Linni Eats L.A.: Cru (Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the V-Neck)

Hip·ster / ˈhipstər/
• n. inf. a blanket term describing middle-to-upper class young people associated with alternative culture, particularly alternative music, independent film and a lifestyle revolving around thrift store shopping, eating organic, locally grown, vegetarian, and/or vegan food, drinking local beer, listening to public radio, and riding fixed-gear bicycles.

A wise woman once told me that it takes a hipster to know a hipster, and that was the thought plaguing me on a recent dining excursion in L.A.

The restaurant was in Silver Lake, hipster haven and domicile to all things scene. American Apparels line the streets, Schwinn Stingrays deliver their owners to another shift at the coffee house, and even the dollar stores sell Ray Ban knock-offs. I've spent a great deal of time hating on the particular genre of human that inhabits this neighborhood, but I never judge without the slight nagging suspicion that I could be one of them. I was having a hell of a hard time shaking this feeling when I found myself at a restaurant just off Sunset Blvd. A raw, vegan restaurant. Wearing a flannel.

The idea itself nearly ruined my appetite, but self-loathing tends to come hand in hand with the v-necks and zip-up hoodies. How else would the Silver Lake crowd manage to appear so aloof and judgmental if they weren't constantly judging themselves as well? But this is not a psych analysis—it is a restaurant review. And I'm just giving you a taste of the neuroses that haunted my expectations of Cru, arguably one of the most popular vegan eateries in Los Angeles.

The waiter who let us in was appropriately odd, but the experience itself did not force itself down your throat as some trendy establishments tend to. There was an unpretentious subtlety in everything, from the decor to the menu, and even the clientele. The couple next to my table were sporting some sweet southern accents and mullets, and asked our advice on how to order vegan food. On the other side, an older couple said they'd made the trek from Culver City, which had been a common tradition for years since the wife decided it was her favorite restaurant in Los Angeles, vegan or otherwise.

The menu keeps things simple as well—as simple as a gluten-free and mostly raw menu can be. We started off with the chickpea fritters, which came with a dilled sour cream made with cashews, coconut meat, dill, and garlic. The fritters were fried using coconut oil, a flavor that nearly overpowered everything else in this dish. The sour cream's dill cut the sweetness, but these fried-egg look-a-likes were almost too moist for dipping. This wasn't entirely unpleasant, but a touch less grease and a bit more pan time would elevate this dish to perfection.

Our entrees were a little closer to sublime. The mushroom quinoa risotto came with a mixed green salad and a fig pate made with apricots, dates, and something that tasted a little bit like pumpkin pie. The quinoa made this dish a little sweeter than your ordinary risotto, and the chefs opted to forego cheese, which left it a little lacking in creaminess. Fortunately, our waiter had overheard me expressing regret at not ordering a side of cashew cheese and brought some out with our dinner, which blended into the risotto in perfect harmony.

The cheese also tasted great on the pumpkinseed walnut chorizo wrap, a blend of bell peppers, zucchini, chorizo and onions wrapped with field greens, tomato, avocado and cilantro in a perfectly unblemished, thick collard wrap that held this baby together better than any tortilla could. The chorizo and nuts blended to create an earthy warm vibe in my mouth, but the collard made this downright refreshing for comfort food. It also came with a dipping sauce made with mustard seeds, coconut meat, and some vague hint of tamari, perfect for dipping either the wrap or the raw sweet potato chips that came along with it.


While the desserts are often the most astounding part of a raw or vegan menu, this "light" meal had us groaning in expanded-belly bliss before we even polished off the cashew cheese. It's a shame—the Cru chocolate truffle fudge cake has quite the reputation, as does the brownie a la mode with coconut meat cashew ice cream. Judging from the satisfied moans of the southern couple next to us, that brownie alone would be worth another trip to scenester-ville. Silver Lake isn't so bad after all, and if this is what it means to eat hipster, I think I could get on board with the movement. My dining partner and I did manage to order all cooked entrees at this nearly-100% raw restaurant, which could mean there's hope for us yet.

Then again, it could mean we're just so good at that odd-ball "alternative culture" thing that we don't even notice it anymore. And now my appetite's spoiled.

For more information on Cru, visit www.crusilverlake.com.

