So my posts are starting to get comments which are obviously spam: a line or two of vaguely appreciative near-English, a fake email address, and a link.

Examples:

"I came across your blog, i think your blog is cool, keep us posting."
"Interesting post i totally agree with the comments above. Keep writing"
"I see a lot of interesting articles here. Bookmarked"
"Nice post, i think i saw something similar on http://{spammy URL inserted here} and they talk about similar issues."

... This one has its own emotional stuff to work out, I guess:

"@Markus I get your drift on where you were going there. I often think of my past and use it as a means to analyze where I am and where I want to get to. Where I struggel is balancing it all out. How do you guys balance things out?"

... And I like this one, translated apparently from Martian:

"I like MAC very much,i think the brand is our ladys' love.
but i think MAC Gel Eyeliner is so decipensiveas to out of our phrase.
it's special for these young ladys who just have a low salry job. Though we can buy the charming goods in those brand's shops ,we can get it from internet with lower price ,
it's said that buying MAC Concealer and MAC Makeup Brushes will get MAC Brow pencil discount,
that's great!,it's good for our ladys to get it asap!"

... [sic]!!

They do it so that if the comment appears on my blog, they've got a free link back to their spammy site, which makes Google think that lots of people link to them, making them appear valid and pushing them higher in the rankings. Gnome-Sayin'?

Hey, I think it's a good thing. It means at least the spambots have found me out, so my blog is not as near the bottom of the web heap as it could be. I just delete the comments and move on.

However, I got this one:

"Just want to tell you that your website content is interesting, but you must improve site design"

... Hey, you machine-packed tin of pork meat! You bonavasitch! This is based off a b2evolution template, yes, but all the graphics are mine, you reprobate! Why I outta!

Wonder what makes them think a comment like that would go unnoticed.

Sure, I come here sometimes, why not?
958 S. Fair Oaks Ave. (Pasadena location)
Phone: 626-441-4353 | map | website

Since tumbleweeds have started bouncing lazily across my site, I am compelled to bust out one of my sparse "kept in reserve" reviews.

Rather than the sleepy-village decor of Don Cuco, it's more like the interior of your tia's house... that is, if your tia has frilly white dresses and a house the size of a nobleman's mansión. Upon stepping inside you will spy the prominent black and white photo of a handsome woman (presumably Rosa Borquez) in a brilliant black dress, and her diminutive husband.

El Cholo has been bombasted a bit by the culinary community (the original location on Western reflects that, having descended into a battered, unimpressive rhythm), yet it's still kind of a comforting institution, with specific dishes that have cemented it as a model "Mexican restaurant." They do have tons of tequilas, but don't flaunt the party vibe... you know, the "we're only a step above suck because we make our Cuervo margaritas unnecessarily strong" vibe. All of this means that I beg you not to grind margarita salt in my eyes because I'm writing about this catering company-owned restaurant that I might go to occasionally when I'm in Pasadena.

The chips are multicolored--I'm still on the fence about whether red and green tortilla chips should deduct from street cred--but the salsa is pretty good, thin and tomato-heavy with some serrano sharpness. Do ask for fresh guacamole made at your table; it's one of the finer ones we've tasted, avocados, red onions, cilantro and lemon juice elegantly mixed by a busy woman with a smile and a mortar and pestle. Couple that with one of their massive bowls of albondigas soup and you'll have difficulty finishing the main course.

The Blue Corn Enchiladas are a staple of mine (and of Rosa, according to the menu), with a tomatillo sauce, sour cream, avocados, and black beans and rice. The tacos here are rolled-style, and the enchiladas have extra meat piled on top, as if your tia thinks you're too skinny and need to eat more, mi hijo.

The oldest enchilada served here (since 1923) is the Sonora Style, a hefty layered beast. Between plate-sized corn tortillas rests great white strata of chicken made tender in an onion and tomato broth; drippy cheese and a fried egg add a lush tang. Surrounding it is a moat of deepest red and green sauce.

At the end of it all, a small plate of tooth-shatteringly sweet dulce de leche cookies beckons.

The parking lot is long and expansive, but there's valet for some reason.

It seems obviously connected with the other locations, but keeps its own website.

So I gave some hand-wringing excuses, begged your indulgence, and allowed myself to ease up on reviews while I desperately tried to get work done, write some essays, and read some textbooks.

I promptly got sick. The fever thing, the congestion thing, the cough thing. A small squad of antibiotics and other assorted pills later, and I recovered.

Then the cough returned, with a revenge complex. I have been sounding like the end of any movie with a Doc Holliday character in it, and generally suffering from malaise and exhaustion. A stronger dose of antibiotics and a steroid medication later, and I am pulling through it.

So I am short on reviews. I've been recovering with some ramen from Mr. Ramen, some tenshin men from Koraku, some matzoh ball noodle soup at Billy's, and spicy Thai broth from Wat Dong Moon Lek. Lunch during work has been quick jaunts to Tarascos and Las Glorias and Bulan Thai.

