Pseudo-Memories of France

Ah, comfort food. I love a dish that's warm, hearty, savory, and brings back fond memories of my childhood in provincial France playing marbles, cycling, and thumbing my nose at those dimwit American tourists.

By France I am actually referring to quaint little San Lorenzo, California and quaint, ridiculously suburbanized Castro Valley, California (East Bay!) where I never so much as sniffed a French bistro. Probably a good thing as San Lorenzo and Castro Valley are not exactly culinary havens. I did trek to Paris (among other European stops) after graduating college, though. Here's a tip if you're backpacking through Europe on the cheap: Don't go to the Moulin Rouge. I know, I know... I, too, loved Baz Luhrmann's filmic ode to bohemian love, and I, too, have a silly man-crush on Ewan McGregor. Just keep in mind that Montmartre is on the outskirts of Paris, so when you finally get to the Moulin Rouge and realize it costs at least $200 for dinner and the show, you'll smack yourself in the head, decide to pass, and look around and see that there's merde to do in the immediate vicinity. My buddy and I visited the various souvenir shops and settled in at a restaurant across the street that, judging by the English menu, catered to tourists. It was here I had my first croque monsieur, the egg-less sibling of the croque madame. I've tried to replicate it in the past without making bechamel sauce, one of those French "mother" sauces that scare the bejeezus out of a novice cook like me, and boy is that a mistake. Without bechamel sauce, the croque monsieur/madame is just a dry sandwich. So, grab your whisk, it's sauce making time. Your wrist will hurt, but you'll feel like a chef afterwards.

Before you start the sauce, though, start your broiler and place your oven rack right up under it. Huzzah for pretty blue flames!

I used a bechamel recipe from Williams-Sonoma. You're basically going to make a roux (French word alert! It's the thickening agent behind every sauce and gravy made from butter and flour. And it's pronounced "rue.") and then whisk in milk and cheese. The recipe calls for gruyere cheese, which is some salty good stuff. If you're wondering if you have to continuously whisk the entire time... yes, absolutely. Do NOT stop whisking! I stopped for ten seconds to peruse the recipe and the sauce burned slightly. Since I'm a lazy mofo, I pushed on with the lightly toasted bechamel. It's still good, it's still good.

If you're saying to yourself, "Butter! Milk! Cheese! How healthy is this?!" The answer to your question is: You clearly don't love food. Go eat a carrot.

After making the bechamel sauce, the hard work is done. All that's left is to do the math, as we used to say in Calculus (not bragging, I barely passed). Assemble your dish.

Don't buy sliced bread for this. You're not eating it with your hands, so get a nice, fresh bread that'll sop up the sauce but still hold together. In other words, slice it thick. I bought some organic deal from Whole Foods, not because it was organic so much as it was round. Thems round loafs is fancy! It smelled good and was slightly soft. It ended up being some kind of sourdough, which wasn't in the recipe but works splendidly.

I used a croque madame recipe from, yes, Williams-Sonoma, but it called for black forest ham, which I didn't have. I did have a bunch of leftover rotisserie chicken from Costco... perfecto! (Perfecto is not a French word.) Toast the bread first, then pile on chunks of chicken and ladle the bechamel over the whole thing. Top with more grated cheese. Throw it back in the broiler until the cheese begins to melt and brown. At this point, you've pretty much got a croque monsieur that's waiting to be madame-ed. Get a pan with oil going and fry an egg.
You probably think you can fry an egg. I used to think so, too. But I never did it the same way twice. Then I realized that once the egg is down in the pan and frying... leave it the hell alone. Let it cook. Don't flip it yet. Just don't do it. Leave it be until the whites are all, you know, actually white. Not partially white. White. If you want over-easy, flip it once. It's not a steak, there's no reason to flip and flip and flip. Cook it through on one side, flip once, cook it to your desired doneness on the other. Camille doesn't like runny yolks, so I let hers go a little longer before flipping to make sure the bottom of the yolk is cooked.