"Hipster" dictionary definition courtesy of Wikipedia

Linni Eats L.A.: Dino's

Legend is a funny thing. Nowhere is this more apparent than Los Angeles, a city that puts a higher premium on hype than Kanye West, environmentalists, and 10th graders stealing their parents booze.

So after hearing all the Dino's lore, I had visions of a chicken shrine dancing through my head on the ride over. I pictured a hole in the wall with one dude leaning from a rusty, cracked window ledge, flinging entire chickens like frisbees at loyal devotees anxiously awaiting their bouquet-toss moment. I thought I'd feel like the chosen one when my order was finally up, awarded with a small fortune in french fries so amazing, they might as well be diamond-studded.

My imagination, of course, got the best of me. Every time I think I know better than to let Los Angeles legend get my hopes up, another Casa Bianca, Pink's, or In-N-Out comes along to smash my dreams.

To all the Dino's converts out there, please don't get the wrong idea. I do think your precious chicken & fry combo is a fantastic deal and really quite tasty. My let-down stems not from lackluster flavor, but from the fact that people talk about this place like it is where chicken begins and ends. At the end of the day, it's a burger joint that just happens to make a brilliant concoction of Tabasco, citrus juices, and whatever other secrets Dino has stashed in his war-torn apron.

There is something to be said for this sauce, though. Forget Big Macs—this stuff is special. It would have to be, to make me not only enjoy soggy fries, but wolf them down like I hadn't seen food for days. A $5.50 order comes out in a large styrofoam box, the bottom layer a thatch of fries soaked by juice from the half-chicken nestled on top. The chicken looks tandoori-style, with skin the pinkish-orange of a desert sunset. I spent the better part of my time at Dino's trying to decide what was in the sauce. I saw chili flakes, and there was a faint hint of citrus. It wasn't traditionally spicy, yet my nose was running like crazy. Overall, it just tasted red.

For your Lincoln-and-change, this order also comes with a few warm corn tortillas and some really basic coleslaw. I doubt there was anything more than mayo and cabbage in it, but it was a perfectly cool partner to the chicken's heat and great for dipping those saucy fries. Apparently one must also order the root beer here, another subject of hype that I didn't quite understand. My dining companions insisted that Dino's had somehow achieved the perfect balance of syrup and carbonation, but if this differed from A&W, I couldn't tell.

All root beer aside, if I'm going to get on board with any Dino's hype, it will be because of the fries. As someone who digs shamelessly through fry bags for the crunchy ones, the idea of a bed of fried potato soaked in chicken sauce makes me a little nauseous. But this place isn't famous because of it's ability to win crispy-lovers over to the soggy side. They're famous for the intrigue of that mystery sauce, about which the counter man remains mum. After eating way more than I intended, hoping with every new bite to guess the secret ingredient, I'm still clueless. Ketchup? Oranges? Black tar heroin? All I know is that it had me burping up garlic hours after dinner. If this all sounds worth the hullabaloo to you, let Dino's try to give you a run for your money—at $5.50 for a half a chicken and sides, they won't have to try very hard.

Visit www.dinoschickenandburgers.com for more information

Linni Eats L.A.: Osteria Mozza

When dining at the restaurant of a celebrity chef, it's hard for me to stay focused on the food.

One minute I'm scanning the diners for a familiar face, the next I'm glancing up at the waiter to find that Wolfgang Puck has decided to deliver my steak. It was no different at Osteria Mozza, where I found myself scanning footwear for Mario Batali's orange Crocs. I wasn't expecting him, but then again I wasn't expecting Colin Farrell to walk behind me during dessert, either. This dinner was full of surprises.

Things started off pretty predictable for a high-end restaurant. The menu couldn't be navigated without waiter assistance, the crowd of elites and wannabes were sweating money, and the acoustics made conversation damn near impossible. But hey, at least we weren't seated in the restaurant equivalent of a nosebleed section, as I've often gotten at popular spots like this.

