck it up, chefs: Your recipe may taste good, but it's no substitute for the smooth red stuff out of a glass bottle.
Beer bacon popsicles: San Diego is arguably the craft-beer capital of the U.S., but that doesn't mean we have to shove it down people's throats. If the addition of craft beer in a recipe truly tastes good, then by all means, pour away. Most of the time, I can't even taste the stuff. And another thing: Bacon flavor in items like ketchup, mayo, cookies and chocolate needs to get out. A big part of bacon's appeal is its crunch; adding it to something wet kills it. Put down the bacon-flavored Kool-Aid in 2013.
Depressing outfits: Brown, weathered pants, a button-down shirt and suspenders were the official bartending uniform of 2012. I know it's ironic to shake and stir exotic drinks clad in Depression-era duds, but it's about as original as the term "craft cocktail" by now. I'll tip big if 2013 sees the resurgence of Hawaiian shirts and low-cut tops.
Doggy style: I know it's cool to tote your rescued pit bull around—I do it, too—but please keep the pups out of food- and beverage-serving businesses. Dog-friendly patios are one thing, but it's just not fair for those who are afraid—or allergic—to confront Fighto in a place where he doesn't belong. Dog owners have some entitlement issues to work through in 2013, and business owners should resolve to stop being accommodating beyond reason.
Pop-ups: Would the pop-up bubble burst, already? I can't believe diners are willing to eat in non-restaurants—sometimes, outside in the cold—for upwards of $100. Ever wonder why so many pop-up chefs don't work in a restaurant? I do.
Oscar’s tacos are a big deal
.widea.jpg "Oscar’s tacos overflow with seafood. - Photo by Roddy Gibbs")
Oscar’s tacos overflow with seafood.Photo by Roddy Gibbs
Expect a tad more convenience from Oscar’s Mexican Seafood than you would from a mariscos truck: There’s a small patio out front with stools lining a counter and enough room inside by the cashier to seat a few more. A little fridge is packed with big squeeze bottles holding three hot sauces, a standard red and two off-kilter varieties. Drinks are a gulp above bottles of Mexican Coke—namely, the fruity aguas frescas with free refills.
The popular fish-taco spot is regularly packed, and takeout is encouraged—at least that’s how I interpreted the mural along the building’s façade: a food truck with a real window for ordering.
The shoreline along northern Pacific Beach and Bird Rock is what post cards are made of, and the food at Oscar’s (703 Turquoise St. in Pacific Beach) fits the scene: Corn tortillas come with a heap of plump seafood—or steak, the rival specialty; toppings like finely shredded cabbage, bright red onions and diced tomatoes, cilantro and two thick slices of avocado look, and taste, fresh from the garden. This isn’t your typical hole-in-the-wall taco shop.
Above all else, the food is great, and you get your money’s worth. The menu is simple and shrimp-heavy. Medium sized, the shrimp are well-cleaned and cooked, which is often not the case, even at taco shops specializing in seafood.
Tacos are brimming and served in fair-food paper trays. There’s some difficulty in handling these monsters— really, it’s the contents of two tacos in one—so forks come in handy, but a second tortilla would be handier. Not to worry; Oscar’s won’t rape your wallet for add-ons, and, being so close to the counter, I overheard special requests being ordered that were greeted with positivity, not an awkward pause or reluctant “OK.” Don’t screw it up by going there and ordering a bunch of strange shit, please.First timers must order the surf-and-turf taco ($4.50). A layer of cheese is melted over a corn tortilla, holding down strips of skirt steak that are topped with the delightfully prepared shrimps.
There’s ceviche, huge tortas and the obligatory battered and fried fish taco, although I think Oscar’s does shrimp best. If you’re averse to P.B., an Oscar’s is opening soon in Ocean Beach at 5060 Newport Ave.
The shoreline along northern Pacific Beach and Bird Rock is what post cards are made of, and the food at Oscar’s (703 Turquoise St. in Pacific Beach) fits the scene: Corn tortillas come with a heap of plump seafood—or steak, the rival specialty; toppings like finely shredded cabbage, bright red onions and diced tomatoes, cilantro and two thick slices of avocado look, and taste, fresh from the garden. This isn’t your typical hole-in-the-wall taco shop.
Above all else, the food is great, and you get your money’s worth. The menu is simple and shrimp-heavy. Medium sized, the shrimp are well-cleaned and cooked, which is often not the case, even at taco shops specializing in seafood.
Tacos are brimming and served in fair-food paper trays. There’s some difficulty in handling these monsters— really, it’s the contents of two tacos in one—so forks come in handy, but a second tortilla would be handier. Not to worry; Oscar’s won’t rape your wallet for add-ons, and, being so close to the counter, I overheard special requests being ordered that were greeted with positivity, not an awkward pause or reluctant “OK.” Don’t screw it up by going there and ordering a bunch of strange shit, please.First timers must order the surf-and-turf taco ($4.50). A layer of cheese is melted over a corn tortilla, holding down strips of skirt steak that are topped with the delightfully prepared shrimps.
For an extra dollar, any taco can be upgraded to a burrito, my $4.50 surf-and-turf being the most expensive. Several bites into the spicy shrimp variety, the room got quiet even though people were all around. Lights got brighter and my forehead tingled. The firepower of this taco will wake you up from within.
Less sobering versions include the taco especial, with moist smoked fish, shrimp, bay scallops and Oscar’s standard melty cheese and toppings. I also got a New York steak taco that had generously por- tioned, tender meat. Thick slices of avocado that come standard are picture-perfect and creamy—no brown spots or mushiness—and for 50 cents more, you can double your dose of the silky fruit.
Less sobering versions include the taco especial, with moist smoked fish, shrimp, bay scallops and Oscar’s standard melty cheese and toppings. I also got a New York steak taco that had generously por- tioned, tender meat. Thick slices of avocado that come standard are picture-perfect and creamy—no brown spots or mushiness—and for 50 cents more, you can double your dose of the silky fruit.
Don’t Su-mei, Plumeria is delicious
Plumeria’s red curry with vegetables and see-ew
More often than not, dishes with meat at Thai joints sound better on the menu than they actually are. Once, I wanted to impress a friend with what I thought at the time was the best hole-in-the-wall Thai food in town. What we experienced was an off day so bad that I vowed never to eat meat from the place again. I was horrified when my pal politely scraped the remaining mystery matter into a container, saying that he’d feed it to his dogs. To poke at my already bruised ego, he sent me a text hours later reporting that not even the pups would eat it.
So, yeah, what’s the point of ordering chicken, pork, beef or duck if what you’re really after is that full-bodied curry flavor? Who cares about having meat in the ubiquitous “spicy basil” stir-fry? For me, it’s about indulging in fresh vegetables that I normally wouldn’t buy, and exotic spice blends that take too much patience to master at home.
For the first time in history, a meat-free restaurant has me all riled up. Plumeria Vegetarian(4661 Park Blvd. in University Heights) uses all-organic produce—and they don’t cook it beyond recognition, either. It has that mock-meat stuff, too, and boasts an entirely GMO-free menu with entrées sizable enough to split.
For the first time in history, a meat-free restaurant has me all riled up. Plumeria Vegetarian(4661 Park Blvd. in University Heights) uses all-organic produce—and they don’t cook it beyond recognition, either. It has that mock-meat stuff, too, and boasts an entirely GMO-free menu with entrées sizable enough to split.
Su-mei Yu of Saffron fame—the gateway Thai place for many San Diegans—should take some notes, because she’s gotten skimpy with her food, right on down to the friggin’ rice.
Plumeria replaced a Euro deli that had an afterthought dining room off to one side. With a few nice touches, the drab space has been transformed into one that’s comfy, albeit girly—lavender walls, flowery art and sparkly chandeliers. Seating is cozy, so it’s not the best place to talk mad shit over dinner; in fact, even though the place is often full of people, it’s not loud and has a tranquil vibe to it.
Three dollars for a Thai iced tea is good, but when it came to the table in what looked like a beer stein, it became great. I had to take more than half of it home with me.
The red curry—with veggies only—doesn’t smother the bell pepper, carrot, zucchini, broccoli and eggplant. Instead, the basil-heavy, light broth puts still-snappy vegetables center stage. However, on my last visit, eggplant was the sad, soggy exception—a big-time bummer and departure from the time before.
You get a choice of white or brown rice (at no extra cost), and then comes deciding on a heat level. To give you an idea of how hot Plumeria likes it, they have a scale of 3 to 10, with a 10 that can possibly blow your head and pants off. The noodle dishes kick ass; the spicy noodles and see-ew have that smoky-wok flavor, and egg is optional at no extra cost. Thank you!
Su-mei Yu can certainly be credited for introducing us to a healthy-Thai-food concept at Saffron, but with this new kid on the block, she’d better watch her back. Plumeria’s service, food, portions and ambiance are the better deal.
Plumeria replaced a Euro deli that had an afterthought dining room off to one side. With a few nice touches, the drab space has been transformed into one that’s comfy, albeit girly—lavender walls, flowery art and sparkly chandeliers. Seating is cozy, so it’s not the best place to talk mad shit over dinner; in fact, even though the place is often full of people, it’s not loud and has a tranquil vibe to it.
Three dollars for a Thai iced tea is good, but when it came to the table in what looked like a beer stein, it became great. I had to take more than half of it home with me.
The red curry—with veggies only—doesn’t smother the bell pepper, carrot, zucchini, broccoli and eggplant. Instead, the basil-heavy, light broth puts still-snappy vegetables center stage. However, on my last visit, eggplant was the sad, soggy exception—a big-time bummer and departure from the time before.
You get a choice of white or brown rice (at no extra cost), and then comes deciding on a heat level. To give you an idea of how hot Plumeria likes it, they have a scale of 3 to 10, with a 10 that can possibly blow your head and pants off. The noodle dishes kick ass; the spicy noodles and see-ew have that smoky-wok flavor, and egg is optional at no extra cost. Thank you!
Su-mei Yu can certainly be credited for introducing us to a healthy-Thai-food concept at Saffron, but with this new kid on the block, she’d better watch her back. Plumeria’s service, food, portions and ambiance are the better deal.
