Steak as Art
7963 Melrose Ave. (west of Fairfax)
Phone: 323-655-0891 | map | website

Bianca, being the shamelessly fantastic person she is, was adamant about taking me out for a memorable dinner for my birthday. I hadn't been to Carlitos Gardel in an age, and desired the grilled epiphany that is Argentine steak.

West of the racy pomp of Melrose's main shopping strip, Carlitos Gardel stands aloof and dignified. They take care of you here. The interior is quietly textured, with sounds of violin music and a sommelier named Gerardo who cares deeply about what works best with your desired experience and its courses. We settle down with a bottle of Blú sparkling natural mineral water to clear the palate.

I am helpless before the concept of sausage, and the Chorizo is grilled firm and dense with a brisk skin. Its intense, intoxicating scent would perk up the noses of a wolf pack in the next county. A small, polite salad with a mild vinaigrette accompanies it.

Bianca keeps to her seafood and vegetarian diet. The Mussels are utterly married to the warm marinara sauce in which they stand like a Druidic circle of shells. There is a tang of the sea resonant within the sauce.

With these we savor a half-bottle of what is now our favorite champagne, Pol Roger Brut Réserve. Simply smelling it was revelatory, and the taste is not nasal and fizzy as we find so many champagnes to be, but with an airy snap.

I am ready for my steak experience, and am given a big brawny wood-handled steak knife.

My choice for the evening is Oja de Costilla a La Criolla, a grand example of the varying terrain of a rib eye: fatty and char, grainy and plush, glistening inside. It is medium rare, stopping just shy of pink, spicy and somehow sweet. The knife cuts it with slight resilience. The fourteen-ounce rib eye is blanketed with a rich green chimichurri sauce.

A Mendel Malbec from Mendoza (I don't mean to go overboard with alliteration, really) is paired with this; it practically paints the glass as it runs around the interior, yet is elegant, not a powerhouse (again with the alliteration).

For another time, perhaps, the Churrasco Portabella is also worthy of mention; a 14-ounce New York steak is stuffed with portabella mushrooms, provolone cheese and spinach, and permeated with a Cabernet Sauvignon and mushroom sauce. The brown juices from the steak turn reddish with the sauce, the cheese mellows the interior, and it is enough to stop you from participating in conversations.

The Grilled Chilean Sea Bass, however, was possibly the greatest thing on Melrose that evening, perhaps an experience that will forever be chased. Juicy, yes, and buttery, melting and refined. Peas dot its surface, thankfully, instead of capers, which would have overborne the taste. A few vegetables assist, and a masterfully made hillock of mashed potatoes, pumpkin-colored with spices.

Fitting with this is another of Gerardo's recommendations, a Sauvignon Blanc whose name we regretfully missed, reminiscent of strawberry and peach and air.

We made room for this: Dulce de Leche Pancakes. Basically they are crêpes, stretchy and firm with a softly persistent flavor of griddle and batter. Inside, on top of, and next to it is pure, unbridled caramel that is almost too much sugar from Heaven, like nearly dying from a too-enthusiastic visit with your harem.

A glass of Sandeman 20-year Tawny port tempers it a bit, pulling it away from the brink of painful sweetness and away from vulgar metaphors.

Parking is street during the day, and valet at night.

Local and solid
1721 W. Sunset Blvd. (east of Glendale Blvd., in Echo Park)
Phone: 213-483-8311 | map | website

It's great. It's awful. It's cheap. It's too expensive. The comments vary wildly among its visitors. I treat it as a reliable place for lunch, or for reasonably late dinners (before 11).

It embraces more of a Western theme than a Mexican theme, with plaques of serene-looking horses, ceiling fans that look fashioned of rusted wicker, and easy pop and country music* interspersed with announcements to try Rodeo's desserts. Once you get your plastic number, insert it into the little kiosk on your table, which lights up to let them know where to bring your food. It's rather like a slot in a hotel room door. Not that it works better than those spindly aluminum number holding rods, but it's neat.

You care more about the food than its dispatch, of course. The tacos are generously ladled onto a pair of corn tortillas with a dusting of cilantro. The pollo is grilled firm into springy cubes of orange and beige, holding its moisture. The al pastor is stringy and ruddy and without much impact.

The carne asada is the best meat they offer here, chopped into juicy scraps balanced between strong and mild. It responds well to the red salsa, which has a nice top-of-the-tongue heat. The green salsa is fresh, ingredient-heavy and bitey.

