Girl Bites Boy; Eats Alone: Breakup Food 101

One Friday night in the not too distant past, I was blithely getting ready for a date with a guy I had been seeing for a few weeks. There was the enervating rush of trying to repair the ravages of a day’s work when unable to go home and freshen up, because rush hour traffic will make me late. It’s a mission not unlike storming the beach at Normandy: you have only one chance to make a good impression or to protect Western Europe from the Axis forces.

Finally satisfied with my efforts at personal renovation – which included a new hairdo and a mad dash to Zara for a more “datier” top - I made my way to my destination, anticipating the evening ahead. However, about two hours later, I was on my way to Canters solo, in search of comfort food.  

Not such a neon jungle: Canter's glowing refuge on Fairfax Avenue.

While the name of this blog may imply a carefree, unfettered female who lives only to eat, nothing could be farther from the truth. I do make an effort to have an actual love life. I am not one to kiss and tell, but I do enjoy kissing and eating (armed with Altoids, of course). A handsome face across the table is always the best sauce, I say.

I am pretty used to eating alone most of the time. It’s just what happens in a busy life, with the demands of a schedule filled with work, exercise, and various social and cultural interests. Sometimes I look forward to a table or counter to myself, eager to dive into a good book and a good meal, feeling both comforted and empowered in my solitude.

Then there are times when being alone at the table is a damning, painful feeling. This often follows the demise of a relationship. To combat this, I have a rotating prescription of feel-good foods, many of which lean toward the carb-y and chocolately. Even if the end of a relationship is for the best, there is still a feeling of loss, embarrassment, and inadequacy. Ironically, these emotions seem keener when one is the breaker-upper rather than the break-ee. But I digress.

Dorothy Parker was attributed with saying,
“Where’s the man could ease a heart like a satin gown?”
She was only partly right – what could be better than
a rainbow cookie from Canters that coordinates
perfectly with my backpack?

It’s so strange to realize that Canters has a Website, as the restaurant belongs to a period in my life when the Internet was still science fiction.  and the reality of three-dimensional objects like old diner booths and neon signs had more value than the same environment in HD brilliance.

I’ve been eating at Canters since shortly after high school, which is so long ago that I have no recollection of how I found the restaurant in the first place. I’ve gone there with large groups of friends and co-workers, back in the days when I ran in a youthful, noisy pack. Shelly gorged herself sick once on the dishes of pickles that appear on the table in the interim time between arriving and being able to order your meal – which used to average about 40 minutes. We accepted much abuse over the years from the gruff staff with good nature and grumbling stomachs. An impatient friend asked twice for a glass of water from a waiter who we dubbed “Houdini” because of his leonine but aging good looks. The waiter snarled, “I’ve only got two hands!” This same friend earned a dirty look for our somewhat loud and rowdy table from Rodney Dangerfield, who was dining nearby with his daughter (at least, we thought it was his daughter) when his frantic “Where? Where is he?” startled the comedian. We all laughed and told our friend to pipe down, but we weren’t as embarrassed as we probably should have been.

Canters is the closest thing I have to “A Clean,Well-Lighted Place” when I’m blue. It is one of the few places where my urban survival mode shuts itself off and once again, I’m a snarky, nerdy-cute teen with a new drivers’ license. I feel about the place like Holly Golightly did about Tiffany’s – nothing bad can ever happen to you there.

The décor, which has remained nearly unchanged in the last 30 years or more, is mid-century cozy, with roomy booths, a neat screen made of colored glass discs meshed together by a fisherman’s net of thick chain, and an overall golden haze, much like the hue crust on a potato knish. There are lighted cases with sliding glass doors that contain mysterious halves of cantaloupe and slim quarter slices of watermelon. I have never seen anyone order one of these slabs of fruit and always had wondered if they were real.

The ceiling in the first dining area is covered with acetate “tiles” that are lit from behind, each one featuring a quarter-paneled photograph of autumnal tree branches against a Technicolor blue sky. This always makes me think of walking home from school with Greg Brady. Peter was cuter, but Greg was the oldest and thereby, a catch in my mind. Any guy with a kidnapped goat in his room can’t be all that bad. 

Another Rodney – Bingenheimer, that is – has been at Canters nearly every night that I have ever been there in the last three decades. The New Wave impresario of my teenage years still has his show on KROQ FM in the wee hours of the morning, as he continues to celebrate new talent on the L.A. music scene. He also has his own special soup at Canters, a hearty concoction of beans in a savory broth that is kept to thicken on the back of the stove for him all day. Over the years, I would see him sitting with an entourage in his regular booth next to the staircase. Lately, I have seen him alone or not at all. This is probably due more to my self-imposed curfew of more recent years than to his seniority as the gracefully aging Mayor of the Sunset Strip.

