Where o' where have all the cowboys gone?

You're supposed to be able to count on certain things. Not on all things, and not on other things. But definitely on certain things.

This year, not so much.

You're supposed to be able to count on the Yankees making it to the playoffs—but no, all that money and they still can't get the job done? On Spielberg and Indiana Jones—but, aliens? Really? You're going with that? On Starbucks—except, automated espresso machines that don't smell like coffee? Whose brilliant idea was that?

And seriously, you're supposed to be able to count on a warhorse steakhouse knowing how to cook you a steak. "Pittsburgh." "Black & blue." I didn't make these terms up. They should mean something to the kitchen. I mean, other than a city and a mouse.

I know most of you will be shocked, shocked!, to learn I had a five minute confab with the waiter regarding the temperature of the steak we ordered. Five minutes is a long time to discuss a steak. Nonetheless, after all that, and despite being at The Palm in WeHo, an establishment boasting 33 years continuous operations (don't ask me why), our steak arrived over-done. Back it went and came back, I kid you not, frozen in the middle. Honestly, what restaurant takes their meat straight from the icebox and puts it on the grill?

So, from me to you, skip The Palm and head over to Wolfgang's (not Puck) on Canon, or Boa on Ocean. Better yet, hop a plane to NYC...Keens anyone?

Ich bin ein... spargel?

Will our fearless leaders never learn?

George W. created a stir complimenting German asparagus, according to an article in the Wall Street Journal - to the dismay of domestic asparagus growers, who responded by sending 10lbs of good ol' red, white and blue stalks to the capitol for his delectation. (Though, honestly, can't we all just get along? Do they want an asparagus tariff now, for crying out loud?)

When I was little, I lived in Germany, across from a spargel (German for asparagus) field. And being the odd little creature that I was (and I am), while I liked asparagus - I only liked the bottom part of the stem, which made me quite popular at the table, I assure you. These days, I like all of it, and in fact, just the other night I had the most scrumptious asparagus risotto at a restaurant with the most ridiculously long name (Gordon Ramsey at the London West Hollywood). I don't know if the spargel was domestic or imported - but it was out of this world.

BIN to heaven

A wine bar with serious wine, that doesn't take itself seriously? A restaurant with unbelievable food, without unbelievable prices? Am I dreaming?

Nope - I'm eating at Bin 8945, over in West Hollywood on Santa Monica Blvd. Perched on a stool at the bar, letting David, the owner, pick out a bottle of red and a menu to match, I couldn't be happier. We ask for a good value, an earthy red - and after a few short minutes of reflection, David snaps closed the list and announces he knows exactly what he's giving us.

He sets two large round goblets in front of us and uncorks a bottle of 2001 Paternoster "Synthesi" from Italy. I've never heard of it, and neither has my dining partner, who knows his wine. David pours us each a glass and we take a sniff. Wow. We take a taste. Now we're talking.

David walks away to take care of another table and, as I breathe in the berries and the leather, I think to myself - this guy's going to forget more about wine than I'm ever going to know. And he's wearing jeans and a funky t-shirt. He's waxing poetic about his Play Station 3. That's the kind of guy I want picking my wine.

He's got the resume (Guy Savoy in Paris, Le Cirque and Aquavit in New York, and Aubergine in Newport Beach), but surely didn't bring the attitude. He loves good wine, but is the first - in fact was the first when I was there - to say, dude, it's just wine, it's not going to change your life.

I'm already happy, and then he introduces the chef, Mike, whom David's kidnapped from Ford's Filling Station. (According to David, he dressed for the occasion in black and with hood, stuck his finger in Ben's back and said, your chef or your life. Happily for all, Ben's still breathing.) And the two of them proceed to discuss what combination of dishes and flavors will best complement the wine...

Out comes a procession of dishes, a rare tuna burger topped with a quail egg (which we don't break fast enough for David, do me a favor? he asks. Break that egg into the burger - it will make all the difference. We do and it does.) Monkfish on a heavenly puree of root vegetables. Pork cheeks glazed in chocolate. Each pairing with the wine differently and perfectly. David capped the dinner with a sherry and a persimmon dessert cake.

All in all, I could only ask that more restaurants took a page from David's book. The place, the people, the wine, the food... I can't wait to go back.

Small Big City

I traveled last Thursday. Normally, that's not such a big deal statement. I mean really, so what?