Tacos are generally preferred for carne asada delivery, but the Burrito Enchilado is not a bad vehicle for it. Drenched with a thick red sauce, the tortilla's skin is just able to be breached with the edge of a fork. It's bulky, but unfortunately is mostly rice. The combo adds a dense paste of refried beans with melted slivers of white cheese; the rice is the usual orange tint, with peas and carrots. There is little need for it since there's enough of it in the burrito.

It looks simple and dull, but the Quesadilla Sincronizada is fairly luscious with carnitas inside it. The shredded pork is from the softer side of the family, the texture of a smooth pot roast without crispy edges, but good. White cheese, white onion, and bits of green pepper and tomato invite themselves to the party.

Not that I look for shakes at a Mexican-derived eatery, but I'm enamored of their chocolate shake. No, really. It has an old-fashioned flavor, that slightly bitter, thin rasp of real ice cream.

A public pay lot lurks to one side, or you can usually find street parking. Other locations are at Olympic east of Alvarado, and an express version on Broadway east of the 5.

* Willie Nelson and sundry, but also Barry Manilow's "Even Now", Dylan's "Lay Lady Lady" and Neil Diamond's "Cracklin' Rosie". It leaves you a little confused but it's not a bad place to be.

Health and zen
6322 De Longpre Ave. (near Sunset & Vine)
Phone: 323-988-4052 | map | blog

A self-contained yoga studio, market, bookstore and lifestyle hub, Golden Bridge Yoga stoically ignores the nearby food destinations: a McDonald's, a KFC, and the sultry Los Balcones del Perú.

I'm usually a little awkward when entering such serene locations as this, especially with a book right up front with the title That's Why We Don't Eat Animals: A Book About Vegans, Vegetarians, and All Living Things.

Doubts race through my head: do I belong here? Do I exude the soulless stink of the omnivore? Am I emanating the waves of stress and anger of the working U.S. American? Am I inferior to these thin people wearing airy clothes, these willowy women with smooth-skinned tummies emerging from their prenatal yoga session?

However, there seems to be a sense of tolerance for such a murderous savage as I, and there is the Nite Moon Cafe to help me get a little more balanced*. A long counter winds around two walls, displaying foil-wrapped delicacies buffet-style or offering complex plates of well-assembled sandwiches.

The Tiki Masala Veggie Burger is a most impressive tempeh patty, with more heart and soul than most veggie translations of ground meat. Onions are barely caramelized and mix sweetly with a mango chutney and fresh basil. The whole wheat bun is scratchy but does not scream its grains.

The affair comes with mixed greens, straightforward enough, with crunchy seeds (bigger than sunflower, smaller than pumpkin... we're betting pine nut) and enough shredded carrots to make me feel like something good is going on in the vitamin-accumulation department.

One can build a salad from the buffet counter, and also ladle up some thick soups from metal bins. The warm, loving presence on the left is the repetitively-named Lentil Dhal; all the earth tones in the world are here, deep and robust, with bits of carrot and kidney bean for mass. It seems Indian-inspired, and unfortunately is not as good heated up the next day.

The curry-colored, cayenne-dusted bowl on the right is Mung Bean and Rice, which tastes remarkably like Aloo Gobi despite there being no cauliflower that we could detect. There are sparks of cumin and ginger.

The Grilled Goat Cheese sandwich is fairly plush, with the (non-vegan, by the way) goat cheese meshing with onions, spinach, Moroccan carrots, and tomato. The organic whole wheat bread, like the bun, is subdued.

Drinks are bottles of water (useful after long, cleansing bouts of yoga, which I don't do much), restful teas, or blended smoothies. I usually continue my healthful pursuits by getting a Berry Antioxidant, which whips up rice milk with berries of the blue, straw and rasp persuasion, and some hemp protein. It's deeply purple like moody velvet curtains, and vibrant.

* For example, from those occasions when I am recovering from a recently well-demolished plate of juicy carnitas, oh Lordy.

We might as well buy property on this side of town
132 S. Central Ave. (in Little Tokyo)
Phone: 213-613-9554 | map

A student of the "Angular Cramped Modern" school, Iza-yoi makes the most of its limited space, all straight lines and blocks under an arched ceiling. Large, noisy tables occupy much of the room, with one tiny table at the front window, staring across Central Avenue at the neon-shrouded storefronts of Johnny Rockets and Robeks Juice.