Minh Ky Takeout pairs best with the couch
House fried rice—with ketchup!Photo by David Rolland
I start leaning more toward takeout when the days get shorter, but it’s a tricky thing. Is the limp or cold food—because that’s what you’ll get— worth the price tag? Will you regret it because your car still stinks of onions the next day?
Chinese food is one of those oddball cuisines that travel well. Unless we’re talking soup dumplings or pan-fried noodles, most dishes don’t mind the 15-minute Styrofoam sauna between the time I pick it up and the time I eat it. Lately, that pickup spot for me has been Minh Ky Mi Gia (4644 El Cajon Blvd., Suite 101 in City Heights). It’s fast and the most affordable I’ve found—plus, it’s never been scathed by travel.
The BBQ pork egg noodle soup ($5.60) is a no-brainer. The clear broth is savory, hot and packaged separately from the meat and noodles. Once combined, the sweet pork plumps up from the flavorful liquid and tastes damn good. This could be the most economical, comforting meal for two out there.
San Diego doesn’t have much of a Chinese-takeout culture, like, say, New York, or even L.A. I don’t have a whole lot to judge by, but I know good grub when I taste it. Minh Ky is worth your business. Chinese broccoli is a lovable vegetable; order it with thin slices of beef ($7.25) or any of the noodle options. It’s perfectly bitter and works well with the sweeter sauces. Like most Chinese restaurants, the menu goes on for days with all sorts of combinations and variations of noodles and fried rice. But the folks running Minh Ky are super-nice on the phone and give helpful pointers to the indecisive stoners who call in. At least that’s what my friends have told me.
On one occasion, I went for the chicken Chow Fun ($7.25). The wide rice noodles and crunchy bean sprouts were good, but I’d try it with another meat next time because some pieces of bird were tough on the teeth. I felt similarly about a pork dish, so I just stick to the barbecue variety. Beef and shrimp have also been winners.
The house fried rice ($6.95) is another bargain. When I asked the woman on the phone to recommend one of the 10—no joke—different varieties of fried rice, she said to get the house. When I said, “Sure,” she delivered what I think was supposed to be a question: “Without ketchup.” We got to talking about the house fried rice’s secret ingredient. “It makes it sweeter,” she said.
The rice wound up being moist, loaded with meat, egg, peas and the usual suspects; it wasn’t greasy, which was nice, and just a tad sweet from the red stuff. Knowing it was there, I could put my finger on the ketchup flavor; I think the lady on the phone shouldn’t confess to using the stuff. Some ancient Chinese secrets are better kept in the kitchen.
Chinese food is one of those oddball cuisines that travel well. Unless we’re talking soup dumplings or pan-fried noodles, most dishes don’t mind the 15-minute Styrofoam sauna between the time I pick it up and the time I eat it. Lately, that pickup spot for me has been Minh Ky Mi Gia (4644 El Cajon Blvd., Suite 101 in City Heights). It’s fast and the most affordable I’ve found—plus, it’s never been scathed by travel.
The BBQ pork egg noodle soup ($5.60) is a no-brainer. The clear broth is savory, hot and packaged separately from the meat and noodles. Once combined, the sweet pork plumps up from the flavorful liquid and tastes damn good. This could be the most economical, comforting meal for two out there.
San Diego doesn’t have much of a Chinese-takeout culture, like, say, New York, or even L.A. I don’t have a whole lot to judge by, but I know good grub when I taste it. Minh Ky is worth your business. Chinese broccoli is a lovable vegetable; order it with thin slices of beef ($7.25) or any of the noodle options. It’s perfectly bitter and works well with the sweeter sauces. Like most Chinese restaurants, the menu goes on for days with all sorts of combinations and variations of noodles and fried rice. But the folks running Minh Ky are super-nice on the phone and give helpful pointers to the indecisive stoners who call in. At least that’s what my friends have told me.
On one occasion, I went for the chicken Chow Fun ($7.25). The wide rice noodles and crunchy bean sprouts were good, but I’d try it with another meat next time because some pieces of bird were tough on the teeth. I felt similarly about a pork dish, so I just stick to the barbecue variety. Beef and shrimp have also been winners.
The house fried rice ($6.95) is another bargain. When I asked the woman on the phone to recommend one of the 10—no joke—different varieties of fried rice, she said to get the house. When I said, “Sure,” she delivered what I think was supposed to be a question: “Without ketchup.” We got to talking about the house fried rice’s secret ingredient. “It makes it sweeter,” she said.
The rice wound up being moist, loaded with meat, egg, peas and the usual suspects; it wasn’t greasy, which was nice, and just a tad sweet from the red stuff. Knowing it was there, I could put my finger on the ketchup flavor; I think the lady on the phone shouldn’t confess to using the stuff. Some ancient Chinese secrets are better kept in the kitchen.
Giorgino's burly Egg Roll
.widea.jpg "The Egg Roll at Giorgino’s - Photo by Amy T. Granite")
The Egg Roll at Giorgino’s
I stopped reading the menu at “Pork Roll.” For some reason, it made me laugh. Not knowing what to expect, I ordered one, because, really—how bad could a sandwich be with a name like “Pork Roll”?
The dude behind the counter at Giorgino’s (1237 28th St. in Golden Hill) asked me if I wanted my pork roll topped with a fried egg. Apparently, that’s how it’s done on the East Coast, where the sandwich was born. Here, the version with an egg is called “Egg Roll” ($6.73).
Also known as the “Jersey Breakfast,” it’s just what it sounds like: a hangover helper. Four circularslices of Taylor ham are fried on a flattop grill, then a layer of white American cheese goes down,followed by the fried egg and even more cheese on top. The hot mess of contents meets a Kaiserroll, and, somehow, it fits perfectly within.
I don’t know about you, but I always expect a sock to the gut with East Coast specialties; thosefolks have a winter to get through, so they’re allowed to eat like cavemen. The Egg Roll is no exception. Next time, I’ll get it with half the amount of meat because Taylor Ham is rich (and delicious) like Spam and probably just as nutritious.
My favorite bites of the Egg Roll were the final ones, because I could really taste all the flavors without the distraction of it being scalding hot. The consistency of the meat is somewhere between sliced, baked ham and fried Spam; I liked that it was more crisp and meat-like than the spongy, albeit tasty, canned stuff.It’s wise not to bite into an Egg Roll for around three to five minutes. The slippery, fondue-like cheese surrounding the egg is a blowout waiting to splat onto the table. After a short amount oftime, the cheese will congeal, acting like glue so you won’t have to pick up the pieces of your sandwich.
There’s more to Giorgino’s than just the Pork Roll and the Egg Roll. It’s most known for Philly cheesesteak sandwiches on the one and only Amoroso rolls, flown in from the City of Brotherly Love.
The thinly sliced beef tastes great any which way, but it’s hard getting into a cheesesteak that doesn’t have a trace of Whiz. But, the same guy who sold me my Pork Roll said that the WorksCheesesteak ($7.43)—with grilled onions, bell peppers, mushrooms and white American cheese—is the best seller.
I’m curious to try the burgers and hot dogs. The quarter-pound Angus cheeseburger—with fries—is only $6.04. I know for a fact that the fries are great; they reminded me of McDonald’s, butthicker cut.
Giorgino’s is a modest neighborhood joint that’s easy to miss on a drive by. Inside, it recently got a facelift; it’s bright with a wrap-around bar and a big screen. They also deliver with a minimum purchase of $20 to $25, depending on your location, which averages out to a couple sandwiches and some fries. Bust this idea out on your next couch-potato date night and see what it gets you for dessert.
Goodbye for now, Donut Star
.widea.jpg "A dozen from Donut Star costs $9 and change. - Photo by Amy T. Granite")
A dozen from Donut Star costs $9 and change. This is a self-intervention. My donut binge must end.
I really thought these would be different. I didn’t have the strength to eat three or four whole like last time, so taking a bite or two out of each donut seemed like a reasonable way to do research and still enjoy. Right?
It didn’t happen that way. Whole donuts were pulverized. Several disfigured donuts remain in the crumby graveyard. Worst of all, I’m more than qualified to write informative, detailed product reviews of antacids and gas medicine.
What makes this a disease is that it’s déjà vu from last week, when my research officially began with, yes, a dozen from Donut Star (601 W. Washington St. in Mission Hills). I’d been before but needed to experience more of a cross section before making any bold statements.
Frankly, I didn’t think much of bringing home a dozen. I knew I’d be stuffed from a pizza supper and that pounding even a couple afterward would be unlikely. But when I approached the box at around 11 p.m.—just for a look and maybe a bite—what occurred next is the stuff gluttonous teenagers’ wet dreams are made of.
I broke off the end of a glazed, old fashioned donut and popped the morsel into my mouth. Hot damn. I had held it up to the light.Looks like an old fashioned. Tangy like one, too. But when I bit through the crunchy, glazed exterior, my mouth met a deceptively light, cakey texture, a welcome surprise because this style often yields more of a dense, sometimes hard, confection.
It was impossible to put it down, even though the pepperoni in my stomach didn’t want company. If this one tasted that good, what about the rest? I went for a glazed ring and chocolate bar, committing gastro-suicide with near-involuntary movements that kept my hands reaching for donuts.
Suffice to say, Donut Star’s a winner. After sacrificing my body to this cause, I can whole-heartedly recommend the standout cake donuts, frosted any which way; old fashioned, with glaze; and the fluffy cinnamon rolls that go poof and practically evaporate in your mouth. What makes these ’nuts so good is that each variety tastes distinctive, versus other places where fryer and oil flavors bleed from donut to donut.
I wasn’t feeling the apple fritter. For those, Igo to Rose Donuts (5201 Linda Vista Road in Linda Vista), whose killer milkshakes and breakfast sandwiches I’ve profiled before. Rose’s makes fist-sized blueberry-apple fritters that have a perfect comingling of crisp, sugary glaze; dense, fried dough; and a sticky center. They’re a must.
In my last column, “Breakfast on Voltaire,” I mentioned Christie’s Donuts (3710 Voltaire St.in Point Loma) and asked readers to write in if they’d had a chance to try the place out for me. My good friend, Mr. O.B., obliged and says the maple-bar ice-cream sandwich is worth a visit. Now you know.
