When I first met my husband, I told him that I’m part Native American. I’m also half Jewish. This is when he said to me, “You don’t live on a reservation…you make them.”
I’m sorry, but you will not be able to make a reservation at Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing, a new pop-up restaurant on Abbott Kinney housed in what was once Capri. Well, you can if you are a party of six or more. Since I am a huge micro-manager, my suggestion is go, leave your name if there’s a wait, and walk around, going in and out of the great stores. They will even phone you when your table is ready.
It’s rare that I’m blown-away by a restaurant, but I have become the town crier for this one. Which is funny because the woman who once dubbed me the town crier because I like to share all my finds, is the one that called me late one night, sated, and told me every detail of her experience at this one. She mentioned that they only serve beer, wine and water, a fact I chose to ignore. So, the very next evening when I dragged my husband to an early dinner there, I tried and failed to order iced tea.
When relatives come for the holidays in the words of the Eagles, it can be “heaven or it can be hell”. In our case it was delicious!
I don't know who invented the concept of Happy Hour and I really don't care. I'm sure it isn't necessarily a good thing that it's my favorite time of day, but I just can't think about those two words together without smiling. They conjure up images of meeting friends at the day's end but before the night closes in to share your latest news and perhaps a few troubles over a quick glass of something heady and a few indulgent nibbles. Since I live via my own "Cinderella Theory" – that nothing good happens after Midnight outside the home – I like to start when the night is young and trouble isn't even a glimpse on the horizon. It's also the time when most restaurants are fairly empty and the music is low enough you can actually hear your companions. Plus, you get your drinks and food at half price. A win-win-win.
I'm pretty sure LA is the only place that it can be hard to find a restaurant marked by a gigantic neon sign. That's because in a city that's made up of a string of strip malls, neon signs are easy to overlook. And this one is tucked behind the parking lot of an unassuming boba place. It reads 'park' above an arrow pointing one way and 'drink' above an arrow pointing the other way, towards Beer Belly.
Bread. I love it, especially when it’s well made. But I freely admit that I try to avoid it. I’m of a certain age and weight when the dangers of too much free carb styling can take a toll. But how hard is that to do now? It’s really hard with all the neighborhood bakeries opening all over town. Yesterday I checked out