The menu is divided into antipasti (which includes the mozzarella bar), primi, secondi, and dolci. The secondi mains were primarily enormous slabs of meat, so my table stuck to what Italians do best—cheese and pasta. Our primi selection included the scamorza panino, a smokey mozzarella sandwich whose bread had slices of Armandino mole salami pressed onto it. The crunchy toasted bread gave way to tangly threads of perfectly pliant cheese that cut the spicy mole and a side of dressed arugula completed the picture. I didn't splurge on these, however, assuming that an Italian restuarant's pastas would steal the show from any other course. My table eagerly ordered the orecchiette with sausage and swiss chard, tagliatelle with oxtail ragu, and the maltagliati with wild boar ragu after much heated debate with each other and guidance on the foreign titles from our waiter.

Perhaps our mistake was ordering two ragus. Perhaps I shouldn't have heeded my mother's advice that calf's brain ravioli would be mushy and tasteless, or maybe it would have helped to heed the waiter's suggestion to try the gnudi, a pasta dumpling Mozza was filling with ricotta and serving with chanterelles. Whatever we did wrong, the primi course brought our first big surprise--or should I call it a disappointment? The pasta at this institution was—gasp!—underwhelming. For being handmade in the back of the very space we were dining in, these slippery noodles and meat sauce tasted like nothing more than just that—noodles and meat sauce. The orecchiette's sausage had remote subtleties, but where was the swiss chard? And the maltagliati (which means hand-made), advertised as delightfully rustic torn shreds of pasta, differed only marginally from the tagliatelle in both flavor and mouth-feel. I actually picked at our side of spinach with crispy garlic with more excitement than dinner itself. Put briefly, I was bored.

Was I just inept at recognizing good Italian food? Or was Mario's absence from the kitchen a real hindrance? I dog-paddled through the waves of self-doubt and confusion long enough to accept the dessert menu placed in my hands. The sweet cap on meals isn't usually what gets me juiced, but this proved to be the meal-saver this place needed.

I should have known—Mario opened the joint with Nancy Silverton, pastry chef extraordinaire and co-founder of L.A. bread cornerstone La Brea bakery. And what the dinner chefs lack in pizzazz, fancy Nancy more than makes up for at meal's end. The three desserts we ordered were, hands down, the best I've ever tasted. I know that blanket statements like that are pretty useless, but this one is worth it's weight in honesty. The apple borsellino with apple cider jelly gelato and caramel sauce had the most delicate flakey pastry and sultry, salty caramel flavor, while the bombolini with huckleberry compote and lemon gelato tasted like a cake donut on uppers. The texture, temperature, sight and smell of these pastries couldn't please my senses more, but the accessories nearly steal the show by staying so true to their titles—the lemon gelato tasted like a lemon, while the caramel sauce made me realize that perhaps I'd never tasted caramel before. The big finish came, however, with a dessert to tug at your heartstrings. The rosemary olive oil cakes with olive oil gelato and rosemary brittle were the reason I decided to come to Mozza, and with such high hopes, a potential let-down was in order. But Nancy couldn't let that happen, could she?

I would not be exaggerating to say that this dish brought slight moisture to my eyes. I had to plant both forearms on the table and just look at it, for a moment. The moist tiny cakes came in shapes like stars and flowers, flecked with rosemary specks; the brittle sat in a neat shiny wave, breaking against the gelato it perched on; and the gelato. The gelato. It wasn't enough for it to taste like olive oil—it had to taste like earthy, expensive, high-quality olive oil. The cakes managed to taste like they'd been soaked in the stuff, yet weren't greasy, and still retained their wintery rosemary warmth. I tread lightly with my fork, never wanting the moment to end. I think I may have had a religious experience with that plate.

It will be hard to go back and order anything else, but Silverton's also crafted a fritelle de riso with Nocello-soaked raisins and banana gelato to tempt me away from rosemary olive oil heaven. And there's also a tre agrumi ghiacciati with grapefruit sorbetto, meyer lemon gelato, and key lime cannoli, and while I haven't the faintest clue what the first part of that means, the side components are enough to make me find out.

For a celebrity chef's joint, Osteria Mozza is relatively affordable. I still wouldn't make a habit out of eating dinners here, but that may be due to my sub-par pasta experience. It's probably worth it to give the meats a try, or go for just a starter cheese course. But I'd say save your money and just go in for what they do best—dessert.