Bingenheimer wasn’t there the night I sought solace in this safe haven of my teen angst and hope. I felt like something out of a 21^st Century version of Edward Hopper’s “Nighthawks,” sitting at the counter and emailing Alice, who would totally understand my random message about eating after a failed evening out while waiting for my order. Amusingly, my big news to her was not that I had broken up with yet another misguided suitor, but that I was eating stuffed cabbage after breaking up with ----------.

Take another little piece of my heart – or my stuffed cabbage.
Heartbreak and hunger cut like a knife at Canters.

I’ve taken many dates over the years to Canters in much the same spirit that one would introduce a guy to Mom. While almost all of them have liked the food, I personally did not always end up with five stars on Yelp. But no matter. In the proper frame of mind, knishes can sometimes be better than kisses.

A few days later, Alice shared the link to Charles Bukowski’s “The Icecream People.” While I will never experience the therapeutic qualities of ice cream as Viagra (at least, I hope not), I have to admit that a toasted Black Russian slathered with whitefish salad from the Bagel Factory is not a bad way to bandage a bruised ego and achy heart. Nor is a half a cantaloupe from a glass case, my equivalent of really breaking loose when having lost at love. (Now you know why I’m single.)

Grounded: Ode to the Coffee Cup

Every morning, I stop at Starbuck’s, Peet’s, or Copenhagen Pastry for a cup of coffee.  Friends ask why that since I drink decaf, why do I bother? I actually drink it for the taste, but yes, I do need a kickstart. This morning ritual serves that purpose.

Clouds in my coffee: A shot of deep, dark espresso with a
pristine froth of foamed milk at Profeta
in Westwood Village.

What, you ask, could possibly be motivating about standing in line waiting to pay two to three dollars for a cup of coffee? Ask everyone else who is standing in line with me. My two chief reasons are a) I hate cleaning up after making coffee at home and b) I need the personal attention in the morning. As a regular at my usual coffee stops, I get smiles and acknowledgement. But even in an unknown coffeehouse, I feel somewhat pampered by the attention, even if it is from a barista who makes $8.50 an hour.  

Why does coffee bring people together in a way that tea and other beverages – except for alcohol – do not? First off, for most people who drink it full-leaded, there is the promise of an energetic buzz, which seems to encourage the genial airing of half-baked ideas. Secondly, coffee is usually served in thoughtfully decorated environments that are typically graced with art, literature, and a parade of humanity to gawk at.

UCLA's William Andrews Clark Library

Imagine then, the chance to enjoy one's enervating cup of coffee in a setting that feels like a location for “Downton Abbey.” UCLA’s William Andrews Clark Library is such a place, built in the early 1920s, a hidden jewel in the West Adams district of South Los Angeles. In January, the Library presented “Bittersweet Uprising: An Exhibition at the William Andrews Clark Memorial Library: Coffee and Coffeehouse Culture in EarlyModern England,” which showcased a collection of dictionaries, diaries, broadsides, pamphlets, and satirical plays related to coffee and its caffeinated mystique. I attended an event celebrating the exhibit, which featured a keynote by Professor Thierry Rigogne from Fordham University titled, “The Creation of the French Café in Myth and History.” His talk complemented the exhibit and outlined the growth of coffee's popularity, from its origins in the Middle East to fortifying lively forums of intellectual discourse through the establishment of coffeehouses in Europe.



Preceding the lecture was a fabulous demonstration and tasting by Verve Coffee Roasters of Santa Cruz. Michael James of Cafecito Organico in Los Angeles was the Clark's barista for the day and demonstrated the French press method of brewing. Similar to Asian tea ceremonies, traditional and slower methods of brewing coffee are an artform that is rarely experienced in today’s hurried world.

What a grind: Yellowish "chaff" separates from
fresh coffee grounds.

James ground and brewed Verve’s “La Providencia,” a variety is grown in Guatemala, where he said that the diversity of climates leads to a myriad of flavors in a single cup of coffee. Lining a Chemex vessel with a white paper cone filter, he prepped by rinsing the filter with hot water to rid the paper of any flavors that would come from its processing. He then filled the cone with fresh ground coffee that was visibly separated from its “chaff.” James did “pulse-pours” that steadily filled the filter without letting the water get too high. His use of an electric kettle also kept the water at a constant temperature. The result was an aromatic and caramelly brew that I sipped happily without my usual cream and sugar.




