[sic]

Well The farewell episode of The Sopranos pretty much sucked supreme, but at least our last supper with Tony & family didn’t disappoint.

So my baby gets home and she’s getting dinner ready and I walk into the kitchen and she remarks how she’s going to have a glass of wine before dinner. I indicate a willingness to do the same but let it be known that the fixings have been acquired from which mojitos could result and she says “Ooooo, why don’t you just get down with your bad self and hook us up with a couple!” and I say coming right up:

Susan and I are back from our trip to Orange County where we had lunch at the dim sum palace known as Sea Food Paradise in Westminster, at the entrance of which I found this concrete truth:

 And inside I had plenty of this:

 I had incorrectly called the above “butter encrusted shrimp” in the post below. It’s actually mayonnaise encrusted shrimp and if I ever find it closer to home I’ll be most ecstatic, but until then I won’t be waiting years to go back to Westminster’s Little Saigon and getting me some more.

Afterwards we journeyed furthur south to Newport Beach’s Fashion Island, site of the Newport Beach Film Festival where we saw my friend Billy Savage and watched the screening of Klunkerz, his  excellent documentary on the origins of mountain biking and the gawds who created it.

Here he is beforehand (center), talking with a bunch of the sport’s and film’s enthusiasts:

Way to go Mr. Savage. Now maybe one of these days you’ll be able to get back on your mountain bike instead of just talking about them!

In just a short bit, my baby and I are going to venture south of the L.A. County Line into Orange County to go see my buddy Billy’s mountain biking documentary Klunkerz on tap this 3:30 p.m. at the Newport Beach Film Festival. As such I suggested to Susan we lunch at the magnificent Sea Food (two words) Paradise restaurant in Westminter’s “Little Saigon” district. This place has some of the best dim sum around (I’ve been craving their butter encrusted shrimp for a looooong time now) and was introduced to me by my Huntington Beach-dwelling friend, former Times Community News coworker Orange Coast magazine editor and now college professor Nancy Cheever back when we were seeing much more of each other and  playing far more tennis and golf together than either of us are playing now — or at least me.

Trader Joe’s sells this kickass lowfat cilantro dressing. I love cilantro dressing. So when I got home from my regular Wednesday night L.A. River/Griffith Park bike ride and went into the kitchen to whip up a turkey sammich with onion and lettuce so as to better await the much anticipated premiere of the new season of Lost, I found myself left wanting after I splurshed some mustard onto the bread and went looking for other condiments to apply.

Behold ‘n low, in the fridge door shelf stood an unopened bottle of the aforementioned dressing, still sealed for my protection. At first I try to break the plastic sleeve by twisting it, but it doesn’t budge. So next I pull out a knife and succeed in slicing a small enough of a leader to get the thing peeled off and removed and discarded. In the recycle bin, of course.

From there I’m one shake well away from pouring on the flavorful goodness, except something goes dreadfully wrong. In my initial exertions to tear the seal I must have twisted the cap, because immediately following the upswing of my arm as it commenced the shaking motion, the bottle’s cap flew off as if in slow motion and dressing followed after it. The cap? It landed with a reliable clatter upon the kitchen floor. The dressing? It went everywhere else.

And you wanna know the hilarious part (and by that the part where I then demonstrate what a blockhead I am)? I was so incredulously shocked at the first unexpected cascade that as my arm comes down and I’m watching the stuff splatter all over the kitchen in a sort of ridiculous awe, I forget to send a stop order to my arm so it heads on up for another round. Only this time I see what’s happening before it reaches its apex and I hear myself yelling “No!” to my arm as if my arm could hear me and I pull it in toward my chest and launch more dressing into my shoulder with such force that what was substantially left of the big blob that didn’t adher to my shirt ricochets vertically off my collar bone above and behind me where for a split of a second it probably thought proudly “My gawd, I’m really flying!” before reality and gravity engaged to pull it from the air and dash it all over the dish rack and counter by the sink behind me.

My right hand finally picks up where my brain failed and goes into override, instinctively grabbing my left wrist and coercing the left arm to put the bottle down where it is deposited safely and upright on the island among myriad amoeba like structures that are masses of light green dressing. There are more on the floor. Then I look to the puppy 10 feet away who’s got her worried “Dude!” look on along with some flecks of cilantro stuff along her flank that she sniffs and licks off. It’s on my shirt in my hair and on my skin. I wanted to run into the living room where Susan was and scream “Look I’m salad boy!” but it occured to me that she might still be able to annul the marriage on grounds of me being a total idiot so instead I wiped off the excess before stripping off the shirt and depositing it in the hamper. Then as casually as possible I went and got a clean shirt to put on, which she saw me doing and wondered aloud what might have happened. Resigned to explaining myself, I motioned for her to follow me and she did. And how she did laugh as I reanacted the incident in the kitchen with the cilantro dressing. Both with me and rightfully at me while the dog looked on with her more relaxed “Dude!” face.

After cleaning up the mess I went to apply some of the dressing to the sammich still sitting open faced on the cutting board, and much to my surprise I achieved a minor victory: some of the wayward dressing had landed perfectly upon the lettuce leaves. And it was good.

To mark the occasion of Franklin Avenue’s 100th restaurant review, Mike and Maria invited their readers and fellow bloggers to come dine on french dip sammiches with them yesterday afternoon at the venerable landmark of Cole’s Pacific Electric Buffet and Susan and I got my mom to come along and join them for our inaugural visit.

