They say that there’s no better way to get to know a city than through its food.  If this is true, Charleston and I shared a passionate five days in bed together.  At Tomato Shed Cafe, I tasted South Carolina’s history over an extraordinary mouthful of soft shell crab, encrusted in a fried layer of breading (“We’re shrimpers, farmers, and darn good cooks” our waitress asserted when she took our order).  I grew smitten with lowcountry over a gossamer sliver of lobster, bathed in a lake the color of summer, at the newly James Beard nominated The Ordinary.  We dined next to locals at Butcher & Bee, where I surrendered to a pungent bacon potato salad, and we became intimate with Charleston’s fine dining at the distinguished Circa 1886.  We toasted with a final dinner at Husk, where I quickly understood the magnitude of the restaurant’s influence while consuming a buttery strip of Charleston lonzino—pork loin locally raised and cured.

On my final night in Charleston I met a man.  I took to calling him V.  He took to calling me babe.  And I’d be lying if I didn’t say he was the finest gentleman I had seen in the South.  We talked until my eyes were burning, and the bourbon in my blood set my skin ablaze.  I contemplated extending my trip, and he asked if I would meet him the next day.

Instead I spent the final day with the Princesses of Tides, and we ate one last meal together at Two Boroughs Larder, which was my favorite meal in lowcountry.  Was it because the burrata, which broke from its mold and wed with a smear of black garlic and lard, was nothing short of a miracle?  Or was it because my heart was still fluttering over V, and food is most profound when the heart is set right?  It’s funny how that works—you can spend five days falling in love with a city over the most remarkable dishes in the world, but ultimately it’s a man called V, not caviar crowned oysters, that make you want to stay.

Here’s a look at some of the dishes consumed in Charleston.

THE ORDINARY, 544 King St., Charleston, SC 29403

TWO BOROUGHS LARDER, 186 Coming St  Charleston, SC 29403

BUTCHER & BEE, 654 King St  Charleston, SC 29403

HUSK, 76 Queen Street, Charleston, SC 29401

TOMATO SHED CAFE, 842 Main Rd  Johns Island, SC 29455

BARBARA JEAN’S, 99 S Market St  Charleston, SC 29401

For more on our Charleston adventures, visit Shannon Eileen’s blog, Happiness Is.

A few hours before my guests arrive, I furiously tear apart my living room and schlepp in three long banquet tables and a dozen chairs.  I press vibrant clashing tablecloths and count out 18 mismatched sets of colorful plates and bowls.  My holishkes, translucent fans of cabbage swaddling tender mouthfuls of chuck, simmer in a bath of tomato juice in the oven.  Then in the final moments—a matchstick meets wick with a hiss and pop.  Van Morrison pirouettes on the Crosley, crooning a texture that only comes through on vinyl.  The doorbell rings.

My first guest arrives with four bottles of kosher wine.  The second, a deep bowl of charoset.  “I made this without a recipe,” he leans and tells me confidentially.  “That’s the way my family does it.”

Soon, my apartment, normally fit for a dinner party of four, becomes a dining hall bustling with 17 people I adore.  With them comes a pot of matzo ball soup, tender brisket, and kugel.  One of my guests presents an Israeli spiced chicken, rubbed with aromatic handfuls of herbs.  Its only remnants at the end of the evening are a platter of bones, picked clean.

My friend, Danielle, leads the ceremony and the rest of us take turns reading from the Haggadah.

“Next year in Jerusalem!” someone shouts at the end of the ceremony.  Those words become our mantra for the evening.

This crowd of mine goes through two dozen bottles of wine, much of it spilled on silk shirts and tablecloths, and we laugh all the more for it.  At the end of the evening, my friend Tim, who runs a gourmet espresso catering company, Brew Ha Ha, erects a coffee bar near my pool, and serves the best affogotos I’ve tasted—a hot river of espresso blanketing a chilled scoop of vanilla ice cream.

“I love Seder,” I say when the festivities have hushed to a 2 a.m. troop of five, playing a wayward game of Taboo while polishing off a pair of cabernets.  “I know I’m not Jewish, but I love how inclusive this holiday is.”

Last year, Danielle, invited me to Seder a few days after I went through a wretched break-up, and I was pondering whether I had room to love again.  It turns out, I did.  And this year it only felt right to open my door to others.  Perhaps we strayed from tradition, but I believe Seder is about openness and family.  And this is my family.  My Los Angeles family.

