When
I’m in New York, I have simple rules that make life a lot easier: namely, never
go anywhere involving the words “East” “upper”, or “shared”. The first ensures
that when crossing from West 45th, where I live, I will be stuck in
a taxi whose idea of a short cut is going via Missouri. The second always
entails getting on the wrong subway train that is going in the opposite
direction, while the third means . . . well, I’ve never found out, because
anything involving another person’s plans inevitably involves missing the start
of the movie, failing to find seats at the bar, or arguing over whose turn it
is to pay the Uber.
In LA, I have just one rule:
don’t go anywhere – at least, don’t go anywhere further than three miles away
if you want to be back home this side of Christmas. And so, when my dear friend
and brilliant food PR Bradley Tuck (could anyone’s name ever be better suited
to his job?) suggested going to Silver Lake for brunch, the words struck me
with horror. Anything with a metal in its title is never a good sign and
screams distance – Australia’s Gold Coast, the Ironback Mountains of Collabria
(prone to avalanches). Coupled with the word “lakes”, this could mean only one
thing. Canada.
There was more to come: the
restaurant is called Cliff’s Edge, which added fuel to the fire. Not only were
we going to Canada, we were all going to
die!
Thanks to Google Maps, I discovered that Silver Lake is
only four miles from where I live and, at just a mile out of my comfort zone, I
decided to risk all. Armed with my hiking boots, hip flask and ice pick (one
can never be too careful heading east), Bradley enthused about the restaurant
that, since it opened in June 2004, has garnered praise from critics, locals
and its fair share of celebrity diners.
The huge outside space, shaded by
foliage and created around a 60 year old Ficus tree at its heart does not
disappoint. It’s hard to reconcile the blandness of the typical LA road that
leads one to this place of magical, yet unostentatious splendour. Interior
designer and urban developer Dana Hollister (one of three co-owners) has
created a soulful space of colour, warmth and inviting elegance. The Ficus
feels both like a shrine and an impartial observer: comfortable and happy in
the shared joy it perceives all around (I love trees).
And joy it is. Champagne arrives
in a carafe I mistakenly assume is a very unusual glass (over-enthusiasm for
champagne at brunch is one of my many gastric faults). Then, when the champagne
is poured into a large wine glass, I learn from Bradley that this is, in fact,
the proper way to serve it, rather than in a flute or coupe. It is, after all,
a wine, and needs to be swirled and aired just like any other. I decide that I
need another carafe, just to make sure.
The oysters that accompany the
champagne are the small, delicate kind, not the over-sized elephant ears that
make me heave and think I am eating my nether bodily parts. They are
beautifully chilled and in no need of the Tabasco sauce with which I normally
suffocate oysters to disguise the often algae smell of those that have spent
too long in transit.
My only bugbear in the US is that the oyster is loosened
from its shell by the kitchen. I have no idea if this is because Americans are
lazy, but when I lived in Paris, part of the pleasure of oyster eating was
participating in the process: scooping the flesh with a tiny fork, enjoying
that last rubbery break as it left its home; the anticipation of the next part
of its journey as it heads towards your mouth (I feel another oyster feast
coming on).
There are very few things I don’t
eat or cook, but I am really bad at desserts (because I don’t have a sweet
tooth, I have no interest in them) and eggs. The only time I get to eat eggs is
when somebody else cooks them, and there is just something about the timing of
brunch that makes eggs acceptable. I can’t eat them at breakfast, not least
because I can’t stomach anything more than two cups of tea before 10am (who
needs to look at a chicken foetus before you’re fully awake?); and I don’t want
eggs at dinner because I’m not four years old. But give me 11am to 1pm, and
I’ll down foetuses for Britain.
What I especially love about my
goat’s cheese omelette is that the cherry tomatoes are on the side. So many
omelettes are ruined by tomatoes being thrown into the mix, making the dish a
river of thinned blood coursing through yellow flesh struggling against the
tide. We discuss tomatoes and I learn that Bradley, like me, is not a fan of
tomato juice; however, we draw the line at Bloody Marys, and Vartan Abgaryan (who
used to be the chef at Cliff’s Edge) has one that looks perfect.
My request
when ordering a Bloody Mary is always “Easy on the tomato juice”. I think that
no matter what you add tomato juice to, it just ends up tasting like tomato
juice, holding everything else hostage: it’s the kidnapper of all liquids.
I also learn from Vartan how to
stop chicken tasting like anything other than chicken. No matter how I cook it
– salt, lemon, barbecue sauce – it just tastes the same. I’m not going to give
away his secrets, partly because when I move on to the Cotes de Rhone, I suffer
a memory lapse. But if you want to sample his food, he now heads up the kitchen
at 71Above, Downtown LA’s extraordinary new venture in the city’s tallest
building.
The Corsican red I was hoping to
try is unavailable, but Corsican co-owner Pierre Casanova (I so want to come
back with that surname in my next life) enthuses about his country’s liquid
assets. Pierre exudes energy and gratitude for the surroundings and a profession
he clearly loves. I give him a smattering of my best French, and, after the red
wine, I discover I am fluent in Russian, too. Again.
My hike over, but ice pick still
intact, I return from Canada along the blandness of another LA highway,
dreaming of oysters, champagne, and the knowledge that no experience beats the
pleasure of eclectic surroundings, lovingly prepared food, the company of
Bacchus and the laughter that grows from sharing.
You see? Sometimes, it’s good
to share. Just not on New York’s Upper East Side.
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