On glamorous parties (and the kind of people you rarely see in Hermosa Beach)

TLOML and I left the bubble last night. We went to a glamorous launch party in Beverly Hills. It was pretty high octane. January Jones and Camille Belle were (paid to be) there. There were canapes by Bouchon, bellinis by Cipriani, and a heck of a lot of plastic surgery. Many heavily made up girls (and some guys) squealing in delight at each other/ their reflections / selfies.

Also some beautiful and expensive clothes. I enjoy spotting fancy pants clothes, otherwise seen only in Vogue, in the flesh. Edgy designer wear is obviously a pretty common sight in London and New York but rarely seen on the streets of Hermosa. I was all a-flutter. 'Ooh, that's this season's Stella McCartney', I murmured to TLOML, who sadly wasn't remotely interested. And he had no answer to my 'Are people still wearing Tod's?' question, either.

So I thought I'd share some sartorial highlights with you, dear reader, instead.

In the interests of not looking like I was taking photos, I had to pretend I was texting, so mainly captured floor shots. But as this outstanding Tumblr account dedicated to the jeans-and-shoes phenomenon makes clear, those can be the best kind. (Thanks to Lady P's godfather, professional gambler and curator of web-bobbins for showing me the way to this internet treat).

Sharp shoes, no socks. This is a man who drives everywhere.

I'm guessing she's not walking far either. Ouch.

Slightly drunk lady swaying near a man who's half beach, half business

Beautiful model-turned-actress type walks past several admirin men in pointy leather shoes. Textbook Beverly Hills party scenario.

Excuse the strange colours. I think there was some kind of show going on. Of course I was too busy snapping shoes and scoffing at the Beverly Hills types to watch it.

On reflection, perhaps it's for the best we don't get out of the Hermosa bubble too often, I'm not sure I handle the excitement too well. And for the record, as I type this, I'm wearing shorts and a t-shirt and no shoes at all. Beverly Hills is fun but I like the beach life best of all.

Estate agents with personality

When we outgrow the Sugar Cube and are ready to move into an elaborate mansion on the beach, how should we choose our realtor? I guess I'll just base it on the advertising.

Kudos to this guy for the beach community-relevant metaphor.

'There is a perfect wave brewing in the real estate market right now'.

A close up of the realtor about to hit the waves. In his suit.

But I think Alison, shown below, is that bit more creative. When you think about the South Bay, of course you think about surfing. So obvious it's boring. How about a nice Segway pun, complete with a shot of her in action on the beach, instead? Brilliant.

These ads are from DIGS, my favourite free magazine ever. But we shouldn't ignore street advertising. Given their love of a neat rhyme, I feel Kevin & Kaz & I would get along very well.

Choices, choices. This personality-lead approach is rather different to the UK, where all estate agents kinda look the same from a distance, and you just go to the guys who are least annoying. That's all well and good if you're just buying a house. But over here, it's much, much more than that:

So that's alright then.

Emperor's New Pasta

Forget everything you ever knew about pasta. The new pasta is the pasta-free pasta.

We learnt this at Del Posto last weekend, during one of a series of events to celebrate TLOML turning forty. Del Posto is our local special occasion restaurant of choice. Despite having eaten like kings at Quality Meats the night before, we decided to go for the thirty-four course tasting menu.

Okay, I'm exaggerating for effect. It was only 8 courses. Twelve if you include the bar nibbles, 2 rounds of amuse bouches and the takeaway box (more on that later). Whatever, it was the longest and largest meal of my life. We were eating at a steady pace for well over three hours.

We left the restaurant groaning and clutching our stomachs and agreeing that the veal course was overkill. And we would have settled for 50 layers of yesterday's lasagne, not all 100. (We also wondered if there was a discount for getting today's, rather than yesterday's lasagne, but fortunately were not gauche enough to ask the wait staff).

To give you an idea, here's the ostrich course. That's an ostrich carpaccio, an ostrich pate, and a date sealed in ostrich-stock-based aspic. And a barley crisp, obvs. This was actually a slightly controversial course for us, as the wine pairing was, in fact, a beer. A very nice beer but still... for what we were paying we kinda expected fine wines all the way. Anyway all those different ostriches were delicious.

Back to the pasta. Pasta nudi is not, it transpires, pasta served by the rotund waiter in the buff. In fact, it is pasta without pasta. Once you take the ravioli away, ricotta-stuffed ravioli becomes just, well, ricotta.

