Curmudgeon

This morning, I took this photo of the post office, opened in 1890, I think. Kaweah was a short-lived utopian community in the wilds of Central California.

Boorish. That’s the designator I arrived at well into our experience here. To begin with, they did not honor our reservation, so we did not get the promised table on the deck overlooking the river. (Our relief accrued throughout our stay actually, as we watched the outside patrons getting drunker and drunker, swatting continuously at flies and hornets.) The menu proposed lots and lots of unhealthy items, as though no culinary advancements had occurred since the 60’s. My Beloved ordered seafood crepes; I, the dinner-sized Caesar salad with shrimp. Oh, dear. The enormous pile of limp romaine fragments that eventually arrived was topped with 5 flavorless shrimp that seemed merely to have been defrosted, then carefully and evenly spaced, all their tails pointing the same direction. The seafood crepes also seemed to have been produced from the freezer, then smeared in canned hollandaise. The salad was $20; the crepes, $24.

This place was recommended to us as “the best restaurant in town.” What will we do tonight and tomorrow? Resign ourselves to a weekend of trail mix and the rye whiskey we brought from L.A., I guess.

We’re here right now at this guest house. Arrived yesterday afternoon. Charming. Open only 60 days after a 3-year renovation. Right on the river (well, one of the town’s eponymous three). We’re in the least expensive of the 3 rooms: the Garden Room. It’s away from the river, small, but big enough for this little weekend getaway we’re undertaking. Yesterday, a gaggle of local boys was having a blast negotiating the little stretch of rapids in the river. A middle-aged client of this guest house approached them for coaching in how to bodysurf the rapids without getting banged up the way one of the proprietors did recently when she found herself dragged along the wrong side of the boulders. I enjoy seeing hierarchies upended on occasions when youngsters’ expertise is deemed important by oldsters.

July 27, 2008 entry
Just went and ate. One of the most all around pleasureable restaurant experiences I’ve had in a long, long time. The decor, the ambience, the service, the food, the hospitality of the owner. The menu manages eclectism without the offputting haphazardness that that has come to be. I had grits and shrimp (!), flavored with sauteed mushrooms, tasso, and Herbsaint. (How fun is Herbsaint! We’ve been drinking Sazeracs all summer, but I’ve never experienced the liqueur in any food item.)

July 12, 2008 entry
I half-lied when I clicked “I’ve been here.” We walked over after our dinner at Bistro de la Gare just now, so we could study the menu. We WILL come here to eat, yes indeed. The hostess talked up the brunch. Now that I’ve logged on to 43places, I see that one of the prior posts on this page mentioned the brunch specifically.

My friend Catherine is visiting from Albuquerque, housesitting in Glendale. She asked for restaurant recommendations. Here’s the text of the email about Shamshiri that I just sent her:

It’s in a little complex, the most visible establishment of which is a Japanese grill. At Shamshiri, order fesenjan (chicken in a ground walnut and pomegranate syrup sauce) or the grilled fish (either salmon or white fish). Or shish kebab or any of the kebabs, really. Also, the eggplant dip appetizer and paneer o’ sabzi. Also, either of the soups ash-e joe or ash-e must. Plan to just eat and eat and eat. You will not be able to suppress happiness. (And who would want to?)

Addendum: My absolute favorite L.A. area Persian restaurant is Javan in West L.A., but getting there by car takes about an hour. Shamshiri runs a close second and is only 10 minutes away, so, that’s where we go routinely.

Just now, this morning, seated in our ramada nook, we spotted a Lesser Goldfinch, the first I remember seeing on this property in the 15 years I’ve lived here. This visitation followed last night’s sighting of two other birds that were new to us. We were sitting in the Spa-Henge patio at dusk, within view of the fountain, keeping company with our regular band of Mourning Doves, Band-tailed Pigeons, House Finches, and hummingbirds; when we identified first a Blue-gray Gnatcatcher, then an Orange-crowned Warbler.

9/5/08 Post: It’s gone.
Locked up. The main sign is still up, but all other evidence of human habitation has been removed. Darn. Our one and only neighborhood birriería. We stopped by for lunch after volunteering at the food distribution program and were disappointed. But … we discovered a new place. We decided to head to Tacos La Fonda (our default when we’re all grungy), but just before we got to San Fernando Road, I spotted banners and flags at what turned out to be a Guatemalan restaurant: Puerto Barrios. Great food there!

5/5/08 Post: Just back from our first visit
Yes, this purported birriería does, in fact, serve birria, though the item appears neither on their flyer nor on the vast and detailed, handwritten menu posted across the front. I ordered it and ate it with gusto. Quite good. My Beloved got pescado a la plancha (my usual order at Tacos La Fonda). Also very good, with a smattering of pickled-then-grilled onions strewn about. (I’ve had ‘em pickled, I’ve had ‘em grilled, but I’ve never had ‘em pickled-then-grilled. How wonderful they were!) The viscous, blood red chile de arbol salsa that was brought for lacing my goat sopa was as basic as it gets and darned good. We’ll go back!

4/21/08 Post: Why I want to go to this place
Or “Why I think I want to go to this place”: Birria. The first thing to go up was a banner announcing the upcoming opening of a birriería. It would be the neighborhood’s first and would preclude our having to drive to Maria's Ramada in Hollywood, or La Golondrina Café downtown on Olvera Street, or Birrieria Jalisco in Boyle Heights for our favorite goat dish. But after the little stand opened, we stopped by and picked up a flyer with the menu. Studying it later at home, we found no mention of birria. Hm. Nevertheless, their menu does indicate items that are not so readily available; e.g., carne guisado and an abalone tostada. Still, I’ll be disappointed if there’s no goat to be got.

Went last night for The Celestial Opera Company’s opening night performance of Bedrich Smetana’s The Bartered Bride.

“How do you wear a dhoti?” The Beloved asked. How did he come to the question, I wondered aloud. In preparation for our trip to India this fall, he is reading Gandhi’s autobiography and reached a point where Gandhi, who is still wearing Western clothes, is noting with interest that some Indians wear their traditional garb, even to formal occasions hosted by the British.

I explained in detail how the Holy Ghost seminarians taught me to wrap a dhoti, back in 1979. And then I thought, “Whatever became of my dhoti?” And I’ve since rummaged through drawers and closets to no avail. And now I’m anxious. Like it matters. But I hate losing track of My Things.

Is the obnoxious, vulgar employee who gave us such poor service today—loudly—the same guy who stood by the cash register delivering an extended account—loudly—of some kind of fungal sinus infection he had the last time I was there about a year ago?