Breakfast on Voltaire Street
Salt bagel with garlic basil and bacon cream cheese from PL Bagels
At a party a couple of Friday nights ago, one of my Ocean Beach buddies started quizzing me on the food and drink joints I’ve been to in his neighborhood. After answering “Nope” to four of the places he named, we decided to spend the next day bringing me up to date on all the goods a grubber can afford on a couch-cushion-change budget.
A gastro crawl requires fuel, and with the words “mocha in a fish bowl” stuck in my head from the night before, there was no other place to go but To The Point (4161 Voltaire St. in Point Loma). Sadly, the espresso machine was on the fritz that day, so the three of us settled on iced coffees instead—$3 for what looked to be a 32-ounce mason jar filled with joe. How is this legal when PCP isn’t? I left the place feeling jet-propelled.
Though I could have flown straight to the moon, we had only to walk next door for our first feeding of the day. Tommy’s Mexican Food (4145 Voltaire St.) is known for its killer, freshly made flour tortillas, so we went with a chorizo breakfast taco for $3.25. The soft taco’s fresh tortilla was so big that it was more like a not-quite-stuffed burrito. We shared it in anticipation of our next stop and measured it out to roughly a 10-bite taco. That’s a mouthful, peeps. Go get it.
Of all the places we set out to visit, I was the most excited for PL Bagels (3704 Voltaire St.), because it won the raves of Mr. O.B. (a recovering East Coaster), who said it’s the only place that he’s found akin to a New York City bagel shop.
The salt bagel—its exterior flecked with coarse crystals—had my name written all over it. In case you care about nutritional guidelines, there are plenty of less-abrasive standards to munch, from sesame seed to blueberry. I got my bagel-pretzel hybrid toasted, with butter, along with a side of garlic-basil-bacon cream cheese ($2.75 total); strawberry, jalapeño and walnut-raisin-compound cream cheeses are also available. A baker’s dozen is $9.75.
Fearing the bloat, I scraped some of the salt off the bagel and dug in. Still, I found myself using the cool, savory bacon cream cheese to absorb the shock of sodium. Next time, I’ll try the sourdough version with the same spread because its blast of garlic and sweet basil made it a win through and through.
These aren’t the big, dense, dry blobs of dough that pass for bagels elsewhere. I could have eaten two. It was light, somewhat airy and had the slightest chewy resistance that, when bitten into, pulled apart with ease. It was texturally amazing and told me why New Yorkers are so passionate about what makes the best, and worst, bagels.
PL Bagels is cash-only, and it’s open from 6 a.m. to 1 p.m. daily, so plan accordingly. Mr. O.B. says that the bagels freeze wonderfully and will last on your counter for up to 24 hours. Add this joint to your regular rotation and feel free to taste-test the donut shop in the same strip mall and report back to me.
Punjabi Tandoor’s magical oven
Chicken tikka masala, navratan korma, kheer and naan
As I searched for an eatery to write about this week, I was shocked to discover that one of my favorite restaurants in San Diego has yet to be covered by traditional media in more than just a two-line mention. The place is no secret; local food bloggers, including CityBeat’s Marie Tran-McCaslin (meanderingeats.com, circa 2008), have been all over Punjabi Tandoor (9235 Activity Road in Mira Mesa) for some time now, raving about its authentic flavors, hefty lunch specials and low prices.
Before this degenerates into a rant about the questionable tastes of San Diego’s food journalists, I’ll get into why the very name of the restaurant makes my mouth water.
Magic takes place inside a tandoor oven. It’s made from clay and either burns wood or charcoal to reach temperatures as high as 900 degrees. As animal flesh crackles and pops, juices that hit the fire send smoke swirling through the inferno, penetrating the roasted meat. The chicken makhani ($5.95) is tandoored bird cooked in butter, yogurt and tomato gravy. If it’s available, get this in your two-item lunch special, which varies from $7 to $8.99 depending on meat and vegetable selections.
Rice with toasted cumin seeds; tandoor-blistered, chewy naan bread; and kheer—a cool, creamy rice dish that’s sweet and puts out the fire in your mouth between forkfuls of spicy curry—also come in the lunchtime feast.
It’s almost always a full house at the business-park eatery; inside, there’s just a few tables for sharing, but out front, there’s even more with umbrellas for shade. Recently, I woofed down lunch with my dog in tow, and the chef came out to say that he has a pit bull, too, adding that the dog’s favorite thing to eat is chicken tikka masala. Say what?
Turns out, the chef’s pooch and I have something in common. The chicken tikka here is superb. Its sauce is creamy, packed with concentrated chicken flavor and hot—like, on a scale of 1 to 10, it’s about a 7 or 8. I’m not sure how the gentleman’s dog deals with the raging spice blend, but I cope by taking swigs of mango lassi ($2.49), a yogurt-based shake of sorts with plenty of fruit pulp.
Most recently, though, I had a mean case of the munchies on a Sunday night, and I ventured out, even though it was 8:15 p.m. and the place closes at 9 p.m. When my dude and I pulled up, there was a line out the door, every table was full and the smell coming out of the place was enough to make us weak in the knees.
Luckily, the information on Punjabi Tandoor’s website was outdated; they’re now open on Sunday nights until 9:30 p.m. Joy.
In addition to my chicken tikka, I ordered what I consider one of tastiest non-meat dishes on Earth: navratan korma ($5.95). The base of this rich dish is a creamy curry that’s hot and slightly sweet. It has peas, mushrooms, carrots, potatoes and bell peppers, and in no way does it leave me craving flesh.
This is homemade food at its finest, folks. Go grub now.
Deli South Africa serves meat pies worth their weight in gold
A pocket and a pie
The area is alive with hungry people whose pocketbooks are like yours and mine—neither empty nor full—and where places like Deli South Africa (8360 Clairemont Mesa Blvd., Suite 112, in Kearny Mesa) have remained favorites among those in-the-know while flying under the radar for years.
I’d never eaten South African fare prior to my visit to Deli SA. Its flavors are a mix of those found in Indian and British cuisines; think curries and fish and chips. But the focal point on which hungry eyes fall, causing mouths to drool, is the golden-browned pastry-topped meat pie.
I’d never eaten South African fare prior to my visit to Deli SA. Its flavors are a mix of those found in Indian and British cuisines; think curries and fish and chips. But the focal point on which hungry eyes fall, causing mouths to drool, is the golden-browned pastry-topped meat pie.
Deli SA is located in the back of a business park. Once you turn in to the driveway, keep going till you can’t drive any farther. There, you’ll see what looks like any other office front.
Inside the tiny space, there’s shelving with all sorts of imported goods for sale and a counter with a glass display case that holds sweets. Off to the side, there’s a much smaller case with several varieties of meat pies. Some are fashioned like pot pies; others are flaky pockets you can hold and bite right into. There’s only one table, but on Fridays and Saturdays, when fish and chips are on special, Graham, the owner, says he sets up tables, chairs and awnings in the parking lot for the crowd.
Before I left with my pies, Graham offered a taste of his Tuesday special, a chicken curry that he serves with rice—tender chicken falling off the bone and velvety chunks of potatoes in a fragrant curry sauce that I could eat all day.
Inside the tiny space, there’s shelving with all sorts of imported goods for sale and a counter with a glass display case that holds sweets. Off to the side, there’s a much smaller case with several varieties of meat pies. Some are fashioned like pot pies; others are flaky pockets you can hold and bite right into. There’s only one table, but on Fridays and Saturdays, when fish and chips are on special, Graham, the owner, says he sets up tables, chairs and awnings in the parking lot for the crowd.
Before I left with my pies, Graham offered a taste of his Tuesday special, a chicken curry that he serves with rice—tender chicken falling off the bone and velvety chunks of potatoes in a fragrant curry sauce that I could eat all day.
Once at home, I tore into both pastries—a pepper-steak pie and a chicken-curry pocket—immediately realizing that I should’ve bought more. The tender steak, shrouded in a black-pepper-flecked beef gravy, was insanely good, its flaky-chewy-crispy pastry rich with butter, like the best croissant on Earth. Once bitten into, the chicken variety revealed tender chunks of meat, vegetables that were still intact and a wonderful blast of curry that the rich pastry soothed.
Deli SA makes all kinds of regional specialties in-house, distributing them across the U.S. and for catering parties here in town. Luckily, it has as mall storefront, too. Graham is gracious, and youcan taste the love in every bite of food.
Oh, and the dessert he handed me on my wayout! Lamingtons are chunks of marble cake wet with chocolate and rolled in coconut. The fist-sized sweets don’t look like much, but trust me: Like the meat pies, eating one was a game-changer. I’ll be back with all my grubby friends in tow. Deli SA makes all kinds of regional specialties in-house, distributing them across the U.S. and for catering parties here in town. Luckily, it has as mall storefront, too. Graham is gracious, and youcan taste the love in every bite of food.
Mustard and relish is for hot dogs
.widea.jpg "The Windansea wrap from La Jolla Country Market - Photo by Amy T. Granite")
The Windansea wrap from La Jolla Country Market
Under no circumstances do mustard and pickle relish belong in tuna salad. In between slices of bread, mustard wages war against the pungent fish, and the sour, salty mix is polluted even more by the addition of sweet pickle relish. No flavor other than “yuck” prevails in this mélange of canned fish and hot-dog toppings.
Yet, it seems to be the deli standard. I blame the bozo who first did this for the red-headed-stepchildness of tuna salad as a sandwich filling, compared with the more popular roast beast, ham or pastrami. May this person, whoever they were, not rest in peace—they’re responsible for causing Hell on earth, at least during the lunch hour, when the world’s people of good taste just want a goddamn tuna-fish sandwich in its proper form.
In these dark tuna-salad times, I’ve found two places in town that manage not to fuck up my favorite deli sandwich. The first is Grant’s Marketplace (2952 Beech St. in South Park), which shows that extra ingredients in the tuna-mayo mix can work wonderfully.
Here, finely diced parsley, celery and dill pickles confetti the salad. Aside from the textural perks of a crunch here and there, the subtle flavors are pleasant in the background. The pickles used are garlicky, with dill, which works far better than sweet relish when it comes to seafood. This mix requires more labor, but Grant’s commitment to its extraordinary tuna salad has won the place a customer for life. Hear that, delis? Pick up a knife and chop something with it. Don’t puss out by squirting fluorescent-colored stuff into my tuna salad.