First let me preface my impressions with the much respect that I have for the eatery and its history. As reportedly the longest continuously running restaurant in the city, it has my deep admiration, as well as my sincere trepidation at the news that the place has been sold and the new ownership plans to “spruce it up” in the coming months. One can only hope the plan is to bring Cole’s back to a former glory and not try to re-envision it. Having said that, I can see major room for improvement in terms of the decor. Frankly the place was depressing. It’s loaded up with all this old signage and photographs and beautiful Tiffany lighting fixtures, but it’s all just hanging haphazardly and drab and dark and dingy. Not that I want to see it eliminated, just celebrated.

I wish I could celebrate the food and say it made up for the surroundings, but not quite. While Susan thoroughly enjoyed her roast beef frenchie, mom gave a so-so grade to her roast pork, and I was ultimately disappointed with my corned beefer, needing to take a fork and a knife to the tough stuff. It wasn’t bad, just not all that great.

Ultimately I don’t care who “invented” the french dip sammich. Be it Philippe’s or Cole’s — each who lay claim the distinction of doing it first (although Cole’s seems more adamant about it) — the bottom line is that I’m glad both are still around but between the two I’d opt for Philippe’s… their double-dipped lamb sammy with bleu cheese is my fave. Certainly I’ll visit Cole’s again, not sure if it will be before or after the transformation (though I’m glad I got to see it before). Either way, the next time I’ll try the roast beef and dig into it with a cold beer at the bar, where there’s a little more light and life.

Susan has some great pix of the interior over on her blog.

Susan and I had a full day planned yesterday… or at least a partially full day. We were all signed up to help beautify Silver Lake as part of the citywide Big Sunday volunteering project, but a phone call from her boss before 8 a.m. — on a damn Sunday! — instead diverted her into the office for practically the entire day — on a damn Sunday! — to avert a project disaster.

I suppose I still could have gone over and helped beautify the neighborhood, but my heart just wasn’t in it anymore. Thus the high points of my day were retreiving two lizards that Pepper had caught, causing unknown psychological trauma but thankfully no physical damage to them, and the rest of it was spent around the computer and occasionally twiddling my thumbs trying to decide whether or not to go for a bike ride. I did not.

After her looooooooooong hard day at work picking up balls that other people had dropped — on a damn Sunday! — my love finally got home well after 6 p.m. and somehow found the energy to whip up a Tomato & Garlic & Mussel soup recipe she’d been wanting to try for a couple weeks and when we sat down to it and the latest from The Sopranos that we’d TiVo’d she wasn’t interested in photographing the epicureal evidence, but I couldn’t let her wonderful work go unimmortalized (pardon the garish flash):

It was DELICIOUS!

Nothing new uncovered in the realm of aged glassware or World War II memorabilia. Instead our latest discovery is of a much more organic variety. A mulch-covered patch of our backyard has sprouted many examples of an alien lifeform such as this strapping individual here:

The place is practically lousy with the things. Turns out they’re morels — also known as woodfish, or sponge mushrooms — and tthey are allegedly delicious. We just have to find out about that!

So last month there was a story that made the rounds of the various local news broadcasts, online media outlets and the occasional blog about the County of L.A.’s Health Services Department offering on its website a home version of the very same checkpoints they use to scrutinize and grade area restaurants. Of course, it’s strictly a self-inspection. It’s not like for real where a duly authorized department official comes out and gives your kitchen the third-degree. So in other words, it’s open to, say, “flexible interpretation” of some of the various yes-or-no inquiries to be answered about food prep, temps, handling, storage, et cetera.

For example: Food in my refrigerator is well spaced so that cool air can circulate freely.

I went with a “yes” to that primarily because it’s true, but also because “well spaced” is not defined. Fact is, the freezer’s often stacked and packed. But then again, they didn’t ask about the freezer… they asked about the refrigerator. See? Loopholes abound.

In terms of the section on vermin things got a little sketchy, such as when asked for a yes or no to the statement “There are flies inside my home.” From a cursory examination of the residential interior at my seat in the library in front of my computer I was able to ascertain with a modest degree of certainty that there were not any flies presently within it. Thus and to the best of my knowledge, no. If the statement had been “There have been flies in your house,” I would’ve been stone busted.

Then there are statements to be answered such as “I remove all jewerly from my hands and maintain my fingernails trimmed before I prepare foods.” I answered yes in protest because while I mostly keep my fingernails trimmed and clean, I object to the department’s trivialization of the institution and symbols of marriage — especially mine. Since Susan and I were wed, I’ve never once been separated from my wedding ring and I damn well ain’t going to take it off when I’m boiling water for my friggin’ instant oatmeal, so there!

Anyway, the penalty for naivete or absolute honesty is probably a “C” grade placard or perhaps worse (is there a “D” out there?) mailed to your house. The reward for culinary sainthood or fudging a bit is the coveted “A,” which is what was bestowed on me upon successful completion and online submission of my answers.

The magnetized sign, a mini version of what hangs in every A-rated restaurant in L.A. County arrived a few days ago and has attained its appropriate place of honor on the side of the fridge. Where a fly just landed on it.

I’ve been on an instant oatmeal kick for breakfast this week. I started off plain with a little milk and brown suger and quickly graduated to adding raisins and a banana and a vanilla yogurt. Yesterday and today I’ve locked onto a mash-up that just works:

• 1 packet of instant oatmeal nuked with a half-cup of water
• 1 banana
• 2 tablespoons peanut butter
• 1/2 cup applesauce

Oh, hell yeah… but this is definitely not a calorie-light concoction. The oatmeal’s 120. The peanut butter — even though it’s so-called “reduced fat” is still 180. The banana’s 125. And the applesauce is 90. Being as that’s 515 calories gobbled up right there I opted to forego the raisins because they’d add another 120. And to be honest, it’s certainly not as substantial nor annywhere near as filling as one of my 300-calorie, vegetable-stuffed egg-substitute omelets. But it’s goooooooooood to the very last spoonscrape.