julie’s Neighborhood

Growing up in southern California has lended me the innate appreciation of a food culture found nowhere in else in the world. It’s called “California cuisine.” You’ve heard of it. You’ve probably even eaten it. But what is it? It’s what everyone can define, albeit differently; most importantly, it’s not really anything. Of course it’s important in the ebb and flow of trend and popularity. However, the real heart and soul behind every fusion movement is the inspiration from the original cuisine that laid the foundation. I had to find the roots of the food that surrounds and astounds me on a daily basis. So I left. 

I went to Europe. I went to Asia. I even went to the Eastern Bloc countries (I almost regret that trip, but that’s another story). I found history. History behind foods and a reason for each and every thing produced. I found flavor. Flavors I’d rarely seen or experienced in Los Angeles, even in the most highly rated and expensive restaurants. Alas, I’m now an unemployed twenty-something student, living back with my parents and my food exploration is limited to where my subcompact can take me. I’ve found gems in and around L.A., ranging from literal hole-in-the-wall eateries to restaurants I’d have to save for months at a time to eat a meal in. One thing I never found was a warehouse in Harbor City down a dead-end street. Enter La Española, Inc.

Almost 30 years ago, a newlywed Doña Juana, matriarch of this family run Spanish charcuterie manufacturer, moved to southern California and was greatly disappointed when she found none of her native Spain’s meats in her new hometown. In a greatly compressed nutshell, she found a purveyor of these goods in Harbor City, but the elderly couple were on the brink of retirement. The entrepreneurial Doña and her husband bought what they could from the couple and started their own company, to bring to California what, surprisingly, nobody else had. With annual trips back to Spain and the good fortune of working with and learning secret recipes for traditional Spanish chorizo, La Española Meats was born and flourished. Now one of only four Spanish cured meat producers in the United States, I had the honor of exploring this now thriving treasure. I arrived to the smell of homemade paella (see below) cooking on a pan that Wilma could cook brontosaurus ribs on, and immediately I was hooked. 

giant paella

On the exclusive tour and luncheon with the CSCA’s WCR (Women Chefs & Restauranteurs) group, I was able to see what La Española has now become. A modern, sterile yet inviting space with imported state-of-the-art sausage equipment (including a vacuum mixer!!) multiple curing rooms and ovens the size of my college dorm room. The inviting element was, of course, the people. The tour was conducted by Doña Juana’s son, Alex, whose unbridled passion for the food his family creates overflows in his presentation of their life’s work. Each space we entered, with hairnets securely fastened, was more aromatic than the last. To one side, workers hand packed Jamon Serrano while down the hall another worker ran mini-chorizo links back and forth over hanging racks. The curing meats were hung in vast vaults, with temperature, humidity and airflow carefully monitored. Chorizo, jamon, even duck breast were all drying and concentrating on the artful flavor-centric pieces they would eventually become. I wanted to move in. Apparently, that’s against the USDA regulations that allow La Española to sell to all 50 states and internationally. When we finished the tour, we were treated to the meal we’d all been waiting for. 

curing room

In their tented outdoor dining space next to the warehouse and deli (I’ll come back to that), we enjoyed freshly baked bread and a variety of both in-house and imported charcuterie. Then the paella. Oh! The paella! Each bite invoked the sort of passion that make you understand how wars are fought over food; how lives are changed and loves united. The delicate flavor of the saffron infused each grain of rice, yet wasn’t masked by the two kinds of chorizo, the variety of seafood or the tender bone-in chicken. The colorfully vibrant vegetables supported a depth of flavor you’ll likely recognize from recent television commercials as umami, the savory taste sensation. I basked in the glow of each  luxurious bite, then asked for seconds. Then took a box home for dinner. It was that good. After our meal, we visited the deli.

Less of a deli, more a miniature market of international marvels. Just inside was a little Pepsi cooler, the kind you’d expect water and, well, Pepsi in. Theirs was filled with the likes of KAS limon, a tart and biting soda I’d been introduced to in another Spanish deli some 3000 miles away. To the right, a wall of wines. In the center, a display of cookies , nuts and chocolates of every flavor and texture. Behind those, olive oils and oil infusions. Passed racks of paella pans and shelves of canned fish, beyond the bags of imported crackers and sweet treats, there was the deli. Two glass enclosures housed all the meat products made at the plant, along with imported cousins of both seafood and meats. If you turned around, you’d be faced with the wall to wall refrigerated cases of cheese. I could’ve sworn I heard angels sing as I went door to door, shelf to shelf, poking and prodding, pointing and fawning over the imported Spanish regional cheeses offered. Cow’s milk, sheep’s milk, goat’s milk, mixed! Rolled cheese, flavored cheese, organic cheese! Raw cheese, smoked cheese, cured cheese, bleu cheese! And the Manchego! Ok I’ll stop. Needless to say, I did not go home empty handed.

The best part of my adventure at the sausage factory? (Insert inappropriate sausage factory joke here.) The best part is knowing. Knowing that a little piece of Spain is right here in Los Angeles. Knowing I can buy cheeses I couldn’t find at Whole Foods or Bristol Farms. Knowing I can share this with anyone willing to learn. And knowing that La Española serves lunchtime paella every Saturday. 

Order from La Española Meats @ www.laespanolameats.com

What started as an offhand comment nearly 3 months ago has culminated in a colorful prix fixe dinner by Chef de Cuisine Chris Gore at JiRaffe in Santa Monica. 