Visit mozza-la.com for more info on both Osteria Mozza and Pizzeria Mozza

Linni Eats L.A.: Barbecue Trucks

Why do trucks have to equal tacos around here? Why don’t any other cheap and dirty foods find their way into our bellies via motor vehicle? The Leos and Rambos of our world sit comfortably on their high horses, assured of their seat at the top, so comfortable they barely keep an eye open for competition. It seems like, under these conditions, an enterprising entrepreneur-on-wheels could hatch a unique model that would siphon customers away from the monopoly of masa, no problem. But what would they serve?

Barbecue, apparently. In 2009, Eagle Rock has seen the introduction of two new members to their motorized fleet, neither of which are serving your mom’s asada burrito. Hollywood darling Kogi BBQ hasn’t strayed too far off the tortilla-pressed path, as they still serve burritos and tacos with only the fillings tweaked. And those fillings aren't all that impressive--I once had the famous short rib taco and had to actually look for the meat, because I sure couldn't taste it. Over on York Blvd., though, there is a truck making BBQ the likes of which I’ve never tasted in southern California, much less from an automobile.

Caribbean Dreams Texas BBQ has had a bold yellow sign draped across what looks like an apartment balcony for the better part of my time at Occidental. The building looks abandoned, as does the parking lot in front of it, except for one stationary truck. The sign has read “Coming soon!” rather emphatically for as long as I can remember, and I had pretty much given up my hopes of ever trying it upon leaving for Winter Break this year.

But wait. In January, things were shifting. Each drive by, something had moved—stacks of chairs and tables littered the lot, grills were set up on the concrete and one day I even saw smoke billowing out the top of the truck. Rumor had it they weren’t technically open, but a friend of mine had walked right up to sample the goods and they hadn’t turned him away. After weeks of hearing about this special treatment, I had to see for myself.

The friend insisted on coming with—“they know me,” he said, insisting I wouldn’t get the special treatment without him. We moseyed up to the abandoned-looking vehicle and he poked his head inside the passenger door. Out came a tattooed waitress who set up two chairs and a table for us in the parking lot and Fausto, 5-star chef extraordinaire and ex-cop, who kindly embraced us both before retreating into the belly of the beast to whip up something magnificent. I’d told him to give me a sampling of their best, and to throw an empanada in for good measure.

The story of the York lot goes like this—Fausto is Ecuadorian, and became a police chief there before transferring to the U.S. to work a similar job (he’ll flash you his FBI badge at the merest mention of this). He then quit to cook in several 5-star restaurants before deciding to open up a barbecue place with his business partner, who sadly wasn’t there the day I visited. The waitress had joined the team under the guidance of Fausto, a father, uncle and mentor figure who’d helped her get out trouble and was now teaching her to become a chef. She prepared our homemade horchata to-order and it was divine.

Despite the setting, we had clean glassware, sharp steak knives and silver cutlery—no plastic here. First up was the pumpkin empanada, a big doughy pocket filled with a cheesy pumpkin concoction that wasn’t cloyingly sweet or pie-like, just solid squash flavor. Then Fausto himself brought out the main event, a large plate stacked with rice, corn on the cob, salad and a heaping pile of sausage, ribs, chicken and tri-tip, all smothered in barbecue sauce. You can try eating with the fancy silverware if you want, but I gave up the ghost about halfway through the meal and used the sophisticated utensils god gave me, leaning heavily on the never-ending napkin supply.

I’ve struggled to find decent barbecue in this state, but it’s good to know there’s a 5-star chef who clearly knows what he’s doing a mere textbook toss away from campus. They technically open mid-morning and close around 8, but according to Fausto, he lives right behind the truck and will serve us whenever we knock on his door. They may develop real hours, though, when the grand opening takes place and a real menu surfaces. That’s tentatively scheduled for a month from now, and the team has big plans and decorations all lined up. But for now I’m just happy to show up with a ten dollar bill and get a veritable feast from the side of an automobile.

Caribbean Dreams Texas BBQ is located on the corner of Hazelwood and York Blvd.

Linni Eats Boulder: Centro

Awarding a restaurant the title of "best happy hour" is a little bit like awarding a serious film the title of "hottest cast" --sure, it can be an enjoyable side effect, but it is so not the point.