I’ve never been one for moderation.  I live wholly.  I love senselessly.  And sometimes you need to host Seder to prove that when it comes to throwing dinner parties, a home, like a heart, can never be over capacity.  Next year, Jerusalem.

Brew Ha Ha, tim@brewhahacatering.com.  (562) 277-3820.

Photography credit for all of the awesome shots goes to Matt Halvorson.

In recognition of April 16^th, National Eggs Benedict Day, here are three of our Los Angeles favorites:

NICK’S CAFÉ

Weekdays at Nick’s Cafe, which closes at 3 pm daily, are meant for their legendary ham and eggs.  But weekends?  Here, weekends are for eggs benedict, where the diner serves eight variations, along with a revolving specialty benedict.  You’ll be tempted to order in every direction—corned beef hash, sausage and gravy, bacon with spinach and avocado.  But if the eggplant benedict is on tap, your decision is made for you.  Battered in an herb crust and fried to a crisp, the eggplant is embellished with a portobello mushroom, sautéed spinach, a sweet slice of tomato, and served over a buttery English muffin.  It’s the sort of dish that single-handedly justifies Nick’s 65 years of existence.

Nick’s Café, 1300 N Spring St., Los Angeles, CA 90012. (323) 222-1450.

SYCAMORE KITCHEN

Not too long ago, there were very few reasons to frequent the design corridor of La Brea, unless, of course, you were on the hunt for collectible mid-century furniture.  When Karen and Quinn Hatfield opened their bakery/café and started serving farm fresh seasonal dishes, Sycamore Kitchen not only became a neighborhood gem, it also established itself as a dining destination.  Silky poached eggs break into a golden yolk over sweet honey pancetta and a perfectly toasted English muffin.  Blanketed in a light, subtlety tart hollandaise and flecked with fried rosemary, there’s an art to to this dish that rivals any of the nearby designer pieces.

Sycamore Kitchen, 143 S La Brea Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90036. (323) 939-0151.

TORTILLA REPUBLIC

This West Hollywood tequileria presents a contemporary take on Mexican cuisine, and during dinner it’s hard to resist their enchilaldas, dressed in mole, or the short rib spiked with jalapenos.  At brunch, take a seat where you can feel the outdoor breeze and start with the mezcal bloody mary.  The benedict arrives with two poached eggs over thick wedges of bacon and bright arugula microgreens, on a soft bed of manchego scones.  Topped with a creamy hollandaise and accompanied by a side of diced cheddar potatoes, you’ll be inclined to feast yourself into an early afternoon siesta.

Tortilla Republic, 616 N Robertson Blvd., West Hollywood, CA 90069. (310) 657-9888. 

It turns out that Slater’s 50/50 not only makes a mean ground bacon burger, but they also like beer. And to top it off, they’re working to fight cancer, which is why they’re hosting a Backyard Brewfest this Saturday, April 6th 2013 to help raise funds to support the Pediatric Cancer Research Foundation.

We’ll say it first, if Slater’s 50/50 was a man, we’d want to date him.

Eat Your Heart Out L.A. is thrilled to be giving away two tickets to one lucky reader for this weekend’s Brewfest at Slater’s 50/50 in Lake Forest. The event will feature over 15 breweries and Slater’s 50/50′s most popular menu items–think creamy mac and cheese mixed with buffalo chicken and a bacon burger topped with a sizzling fried egg. Just reply to this post and let us know which celebrity you would most like to eat a burger with. We’ll start: Aziz Ansari. Have you seen how much that guy likes food??!

A winner will be picked at random tomorrow, Friday, April 5th 2013 at 2 pm. For more information, visit: Slater’s 50/50 or see below. We’ll see you on Saturday!

UPDATE: Thank you to everyone who entered the giveaway! We had close to 50 entries and the pair of tickets goes to winner, Marty Robbins!!

Slater’s 50/50 Backyard Brewfest is being held on Saturday, April 6^th from 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. at 24356 Swartz Avenue in Lake Forest, California. General admission tickets are $30 in advance (available online)/$40 at the door, and include food tastings, beer, music, and other fun festivities.