Hopefully we'll have some new experiences for you, soon.

Dave

A side of beef, a stirred cocktail, and thou
3361 W. 8th St. (west of Normandie)
Phone: 213-382-8449 | map | website

You are first struck by the long and sophisticated bar, made of wood and black vinyl and brass and envy; heavy wooden beams loom overhead like a sailing ship's cabin. Started in 1953 and here in its current incarnation since 1970, Taylor's makes me wish I was old enough to have been coming here since before Cosmos were invented.

It's dim like Hades inside. Plush carpet and red booths abound, with a tall pepper grinder standing like a chess queen on every table. Paintings adorn the paneled walls. We are seated beneath an oil-on-canvas of a Flemish gentleman with a wry look on his face and an uncanny resemblance to Jeff Bridges.

We down a few well-made Manhattans, marveling at Porterhouses and T-Bones being paraded by on sizzling trays. We are pursuing a healthier lifestyle, but no tofu dish can ever smell like that grand, trumpeting-fanfare scent of red meat on metal.

Taylor's is a steak house but remembers that the color green exists in the world. We order the Fresh Asparagus, great beams of vegetable confidence with knots of burn, nicely rendered with a hollandaise sauce the way you remember it from those yacht trips during childhood*.

We are compelled to try other things. The Molly Dinner Salad is a sneer at modern mixed greens. A big, cruise-ship-threatening wedge of iceberg lettuce rises above the plate, dotted with chopped onion and tomato and nonchalantly crowned with a non-chunky bleu cheese. I do not care how devoid of vitamins it is, I love iceberg lettuce. It is simple, retrofitted perfection.

Bianca goes a little higher end with a quintet of Oysters on the Half Shell. Fresh, simplistic, clean, with a cocktail sauce that is first cousins with ketchup, but who cares? Bink, who could eat oysters daily, is happy.

This is Taylor's, don't forget, and their disclaimer says "Not responsible for well done steaks," so don't request your beef done to the color of grey leather. Coming to Taylor's and having nobody get steak is a little like ordering the "For Our Gringo Friends" cheeseburger at a Mexican restaurant. It might be good, but some sinning has been committed.

Their specialty is the Culotte, the tenderest part of the top sirloin, only two of which are cut from the steer (not the cow--the steer). It arrives brilliantly hissing on metal, criss-crossed with scars, bathing the center of the tongue with strong flavor, with enough fat for punctuation. It is astounding. Argentine beef may be a better source material, but what the Taylor's kitchen does to it is masterful, a meal that (this time) surpasses Carlitos Gardel.

You may get a baked potato with this, but Cottage Fries, as unique to potatoes as au gratin or scalloped, are the only thing that can stand up to this as an accomplice. Cut into thick chips but soft, with a little french-fry raspiness, they are made perfect with a dab of leftover hollandaise.

Bianca (the non-steak-eating half of our duo) keeps with the seafood scheme, ordering the special for that evening, Jumbo Scallops. They are robust rather than subtle, pillow-tender with a just-past-correct bit of blackened snap; they are served with a creamy ber blanc sauce, some of which I also steal for my cottage fries.

The sides are what they need to be, the have-meat-now-need-potatoes accompaniments: baked potato properly fluffy, peas and carrots filling out the right corners of the food groups.

We haven't much room, but there is a nice key lime pie, thick with crust and singing with tartness. We down it, too.

There is a private room in back for parties, and we expect to take advantage of that. Taylor's has its own lot, uneasily valeted.

* I never had a yacht trip during childhood. I'm merely assuming that this is what we Caucasians must have done back in the '50s, '60s and '70s when steak houses and gin martinis still held sway. Before we lost the Smooth.

Suddenly I want to visit the Windy City
1800 W. Sunset Blvd. (in Echo Park)
Phone: 213-989-1558 | map | website

I admit to prejudgment upon walking into Masa. My thoughts: "Oh, no. This decor. Saffron walls and flowers and oak chairs and peeling-paint rustic furniture and wine list and loud tablecloths. This means it's another gentrified bistro wishing it was French, 'rated' by 'Zagat' and 'blithely' 'ignoring' its own 'neighborhood' until nicer people move in."

I am wholly, utterly, shamefully wrong.

The people are wonderful. Masa is aware of its history and its locale, even the businesses that existed in this spot back to the '20s. It knows and loves Echo Park without a sense of exclusion.

The seating is casual, as if a restaurant quietly grew around a bakery counter and coffee bar. They make their own dough here, use organic local produce, and import what they need to make the Chicago-centric part of their menu. You may be seated near Echo Park local personage Miss Judy.

The Parmesana Panini is bigger than expected, layered under neutral but harmonious butter-slicked bread. If this was by itself with some pasta, it would already be a paragon of Chicken Parmesania. The chicken is superbly done, thoughtfully seasoned, lush and just crunchy enough. The marinara is a deep Sicilian red, and shouts of tomato freshness.