Next, in an area where you’re more likely to see a Ferrari than an affordable menu item, the La Jolla Country Market (1030 Torrey Pines Road) makes a mean “Windansea” wrap ($6.50 whole, $3.99 half). You can get any sandwich in wrap form, which I dig, because the tortillas they use are moist and chewy and hold the contents—even wet tuna salad!—quite well.Grant’s uses Bread & Cie baked goods for its 24 sandwiches, 18 of which you can get half-size. The tuna salad ($6.59 for a whole) is especially good on the rosemary bread—it’s got fantastic chew. The craft-soda, -tea and -beer selection is legit, and if you ever see the homemade banana bread on the counter, don’t resist. It’s not good; it’s great.
The Country Market folks are tuna-salad purists—just Chicken of the Sea, a little more mayo than your average mix and salt. It’s made plain so that you can add whatever you want—novel concept, right? They’ll even mix in anything by request. Some ask for mustard, one of the sandwich makers told me, adding that he finds its addition gnarly like I do.
Any of the mildly flavored wraps work well with the tuna salad; on my last visit, I chose garlic pesto over my favorite, spinach, and didn’t find that much of a difference. Because the salad is creamy and simple, you’ll want to add something vinegary, like pickles or pepperoncini.
I’d argue that a wrap is better beach grub than a sandwich; I like to call this version the tuna-salad burrito. It tastes way better than a cold carne asada burrito that’ll likely blow out from the heat and steam it endured on your way to La Jolla Shores.
A mixed bag of sugar at Cafe Zucchero
.widea.jpg "Panini and sfogliatelle pastry - Photo by Amy T. Granite")
Panini and sfogliatelle pastry
Like a Gremlin, food tempts me the most after midnight. I’m a slave to nocturnal feasting—meaning that during the day, I tend to nosh on this or that, reserving my stomach’s capacity for the main act. I’m elated to find daintily portioned grub on the cheap, because I’d rather starve than eat a granola bar or carrot sticks leading up to a late-night supper.
Usually when I visit Cafe Zucchero (1731 India St. in Little Italy), I’m on a mission for the sweet stuff—its name, after all, means “sugar” in Italian. It’s my go-to spot for when I’m entertaining or attending a potluck and in charge of dessert; why bake when beautiful, individual confections—from cannoli to my favorite, the banana-cream napoleon—are $3.50 a pop.
On a recent sunny day, my eyes diverted from the sweets to another portion of the display case, where several little panini looked perfect for a picnic at nearby Amici Park. When I inquired about the price, I found out that pastries aren’t the only thrifty score here—all the sandwiches, this gal said, are priced at $2.50. Bella!
Let’s get something straight right now: Everything tastes better on a picnic. Expectations are lower because food has traveled and, besides, a park typically doesn’t offer food to its visitors. Despite these circumstances, my date and I truly felt the panini were delish; the bread was fresh, not soggy, and the basil was still green and crisp. Five bucks for two tasty sandwiches makes it hard to bitch about anything, but, a return visit cast a shadow on this otherwise perfect story.You can have the panini pressed or take them away cold; I went with the latter for two items. Fresh mozzarella, tomato and basil on ciabatta with a drizzle of olive oil and balsamic vinegar was one, along with a prosciutto variety, also with fresh mozz and basil on a cute, mini-baguette. I was glad not to resist a scoop of coconut gelato, creamy and flecked with shredded coconut; the entire order set me back a whole $8.
I went back to Cafe Zucchero—later in the day than when I picked up the first round of sandwiches—and had a very different experience, first with the service. Previously, I was told all the sandwiches in the case were $2.50; but this time, the gal said that some are $3.50. Fine. I asked which were which, and she said she didn’t know. When I pressed, she repeated herself, put her hands on her head in exasperation and said, “Sorry,” even though there were two other employees nearby that she could’ve asked. Weird.
The extra buck wasn’t a big deal, but the soggy sandwiches were. It’s unfortunate that the early bird gets the worm here and late-afternoon visitors pay full price for sandwiches that aren’t fresh. Grab ’em to go before 1 p.m. unless wilted, brown basil is your thing. And from 3:30 to 4 p.m., don’t expect to sit on the back patio; I was discouraged from doing so, even though most tables were empty leading up to dinner service.
Brains for supper at Tacos el Gordo
.widea.jpg "Lengua (tongue) and sesos (brain) tacos - Photo by Amy T. Granite")
Lengua (tongue) and sesos (brain) tacosThis scene popped into my head, as it does a few times a year, while I was en route to Tacos el Gordo de Tijuana (689 H St. in Chula Vista) last week for my first-ever taste of beef brain tacos, or sesos in Spanish.
The place is something of an institution, and not because of sesos. It’s regarded by many as the place to get authentic Tijuana-style “street tacos,” as we gringos know them. Freshly made, moist corn tortillas carry tender meats ranging from carne asada to buche (pig’s stomach). The chain, which branched beyond its Baja border to three San Diego County locations, is also known for its many sauces and salsas.
Those quickly became my lifelines on this offal-themed visit.
When I got to the front of the entrails line, the cook raised his brow at me, insinuating “order now.” When I did, mariachi music came to a screeching halt as he barked in a most American accent, “That’s brains.”First-time visitors might find the ordering system a bit confusing. You first grab a red, cafeteria-like tray, then you decide what line you want to stand in. Behind the open-kitchen’s counter, there’s a cook tending to patrons for each line. Just read the signs by each to see which tacos strike your fancy.
I retaliated with a proud “Si!” and rounded off the order with alengua (tongue) taco. This is also the point where you should request some grilled green onions and charred peppers.
The brains are placed on a flat-top grill and griddled into a patty, forming a crust on the exterior, before they’re chopped up and placed in the tortilla. They’re then covered in salsa verde, guacamole, diced onions and cilantro.
It certainly didn’t taste bad; in fact, the brains were virtually flavorless. They didn’t taste like beef, or any meat, really—the protein simply took on the flavors of everything else in the tortilla, which was quite pleasant. The texture was troubling, however. With the firmness of scrambled eggs, when chewed, the brains were creamy, pasty and rich—a definite mind-bender, since flavor was absent.
But the lengua taco made up for it. I’ve enjoyed these several times before; the deep, beefy flavor is akin to the best pot roast ever. If you can wrap your head around it, I highly recommend that you order these on your first, or next, visit.
Tacos El Gordo definitely has some of the best in town. As for the sesos, tried in honor ofCityBeat’s zombie-themed Comic-Con issue, I just couldn’t shake the mental image of the cow’s head from which they came, and that godforsaken scene from Indiana Jones.
Incredible pork at Carnitas Uruapan
A dish of chicharones goes well with a dish of carnitas at Carnitas Uruapan.After my first meal there years earlier, I called my mom to tell her about the best carnitas I’d found in San Diego. She was surprised by the name, which happened to be the same as the place we’d visited many times in Tijuana when I was but a wee-grubby. I remember a mariachi band playing inside the restaurant, and lots and lots of pork.
It turned out the same family was behind both places. Thankfully, the restaurant reopened last November, this time in La Mesa (4233 Spring St.), with the brilliant addition of a drive-thru.
This past visit, there were three of us, so I ordered the pound-of-carnitas combination and a half-pound of chicharones. It was a nice day, so we opted to sit outside, where there are two large tables under an awning in a nearby parking space.
I like to take a tortilla, spread a layer of beans—refried and creamy, with whole pintos throughout—which serves as an adhesive for the chunks of carnitas, followed by some lime and then cilantro, onions and salsa. The vibrant veggies and tangy salsa verde are the rich carnitas’ best amigos; the fresh tortillas are moist, the perfect carrier for all the goods.Chips and salsa came first, followed by the mound of glistening carnitas, six warm corn tortillas, rice, beans, cilantro, onions and lime wedges—for $11. The chicharones are also served with lime. Squeeze it on and dig in.
On other occasions, I’ve skipped the tortillas altogether and simply dug in with a fork. No matter how you eat it, you’re going to enjoy yourself.
As for the chicharones, one of my dining companions took a bite and said it was too rich; the other made me proud and put some in a taco instead of carnitas. I like to pick up a hunk and just go for it. It’s very rich—similar in experience to eating the sloughed-off coating of fried chicken—and each bite yields different flavors and textures. Some of the pig’s skin fries up so that it dissolves on contact with your tongue; other parts you have to gnaw at, but the depth of porky flavor is your prize. Pork fat fried in pork fat, anyone? It’s heaven, in my book.
Finding carnitas in San Diego is as easy as locating a taco shop. So, what makes Carnitas Uruapan superior? I asked one of the girls inside the shop. “It’s my dad’s recipe,” she said. “He uses a lot of salt.”
Nostalgia can cloud any eater’s judgment, but I assure you this isn’t the case with me and my childhood favorite, Carnitas Uruapan. Every chunk is moist and tender without all that gummy fat you probably associate with the Mexican dish. Go grub for yourself, and let me know if it was worth the drive.
Frozen treats that will drive you loco at Neveria Tocumbo
the strawberry fresada and the mangoneadaI’d never heard of the stuff and had no idea what I was getting into when I ordered the mangoneada at Neveria Tocumbo (4687 Market St., Suite B7, in Chollas View). On the menu board, there was a photograph of what looked to be an ice-cream sundae doused with what I assumed was a fruity red sauce. The lady working the counter looked at me skeptically—I was the only gringa in the place—and asked, “No chamoy?”
The Grubby golden rule: When trying something new, never “hold” anything. Order the original; otherwise, how the hell will you know what it’s supposed to taste like?
There are plenty of little round tables, each with swiveling stools that evoke an ice-cream-shop feel, in an American sense. Teenagers, families and even groups of older folks sat lazily eating a variety of frozen treats, all of which looked incredible. The place is a hangout because it serves all the good stuff—including 24 flavors of homemade, natural ice creams and a rainbow of popsicle flavors consisting of either fruit juice or creamy bases, plus tostilocos and tortas. I found myself thinking that there’s no reason to leave this place, unless I need a haircut or something.