A portion of proceeds from ticket sales will benefit the Pediatric Cancer Research Foundation, which orginated in Orange County and is now a nationally recognized nonprofit organzation furthering childhood cancer research to find a cure.

Participating breweries include Ritual, Bootleggers, Hangar 24, Rough Draft, Ballast Point, El Segundo, Golden Road, Fireman’s Brew, Deschutes, Cismontane, NAW, Latitude 33, Valiant, Taps, Ohana, Allagash, Old Orange, Hangover Joes, West Coaster, and Tap Hunter.

Slater’s 50/50‘s Backyard Brewfest, Saturday, April 6^th from 2:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. at 24356 Swartz Avenue in Lake Forest, CA. (714) 685-1103.

Like many wine bars challenged by square footage, Mignon originally opened as a wine and cheese bar with limited menu offerings, but recently Uy incorporated sous vide techniques to revamp the menu with dishes prepared by Papilles chef, Tim Carey.  The result is unfussy but elegant French dishes such as vegetable-laced stews and fragrant wine-braised proteins.  A generous portion of roast pork tenderloin comes with an array of mushrooms and potato confit in a rich cream sauce.  Frog legs Provençale dressed in rich flavors of lemon and butter and topped with a shower of chopped parsley, proves Carey’s hand at conjuring decadent but balanced sauces.

It is the smaller plates, though, that transport you to France.  A kaleidoscopic plate of raw vegetable crudités, halved and served with salted butter, will have you marveling at the purity of bitter playing against sweet.  Oeufs en cocotte, baked eggs served in a creamy bath of chopped leeks, breaks into a warm lava of golden yolk when spooned over a slice of buttered baguette.  Wedges of Caña di Cabra and mahon make for exceptional options on a cheese board, while the saucisson sec was a favorite among the charcuterie.  The thoughtful, focused wine selection may allow a Loire Valley cabernet franc or a Languedoc minervois to be paired with whatever bubbling dish arrives in a miniature Le Creuset cocotte.  Often Uy is behind the bar, too, and it’s especially enjoyable to allow him to navigate your pairings.

Mignon is the sort of place that single-handedly solves the first date conundrum.  Sinatra is often crooning over the speakers, but you can easily hear your date.  Meanwhile, sitting at a bar seems to diminish the pressure of constant dialogue—at a lull in conversation, it’s easy to access a bartender to answer your wine inquiries.  Mignon is intimate without being pretentious, and if you’re the type that prefers to suggest date drinks instead of a full dinner, it’s easy to have a couple of glasses of wine then weave in a meal, if there’s chemistry.  Just a few steps from Varnish, an exceptional speakeasy, and Las Perlas, where they make the best mescal margaritas in the city, it’s also easy to suggest a post-meal cocktail.

On a recent Monday night I found myself at the end of 4 ½ hours at Mignon, warmed by the wine, the oeufs en cocotte, the conversation.  In the end, I can’t help but believe that uncovering the perfect first date spot will also lead me to finding a good love story.

Mignon, 128 E 6th St  Los Angeles, CA 90014. (213) 489-0131.

I know I like asiago.  I know I don’t like white chocolate.  I like burgundy and mezcal.  And for the past decade in which I’ve been imbibing, I haven’t liked gin.

The day I turned 21 I decided to start drinking like an adult—gone were the days of wine coolers and frat keg beer.  From that day on I’d start ordering the one mature drink I knew by name.  A martini.  The problem was that in my youthful ignorance, I didn’t realize martinis could be made with either gin or vodka.  My friend Mona, who was much hipper than I’d ever be, ordered her martinis with gin, and I mimicked her order.  And so I suffered through countless evenings of gin martinis, ordered remarkably dirty, because the snap of the olive juice made glass after glass somewhat bearable.

Then I grew up and my world broadened.  I consumed grappa and sambuca in Naples, akvavit in Stockholm, and sake in Japan.  I participated in scotch tastings and mezcal samplings.  I made my way through about 300 varieties of craft beer, and drank my way through wineries from Bordeaux to Santa Ynez.  The list of what I liked expanded, and gin never made the cut.

On a recent Friday night, after devouring a particularly spicy bacon sandwich, followed by the maple bacon donut, at Nickel Diner, our group walked to Artisan House for a nightcap.  My friends mused over the wine list while I reached for the cocktail menu, and before I had time to digest the options, our bartender stopped by to take our order.  I didn’t think anything of him at first.  Average height.  Brown hair.  Brown eyes.  And then he opened his mouth.