Okay, so the broiler has probably done it's business by now. Take out the sandwich, plate it, top it with an egg. That's it. The recipe calls for topping each piece with another slice of bread to make a sandwich, but the tourist trap eatery across from the Moulin Rouge made it open-faced, and since I'm sentimental, I did the same.
The bechamel turns what is otherwise a mundane, dry meat and cheese combination into a rich, creamy, hearty, comforting dish. Savory chicken, tangy bread, cheese... that stuff hits the spot. Even better, as hearty as it is, it doesn't weigh you down. It brings back fond memories of France that I don't really have (damn you, Moulin Rouge! Damn you to hell!). Mmmmm, sentimental sandwich.

"Only The Brave" & Kouraku

I really, really wanted to like Only The Brave, an independently-financed film about the most highly decorated unit in US military history, the 100th/442nd Regimental Combat Team comprised of Japanese-Americans, most of whom were sent to internment camps in the wake of the Pearl Harbor attack. It's an amazing story, a uniquely American story, and a real shame that it hasn't been told in the mainstream before. Most World War II texts gloss right over it. The fact that Only The Brave is written and directed by a Japanese-American filmmaker, Lane Nishikawa, makes it all the more significant. And all the more disappointing.

The film is actor-writer Nishikawa's directing debut. It shows, especially during the war scenes, as his camera has trouble navigating the chaos of the battlefield. It's hard to criticize him for not having enough money (narrow-minded film executives are to blame there, but that's another topic), but the budget limitations are evident. Visually, there's little urgency to the war stuff. Which soldiers are where, and where they are going, and what's in their way... it's all muddled and flat.

I'd like to say that the battle sequences are ancillary to the story of these brave volunteer soldiers and their journey from the internment camps to the army, but it isn't. The bulk of the picture is focused on the 100th/442nd's rescue of the "Lost Battalion," a unit surrounded by German forces in October 1944. The entire context of the internment of US citizens for no other reason than racist paranoia is relegated to a crawl of text during the opening moments of the film. If you were to walk in late to this film, you might not know at all that it's about soldiers who overcame blatant discrimination to join the army and serve the very country that maligned and repressed them.

Part of the trouble is the driving force of the film is explored with cryptic strokes. Jimmy, the platoon leader played by Nishikawa, is first seen as a veteran haunted by his memories. However, his relationships with his men are cold and conventional. There's little chemistry between the characters because they do little together save for stalk through the forest. There are poignant flashbacks spread intermittently throughout, featuring each of the soldiers saying their goodbyes to their families. One in particular, with one soldier receiving a "1,000 stitch" scarf that carries the well wishes of an entire community, strikes a heartbreaking cord. These share other details and give some shading to what are otherwise faceless soldiers, but they aren't enough to sustain the prolonged battle sequences and serve only to convolute Jimmy's story.

It's evident that Nishikawa wants to honor the veterans of the 100th/442nd by telling their story without melodramatic touches or fifty years of hindsight. The tone of the film is stoic, immediate, and the filmmaker has a fondness and a good ear for the soldiers' banter between battles. However, as a whole, it all feels raw and incomplete. Jimmy's haunted looks are never fully explored, undermining an intriguing absolution. As a historical retelling, Only The Brave misses the mark, and as drama it's convoluted and underdeveloped.

The Los Angeles screening I went to was the kick-off of a national tour promoting the DVD. Visit the film's website for more info.


After the film, Camille and I wandered through J-Town looking for some eats. (Isn't "J-Town" much cooler than "Little Tokyo?" Come on, try it on for size.) We thought the wise thing to do was follow a crowd, so we walked into Kouraku, a quaint place with the menu written in dry erase on the wall and counter seating fronting the kitchen. Of course, the dry erase wall menu was in Japanese, so we had to peruse the surprisingly vast table menus. They seem to specialize in noodles, so we both went for ramen with an appetizer of squid cooked in butter.