During the first of four visits in one week, I also ordered what looked like a strawberry slushy, called a fresada. Crushed ice gets a mix of what I presume is strawberry juice, chamoy and big slices of ripe strawberries. Refreshing and spicy, my mind was blown. Again.At first bite of the mangoneada, a raging fiesta of flavors enveloped my mouth. The soft mango sorbet was like eating a partially frozen, juicy piece of fruit and, combined with the chamoy—which turns out to be a syrup derived from pickled plums (or mangoes)—was instantly addicting. Topped with chopped, sour mangoes, each bite offered a wild contrast of flavors, and the dried chile, also a component of chamoy, caused a pleasant sweat to form on my forehead. The experience of eating the mangoneada was so titillating that it felt like Mexican jumping beans occupied my pants; bouncing on the little stool, I considered taking my purse and hitting one of the piñatas hanging from the ceiling. The mangoneada is party-time incarnate.
Items take some time to arrive, because all of the fresh fruit is chopped to order, each dessert created with care. Take a number, wait and resist the temptation to break into the display case.
Do it my way and eat something there, then take home a dozen popsicles for $19—they even throw in some freebies. Strawberries and cream, pistachio, chamoy and watermelon are some of my favorites. But the plain vanilla reigns supreme; it’s silky, decadent and best enjoyed while laying in bed. Even non-smokers will contemplate lighting a cigarette afterward.
Bring your own wet wipes to El Gallito Tortas Ahogadas
The classic torta and the Famoso Lonche “Gemma”
Food-truck fare is about as foreign to my diet as leafy greens—mainly, because I’m ideologically opposed to driving to a mobile café, only to grub standing up, or perched at an electrical box, for a meal priced the same as an eatery with a storefront, seats, table-top napkins and a John. The roach coach’s purpose has largely been hijacked by a new, cool generation of food-truck owners who aren’t in the business of catering to customers looking for a quick, cheap bite in an area devoid of food choices. Instead, Salmon Ella’s Fish Truck tweets its location, and you have to go there. Bah!
But there are trucks that were around before the Food Network deemed it a hot trend, and El Gallito Tortas Ahogadas (1008 Industrial Blvd. in Chula Vista) is one of ’em. I’ll happily drive south for one of its authentic Guadalajaran sandwiches, because they’re better than any version I’ve had from a real restaurant. Plus, there are picnic tables.
There are two “drowned” sandwiches to choose from; the namesake is covered with a bright tomato sauce that gets its heat from chile de arbol, and the other, Famoso Lonche “Gemma” ($7), is doused with a creamier sauce that’s smoky with chipotle peppers. The latter also gets ribbons of mayo squirted across it, as if it’s not rich enough.
The tortas are prepared fast—while you’re still standing at the order window—and they come on a plate that’s covered with a plastic bag. When you’re done, simply peel the messy plastic right into the trash can. Feel free to lift this idea from El Gallito and never do dishes at home again.If you order the original torta ($7), you’ll be asked whether you want it mild, medium or hot. The medium nearly melted my face off, and I like it hot, so consider yourself warned.
Shredded pork loin fills a distinctive bollilo roll—crusty with a slight toughness to its exterior and a salty, chewy center that gets a slathering of refried beans. It’s the ideal bread to drown in sauce, although it’s better if you come famished and ready to chow, because the second half will get soggy if you don’t dive right in and finish within 10 minutes. Needless to say, don’t even think about take-out.
If Phil’s BBQ does one thing right, it’s the signature table-top roll of paper towels. This would be a welcome touch at El Gallito, where you get just one sheet that, by the meal’s end, is as saucy as the torta you just ate. Pro tip: Bring your own wet wipes.
Typically in America, if something’s served wet, it’s to be eaten with a fork and knife. Here, the torta comes with a fork and spoon; you should pick the sandwich up, lick your hands between gasps of air and then spoon the remaining, fiery sauce and stray pieces of meat into your mouth. Oh, and don’t forget to say “si” when asked if you’d like onions; they’re flavorfully marinated, full of oregano and complement the spicy torta to a tee.
The sandwich snobs of Rubicon Deli
The Crandie—turkey with tangy cranberry whole grain mustard He sat down and, within 10 minutes, finished the gargantuan sandwich that packs a half-pound of pink meat, and, as if that wasn’t impressive enough, he proceeded to wash it all down with the au jus that remained in the cup. In his defense, it’s served in a stout coffee mug with a handle and all, but, still, I had to blink. Twice.
All of Rubicon Deli’s (3715 India St., Mission Hills) sandwiches come on a fresh-baked loaf, or you can request it served in a bowl, as a wrap or “scooped”—that is, with the bread hollowed out. There’s pesto bread, Dutch Crunch, bleu cheese, garlic cheese, wheat (for wussies) and even gluten-free rosemary focaccia, but my favorite is the jalapeño jack. It’s decadent and cheesy-hot with peppers that are still moist, and stellar with the Dipper’s juices that soak, but don’t sog, the sandwich.
The spicy tuna doesn’t skimp on heat. Next time, I might hold the habanero mustard. Relief came from creamy slices of avocado that made me think of a spicy sushi roll served between buns. A friend and I split half a Spicy Tuna ($6.99) and half of the Dapper Dipper ($7.25). Whole sandwiches cost roughly $3 more and are simply huge. If you have to return to work after lunch, plan on unbuttoning your slacks, or go halfsies and try out one of the deli’s homemade soups, salads or an acai bowl in the “Half n’ Half” combo ($9.25).
True to the au jus guzzler’s word, Rubicon’s take on the French dip is dope. It’s perhaps the deli’s most simple statement—thinly sliced prime rib, Swiss and creamy horseradish. Sub cheddar for extra bite, and ask for a side of the white stuff. You’ll want more for spreading.
Co-owned by three self-described sandwich snobs—Oliver Lang, Antonio Carasali and Evan Corsiglia—whose first location thrives on in Mission Beach, Rubicon San Diego is a tribute to Corsiglia’s mom’s 20-year sandwich business in Lake Tahoe. She developed all the recipes, from the bread right down to sauces; these homemade touches, Lang says, assure that once you’ve eaten a Rubicon sandwich, there’s no going back.
The perfect pairing is true vintage soda by Boylan Bottling Company (established 1890). There’s just a couple of places in town that serve the natural sodas, and here there are five taps of the stuff; black cherry is rich and to-die-for, and refreshing ginger ale will tickle your nose. Generously priced at $1.85 a pop (free refills), the fountain is hard to pass up, but if you do, there are cold pressed juices, Kombucha and more to make up for it.
All-hours (10 a.m. to 10 p.m.), affordable grub is what this block desperately needed. Stay tuned for additional breakfast sandwiches. Local beers will hit taps soon, and the upstairs outdoor patio looks forward to summertime.
Las Hadas has an evil twin
The soggy salt bomb But, everything we ate was fresh and well-executed. Plus, on Sundays, happy hour is a 10-hour event. I was anticipating another visit, which came sooner rather than later, because my photos from Round 1 didn’t do my first, stellar account justice.
The second visit was where Las Hadas’ evil twin, Las Hades, took over in an epic tale that you wouldn’t believe if you’d read it on Yelp.
Pleasant Latin music from the week before was replaced by a blaring, wretched oldies station, and previously wonderful service that constantly cleared plates and asked how the food was at every appropriate turn bordered on non-existent—even though there were three people waiting on us.
This time, the chile verde cheeseburger ($7) that was so delicious on the first visit was practically inedible. We ordered two, and both were grossly prepared with an abundance of greasy cheese that shone through the mayo-slick topping. But, the worst offense was the seemingly salt-crusted beef patties between soggy buns.
Our three servers didn’t check back until we’d filled up on sides, long abandoning our salt-bombed burgers. A different excuse followed each of my complaints, highlights being: “Maybe the cook poured too much salt on by accident.” Then: “The fries are salty; maybe the fries did it.”
At the beginning of the meal, we’d requested separate checks; of course, one bill came, totalling the entire amount.
I requested that my friend’s burger be taken off the bill, because she ate just a couple bites. “Let me see what I can do,” a server said, walking away with my credit card.
A $7 correction was debated for more than 10 minutes. We watched the management huddle before the owner paid us a visit to say that since we’d eaten all our food, we’d have to pay full price. I even tried telling him that I’d returned to take a better photograph for a positive review inCityBeat, and as if he didn’t hear a word I said, he taunted, “Go ahead. Write it!”
My credit card was returned, charged the full amount.
If Godzilla and Gordon Ramsay reproduced, it was their lovechild that possessed my body in what has to be one of the worst restaurant meltdown scenes in the Gaslamp Quarter’s history. I made sure that everyone in the restaurant, and all along Fourth Avenue, knew what the fucking problem was.
What’s usually an upbeat column turned sour this time. In two weeks, I’ll be back with my usual findings on the best grub in San Diego.
Gelato morning, noon and night at Pappalecco
Pappalecco's affogado One recent Saturday, I strolled lazily through Little Italy with one goal: espresso. The corner café, with its warm, orange fascade, drew me in like a bee to a honey pot and, once inside, I couldn't resist a frappé (large, $4.50).
"What flavor tastes best with the espresso?" I asked, a little slow, since this would be my first cup of the day.
"The chocolate, the Pappalecco, there are many," sang the pretty girl. "I'll ring you up and we'll find you something."
The café was abuzz‚ packed inside and out‚ and the bouncy bambina treated me like I was the only sleepyhead in the place. In front of the gelato case I stood, one plastic spoon after another passed my way until I cried for mercy, or, rather, the tiramisu that would soon meet a double shot of espresso, the blender and a whipped-cream topping. Breakfast time!
It's a popular drink any time of day, though. Skip the espresso altogether and go for a fruity flavor instead; blended with a little ice, it's more refreshing than a cloying American milkshake and best enjoyed outside among welcoming and animated paisans.
But the affogado ($4.75) is what I've consistently ordered since discovering the place a couple years ago. Your desired flavor‚ is the namesake gelato: chocolate with amaretto and chunks of biscotti. It comes topped with hot espresso, slowly melting the dense scoops for a hot-cold dessert and pick-me-up in one. There's roughly 70 to 80 percent less air in gelato than ice cream, so where the latter melts faster, the affogado's shape slowly dissolves into the inevitable (and lovely) bittersweet soup.
