Eats

Soumarelo
Altadena

Can you really objectively write about a place you visit as much out of some sort of largely baseless love for the owner as much as you visit for the food? Soumarello is such a place. You casually mention to the owner that you’ve heard good things about the soup. Five minutes later there is soup on your table. You spy a large plate that looks interesting heading for a table of five who appear to know how to order. “It’s not on the menu but I can make it for you…right now,” he says. In the end, though, the owner could be a complete monster and Soumarello would still be worth the visit. What do they serve at Soumarello? Whole chickens, as delicate as snowflakes, waiting to be deconstructed and dipped into tiny cups of potent garlic paste. Fragrant rice. Sandwiches filled with crisp falafel and just the right amount of taziki sauce, pickled vegetables and lettuce. Steamy, perfectly savory, chickpea soup. Everything is nice. I will say that I still prefer the mutabal at Zankou.

Ciro’s
Boyle Heights

Ciro’s appears as I suspect it looked twenty, maybe thirty years ago: wood-paneled walls with generic beer signs placed with no philosophy for design. Comfortable wrap-around booths, perhaps meant for a post burrito slumber, sit next to square tables. A jukebox with East LA favorites rests in a corner. It feels somewhat like a cross between your friend’s basement and a bar from a dive from a Peckinpah film that hasn’t yet been made. Everyone loves the tight, cylindrical flautas, not too oily, dipped liberally in sour cream and fresh guacamole. The tacos, equally lacking in grease, are topped with a virtual mound of shredded chicken, but somehow seem to hold together on the trip to one’s mouth. What I really love, aside from the entrees, are the condiments: bowls of the freshest guacamole I’ve ever found, chunks of avocado that seem to have just been cut, swimming with cilantro and onion and, secondly, the salsa, darker than most tomato based concoctions, fiery in taste, dominated by bits of black chilies and chunks of green ones.

Akasaka
Hacienda Heights

Akasaka can be found on the same lonely stretch of road that contains one of the best lunch spots in the world, Foo Foo Tei. When you first make your way into the restaurant you’re greeted with the sound of water from a bubbling fountain just as you duck your head under the hanging piece of stenciled fabric that marks the way to the main door inside. There’s a small outdoor seating area, but I can’t ever resist the pleasure of sitting inside. Upon entrance you may run into someone, or push the door against their back, as there will likely be a cramped line filling the tiny foyer that you first encounter. If you have a reservation, you’re good. If not, you may be in for a wait. The restaurant is about the size of a master bedroom (at the most) and is divided between the main area and two semi-private side areas (one more private than the other). Signed photos of stars that probably don’t even know they’re stars vie for space with what appear to be family pictures and computer printouts of the roll offerings. There are no windows and no visible doors beside the one you enter through. It’s all a bit cozy to say the least. And in the center of it all, at least spiritually, is the sushi chef, the owner's daughter, handling the customers at the bar and the fish with equal ease.

What about the fish? Everything at Akasaka seems big and bloated. The Rainbow Roll, a plump specimen that as much in common with the Hollenbeck burrito at El Tepeyac as with a Rainbow Roll at any fru-fru LA sushi joint, is worth every bit of the $25 it costs. The Salmon Skin Salad, a not too salty marriage of large amounts of crisp salmon skin, avocado and daikon radish sprouts, is sometimes more salmon than salad, but consistently good. There’s a great seafood udon bowl containing (you guessed it) a pile of sea-going creatures swimming in a briny broth that reminds you of where they came from. And then there are combination platters that combine decent teriyaki with sashimi. The only downer I’ve ever really had here is the $65 platter combo, sort of the combination “boat” of Akasaka. It seemed a little long on fried chicken and tempura in comparison to the other stuff. Not so much my thing. Returning to their strengths, though, I followed it up, on my next visit, with the Chirashi Sushi bowl I spied on a neighboring table on my previous visit. The dish contains 20-25 pieces of sashimi- salmon, shrimp, yellowtail, tuna, liver, uni, scallop, squid and more, sitting simply and unadorned, the way I like it most- neatly arranged atop a bowl of sweetly seasoned rice topped with tempura flakes. You even get the shrimp head, deep-fried as an appetizer.

My Taco
Highland Park

I would eat at My Taco once, maybe twice, a year. Or maybe more, depending on whether I find something other than the house specials, Barbacoa and Carne Asada Fries (both pictured above). Don’t get me wrong, both are delicious. The Carne Asada fries is a generous portion of potatoes topped with delicate chunks of beef, cheese and a healthy dollop of guacamole. The large order of ever so slightly charred Barbacoa drips with something I’ll call “flavor,” and is accompanied with small tortillas, chopped onion, cilantro and a cup of liquid fat meant for dipping, dressing or submersion. It’s all very wonderful, paired with chipotle salsa, pureed avocado and charred jalapenos, and could probably satisfy a family of four or an NFL lineman. My hesitation to head back anytime soon lies solely with the burden of an increasingly health-focused conscience that holds a particular aversion to foods in which I can actually feel the fat running down my throat. You can take that as an endorsement.

Asohka the Great
Artesia

Time and place, I guess, affects one’s experience in a restaurant as much as it does one’s experience with a movie, or an album. I could cite endless examples from watching 2001 at an actual theatre to seeing an old Kurasawa with the rain beating on your window to listening to a Merle Haggard record while driving in the deep South. And then there’s Artesia’s Asohka the Great on Christmas Eve, full of Indian-Americans, young and old, some with turbans, some without. Time interacts with place and with food. You have the feeling that everyone else is somewhere ordinary, eating turkey, drinking sparkling grape juice, and you’re doing something that at least seems a bit more extraordinary. I take a cheap pleasure out of the fact that I may be the only native Alabamian in the restaurant. There’s an aural hum that combines with a chilly night, the sight of large Indian families enjoying their meals, and rushing waiters, to offer a feeling that at least seems unique.

We paired Chicken Vindaloo with Palak Paneer, as we often do, and found that, aside from the ambience, one may not have to drive all the way to Artesia for good Indian food, if Asohka does, in fact, produce good Indian food. What we had was great, especially the Potato Paratha, but nothing I haven’t previously found in Pasadena (where I live) at places like Sitar and Mezbaan. This being said, when Christmas Eve arrives again in about 10 months, I think I would be up a reunion visit to Asohka.