Any serious chef will tell you that working in a pub kitchen is not the most stimulating exercise of their culinary skills. It doesn't take much to deep-fry and it's pretty easy to please a cheap crowd getting increasingly lubricated by the drink. But in a town like Boulder, Colorado, where the 21+ crowd of college students, hippies and hipsters make it their mission to visit at least one happy hour per day, places pull out all the heavy kitchen artillery to keep a competitive edge.

This is where Centro's Latin American kitchen comes in. If any place relishes their status as one of the best happy hours west of the Atlantic Ocean, it's this fusion spot, formerly run by a Top Chef contestant and now boasting a Monday all-night happy hour, weekend brunch happy hour and a weekly slot that runs 4-5:30 Tuesday-Thursday and 3-5:30 Friday-Sunday. I haven't partaken in the brunch yet, but am certainly tempted by the sounds of the crispy hash browns with pork green chile and cotija; the flour tortilla breakfast taco crammed with scrambled eggs, tomatillo salsa, cotija , radish, and candied onions; and mimosas and bloody marys to wash it all down, each item only $2. If you're willing to spend a bit more, the regular breakfast menu has something called Latin Kitchen Hash that showcases sweet potato, fried banana, blackened shrimp and two eggs, or griddled plantain bread with house smoked salmon, poached eggs and more candied onion. With sweet offerings like almond crusted toast with cream cheese and cherries or dried fruit with cottage cheese, honey, and grilled bread to complement the savory, you would think Centro would settle, content to stop at the first and most important meal of the day.

But where's the fun in that? There's hardly any booze on that menu, and that's no way to serve a college town. Centro's afternoon and evening happy hours veer away from champagne and dip a trendy toe or two into the hard stuff. Gaggles of 20-somethings in their most impressively boho or neon attire order Centro's specialty $2 Cuba Libres by the trayful, while others can choose from $4 wines and margaritas or $2 Tecates.

Any time you're unloading drinks this close to free onto people, it's important to make sure they've got some heft in their bellies. This is where your average happy hour tosses out a basket of onion rings or maybe a tray of sliders if they're feeling adventurous. This is also where Centro wins the bulk of it's customers over. Sure, $2 doesn't seem like a good discount price on your average taco. But does your average taco come stuffed with habanero roasted pork with tomatillo salsa? Belizean BBQ duck carnitas? Griddled shrimp with garlic chipotle mayo? Didn't think so.

You'd also probably be hard-pressed to find gourmet offerings like seared greens or chips with apricot habanero carrot raisin salsa, also for $2. If you're willing to shell out four bucks, they'll also bring out manchego chimichurri fries, yam chorizo hash or even grilled chicken enchiladas with roasted red pepper goat cheese cream.

I must add a tiny caveat here, though--while the menu descriptions may have me salivating while writing this, execution of the happy hour items is sketchy. The famous duck carnitas have an oddly bitter taste, not particularly spicy, ducky or barbecuey, while the habanero pork is almost too spicy to have any memorable redeeming qualities. This leaves the shrimp, with the least exciting description but most successful delivery. While the yams in the hash are perfect, the grey tasteless chunks trying to pass for chorizo were doing a very poor, nearly insulting job.

If, however, you're willing to splurge for the real menu, the road gets a little less bumpy. The green plantain ginger fritters with chipotle remoulade are reminiscent of tempura, and their sauce pairs great with chips or fries. I'm counting the weeks til my next visit, when I can sample the white seabass ceviche verde with olive and avocado, or the quesadilla with shrimp, crab, chorizo and avocado.

That doesn't even begin to exhaust the dessert and drink menu items I've yet to sample. While the grapefruit margarita was a little disappointing in it's lack of grapefruit flavor, I doubt I'd be disappointed by the Kentucky Wildflower, a mix of Maker's Mark, vanilla cognac, lavender agave nectar and lemon, or the Hot Rosser, which blends tequila with lemon and OJ, strawberry puree and fresno chiles.

But if you're too liquored up by meal's end to get your sweets in liquid form, order the baked-to-order pineapple upside down cake. I don't even like pineapple upside down cake, but this comes pizookie-style in its own frying pan, a plating that could win me over to even the blandest dessert. Luckily for Centro, though, this cake and most other items on offer are anything but bland.