Squid can easily become rubbery and gross, but here it was fresh, soft but with a nice bite, and butter-rific. I don't think I can overemphasize how deliciously buttery the butter on the butter squid is. Butter butter butter. So simple and fantastic.

I went for a shrimp omelette ramen in a soy-flavored broth. First and foremost, the broth brings the goodness. Warm, smooth, and a touch sweet and salty. While I'm a tremendous fan of putting a fried egg on pretty much anything, I've never considered making an omelette... and then dropping it onto soup. The shrimp omelette by itself would have done the job, but the plain sweet flavor of the shrimp and egg in the middle of a rich broth, combined with the soft noodles is thoroughly satisfying.

Camille had a more hodgepodge soup that contained an array of proteins in a different kind of broth. I think satisfying is probably the best word for this food. Not fantastic. Not mind blowing. Satisfying. Looking at the menu, it's enticing to see that every soup dish describes the different broth they use. I think we'll be coming back.


314 East Second Street
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When Vegas Bites, Bite Back

There's only one thing you can do when Vegas chews you up and spits you out. No, not find an ATM. Get your money's worth out of the town and eat it all back.

So it was when I reached my pre-determined loss limit halfway through my recent trip to Sin City. I was actually doing fine until a late Saturday night visit to the craps tables. For me, it's the most exhilarating way to lose your money: quickly, but with the promise of getting it back with one hot roll. Alas.

Sushi Roku @ Caesar's Palace

Okay, it's a chain, no big discovery here. But they make damn fine sushi (and stiff cocktails, to boot). Camille and I initially ordered oysters for an appetizer, but thanks to a plague of red tide in the Pacific, we ended up with Tofu Three Ways, which featured bites of soft tofu with: scallions and sesame oil, white truffle and truffle oil, caviar and lemon oil. My favorite was the caviar/lemon oil, the combination of the salty roe and the citrus over the smooth, soft tofu was the proverbial party in my mouth. I was most looking forward to the truffle when we ordered, as that was the first truffle experience for me, but it was far too subtle against the blank canvas of the tofu. Kinda like looking at an off-white painting on white canvas: underwhelming.

For sushi, we went with: ikura (the orange/red salmon roe), yellowtail-scallion roll, eel-avocado roll, spicy scallop roll, soft shell crab roll, albacore-garlic roll, and sweet shrimp sushi (which is raw) with accompanying fried shrimp head. I don't know what exactly it is about unagi, the freshwater eel, that I love. It's got a meaty-fishy taste and is almost pasty in texture. When combined with the equally mushy avocado and against Sushi Roku's very good sushi rice, it's fantastic. It all melts together so nicely. When I'm old and toothless, please stuff this into my mouth roll by roll so I can gnaw it till I'm in the grave. My other favorite is the yellowtail-scallion. Yellowtail is one of the least "fishy" fishes, and when it's mild creaminess is countered by the green onion, it's another little bit of awesomeness. Everything else was a fantastic pair of contrasting flavors save for the soft shell crab roll, which was fried too long and a tad burnt. I'm consistently a sucker for soft shell crab and have had it in a variety of cuisines, but I can't think of a time when soft shell was as satisfying as I imagined it to be. Nor can I think of a time when I won at the craps table. But off I always go, loading the back end of the pass line and covering the six and the eight like every other sucker. The lesson here: be wary of soft shell crab. And craps is lots of fun. Try it!

The Aloha Specialties Restaurant @ The California

This trip, we kicked it way old school and stayed downtown at "The Cal." It's just off of Fremont Street and populated predominantly by aging Hawaiian tourists, many of which lug their own oxygen through the smoky innards of the casino floor. And where there's oxygen-deprived Hawaiian pensioners, there's Hawaiian food! After promising runs at Pai Gow and blackjack didn't pan out, it was Loco Moco time.
Hawaiian cuisine is a mish-mash of the various immigrant cultures that worked the lands over the years, though I have no clue where the Loco Moco came from. Rice topped with a hamburger steak (aka a hamburger) topped with a fried egg topped with gravy. So, uh, yeah... there's the cultural history of the Sandwich Isles on a plate!