Reviews for izakaya style restaurants, where the dishes are small and varied like tapas, tend to be photo-heavy and lengthy, so with glasses filled to the brim with pale, dry and sneaky-as-hell Kira sake, we begin. The service is friendly, and fast.

Right off the bat we get ankimo, which means the melty opulence that is monkfish liver. Before you go clamoring for the exits to get a Rocket Single with Red Red Sauce® across the street, consider the worldwide appeal of foie gras, then consider that monkfish has a more delicate tang. Rinsed with sake, steamed, dotted with sliced green onion and made lively with ponzu sauce, monkfish liver is a delicacy. This is probably the favorite food of your local sushi chef; trust him.

This is more familiar, perhaps. The steamed dumplings here are, happily, shrimp: bulky and delicately rendered to a pastalike or steamed cauliflower consistency, and absolutely riveting. Tear this apart with your chopsticks and savor the slightly stiffened dough.

But, wait. There is age-shumai, fried dumplings, also shrimp. Proudly and sinfully glistening, these have an extra factor of divinity, ready for a quick dip in the sauce and a sigh-provoking bite. A deep-fried jalapeño pepper sits quietly between them, offering some subdued heat.

In an arm-wrestling match between the steamed dumplings and the fried... hmm. A draw. Get both.

Garlic Butter Sautéed Scallops and Mushrooms is not exactly a title we can resist, so we rather sensibly don't. On a bubbling clay plate, a tangle of enoki, shiitake and button mushrooms protect eight tiny scallops packed with power. The thin amber gravy makes this an addictive dish. (I'm starting to sound like Fukui Kenji on Iron Chef, aren't I.)

Spicy Crispy Toro.

Bianca: "Game, set, match."

How was this done and who dared to do it? A little fluffy hat of spicy punch, perfectly respectable, resting atop a cut roll that was deep-fried, making it crackerlike and rich. Wow. There are only four of these. Pity.

Other things: The Toro Cutlet is a typical katsu crackle muted by fatty tuna instead of the expected chicken or pork; it's slightly overfried, but if I had a utility belt full of the chunky mayo it comes with, I would apply it to everything.

There's Miso Baked Squid Legs, which is interesting; on a sizzling plate you vigorously mix an egg yolk with this into a brown slurry. The result is a very strong, almost sour miso flavor, and not Bianca's favorite, nor mine since the squid legs are too difficult to bite through. Save this for a few more glasses of Kira. (When I get good and tipsy I plan to bust out an order of Grilled Dried Stingray Fin, just to see what it is.)

This is all on the dinner menu; sashimi and udon exist for lunch, but are not a focus, so stick with bento or see if they'll give you an izakaya menu.

Iza-yoi is open until ten-thirty most days except Sunday. Parking can be found in the multi-level parking lot or on the corner of Central and First, where Señor Fish, Cuba Central and the Weiland Brewery pretend they aren't part of Little Tokyo.

I can't believe my parents never took me here
19565 Parthenia St. (west of Parthenia)
Phone: 818-886-5679 | map | website

On dusty Parthenia south of the ever-inflating Mall, this family affair has stood, thinking seriously about sandwiches, since I was two years old. Stained glass like jigsaw puzzle pieces stretches across the front.

The interior combines deli, with its long, sausage-hung counter disappearing into the distance, with coffee shop, made of wood and brick and frames with self-promoting reviews in them.

The booths are that chlorophyll gum color you might remember from those machines. Flowers sit on the table; Sirius Radio's '60s on 6 plays. The waitstaff will remember the last thing you order, and make you feel like a valued human being.

The first thing I try here is this magnetic draw, highly recommended by Brent's fans. The Black Pastrami Reuben looks civilized enough; the meat is lean and gloriously soft, not piled to the ceiling like a parched Jerry's pastrami but still taller than you can easily bite. You still need to choose your angle of attack, lest your sandwich begin its disassembly before your eyes.

The sauerkraut is mild and adds mostly texture; I usually pull off a few strands to reduce the amount my jaw must unhinge in order to encompass a single, thought-provoking bite. Melted swiss calms down the opinionated rye bread. It's all balanced.