This is what 'nude' ricotto-stuffed ravioli looks like

I'm being sniffy because it's easy to poke fun at the pretentions of Del Posto. But me-oh-my it is incredibly good food. A most memorable dinner, fantastic service and a pianist playing Burt Baccarach. And the company was not half bad either - our favourite New Yorker and our favourite West Coast Rascal made for a perfect foursome.

And that takeaway box? Two perfect dark chocolate truffles in a jolly little gold box. Sigh. They gave our fridge a nice festive feel for a few hours but I could only resist so long... Perfect for breakfast the day after a 3000 calorie dinner.

The Emperor's New Noodles

Last night we hungered for ramen, TLOML and I. We'd been hankering after ramen for a couple of days (and we blame our night out with our favourite New Yorker for that). But by Monday, we not only hankered, we hungered (and for this, we blame too many excellent Fedora cocktails with our in-town-for-the-weekend party girl).

We yearned for steaming noodles! We needed that ramen! So we set off for the long, appetite boosting walk to the East Village. We were bound for Ippudo.

Ippudo

The Ippudo near Union Square is the NY outpost of a hip Japanese ramen chain. I've eaten at the Tokyo one (at the risk of sounding like a dick) and it was good. The New York one is not bad either.

They don't take reservations and why would they? It's just ramen. As in, a cheap, quick, slurpy meal for workers or the hungover. This aint Del Posto, people. This is spontaneous, 'I fancy some noodles right now' eating. So you show up, put your name down, and wait for a spot to come up. On a busy Friday night you might expect to wait a few minutes. But on a cold and drizzly Monday...?

'Sure', said the hostess, 'We'll put your name on the list. There's about an hour and forty-five minute wait right now.'

Stunned, we reeled out of there. Past a clump of waiting chumps who were perfectly happy to wait almost two hours. For ramen.

New York is crazy. But we are not. We removed our names from the bloated waiting list and took a five minute walk to Ramen Setagaya. Not remotely hip, but jolly good and best of all, no wait time. We were on our way home by the time those fools outside Ippudo were just getting seated, I'll bet.

Techniques of Milk Steaming

Any one inspired by my post on Joe coffee will be glad to hear they just released their class schedule for Autumn.

I love the fact that Espresso Level 1 is a pre-requisite for Milk Steaming Level 1. They aren't kidding around...

The Emperor's New Bar

There's a fine line between a stripped down, edgy, no frills bar and just a crap bar, as we discovered this weekend in the West Village.

The very hip Little Branch straddles that line. Which side it ultimately lands on probably depends on whether you're a jazz-shoe-and-braces-wearing 20 something or, um, not. We are not. We are in our late 30s, and perhaps not truly hip. Sorry TLOML, just saying... Also, we are bar snobs. If we wait in line, as we reluctantly did, by an unmarked door, we expect that once we pass through that door we will be in a beautifully (or at least wittily) decorated space with fabulous cocktails and impeccable service.

I know, I know, we're a tough crowd. But come on! This is New York! Blame the likes of Employees Only and Weather Up for spoiling us. Even Bathtub Gin, though it's not our scene, has that brilliant 'secret entrance, fantastic interior' thing down pat.

Little Branch certainly does the secret entrance, unmarked door thing well. The door is so skanky looking - and the wait to get in so long - that I was sure the interior would be a veritable palace.

Sadly not. The NY Magazine review describes the decor as 'a warm color scheme of mustard-painted walls and low ceilings made from orange-painted sheets of corrugated steel'. I think they're being generous. I'm pretty sure the space hasn't been repainted since its former life as a dank, damp basement. That corrugated steel just happened to be there. As for the cocktails, I'm sure they're excellent - Little Branch is from the same family as Milk and Honey - but our patience wore out too quickly for us to order.

Anyway, no harm done. We bailed and headed to our favourite West Village bar: Fedora. The neon sign is visible from a block away, and there's no line to get in. But don't let that put you off: it's just a good old fashioned bar, with a killer cocktail list. A bar that has a cocktail named after the Honey Badger is one which does not take itself too seriously, and for that, Fedora, we salute you.

The Emperor's New Dessert

I had to get over my dislike of the single ingredient restaurant name this weekend, as the wisest New Yorker I know had made us a reservation at Prune.

There were no prunes on the menu. In fact, it's the chef's childhood nickname, and has nothing at all to do with that dried fruit which keeps you regular. So with that fact established I was able to enjoy a top notch dinner.

I started with a 'Corpse Reviver' cocktail. Although I was fully alive, and didn't even feel jaded, blimey! was I revived after that gin, Cointreau, Lillet and Pernod combo.