The salad is tangy, and of greater interest than I can think to write about it. The dressing is low-key, suggestive of shallots, lemon and a trace of balsamic vinegar.

There are Spinach & Mushroom Crêpes, to which you can add rosemary chicken or grilled veggie chicken. The thin, elastic sheets of crêpe taste of peppercorns, hiding the spinach, sliced mushrooms and swiss cheese; the effect is almost stroganoffian in robustness.

They make thin crust "bistro" pizzas here, without making claims to being authentically New York, which is fine with me. It is a successful rendition.

If I'm still on a chicken parmesan kick, I get the Lucretia (baked chicken parmesan, pomodoro sauce, mozzarella and bay leaves). Otherwise I like the Douglas: homemade sweet Italian sausage, studded with fennel and falling apart, shreds of green pepper, purple rings of onion, mozzarella melted just so, and more of that impressive marinara, sweet and tomato-strong. I normally do not write sentences that long, by the way, but that's how fast I go through their pizzas: with barely a pause. They are Masa's own interpretation, and fabulous. The crust is thin as a pair of half dollars.

Masa's Chicago Pizzas, however, do make this claim of familiarity; Co-owner Ron was born and raised in Chicago. With a lot of love and the eighty-year-old revolving oven, it takes forty minutes to bake each pie.

Although fully aware that a Chicago pizza out here in California means needlessly puffy, tasteless dough and extra poundage to work off, I normally do not care for Chicago deep dish pizza. If Masa's pies are any indication of what a good pizza might be like in Chicago, I now understand the controversy.

I like the Traditional, with mushrooms and sausage. The homemade sweet Italian sausage appears again, but in sheets instead of crumbled spheres, hence why it looks a little alarming in the photo, but please trust me when I say it's delicious. Garlic is present, and the cheese melts like an underground glacier under the red, red sauce. It is complex, and amazing. The crust is like nothing I've ever tasted, prominent with cornmeal, with a trace of biscuity sweetness. I forget to shake parmesan cheese over my pizza, and I always shake parmesan over things.

Perhaps there is a way to pick this up, but I understand why they call it a pizza pie. I prefer a fork.

Parking for Masa is going to be metered, whether along the street (with fairly forgiving signage if they're not filming something) or in one of the blue-signed public lots.

A bit of Lima at Louise
8246 Louise Ave. (@ Roscoe, in Northridge)
Phone: 818-708-7061 | map | website

It is roomier than it looks, a humble counter facing walls of red. Rainbows of blankets lie under acrylic tablecloths. The interior is modest, but Peru's Taste gives Puro Sabor a run for its nuevos soles with the skill of its kitchen.

I first try a Peruvian/Chinese staple, the Pollo Saltado, dark chicken stir-fried with french fries and the ever-present red onion and tomato. The french fries are wan and uniform and probably not homemade; they are not the focus of this.

It is something about the juices. Delicate colors of green herb and dark spice gather toward something sublimely delicious, soaking into the foot of the steamed rice rising like a step pyramid above the plate. The taste can be savored for long minutes afterward; even a single slice of limp red onion is worthy of praise.

With over 2400 kilometers of coastline, Peruvian fare should be capable with the seafood, and it is reflected here. The Pescado a la Chorrillana is from Chorrillos, a district on the sound end of Lima, and it is my new favorite fish dish. Two large fillets are fried lightly, tender and shreddy, utterly unlike a fluffy beer-battered fish 'n chips style. Tomato and red onion, of course, are sautéed and laid over them like a romantic plot.

Peru also has an obsession with the potato, as might be assumed from the fries one sees in saltado dishes. On this plate there is a potato, sliced in half; each half is itself fried. The result is one potato-sized french fry, which seems unwise but really makes a lot of flavorly sense, and beats a baked potato two throws out of three.

The plantains here--porción de platano frito--are caramelized into deep browns and ambers, beautifully sweet and barely crispy at the ends. I will crave these too.

Their version of the puréed chili sauce known as aji is the color of mustard and instantly furious, the hottest of the Peruvian places I know except possibly for Mamita. It gives your tongue no greeting or attention at all, preferring to leap over it and slam into the back of your throat.

What else... I must try the salchipapas. French fries and sausage? Why isn't this already popular? French fries and sausage. Please. Write your Congressperson.

The chicha morada is thin and sweet and not memorable, but you're going to drain it quickly when you've dabbed too much aji over your dish.

Peru's Taste is in an uneven little corner mall (note the strange angles in the first photo), so parking is plentiful.

The Peruvian poll:

Mario's: Best Chance for Being Carted Home in a Basket
Los Balcones del Perú: Classiest Place for Making Yourself Useless
Lola's: Best Chicha Morada
Mamita: Most tongue-spanking Aji sauce
Peru's Taste: Most savory sauces
Puro Sabor: Best Lomo Saltado
Choza Mama: Most comfortably home-style