The hamburger was cooked to be juicy inside and slightly crispy outside, which gave it a wonderful bite when combined with runny fried eggs and the beef gravy. This dish triggers nostalgia points for me because it reminds me of the simple breakfast my mom used to make of rice and a fried egg all mashed together into a big, yolk-y mess. So, my youth + cultural history of the Sandwich Isles on a plate = supreme satisfaction. It's one savory plate, but the egg whites and rice balance it enough to stave off immediate onset of food coma. I can't quite figure out what spices they use in Hawaii for the beef and the gravy, which seems to be the real key to the dish. I came close to unlocking that puzzle, but then I fell asleep in my room watching SportsCenter on a loop. Mmmmm, food coma.

Chang's. 4760 South Decatur Blvd.

If you're sick of buffets at the hotels... well, then, you're no friend of mine. But if you want a reprieve from the incessant jingling of slot machines and don't want bottomless plates of king crab legs two days in a row, head west on Tropicana. Go past the erotic supply store, turn right at the trailer park, and stop at Chang's for some brunch, dim sum style. The place is always bustling, and the staff will keep pushing plates of goodness at you. You really have to turn your table into a well-oiled eating machine, clearing off plates in a timely fashion to allow for the arrival of more steamed and fried bites.

The specialty here is the XO noodles, chow fun noodles fried in a type of chili oil-based sauce and accented with pepper flakes, scallions, and sesame seeds. It's slightly crispy, but the noodles are still soft. The spice hits you but relents, letting you shovel as much as you can without fear of tearing up like a little girl. All the dim sum staples are here and in fine form. Mine and Camille's favorite is the taro dumplings, which are chopped pork stuffed inside dumplings of mashed taro, which is then breaded. Even though the taro is still a starch, it's a terrific change of paste from the noodles and buns.

I finally worked up the courage to take on chicken feet, which is cooked in a black bean sauce that turns the skin red. If you can get over the fact that it's chicken feet, it's actually quite good. It's basically the best part of the chicken, the skin, except instead of meat underneath, it's all knuckle and toe bones. It's delicious but awfully tedious to eat, as you basically have to bite a toe off, gnaw the skin loose, and spit the bones out. Strategically speaking, it's an excellent "breather" food that lets you take a break from stuffing yourself while you're still eating. At Chang's, you can stuff yourself for about $15 a person, so you'll be ready for either another food coma or a run at Let It Ride.

Mermaids @ Fremont Street

This is the saddest of sad casinos, all slot machines and posters beckoning you with novelty drinks. Yet, I went in because some of those posters tantalize you with the elite of fairground food: deep-fried Twinkies and deep-fried Oreos. I slinked past the two feathered showgirls out front offering the complimentary slot machine spin and beelined for the food counter at the back.
The truly ridiculous thing about the deep-fried Oreo basket -- if you can accept that three Oreos covered in sweet batter and deep fried for 99 cents is normal -- is that it's topped by powdered sugar and chocolate sprinkles. The frying does change the texture of the Oreo, partially melting the cream and softening the chocolate cookie, so that the whole thing feels like a doughnut hole stuffed with Oreo preserves. It's not as sickeningly sweet as you might think, and pairs fantastically with a cold root beer (also 99 cents). It's like a chocolate sweet cream sandwich bite, and while it was born at a state fair, it's right at home amidst the neon and LCDs of Fremont Street. It's also the perfect exclamation point to a weekend of reckless gambling. Vegas may have my money, but I got paid back in the form of free cocktails, Hawaiian history, and deep-fried sugar sandwiches.