I prefer multiplicities of meat between breads; I rarely get just a turkey or ham sandwich. So when I discover that the #30 (ground chicken burger) can become a #32 (the aforementioned chicken burger with some of that black pastrami draped over it like a romance heroine swooning on a couch), I point and say yes. Those people at Brent's just give and give and give.

The result is generous, and one needs to dig down a bit to get to the burger and marshall it into something one can pick up and devour. The chicken has that dry front-of-the-mouth heat, made peppery and briny by the cool strips of pastrami.

I've been on a kind of tuna/chicken salad kick lately--maybe I'm compensating for my longtime avoidance of celery and relish--so I gave the Whitefish Salad Sandwich a whirl.

The result is a great white cliff of salad that is insanely light and creamy without being cloying. Half a sandwich will do nicely--too much and its well-beaten lightness gets too airy to have fun with. I should have asked for the egg bread to be toasted a little for greater structural integrity. Always make sure your bread is sturdy, kids.

This is a not-terribly-guilty pleasure for me, especially since the chili itself is dwarfed by the accompanying bowls of shredded cheese and chopped onions (Too much cheese? Too much onion? Not computing). The chili is a burly beef-and-bean style, with a real "our camp chef is a big guy named Cookie who whipped this up for us after a long day of driving forty head of cattle" personality.

For sides, the fries are big solid crispy steak versions or the curly type; either is good enough. The baked beans are steamy hot and fresh, honest and slightly saucy. The cup of standard coleslaw hangs around the plate, trying not to be eclipsed.

Brent's is open until nine, at which time you might consider swaying next door to the Stovepiper Lounge (which has existed for two years longer) for drinks. There is a Brent's in Westlake Village, which is barely in Los Angeles County, so I'll barely mention it.

Chili that still has the blues
2018 W. Burbank Blvd. (east of Buena Vista)
Phone: 818-846-3611 | map

The photo has not been retouched; this corner building is really that desaturated, a block of white brick with pleasantly fading signage. The scent wafting from its kitchen is stronger than the color, leading me forward from the parking lot.

Chili John's claims to be the oldest restaurant in Burbank (since 1946), and I have no reason to argue with that considering the original patent for the chili* is older than Coca Cola's.

A big U-shaped counter commands the room; '60s psychedelia or old guitar blues plunk from somewhere overhead. The busy island in the middle is populated by the flotsam of a dozen steel pots, each with its own rendition of chili. For chili is what they do--mild, medium, spicy, beef, chicken, veggie--ladled from those metal containers over a hot dog (bun optional), over spaghetti, or over beans. This is not the gourmet-of-the-day sampler of Chili My Soul, nor the made-for-hot-dogs bliss of Pink's, but a familiar, familial, homely experience.

Even after it's delivered, a constant customization of your chili selection continues. Get cheese with that. Spoon in some chopped raw onion. A few shakes from a bottle of apple cider vinegar to remind you of the bitter times. You might even want to dump a few of those oyster crackers out of that carafe onto your plate to soak up some of the oil slick pooling at the bottom. I get a glass of root beer, hissing in a broken crumble of ice, and I can't imagine drinking anything else with this.

When I don't have a nice shirt on, I like the spicy beef over spaghetti: a real workhorse chili, dark and prominent with cumin. It has a rugged burn and everyone warns you about it, but is really not that hot. The spaghetti is past al dente, tonged steaming from its pot, and acts in concert with the chili to form a drippy red reservoir underneath.

My favorite combination is chili over beans. The photo, depicting a trio of medium-spicy beef (upper left), hot spicy beef (upper right) and spicy chicken (lower) does not convey how much moisture is actually in this heap of goodness. The chicken chili is really good, almost a favorite alongside the spicy beef, made for crushing with the tongue against your palate to extract all flavor. The beans are soft and comforting like a warm bed after a day on the chain gang.

The vegetarian chili is an unexpected texture; made from bulgur wheat, it almost seems like a hot bulgur salad than a chili, but it's tasty. Not my thing when I'm faced with meat chili, though.

There's lemon or pineapple pie for a nice cooldown afterward; the lemon is thinly crusted, tangy, and addictive.

Chili John's is its old reliable self until 7pm on weekdays, 4 on Saturday. It has a habit of being closed from June until Labor Day, during which I agonize during hot days when I am really in the mood for a solid, non-trendy tradition.

* There is a nearly nonexistent website called chilijohns.com, for the original location in Wisconsin; I believe the owner's son opened up Burbank's local luminary.