The Very Best Meal I Ever Ate In LA

Los Angeles is a foodie’s haven. Mecca for anyone with a gold-plated tongue and diamond-dusted tastebuds. The choices are beyond abundant and available around the clock. Whether you crave comfort food, the elegance of fine-dining, or the thrilling adventure of a vegan kosher taco truck, LA has got you covered. I lived in the City of Angels for a decade, and while I was spoiled by all sorts of gourmet experiences, here is my recipe for the best meal I ever ate.

What you will need:

basil (freshly plucked from my friend Mick’s backyard)

cherry tomatoes (ditto)

cheap crackers, any brand will do

mustard (I like Dijon, but French’s is just fine)

a time machine

Directions:

1. Live in LA in the early 90s. Or use the time machine. Set it for June, 1991.

2. Be the type of flirty chick who gets invited to places like Spago and Le Dome. Try to be impressed by the towering salads and the bone marrow with the persnickety spoons, and the way every waiter introduces himself to you and gives you a little backstory. “Hi, my name is Chad?” Always with a question mark. “I’m originally from a town in Texas you’ve probably never heard of, but I’m actually an actor…” just in case you might be someone who could give Chad his big break.

3. Randomly meet a man named Mick who used to be a drug dealer in the heady, coke-infused days of the 80s, but now has reinvented himself as a type of guy-Friday. He is just scratching by, but he’s doing it honestly. Meet a lot of men in LA, but never meet anyone like Mick.

4. Get to know Mick slowly. He’s a friend of a friend of a friend, and he drives a convertible and keeps nothing in it so he can park with the roof down and never be robbed. He has a large personality that hides a shy side. You like the way he dresses in plaid shirts and jeans, so different from the Miami Vice-inspired, Easter-egg-colored blazers on most of the other men. There’s nothing artificial about Mick. It’s like he survived something dangerous, and now he is forever chill. He doesn’t talk about his past.

5. Date the men who think they’ll impress you with the size of their Rolodex, but always go over to Mick’s house after. Bring him your leftovers. Dish about the date. Mick’s place is in constant disarray because he’s trying to remodel the old bungalow himself. This means there is a pool, but no water. A kitchen with no floor. A hot plate. A tiny fridge. And yet you always feel comfortable and welcome. He doesn’t care if you put your feet up anywhere. He is happy to see you, and he makes you happy to be seen.

6. Go to Patina. Have the lobster bisque. Order pear liquor as the after-dinner drink and decide that it tastes exactly like you imagine furniture polish would taste. Make this comment to your date who doesn’t think you’re funny at all, especially because that drink cost a pretty penny, little lady. Tell the story to Mick later, over beers. Out of the bottle, of course. He says, “I know exactly what you mean.” And you know he does. “Did he really call you ‘little lady’?”

7. Realize one night while you’re getting dressed for dinner that you do not want to go to the new hip place. The new big gig. The five-star anything. You don’t want to go to City or Maple Drive or Ivy by the Shore. You do not want to be arm candy or leg candy. Or any kind of candy at all. Realize you’re tired of listening to tonight’s specials because they sound as if someone made them up: frou-frou with a side of splitz-ditz under a generous squelch of wilted pick-up-sticks. Realize that you’ve had all the carpaccio a person can eat in a lifetime. What’s so special about raw fish in lime?

8. Call Mick and ask if you can come over. He says, “I don't have anything but crackers and mustard.” Tell him you’ll bring over some wine—a bottle somebody left at your apartment after a party—and you’ll be by in forty-five. Take off the dumb dress with the big bow. Put on ripped jeans and a concert tee. Show up at Mick’s feeling a little giddy.

9. Mick has lit candles on mismatched thrift-store tables in his backyard. He says, “There’s basil and tomatoes growing,” and points to the tiny garden you’ve never even noticed because it’s more weeds than garden.

10. Pluck fresh basil and crush a tiny bit between your thumb and finger. Breathe in that scent that takes you back to some other time, some other lifetime, maybe. Ancient and mystical. Pick a handful of tiny cherry tomatoes. Revel in their scent. Is there anything in the world as beautifully rustic as the scent of fresh tomatoes right off the vine?

11. Sit at Mick’s side on the deck around the empty pool. Let him make you tomato-and-basil cracker sandwiches with a little dash of mustard. With a jolt, understand that every bite is better than any bite you’ve ever had of any meal you’ve ever eaten.

12. Lean back against Mick as the sky changes color from dark moody blue to an inky black. Feel his arms around you. Relax against his chest. Listen as he whisper words in your ear. “Hi, my name is Chad? And I’ll be your…” Laugh and roll over to face him.

13. He brushes the hair out of your eyes. He kisses you. You kiss him.

You need the time machine, because there is no going back. Because Mick’s timeline ended in the 90s, way too young. Way too soon. But every time you have a little bite of tomato and basil on any type of cracker with any sort of mustard, you are in the canyons of LA. In the backyard of a rundown bungalow. With a man who was turning his life around. One cherry tomato at a time.