We shared some outstanding appetizers, and tucked into quail (me), pulled pork (TLOML) and lamb (wise New Yorker) for the main event. It was really good food, hearty and robust without being heavy or overwhelming. Just about perfect.

There being no cheese plate, the question of dessert had to be raised. An item called 'Peppermint Stick in Lemon - $4' intrigued me. I turned to the couple sitting at the next table.

'Excuse the interruption,' I said, 'That dessert you had, that looked like a hunk of lemon with a peppermint stick in it, was that this 'Peppermint Stick in Lemon'?'
'Whay yes,' she drawled. (We talked to them for a good while longer and it transpired she was from Mississippi. Best accent ever.)
'Was it nice?' I asked, scepticism written all over my face.
'Well, it was jus' a peppermint stick and some lemon. Aah didn't know what to do with the lemon, so Aah ate it. Aah don't know if that was the raaght thing to do though.'

Needless to say, we did not order the Peppermint Stick in Lemon. To be fair, it's only four bucks, so I suppose it's not the scam of the century. But still... a dessert which is half made of an inedible raw fruit? Presented in a way that confuses the eater into eating the lemon? That's just mean.

I have since googled and learned that this is apparently a fairground treat in some parts of the country (presumably those deprived of funnel cake). You are not supposed to eat the lemon, but to suck the lemon juice through it. My mouth is watering with the thought of the sourness, and not in a good way. And wouldn't it be awfully hard work to suck that lemon juice up through the peppermint stick?

Yes, I was a sceptic before I saw it, a sceptic after I saw it and I remain a sceptic now. It sounds like absolute bobbins to me.

Instead of the Emperor's New Dessert we had the mascarpone icecream with little croutons covered in salted caramel. Like everything else we had at prune-free Prune, it was delicious.

White Gloves

When we were apartment hunting in New York, TLOML and I scoffed at ads which made a point of stating a 'white glove building.' Having lived all my life with no white gloved doorman, I was pretty sure I could survive a little longer without.

Apparently I am not alone in this. According to this dude, quoted in the NY Observer, "Tenants are sacrificing living conditions. They are leaving doorman buildings and going into elevator buildings." Oh, the horror!

Well, having given up a place on stilts over the Pacific, where it was sunny 350 days a year, I think we're the embodiment of 'sacrificing living conditions'. An elevator building? Heck, we'd take a walk-up.  (Walk-ups, i.e. buildings without elevators where you actually have to walk up stairs to get to your apartment, are the lowest of the low here. Although, again, having lived without an elevator in my home till now, I could definitely struggle on without one).

So TLOML and I looked at walk-ups, elevator buildings and white glove buildings alike, without prejudice. We took our place in Rabbit Hutch Towers because of the brilliant location, the absence of a broker's fee, and the fact that panic had set in, frankly.

So the doormen are a bonus - but I'm already enjoying them.

They don't wear white gloves, but they do wear a rather smart khaki that chimes nicely with the lobby's autumnal decor. They are all named something-beginning-with J, which is convenient as it makes it easier to remember their names. And if you forget you can just mumble 'Jer-um-ahem-son' and it will work. They are unfailing smiley and cheery and of average, or above average, attractiveness. They have the kind of faces you are happy to see.

The Js email us when a package arrives - no more coming home to find a box has been sitting on the doormat all day getting damp with Malibu sea mist. They send our drycleaning and our mail out. And when we have cardboard boxes to dispose of, we call them and they send a janitor up to take them away. Actually, even if we don't call, a recent experiment confirmed that if we leave the boxes outside for more than 4 hours, they get taken away. This for me is the height of luxury.

Frankly I'm starting to wonder how we will ever cope without them when we move to London, a city devoid of white gloves.

Yesterday they had a basket with little Easter bunny chocolates in on the front desk. In order to justify our exorbitant rent, we took down a couple each.  As TLOML said, 'If you imagine these are worth $100 each, our rent starts to look almost reasonable'.

I suppose the key to living in a white glove building is to make the very most of those white gloves, or else you'll just resent them. I might give Jerry, Jason or Julio a call and see if they wouldn't mind popping up and helping me finish the crossword.

The mystery of the $20 juice

I cruised down to Chelsea Market today with TLOML in search of quality hot cross buns - or the ingredients to make my own. As I mentioned yesterday, I had some concerns about the quality of hot cross bun I might find.