Chef Chris Gore is the husband of my Intro 1 co-professor, Chef Mary Jo Gore, at Le Cordon Bleu CSCA in Pasadena. Through various conversations and a shared interest in Downtown’s Church & State, (but that’s another story), I came to find that the recently hired Chef de Cuisine had been pushing the owners of JiRaffe away from their tired menu of same ol’, same ol’, but he’d met surefooted resistance against thinking and moving out of their comfortably predictable box. I asked about sampling the young Chef’s new ideas and Chef Instructor Gore graciously provided her husband’s contact information, which I promptly passed to my mother, Head Foodhound in our family. With the modest request of “anything but sweetbreads” and a budget of $100-150 per person, tonight we sat down, with three family friends and fellow foodies, to an unknown fate.

Eleven courses. Three and a half hours. Six stuffed bellies and six wide smiles to match. Overall, the meal was delightfully satisfying. It ranged from bold takes on classics that reinforced our belief in his culinary prowess to daring, yet delicately precise innovation that piqued new taste sensations. Chef Gore’s understanding and manipulation of texture and finish is undeniable in its artistry. Creaminess met crunch and sharp crispness met tenderness in all the right places. Only one course left me probing for more depth. Gore’s presentation also paid the kind of attention to fine detail that made JiRaffe’s current menu plating seem overtly rustic. 

Dinner by the numbers: 11, to be exact.

San Diego Sea Urchin - Coconut-lime Gelee, Fresh Coriander, Jasmine Rice

This starter was surprisingly refreshing. Though I’m not typically a fan of uni, the subtle coolness of the gelee and crunch of the puffed jasmine rice countered the briny flavor and mush of the sea urchin. The gelee, though essential, could be a little less, in volume. I found myself ending with a spoonful of gelee and a little overwhelmed by its unrestrained brightness alone.

Shima-Aji Sashimi - Orange granite, sea beans, pomegranate, yuzu-kosho

An interesting choice of fish. Though we were told it’s a close relative of Hamachi (yellowtail), I felt it’s texture was closer to that of snapper, with bite and a mild flavor. Orange granite was, again, a refreshing touch to an almost common Japanese style dish.

Local Spot Prawns - Lemon, extra-virgin olive oil

Santa Barbara Prawns. Alive until 10 minutes ago. Grilled to perfection and simply served. Sometimes the simplest dishes are the easiest to botch. Chef Gore delivered.

Inaniwa Udon Noodles - Shaved Matsutake, mushroom broth

Ah, the source of my confusion. The one spot where I was left leaning into my bowl looking for something more. The Inaniwa Udon (a smaller gauge than the classic Udon) was cooked to perfection, what Chinese call “jiao-jier” - a chew factor that imparts the equivalent level of noodle cooking perfection that Italians call “al dente”. My problem is with the broth. Mushrooms, I guess they were there. But what’s missing? The broth seemed to be a rushed skimming of what could’ve been a much meatier mushroom flavor. Umami? Maybe. Or maybe just more time. And more mushrooms.

Sauteed Diver Scallop - Cauliflower, Singapore Curry, Almonds

Wonderful. A light crossover to the heft of the meal. The puree and cauliflower florets complemented the seafood beautifully.

Nightshades - Potato, Eggplant, Tomato

An ambiguous name to all but the foodiest of foodies (or interested culinary students, as it seems), this moniker refers to a group of commonly used vegetables that supposedly only grow at night. Call it whatever you want, this was hands-down my favorite course of the evening. The canvas of potato puree is reminiscent of Spago’s Pommes Aligot. It held up to the soft-cooked egg whose yolk bathed the almost creamy roasted baby eggplant and lone fluffy gnocchi. The tomato was the tiniest punch needed to balance the richness of the dish. I need a better vocabulary to describe the perfection I felt with each bite of this masterpiece.

Black Sea Bass - Chanterelles, tarragon

Maybe it’s because I’m a seafood lover, or maybe it’s because I just eat too much, but while this dish achieved it’s motive, crispy skin and all, it’s something I’ve had before. Maybe not better, but at most, just as good. The best touch to this was the chopped haricot verts; the only time I have ever had them...chopped. Again, Chef’s attention to texture shines brightly here.

Hudson Valley Fois Gras - White nectarines, vanilla, brioche, basil

The requisite “I paid for an expensive dinner” dish...Fois Gras! Delicious, but, as with the bass, nothing I hadn’t had before. Best new element: vanilla. Who knew?

Sonoma Lamb Rack - Red Kuri squash

It was technically slices of lamb loin. Cooked to a perfect tender pink, the real star of this plate was the Red Kuri squash. I’d never had it before, but it’s fairly similar to its rougher cousin the Sweet Potato. The puree was a perfect bulk to carry the reduction, while the macedoine squash and tiny bits of bacon worked to counter the gaminess of the lamb. This is the lamb dish for the most discriminating of lamb-haters. I took home what was left from our guests who couldn’t finish. It was that good.

Sorbet

The perfect palate cleansing segue to dessert. Pineapple, mango and I think coconut, played nicely together in the same scoop of sorbet, nuzzled in a paper thin cookie cup, floating in a pool of cool tropical soup. 

Molten Chocolate Cake and White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake

A self-explanatory dessert that screamed “I’m not really part of this meal.” When questioned about his choice in dessert, Chef Gore did humbly explain that he did not want to step on any toes, as it were, and left dessert to the in-house pastry chef. The pastry chef, apparently, didn’t read the rest of the menu, and served the tried and true 90’s smash hit of Molten Chocolate Cake, complete with chocolate drizzle. The White Chocolate Raspberry Cheesecake had its own drizzle, of course, of raspberry and white chocolate.

It’s been nearly ten years since my last meal at JiRaffe. That meal, though pleasant, was largely unmemorable and I haven’t been back since. If this is the food that makes a newly reinvented menu, it’ll be much sooner that I revisit this crosstown treat.

The caliber of forward thinking and unapologetic use of fresh and local ingredients is exactly the stimulation JiRaffe needs to start reclaiming its former reputation as a ‘go-to’ L.A. fine-dining restaurant.