The café is loosely defined‚ meaning, patrons have more experiences to choose from‚ which creates a damn comfortable atmosphere, if you ask me. You can grab a coffee and dash in less than a minute, but soaking up hours of sun on the patio followed by a bite to eat, or lingering over dessert with a romantic date to the tune of live piano won't be interrupted by staff eager to turn a table. Any way you want it, you're welcome simply to enjoy.
This month, owners Francesco and Lorenzo Bucci are celebrating their fifth year in Little Italy (the Hillcrest location at 3650 Fifth Ave. has been open for two-and-a-half years). The brothers from Pisa have created an authentic taste of home at both shops, and they're not done yet. "People love this place because it's like a warm smile," Lorenzo told me. "Everybody here is happy."
This O.B. deli will fill your belly
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“What makes your sandwiches so good?” I asked one of the guys behind the counter. A woman waiting for hers answered instead: “I’ve been getting the same sandwich for 20 years, and it hasn’t changed. I don’t live around here anymore, but I’ll drive for the roast beef.”
“Extra-rich mayonnaise!” an employee piped in. I’d never heard of such of a thing and doubt it really exists, but I took the bait anyway and ordered what the woman claimed was supreme.
Locally baked Solunto bread is football-shaped and perfect for hurling delicious ingredients into your mouth. It’s squirted with mayo, and thin slices of roast beef plunged in au jus are put in place. Then it’s toasted, melting copious amounts of provolone cheese. The mayo dissolves right into the meat, richening it to guilt-inducing levels; shredded lettuce and tomato finish it off. It’s well-proportioned and balanced despite being an undeniable mayo-bomb of a sandwich ($6.50).
The eggplant Parm ($6.50) might be my favorite. Zesty, rich tomato sauce is very simply seasoned, and the vegetable is flavorful—not oily or mushy, as lame restaurants often serve. All sandwiches come with a layer of plastic wrap barricading melted cheese from a pile of pepperoncini placed on top; provolone stays gooey and pickled peppers don’t wet the bread. Genius.
My usual response to cash-only restaurants is “get with the times, a-holes!” but Poma’s is excused (there’s an ATM inside just in case). The sandwiches are big, cheap and delish, the staff is friendly and home-cooked Italian flavors prevail, earning its local-landmark status.
The next time you’re slumming it in O.B., dazed and ready to munch, grab one of these sandwiches and hit the beach. Take my word for it—they travel well.
Lunching locals line up at Park West’s Taco Rey
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There’s a cloth overhang, evocative of a roach-coach, lights strung like lanterns and a handful of tables for seating. With a generous list of $5 combination plates, it’s no wonder that hospital employees, park-and-rec workers and construction hard hats line up starting at noon for a hot, fast lunch.
I was among them during my trip to the neighborhood joint, and my order, a two-beef-tacos combination plate (No. 8 for $6.49), was shouted out within minutes. The taco shells were greasier than I would have liked, but the generous portion of shredded beef, likely cooked in its own fat, was moist and flavorful. Hot sauce is excellent here, not too thick or thin, vibrant and slightly sweet. Creamy, not pasty, and deliciously salty frijoles were great with a squirt of the stuff. The rice didn’t thrill me.
I returned a few days later for a breakfast-burrito litmus test that Taco Rey passed with flying colors. My only beef is that it’s served until 11 a.m. daily.
Too often, a wack excuse for scrambled eggs winds up in my breakfast burrito—crusty and rubbery, why oh why? Here, fluffy and tender scrambled eggs prevail; the simple egg, potato and cheese ($3.39) did the trick, with a perfectly chewy flour tortilla holding it together. If you’re ideologically opposed to french fries in your burrito, get over it—these were toothsome and not at all greasy. Surely I’ll be back for breakfast—if I’m up that early.
In an area known more for dry cleaners than taquerias, Taco Rey is a lunching-local’s gem. The hours are funky (8 a.m. to 8 p.m. Monday through Friday, open till 7 p.m. Saturday and 3 p.m. Sunday), so make sure you don’t hike to the foot of the park ravenous only to find it shuttered.
The Field does fish and chips right
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When I read “fish and chips” on a menu, it’d better resemble the United Kingdom-born, working-class meal of battered, fried cod and greasier-than-usual, thick-cut potatoes. Chefs and restaurateurs: It’s amoral to serve a frou-frou “version” of the unmistakable classic and call it the same thing. Plagiarism of this sort makes diners feel tricked, especially when a breaded fish fillet and fluffy waffle fries arrive at the table—no matter how delicious they are.
You won’t have to worry about any such trickery at The Field (544 Fifth Ave., Downtown), a two-level Irish tavern with a dark first floor that’s like a countryside barn fit for a rager. It has a stage for folk music and dancing, enough whisky to make the world turn green and real fish and chips.
An Irish childhood friend of mine named Sinead (what else?) recommended the place to me, so I went hungry on a Saturday and willingly forked over $14.75 for three stout chunks of cod, hand-cut potatoes that still had some skin and creamy, simple coleslaw. (A small version for $7.95 is served during long happy hours—11 a.m. to 7 p.m. weekdays, 11 a.m. 5 p.m. weekends—and on Mondays, the full portion is on special for $9.75.) It’s served with the mandatory malt vinegar and tartar sauce—the latter not traced to Great Britain’s origins but a customary addition no matter where in the world you are and great-tasting regardless. Sinead also recommended a side of curry for dipping the chips, and it proved an addition that I’ll order from now on.
The crunchy batter was just the right thickness, encapsulating moist, flaky cod, and the chips—akin to steak fries—were penetrated with just the right amount of oil, making them silky and rich with some crispy skins here and there. Long after I was full, I couldn’t help but dunk every last one into the creamy, rich curry sauce. Yum.
You won’t have to worry about any such trickery at The Field (544 Fifth Ave., Downtown), a two-level Irish tavern with a dark first floor that’s like a countryside barn fit for a rager. It has a stage for folk music and dancing, enough whisky to make the world turn green and real fish and chips.
An Irish childhood friend of mine named Sinead (what else?) recommended the place to me, so I went hungry on a Saturday and willingly forked over $14.75 for three stout chunks of cod, hand-cut potatoes that still had some skin and creamy, simple coleslaw. (A small version for $7.95 is served during long happy hours—11 a.m. to 7 p.m. weekdays, 11 a.m. 5 p.m. weekends—and on Mondays, the full portion is on special for $9.75.) It’s served with the mandatory malt vinegar and tartar sauce—the latter not traced to Great Britain’s origins but a customary addition no matter where in the world you are and great-tasting regardless. Sinead also recommended a side of curry for dipping the chips, and it proved an addition that I’ll order from now on.
The crunchy batter was just the right thickness, encapsulating moist, flaky cod, and the chips—akin to steak fries—were penetrated with just the right amount of oil, making them silky and rich with some crispy skins here and there. Long after I was full, I couldn’t help but dunk every last one into the creamy, rich curry sauce. Yum.
No-frills tavern fare served by a warm and friendly wait staff, many of whom are Irish (accents and all) makes The Field a Gaelic hideaway right under our noses in the Gaslamp Quarter. You won’t want to leave. Slainte, San Diego!
Smashburger salads are flavorful alternatives
Photo by Amy T. Granite There are six to choose from, all normally $5.99, and for $2 more you can add grilled or crispy chicken strips. I went for the Baja Cobb and, needless to say, opted for the crispy chicken topping. What?! The rest of the salad was low-carb!
I noticed several bowls on the tables around me during a busy lunch at the Downtown location—a promising sign. After about 10 minutes, mine arrived in the signature red bowl that proved deeper than I thought and ended up being the perfect amount.
A note for the not-so-manly of palates: This salad is spicy. A mix of arugula, baby spinach and chopped romaine is dressed with a creamy chipotle dressing that’s not obnoxious or overpowering despite its robust, smoked jalapeño base. Bits of crunchy, Applewood-smoked bacon provided a salty contrast to the rich dressing, and thin, tender strips of chicken with crisp, simply seasoned breading didn’t require a knife for cutting. Then again, I chose to stab each long piece with my fork, eating it tip to end like a kid would.
It also comes with a nice portion of “guacamole” on top—which was more like an avocado purée—and its creaminess helped extinguish some of the dish’s heat. Next time, I’d opt to hold the jalapeños, which come sliced, raw and with their seeds. The little shits were camouflaged, and chomping into one was like hitting a land mine in an otherwise pleasant leafy-green escapade.
In order for me to willingly substitute a salad for a hearty meal, it’s got to be full of dynamic flavors and textures; the Baja Cobb was just that—crisp and cold with hot toppings and flavorful additions, including sweet red onion and shredded cheddar cheese. On your next visit, perhaps at the new Hillcrest location, be sure to ask for a coupon for next time—Smash-attendants seem to be handing ’em out in stacks.
Golden Chopsticks and the big game
Last year, I was invited to an all-dudes gathering, and I knew just what to bring that would score the “most valuable guest” honor. When I arrived at Golden Chopsticks (1430 E. Plaza Blvd. in National City, 619-336-1888) to pick up my platter of salt-and-pepper wings, I saw that I wasn’t the only one hankering to share the ultimate lip-smacking party food—there was a line 50 people deep waiting to place their orders.
Pro tip: If you call ahead and request a pick-up time, Golden Chopsticks will do their best to have it ready. Bypass the line and walk right in.
For $72, a full platter comes with 100 to 120 wingettes and drumettes. Or, you can wuss out and get a half-order for $36. Either way, this is a deal for the plump and meaty wings, with their physics-defying crunch that maintains its bite from a 30-minute car ride ’til the last quarter of the game.
The golden-fried batter flecked with just the right amount of flavor-enhancing MSG forms a single crunchy layer of chicken skin, and a bite reveals moist meat that comes clean off the bone in chunks. Garnished with confetti of green onion, sautéed garlic and chili flakes, the umami factor soars along with your game-day reputation.
The big game wouldn’t be complete without beer. Go the local route with Ballast Point Brewing Company’s Big Eye IPA, a beer whose peppery Centennial Hops will bring out the vittles’ spice while its malty backbone helps to round out the experience, says brewer Colby Chandler. It’s a bitter yet balanced beer that comes in at 7-percent ABV that’ll have your party-mates buzzin’ as they plow through an order of the best Chinese chicken wings in San Diego.