We found some at Amy's Bread which are about half right. They smell fairly legit, but I can't quite get over the icing. However will I toast them? We bought them anyway, but as a fallback I decided to buy ingredients to make my own. I don't want to be found wanting for good hot cross buns on Good Friday.

So we headed to the Manhattan Fruit Exchange, a brilliant no frills store (cash only, tiny narrow aisles) which sells 8 different types of onion and tubs of spice for about $2 a pop. We were kinda shocked when our little basket of flour, yeast, some fruit and a bottle of juice resulted in a bill north of $60.

Why was it so expensive?

We're about $7 in so far.

This innocent looking juice is the culprit. We tossed it in the basket without looking at the price. I know we've got a wedding to save for and we've sworn off expensive sushi for a while, but we're not yet comparison-shopping our juice.

Well that's about to change. This 100% tangerine juice cost $20. Twenty whole dollars! I've drunk champagne that costs less. And that came in a pretty glass bottle too.

More bang for your buck

The mystery here is how on earth can a bottle of juice cost $20? I'm hoping it was made from tangerines which were raised in greenhouses made of crystal and misted daily with Evian. Cherubim and seraphim selected and picked the fruit one by one, and carried them in baskets made of feathers and clouds to a band of virgins who sang lullabies as they carefully peeled each tangerine before carefully squeezing the juice using their firm thighs.

If not I want my money back.

----
PS The juice is damn good.

Reinventing Hell's Kitchen

"They call it 42nd Street because you're not safe if you spend more than forty seconds on it."

The brilliant name Hell's Kitchen provides a not-so-subtle nod to the area's unsavoury reputation. Apparently back in the day some people (the kind that property developers want to attract, anyway) found the moniker rather off-putting. So in the 60s it was rebranded as Clinton. Clinton: makes one think of wedding cake buildings, the sax, and cherry blossom. Or is that just me? Anyway, it sounds way more salubrious than Hell's Kitchen.

And yet there's something about the gritty ring of Hell's Kitchen that is strangely more appealing. The name has stuck and I suspect will stick forever. No-one really calls it Clinton. Except perhaps to say 'That neighbourhood they're calling Clinton... you know, Hell's Kitchen.'

Which makes me wonder what bureaucratic hoops had to be jumped to have the non-existent neighbourhood of Clinton feature this prominently on the NY map:

Clinton - up there with Times Square and Central Park as an iconic NY destination.

The latest in real estate rebranding in Manhattan is MiMA. As in 'the Middle of Manhattan'. It's actually kind of a genius name, and the branding is pretty smart too. It almost fooled me.

 Till TLOML and I looked into an apartment there. Anyone who can read a map knows that MiMA is actually 'that noisy dirty part of Hell's Kitchen where the Port Authority is'.
 
Having lived in an area of London which estate agents called Highgate Slopes I will not be fooled. Far from being on the fringe of leafy green historic Highgate village, it was actually the heart of dirty, cheap Archway. And I was never convinced by the large posters in Holborn declaring it 'London's Midtown'. Given that London has neither an uptown, nor a downtown, that was never going to work.

What I want to know is... who on earth does fall for this shtick?

Best things... small packages... really?

Having moved into a shoebox, I no longer believe the maxim.

We're paying 20% more for a place which is not even on stilts over the Pacific (I know, your heart bleeds for us doesn't it?). What's worse it is less than half the size of our beach pad. Ouch.

TLOML and I asked a New Yorker 'Isn't this crazily small? Aren't we paying an insanely high rent?' and she shook her head sagely and said with an air of resignation, 'This is what a New York one bedroom is like'.

Then she gave TLOML and I a look of pure pity for all the time we spent in California being softened up, and accumulating possessions a New Yorker would never dream of. The surfboard and the oversized clubchair are just two examples of things that almost literally don't fit into our apartment.

Still, living in a box is at least forcing us to be creative. Windowsills serve as bookshelves, and a much loved painting we have no space to hang is being used as a sort of screen around my desk. Our funky old medicine cabinet is being converted into a spice rack, which will practically double the kitchen storage space.

I like moving in somewhere, organising, establishing a system of sorts and hanging art. So I'm enjoying these little creative moments very much. But the shoebox just isn't getting any bigger.

Every time I leave the apartment or even look out of the window, I say 'I love New York!'. And with roughly the same frequency I'm coining the cheering phrase 'We won't be here forever!'. I say it every time I have to use my entire body weight to close the doors of what has become known as The Cupboard of Doom. (2 Malibu closets into 1 New York closet just doesn't go).

Still saying I love New York though...