“You know what you want?” he asked.

“I need a minute, I haven’t decided,” I shrugged.

“Well, what do you like to drink?”

“I’ll drink anything except gin.”

“Then I’ll suggest the Caulfield.  It has gin, lavender, and grapefruit.”

“I think you misheard me, I said I don’t drink gin.”

“I heard you.  If you don’t like gin, I suggest you try something with gin.”

“Are you joking?”

“I think you should try something you wouldn’t normally order.  The Caulfield tastes a little bit like a soapy lavender bath.”

I set the menu down and stared at him.  He stared back.  Silent.  After a beat I nodded.

“Fine, I’ll try it, but what happens if I don’t like it?” I asked.

“I think you’ll like it.”

The bartender left and I turned to my friends muttering something about smartass bartenders and my preference for whiskey.  When the bartender returned, he set down a martini glass, filled with liquid the color of pale sunshine, garnished with a cut of lemon peel. I took a sip.  “You made this?” “I did.” He was right—it tasted like a soapy lavender bath.  And I liked it.  I liked him.

This is the type of guy I always fall for.  The ones who understand life can be arranged to make room for another thing to like.  They’re the same guys who know how to kiss in blinding sunlight.  They’re the ones who show up unannounced on doorsteps and tuck flowers under your windshield wipers.  They teach you how to reach.  They keep you up all night.  Then they make you late for work the next morning, because they’ll fight to keep you in bed.

As our group made our way to the exit we waved goodbye at our bartender, while he stood behind the bar.  I wondered if he was single and glanced back.  Our eyes met and he grinned.  I smiled and stepped out into the still winter night.  I know what I like, and I like men like him.  And now I also like gin.

“I haven’t eaten yet,” I said, while sliding into the chair across from him.

“It’s good to see you,” he responded while handing me a menu.

We ordered two grilled cheese sandwiches on brioche, and I stole fries off of his plate while he dunked his in my tomato soup.  Two hours later the bill arrived, and Chris swiped it off of the table.

“I’ve got this,” he said while sliding a credit card into the check book.

“You don’t have to cover me,” I replied while handing him my credit card.

“No problem.  This is a date.  I’ve got this,” he said.

This is a date?

After I got home that night, I began to wonder—what constitutes a date?  If the man pays, does that automatically make it a date?  If a man says it’s a date, is it a date?  If you happen to have kissed that man before, even though you weren’t dating him then, and you go out to dinner eight months later and he pays, is that a date?

Is there a dollar threshold where a meal with two people automatically becomes a date?  If a man asks you to dinner and you split the bill, is that not a date?  And what about all those Texans?!  I happen to have a lot of male friends from Texas who wouldn’t dare let a lady pay for a meal.  It’s just not in their blood.  Surely, those aren’t dates!

So what is a date?  For starters, there needs to be a mutual understanding of romantic intention.  I like my dates to have been prefaced by the words, “Can I take you out to dinner” so there’s no ambiguity.  It’s not a date if the evening begins with a text, “What are you up to?”  It’s not a date if he suggests you meet up for drinks and you arrive first, so you pay for your own cocktail.  That’s a networking meeting, or what my friend Brit refers to as the “LA date”, which is not a date.  I also refuse to categorize anything that starts with, “When are we hanging out?” as a date.

The man should offer to pick the lady up.  He should pay.  And yes, it should include dinner.  If a man suggests drinks instead of a meal, I know he doesn’t want to invest the time or money in getting to know me.  Consequently, I don’t want to know him.

The following week, Chris and I ended up in box seats at a Clippers game, where the invitation entailed, “Think I’m going to a Clippers game tomorrow, come with.”  Also not a date.  As Chris and I kicked back with a pair of beers, he asked me what I did the night before.  I told him I had dinner with a guy who I had become friends with over the last few months.  Chris turned to me and laughed, “That guy snuck in a date.  That was totally a date!”