I got an invite to the man cave again this year. The condition? Bring those goddamn wings with you, Grubby Bitch!
Off to see the Whiz, at Gaglione Brothers
I’m not a Philly cheesesteak expert and don’t aspire to become one. Trying to figure out who’s got the best in San Diego makes little sense; it’s not our region’s food, and I’ve not tried the “real deal” in the City of Brotherly Love to have any baseline judgment. Gag’s sandwich was love at first bite, and I’ve remained faithful. If it gets any better, I don’t need to know about it.
I do, however, have one hard fact about the cheesesteak: It came before the Whiz. After some heavy-duty research on Philadelphia-foodie message boards, I discovered it’s quite a divisive subject—that is, the “authentic” way to cheese-it, with provolone, American or the fluorescent-orange stuff that comes from a can, tastes fucking incredible and, arguably, adds sheen to your coat.
Take it from a gal who’s not afraid to pig out—the 8-inch size is plenty, rich and satisfying. A heap of paper-thin sliced beef is cooked to order on the flat-top and takes just a couple of minutes; different ingredients are mixed in, grilled onions being the most common. Since my usual—without—is a recipe for agida, I hold out for the pickled-pepper-bar finish instead.
Amoroso’s Hearth Baked Bread, from the 100-plus-year-old Philly bakery, is the perfect holster for a cheesesteak. It’s mostly soft with a slight crusty quality, and tender, juicy meat that glistens with Whiz makes it an easy-to-eat sandwich—even for those without teeth, I’d imagine.
There are 10 varieties of pickled goodies to choose from—cherry peppers to dill-pickle chips and my absolute favorite, the red-pepper relish. The bright red stuff puts the slimy green kind to shame with its vinegary blast of heat that I spoon on with each bite, rather than dressing the whole sandwich. It provides a much-needed break from the richness, and, hey, sweating burns calories.
2011—the year regional comfort food reigned
Yeah, I’d sit in front of the television in my drawers, macking on something good, and Tony would fluff my appetite in one segment and turn it flaccid in the next. But the show’s more than just food porn; inspired by its surroundings, it tells the tale of how food translates in different socio-economic climates and how people survive and thrive throughout the world.
The goal of this year-end piece was to reflect on 2011 grub, but it’s impossible to ignore that many San Diegans—including me, and probably most of you—lack the disposable, dining-out incomes of years past. And, to get all Bourdainian on your asses, surely there’s more troubling issues at hand than missing out on Brian Malarkey’s latest restaurant debut.
Besides speaking to fiendish eaters looking for a fix, the intention of my column is to point readers in the direction of practical, comforting food, and out of everything I’ve covered, it’s regional cuisine that’s championed my broken budget this year.
Mexican food it is. Available close to home, at all hours, and often the price of change found between couch cushions, do explore what San Diego-style comfort food has to offer. Here are the top three places that filled my heart and stomach with love throughout 2011—and may 2012 be a year of culinary adventures, no matter how shallow or deep your pockets may be:
Northgate Gonzales Market (5304 University Ave. in City Heights): This mercado is a one-stop-shop grocery store and Mexican deli featuring everything from fresh and tangy ceviche to carnitas, on-site tortillaria and full-service butcher. I’ve cut my grocery bill in half shopping here versus mainstream market chains. I’m thrilled with the sixth county location that opened in a former department-store building this fall—the vast market is a wonderland of flavors and spices to stock your picnic basket or pantry.
Tacos El Paisa (2494 Imperial Ave. in Barrio Logan): My go-to 24-hour taco shop, and the most consistent cooked-over-coal carne asada I’ve found. Dine in, and a server’ll greet your table with a complimentary, steaming cup of frijoles, chips and a tray of condiments with salsas, pickled carrots and more. I’m a sucker for shredded-beef tacos, and this version rules. There’s a generous portion of juicy meat with crispy bits throughout—shed a tear for vegetarians with each crunchy bite.
Churros El Tigre (on University Avenue between 36th Street and Wilson Avenue in City Heights): When I was a kid, my family would take day trips to TJ, and I never forgot my first true churros experience. On this side of the border, they never tasted nor chewed the same—so when I discovered this (literal) sidewalk kitchen frying up the cinnamon-sugar-filled dreams of my youth at $2.50 a bag, I squealed. The experience is interactive as the jovial fry-cook talks through his method and the fried platanos, not as sweet as bananas, are equally alluring, fried until golden, then doused with sweetened condensed milk.
Porking is welcome, spooning is not at Underbelly
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On a Sunday afternoon, seats were plenty and my order was up in less than 10 minutes; however, at night, prepare to wait as the alluring glow of the lit-from-beneath, U-shaped bar beckons with steaming bowls of soup and frosty brews.
The Underbelly Ramen ($10) comes with traditional char-su pork belly, chunks of applewood smoked bacon and Kurobuta pork sausage link. Floating in a bowl of rich broth made from pig parts, chewy ramen noodles come with familiar stuff like crunchy bean sprouts, sesame seeds, green onion and nori, plus a soy-sauce-soaked, soft-boiled egg whose yolk runs throughout.
Diners can build their own ramen with either pork-based or vegan-friendly broths, choosing from a list of add-ons that include, among other things, broiled unagi ($4), bacon-wrapped mushrooms, shisito peppers and beef brisket (each $3).
Hitachino Nest White Ale—a menu mainstay brewed in Japan that blends sake distilling techniques and Belgian-beer inspired flavors—is the namesake ramen’s match. Its fruity and spicy characteristics accentuate the soup with a similar effect that applesauce has on pork chops, or mint jelly with lamb.
Every component in the seemingly bottomless bowl kicks ass; the smoky sausage snaps like all good dogs should, the addition of sake-braised oxtail dumplings ($2) burst with beefy flavor, and the star of the show—alkaline noodles—are bouncy, toothsome and as good as any I’ve slurped on Convoy Street.
Yes, the price is slightly higher, but there’s no feedlot meat here, and funky fish cakes aren’t missed, either. Another purposefully missing element is a spoon—but what some might consider an act of soup-Nazism is in fact a blessing and reason to dive in face first.
Hit your vices hard at Azucar
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Vivian Hernandez-Jackson has just the fix to boost your holiday cheer at Azucar (4820 Newport Ave.), Ocean Beach’s sweet spot featuring the flavors she grew up with in Miami. Spanish for “sugar,” Azucar’s a tribute to her Cuban heritage and classic French pastry training from Le Cordon Bleu in London.
Sound fancy? I’m here to report not one raised-pinky sighting; true to its O.B. locale, the shop is casual and lively, packed each morning with locals fueling up on coffee drinks and fresh-baked goods. The Café con Leche ($2.75) is my liquid pick, with strong and smoky Old Havana-roast espresso, sweetened as it’s brewed and combined with steamed milk for a drink that’ll prepare you for mall madness—or reinvigorate after a night of too much eggnog.
Among funky, seasonal confections, like the best-selling Pumpkin Flan topped with pumpkin-seed brittle ($6), are munchies galore that make perfect party favors. The variety of goodies all share Hernandez-Jackson’s distinctive, complex flavor-texture combinations that are anything but the one-dimensional sugary experiences some bakeries evoke.
I can’t get enough of the gingerbread chocolate-chunk cookies ($1.25). A crisp outer layer dusted in white sugar surprisingly reveals a chewy, moist, spicy ginger cookie center with chunks of chocolate that, when baked, crackle throughout the treat like fault lines.
But my favorite of all—whose miniscule price is but a bonus—are the chocolate sea-salt caramels for just 50 cents each. Pillowy soft, chewy squares are chocolately at first, followed by burnt-sugar notes; coarse salt-pebbles sprinkled atop each throws off the super-sweet chews with a bright burst that accentuates all the flavors. I like to get a bag of ’em to go, as they’ve replaced chewing gum in my grubby purse.
Ocean Beach provides shelter from normalcy, and this time of year, that means the holiday hustle. Slow down and take a break from it all at Azucar, where sugary solace awaits.
Just say 'Si' to sport-snacking at Super Cocina
Cafeteria-style dining it is, but gazing into the glass case with bright soups and stews changed my opinion after years of crappy school lunches. A group of ladies pack the nearby kitchen—each seemingly holding watch over her own steaming pot before rushing to restock dishes that taste like home no matter where in the world you’re from.
Before you have to ask what’s what, sample cups appear from the friendly cooks behind the counter. Hospitable? Yes. Paralyzing for the indecisive? Even more so. Do yourself a favor and just order it up—this food makes for excellent takeout and leftovers.
Since my snacking gear consists of a bathrobe and a roll of paper towels, I get it to-go. And no matter what I order, street-food antojitos, or “snacks”—like the fried potato and cheese patties—are a must. Order ’em a la carte or enjoy as they crumble into your $7.99 combination plate that includes any two items plus rice, beans and tortillas.
About the size of a large crab cake, smashed potatoes flavored with salty cotija cheese and black pepper are lightly breaded and fried. Someone will ask if you’d like crema and cheese on top—say “Si.” From a takeout standpoint, this sounds like a soggy mess in the making—but scraping off the toppings (that conveniently sit on a nest of shredded lettuce) before a quick pan fry does the trick. Re-top and enjoy; I’ve revived a few cold ones from the fridge this way.
Unlike the main-dish stews, soups like albondigas and pork-rib pozole plus antojitos—including stellar chicken enchiladas for less than $2 a pop—are menu mainstays. Take it from a pro, after macking this comfort food, you’ll be at your prime.
Tiger!Tiger! tavern serves farm-fresh bar food with a bite
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Even with my grubby lunch budget out the window, I didn’t believe for a sec that Tiger!Tiger! (3025 El Cajon Blvd.) would disappoint; the group of friends-turned-restaurateurs made Draft magazine’s “America’s 100 Best Beer Bars” list for big-sister brewpub Blind Lady each of the two years it’s been open, and in-house, Automatic Brewing Co.’s mad-scientist Chase even buddied up with Will Ferrell for a charity ale appropriately named Sex Panther in the midst of it all.
As much as I love my craft brewskis, the 30 taps at Tiger!Tiger! didn’t distract from my lust after chef Aaron LaMonica’s farm-fresh bar food. The house-made Berkshire ham panini comes with gruyere cheese, grilled onions and whole-grain mustard ($9), but for an additional buck, you can top it with silky bechamella sauce, and for another, a basted egg. Take it from this cheap bitch—it’s worth it to go full-Monty.