Well, apparently, while I was pre-occupied that morning with preparing the house for sale and packing, the rest of the world was tuned in to breaking news of Britain uncovering a plot to blow up transatlantic flights with bombs compiled from ordinary carry-on items, including peroxide-based solution and cameras or music players. See what you miss when CNN isn't on in the background?

Arriving at the airport, I was asked to remove all liquids and gels, including lipgloss, contact lens solution and moisturiser, and place them in my checked luggage. No liquids would be allowed to be carried on the plane - significantly impacting Starbucks' business in the terminal I would imagine. Each flight was subject to a second bag inspection, conducted on the jetway at each gate. Not surprisingly, my flight left an hour late. No worries, I had 20 lbs of magazines with me, and I was soon happily ensconced, browsing away.

Until there was a disruption at the front of the plane - a passenger who wouldn't stay in her seat. At all. Would not sit down in her seat with her seat belt fastened. This went on most of the flight, rather entertaining once we had been reassured by the quite competent flight crew that she had been judged to be cuckoo, but not dangerous. Still - cuckoo in flight on this of all days? And then, just about 20 minutes before we should have been landing, the captain announced that we although we are about 40 minutes outside of New York, and although we have already been circling in the air on orders from the JFK tower, we will nonetheless continue to circle.

An hour of circling ensues until we finally touch down, only to sit on the tarmac for yet another hour. You could be dead, I remind myself. The airplane could have blown up, I say silently. We are all safe. I keep repeating this to myself as the clock heads around to 12:30am, 1:00am, 1:30am. And frankly, it does help. Late is better than dead, at least in this instance. My grandmother always said she'd rather be dead than late -- but I think she'd make an exception here.

The taxi line - you cannot imagine. Endless and growing. I am standing behind a couple - she is very pretty with the kind of curly blonde hair you pretty much want to kill her for having. You know the kind - curly but not kinky? wavy but not frizzy? blond and silky, not dry? Damn her! Anyway, there they were, laughing and apparently unfazed by the late arrival, behaving the way you wish you and your boyfriend would, instead of being cranky and grumpy and argumentative. So of course, you hate her more.

The next night I meet some very good friends for dinner at A Voce, on 26th and Madison. As I'm walking up Madison, I notice the very same couple I had been behind in the taxi line - sitting and having drinks one table away from my friends at Tabla. I notice the blonde head even before I notice my friends. What are the chances of that? As Rick famously said, "of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world - she walks into mine?" But there they were - making me realize that New York City isn't that big really, after all.

As for dinner - I thought A Voce was delicious. It is the chef from Cafe Boulud (76th and Madison) - but terribly Italian, but light and interesting at the same time. We all thought the gnocchi with the lamb ragu was outstanding, but I had a ricotta cheese spread of some sort with perfectly toasted bread that was out of this world. I could have eaten a gallon of it.

And then, oh boy, and then... we hightailed it down to 8th Street and Fifth Avenue, where, if you don't know, some of the best gelato in town is served. Otto - Mario Batali's 'pizzeria' - is everything you want it to be. I've been there for dinner at a table, delicious. And Friday, I walked in and my friend looked around the bar and asked "is this a singles bar?" only half-jokingly.

But to my point, which is not picking up singles, but, not surprisingly, FOOD (are you beginning to sense a theme here?) - specifically, the olive oil gelato served at Otto. I could write a poem, an ode, an entire essay on this stuff. First, admittedly, it sounds disgusting. Agreed. But you couldn't be more wrong. Everything you love about ice cream? The richness, the creaminess, the salty sweetness? It is simply more so in this concoction. Second, it is the most addictive ice cream you will ever have, and I've been around the ice cream block. Though I still have Blue Bell ice cream from Texas on my list - but that's another story. Here it is in a nutshell: if you have only one night in New York - you have to make it to Otto for the gelato, and you have to try the olive oil gelato. That's it - end of subject.

Basta Pasta

Santa Monica, CA

okay, so I'm out to dinner the other night with a really cool guy, a screenwriter, and of course, we start talking about movies. All about movies, which, of course, I love (see and the envelope went to...? if you're in doubt). I could talk about movies for hours, for days, weeks, months...

We started the evening at Sushi Roku on Ocean, sitting at the bar; I'm not sure where or how the conversation began, or even which movie we were discussing, anyway, soon enough the bartender joined in, and he know his stuff - being from New York, he also had an opinion or two, go figure. More importantly, he made a stiff drink. What more could you ask for? Get this -- his name is Pasta. Honestly, I asked, and that's what he told me. Pasta. Don't believe me? Go sit at the bar an see for yourself...