The dates themselves were well thought out.  I crunched through egg yolk pig ears at Animal before a thrill ride down Fairfax.  I was treated to cocktails before Book of Mormon and sushi to follow.  I slurped up a platter of oysters under a quilt of Silver Lake stars.  I toasted with backyard Sazaracs and kicked up Santa Monica sand.  Car doors were always opened.  Checks were always paid.  And the last bite of our shared plate was always, always mine.  But in the end I knew if I couldn’t be seduced over briny Kumamotos and oxtail poutine, neither of these gentlemen were the one.

Fall began, and with it a crush, and for the first time ever I began to think about what night we were scheduled for a date.  The gauge was such—the more I liked him, the more it became important for to me to see him on the weekend.  One week we had a lovely Friday date, the following week he offered up a Tuesday.

“You got Tuesday’d?” my friend Jonathan said when I called him to question my crush’s motives.  “You may not want to hear this, but if you’re getting Tuesday’d that means another girl is probably getting your Friday or Saturday slot.”

I was crushed.

But it made sense.  No one has business dinners on Fridays and Saturdays. People that travel for work are usually back by the weekend.  In other words, Friday and Saturday nights are the two evenings you actually choose who you spend time with.  And I like to think weekends are for romance—you’re meant to spend the mornings shacked up in bed, groggy and in love.  If I’m in a relationship and we’ve scrambled from the sheets before noon, something is not right.

When I was with the doctor and Mr. Production, I didn’t mind being Sunday’d because I was using my weekends to venture out on the town and meet other guys.  For single people, the weekends are our wingman.  It’s the time we meet other single people, at parties or bars or friends’ houses and make plans for the following weekend.  If your dude is making you a Tuesday gal, what is he looking for on Friday?

I realized something I never thought about before: More than caring about what restaurant I dine at on a date, I care about what night we dine.

While I was dwelling upon being Tuesday’d, someone I never saw coming asked me out for the weekend.

I had a new crush.  I guess that’s what happens when you get Saturday’d.

I’m grateful for every rare second I spend with my parents, and the fact I can still hold their hands like an 8 year old child.  I am thankful for every meal I’ve eaten and every bottle of wine I’ve shared.  And it is never lost upon me that I have friends who wipe tears off my face, and who have hopped a plane to LA to be here for me.

I hope you spend this Thanksgiving celebrating your many blessings.  Every kiss.  Every cheese wheel.  Every hand squeeze.  Every glass of bubbly.  Every second you have your life, when many people have lost theirs far too early.

My best friend wrote me a letter yesterday and ended it with four perfect words:

We are the luckiest.

Indeed.  We are.  But only the lucky ones recognize how much we have to be grateful for.  May you recognize how lucky you are too.

Happy Thanksgiving from Eat Your Heart Out L.A.

On a recent Saturday night as I peeled a gossamer slice of house-cured guanciale off a sheet of butcher paper and let its buttery, vibrant punch melt in my mouth, I began to think of Wayne Gretzky.  In 1988 when the star hockey player was traded to the LA Kings, not only did the Kings finally become relevant as a team, but the NHL itself became relevant in the southern half of the United States.  It is this sort of strategy that made me think of The Churchill owners, Beau Laughlin and Brett Cranston’s recent trade, bringing in new mixologist Mia Sarazen, and now master chef Bruce Kalman.  When I first heard of The Churchill back in 2011 it was the hotspot my friends rolled into at 1 am on a Tuesday night.  When I heard about it again, it was the bar where my hungover coworker reached his demise, and I found myself writing it off.  In other words, it was the place where you skipped dinner but overdid it on mediocre cocktails.  But Laughlin and Cranston who are also behind The Hudson already have a successful bar where the food plays second fiddle to a night of drinking.  Now, with their trade completed and Kalman in The Churchill kitchen, they finally have a real, relevant restaurant.

On a recent evening where he was only five nights into the launch of his menu and sans sous chef, no less, Kalman exuded a remarkable ease and affability.  A technicolor mural of tattoos covered his arms—a gleaning red tomato, asparagus spears, a remarkably realistic artichoke—which would stretch out to shake the hands of guests, of which there were many.  The rustic interior, a mash-up of reclaimed wood and red brick, was lit with Edison bulbs hanging from industrial lighting fixtures, and mason jars housed tiny candles on tables and along the stairwell.  In recent years Kalman, who was honored with a James Beard rising chef nomination in the Midwest and most recently reworked the menu at downtown’s Urbano Pizza Bar, has become the go-to “fixer” for restaurants across town.  While his contributions have always been significant, The Churchill dishes resonate with both personal touch and sophistication unparalleled in his previous endeavors.