LaMonica’s brilliant ham recipe starts with hog legs that are brined in a sweet, herby liquid for five days before a “light-smoking” and wood-burning-oven finish. The rich, juicy ham peeks out from between two slices of white bread that LaMonica bakes daily, glistening as if to say, “Eat me! Eat me right effing now!”
This twist on France’s traditional comfort sammy that’s served day or night elicited moans as crunchy bread, nutty cheese and savory meat richened with each bite from the creamy, nutmeg-spiced sauce and perfectly runny, broken egg yolk.
The North Park tavern’s in soft-opening mode, so expect a fluxing menu as recipes are perfected, but, rest assured, the ham sandwich is here to stay. Get yours nightly (save for Mondays) or Friday through Sunday when Tiger!Tiger! opens at noon for lunch.
Shameless finger licking at Best of the Best Quality Chicken
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Fried chicken tastes best late-night, so when the rest of the city’s sawing logs, I’m making a mess of myself at Best of the Best Quality Chicken(4768 Convoy St.), open till midnight Monday through Thursday, 2 a.m. Friday and Saturday and 11 p.m. Sunday. The signage can be confusing for first-timers who understand the acronym “BBQ” as something else—but the unmistakable waft of chicken-fry that’ll fill your nostrils from the parking lot assures that anything but slow-smoked meat is to come.
Instead, brace yourself for slow-fried chicken, a technique mastered by Koreans that puts most “Southern” styles to shame with its chicharon-like skin that’s achieved from a cornstarch batter. When twice-fried in extra-virgin olive oil, it forms a single crunchy barrier between eager teeth and soft, moist meat. If you don’t call 20 minutes in advance like the website and to-go menu instruct, prepare to wait in the odd-shaped, former Pizza Hut dining room at a dark booth; a sobering, fluorescent lit-table; or in front of the lone computer by the booster chairs—there for your Internet-surfing pleasure.
Five pieces of the Olive Original Chicken are enough to feed two for $9.95 and come with a pleasant yet unnecessary five-spice barbecue-style sauce for dipping. When I bit into a drumstick, it lacked the essence of fryer flavor that taints chicken everywhere; rather, olive oil penetrates to the bone and somehow makes this the least-greasy version I’ve eaten.
Too often, fried chickens fly the coop flavor- and texture-wise. Either the coating sheds in one reptilian slough just after picking it up, tendons and stringy meat snap like rubber bands or thick, unseasoned breading is a bitch to get through. Forget this, and your moral obligations to craft beer, at this place, where on Mondays, your first pitcher of Coors Lite costs 99 cents.
Mojados de Carne is one of 29 ways to go at Mama Testa
There are 29 ways to do it at Mama Testa Taqueria (1417a University Ave.), with nearly all of Mexico’s states represented authentically in taco form. Until recently, I figured Mojados de Carne was a dish developed late one night in the kitchen of a hungry genius who revived bordering-on-stale rolled tacos by adding them to a bowl of soup. “I tell people, ‘Don’t worry about what it is—tacos or soup. Just eat it,’” Gonzalez says.
Every day, Gonzalez boils a caldron of beef with onions and garlic; the meat winds up in tacos, and its cooking liquid gets a dose of secret ingredients and spices that make it the base for his famed soup. Four corn tortillas are stuffed with the stewed beef, rolled, fried and chopped to order, then placed in the zesty broth. Queso fresco, diced onion and cilantro confetti the dish, and a squeeze of lime lends the essential, finishing tang.
“I wanted to change what people think of taquitos by serving them like they do in the state of Guerrero,” Gonzalez says. Indeed, just one suck ignited my burning love affair with this hybrid dish; crunchy to start, the taquitos plump with spicy broth over time and fall apart, flavoring the soup with tortilla and bits of beef caramelized from the fryer.
Since 2004, the ethos behind Mama Testa has inspired many popular restaurants in town. The first taco shop to serve free-range meats, it also introduced the avant-garde salsa bar with eight twisted varieties, and his dining room premiered loteria and luchador themes. “I used to get mad,” Gonzalez says. “But now I’m flattered.” After kicking Bobby Flay’s ass on national TV in a fish taco Throwdown, there’s no denying that Gonzalez has skills and heuvos grandes to boot.
Dragging and dropping ingredients at Stacked
Who knew ordering through an iPad could be so much fun?
- Photo by Amy T. Granite
Futuristic visions of Fembot servers with ketchup and mustard dispensers for nipples were quickly dismissed at Stacked when a friendly human sat me and then another came along to offer some basic ordering tips. Traditional table service is available for those who want it—just ask. And at any time, press the help button to summon an employee. Marvelous.
America’s favorite foods—burgers, pizzas, sausages and salads—are stacked on the virtual menu with more than 100 toppings and 70 house-made sauces to choose from. I could’ve easily sat there for an hour farting around with all the different flavor combos, which is totally acceptable at this order-whatever, -whenever, pay-from-your-table revolutionary café.
The proof was in the burger. My certified angus-beef version with cheddar, Roma tomatoes, green-leaf lettuce, pickles, fresh-fried potato chips and 1000 Island dressing left little for want at around $7. A buttery, perfect-sized brioche bun held its contents from start to finish, but other tables’ teetering, stacked-to-the-heavens sandwiches didn’t look so lucky. And the sides? Sweet-potato fries were made for dunking in butternut-squash aioli—spiced and sweet, evocative of pumpkin pie.
My biggest concern with Stacked was that prices were missing from both the website and iPad interface, but, says co-owner Paul Montenko, “fixed menu prices are irrelevant, because guests only pay for what they order, versus restaurants that charge a set price regardless if you ask to hold certain items.” Instead, the total price is visible from all screens as diners drag and drop ingredients with uninhibited glee.
Stacked is a refreshing departure from its retail jungle of a home, if only because impatient sales people won’t hover and judge what you’re paying for, which is reason enough to celebrate with a mac-’n’-cheese-topped Vienna beef frank.
Rose Donuts offers the hangover breakfast of champions
Cheap sandwiches, donuts and ice cream make for the perfect post-party meal
Rose Donuts (5201 Linda Vista Road in Linda Vista) is something of legend among USD students, stoners, drunkards and binge-eaters alike. Open 24-7 with a menu full of cheap sandwiches, donuts and 12 flavors of ice cream destined for some serious milkshakes -- why wouldn’t it be?
The deluxe breakfast sandwich combo for $5.85 caught my wayward eye, served with a choice of one whole donut (or six holes) and a hot or cold beverage. At this juncture, I realized that in a donut shop, discretion sucks even more than in real life. For an additional charge, just go for it with one of Rose’s famed double chocolate milkshakes to wash it all down.
There are few things more annoying than an ill-constructed sandwich so big it stresses the jaw, contents blowing out its back side with every bite. At first chomp, the lightly toasted sourdough sandwich left the roof of my mouth intact (a rare joy), and its perfect ratio of breakfasty ingredients proved an easy eat. Crunchy, dark strips of bacon atop deli ham wowed, and slices of Swiss and cheddar cheeses oozing down into a spongy layer of fried egg weren’t bad, either.
Between slugs of dense, creamy shake and mouthfuls of twice-porked breakfast sandwich, the electric-orange frosted-cake donut on the edge of my plate screamed for attention. This magical fry-factory turns out anything but the powdered-sugar, store-bought hockey pucks of my youth; this donut had light, moist dough, airy and so tender I hardly used teeth.
If a successful eatery shuns modern-day conveniences like a website, credit-card machine and even to-go menus, it’s likely that consistent, bona fide food has prevailed and drawn a following so loyal that little else matters. Fixed and on my way out, I asked the friendly woman behind the counter about the spectacular orange-flavored donut still on my chin. “Do you put -- ”
“Real fruit only!” She proudly exclaimed. Right-fucking-on.
Coop’s West Texas BBQ's succulent hunks of meat
Liquid-smoke-free zone in Lemon Grove slangs real-deal Texas barbecue
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Although it was hotter than hell in my North Park apartment one recent August afternoon, the prospect of having a salad or smoothie for lunch was downright depressing. Why let the heat win? My dauntless quest for manly summertime fare ultimately prevailed and prompted a trip to Lemon Grove, where succulent hunks of meat are known to ripen deep inside the smoky pits of Coop’s West Texas BBQ (2625 Lemon Grove Ave.,).
In the time it takes to wait in a mile-long line for the grill-flames-and-liquid-smoke sort of “barbecue,” you can already be eating the real-deal, low-and-slow barbecue at which the state of Texas rules. When I arrived at the small, strip-mall shop mid-afternoon, there was but a solo diner mackin’; admittedly, I really do enjoy pigging out amid the energy of a packed meat hall, and since the scene at Coop’s wasn’t happening, I placed my order to-go. Confident that I could single-handedly recreate such fervor from my couch, I left equipped with half a slab of pork spare ribs and plenty of spicy barbecue sauce for dunking.
Spare ribs sit right on top of the pig’s belly, which means denser, fattier meat than the popular and wussy baby-back variety. The trick, however, is cooking ’em to the delightful consistency that makes fans of pork fat drool at the mention of its fluffy, distinctive richness. Rubbed down with seasonings, then smoked over mesquite wood and charcoal for three hours, the results are orgasmic. Soft, moist skin gives way to smoke-penetrated meat, followed by a layer of pork-like jam that melts into the hammy flesh I willfully sucked off the bone in ecstasy. These ribs hardly require barbecue sauce, but Coop’s spicy variety—evocative of sweet, Memphis-style ’cue—is the perfect condiment to round out the itis-inducing trip.
“The main difference in San Diego,” Coop explained of his Texas barbecue, “is that businesses take short cuts—boiling the meat, baking it first and adding liquid smoke that tends to overpower. I smoke mine start to finish, and there’s nothing like it.” As cartoon hearts poured out of my eyeballs, Coop went on to proclaim his shop “California’s barbecue destination”—an attitude I dig, and so should you.
From January to March 2011, I filled in for CityBeat's then restaurant reviewer Jenny Montgomery while she was out. Links below.
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