It is the merging of devotion to homemade ingredients with technique, perhaps, that allows the menu to work on so many levels.  With the current penchant for house-cured meats, Kalman’s are some of the best in the city.  Deep pink slivers of homemade duck prosciutto sing with a pungent kick while folds of house-cured pancetta dotted in a pepper crust are silky as they are flavorful.  It is the guanciale, though, which induces delightful groans from my table as the porky richness moves into a soft buttery finish.  The cheese options have been thoughtfully selected—wedges of a hard sheep’s cheese starts off mild then gives way to a salty tingle, an elegant goat cheese is boosted by hints of truffles—and my anti-bleu-cheese guests find a gateway into potent cheeses with the Moody Blue, a subtle and smoky slice of cow’s cheese which my guests fantasize incorporating into every dish imaginable.  Lucky for them, the Moody Blue makes another appearance in a pleasantly flavorful mound of mixed greens garnished with figs, cippolini onions and candied pistachios.

The menu offers an array of house-made pickles and seasonal mostarda, yet another sign that Kalman is at the forefront of today’s table zeitgeist, and I suggest you order them.  They are pickled to a point teetering between tang and sweetness, acting as an enchanting palate cleanser between bites of cheese and charcuterie.

The rest of the menu is divided into snacks, wood fired pizzas, shared plates and big plates, and each component has superb options.  Having had my share of gougeres at numerous high-end places, nothing has come close to the ones here, golden and airy, rich with gruyere and speckled with chopped chives.  “I could eat these for every meal of the day,” one of my guests exclaims while snatching up a third.  After the first bucket of duck fat popcorn, enhanced with crisped sage leaves and dusted with local producer Hepp’s chipotle salt, we signal for a second order.  The shishito peppers, charred and dressed with cilantro, lime and sea salt, make for a thrilling game of Russian roulette as some hit the palate like a firecracker, exploding in fiery heat.  Others are mild, allowing the citrus and salt to emerge.  “Fool me once…” one of my guests mutters while cautiously reaching for the bucket, attempting to avoid another firecracker.   The crispy pork cheeks, a deceivingly generous portion crowned with a tangle of Weiser Farm’s piquillo peppers and accompanied with a flair of chicharones converts me into a pepper lover as my fork continues to find its way back to the plate.

Do not be deceived by the simplicity of “beets” listed among the small plates.  The dish itself becomes a canvass upon which a kaleidoscopic trio of shaved, halved and sliced beets are arranged among lightly breaded orbs of goat cheese, citrus wedges, and a shower of sunflower seeds.  While the idea of beets on a shared plate may be exhausted on other tables across town, here the concept takes a new breath as the beet varieties play against one another and the crisped goat cheese adds a spectrum of texture.

It may be difficult to choose among the appealing assortment of wood fired pizzas, but you don’t want to miss the one strewn with chunks of homemade duck sausage, thyme, goat cheese, black mission figs, and infused with honey.  Beheld on a crust bulging with airy pockets, the boldness of the sausage balances clouds of the smoked cheese—it immediately becomes the pie I won’t be able to resist ordering every time.

Among the big plates the delicately rich beef short rib, the color of a dark chocolate and assembled with carrots and apples, is braised for 10 hours until it falls apart at the most gentle tug of the fork.  The fruity undertone against the meaty comfort reminds me of the warmth of a jacket at the first nip of an autumn breeze.

For dessert the bourbon-glazed apple and bacon upside down cake is served with the most delightful bacon brittle, slightly fiery and wildly addictive.  I muse whether I can purchase a crate of them for future cravings.  Stuffed my table orders zeppoles—deep-fried balls of dough—to take home, but after a quick glance as they arrive at our table, we empty the powdered treats on a dish before us, dunk them in warm caramel and consume.

Toward the end of the meal I settle into an old-fashioned, the kind that reminds me why it became my drink of choice in the first place.  On this evening the meal is everything it should be, compelling and comforting.  Then my table eyes the breakfast menu sketched on a hanging blackboard.  “We should come back for brunch tomorrow morning,” someone says.  I agree.

The Churchill, 8384 West 3rd St  West Hollywood, CA 90048. (323) 655-8384.