In French, the word “café” stands for both the beverage and the place where it is served. The first scholarly history of the café begins in the 16th Century, when Europeans first drank coffee in their travels to the East. Suleiman Aga Musta-Féraga was the Ottoman ruler who established the use of Coffea Arabica as a beverage. The plant was first cultivated in Yemen and used in religious ceremonies by the Sufi. The beverage became known as qahwa, a term formerly applied to wine. Thusly, it became known as the “Wine of Islam” to Europeans. Presumably, the caffeine’s stimulating qualities would help keep worshippers awake during their evening dhikr.

"Pulse-pours" keep the brewing process steady, with
the water's temperature controlled by an electric kettle.

According to Rigogne, between 1650 and 1694, the enjoyment of coffee had spread throughout Europe, from Paris to Marseille, to Oxford to Leipzig. By the end of the French Revolution in 1799, there were 4,000 cafés in Paris. Coffee’s origins evoked for Europeans a history of Asian romance. Hence, the term, “Armenian” was often synonymous with “café owner” in the late 1600s.


According to the information displayed in the “Bittersweet Uprising” exhibit, at one point, more than 50 London coffeehouses were named "The Turk's Head" in recognition of the beverage's Oriental roots. This inclination toward exoticism still exists today in the names of coffees. Antigua, Colombia, Kenya, any place in Italy that ends in a vowel - the names are invoked by devoted drinkers as if they were magical incantations to transport one to a faraway place. I'm lucky if my tall Americano will last through the long and arduous morning commute through West L.A., its streets forever plagued by the ongoing renovation of the 405 freeway and the sheer volume of traffic.

A feminine call to arms by 17th Century"coffee widows"
of  London. From "Eighteenth-century
coffee-house culture, edited by Markman Ellis (2006).

Another artifact in the Clark’s exhibit was a recipe for making “artificial coffee,” from William Ellis’s “The Country Housewife’s Family Companion” (1750), the formula of which includes burnt breadcrumbs, which were used when real coffee was too expensive. Such measures were also used in coffeehouses, where a cup of "coffee" was a great excuse to linger with one's tricorne hat-wearing homies.

A little-known aspect of coffeehouse culture is the gender debate that ensued. A treatise titled "The women's petition against coffee, representing to public consideration the grand inconveniences accruing to their sex from the excessive use of that drying, enfeebling liquor" was printed in 1674 by women in London who were miffed that their husbands spent more time in coffeehouses than at home. Forty years earlier, an account of travels in Persia by Adam Olearius cited coffee as having an adverse effect on male desire. Is this why in this über-cautious age, so many blind dates and first meetings are done at Starbucks?

According to an article by ethnobotanist Chris Kilham in the Ethiopian Review, coffee has no diminishing effect on desire, nor any linkages to cancer, miscarriage, or birth defects. It also has some therapeutic qualities that help reduce the risk of gallstones, cirrhosis of the liver, and colon and rectal cancers.

W.W.G.D.: What would Goldilocks do? Giant cup of house
blend (in a cup too big) and French press (with a cup too
small) are just right at brunch at Bread and Porridge
on Wilshire Boulevard.

The caffeine in coffee stimulates the brain, decreases mental fatigue, and overall is a great mood lifter. It’s no wonder we are all addicted. And it’s a natural food pairing with dark chocolate, which has been found to lower "bad" cholesterol and blood pressure, is rich in fiber, and (this is a shocker) increase insulin sensitivity, thereby reducing the risk of diabetes.

While tea is also a highly social drink, somehow it just doesn't have the same cachet for me that a caramel macchiato does. Tea is more about the ritual, which makes it a serene and wonderful experience. But when I need to wake up, a gently brewed pot of dragonwell green isn't going to cut it.

I need to be where the people are, with my fellow commuters shuffling along in line engrossed in their mobile devices, baristas shouting at us to pick up our drinks, and impatient caffeine addicts elbowing me while reaching for the nonfat milk at the condiment bar. That being said, to hell with decaf. Make mine a double, fully leaded.

Oshogatsu: New Year's Dishes With Chanto

The night before the Oshogatsu party that Jolene and her brigade of mom friends from El Marino Language School held in early January, I found her frantically mashing yellow satsuma-imo and chestnuts in a pot. She then began to puree them - by hand - forcing them through a fine metal sieve with a plastic rice paddle. The end result was an attractive dish of kurikinton, a traditional New Year dish that with its golden hue, symbolizes prosperity.

Jolene uses a sieve to make the
kurikinton as smooth as we hope
the New Year will be.

"It's not Japanese cooking unless you've kicked your ass five times to make it," she said, not without a touch of irony as she toiled.


Over the last decade and more, Jolene's connection to Japanese culture through her marriage to Hiro, and now, through her sons and the families of their friends at school, has made the fare at gatherings that much more Martha-esque (or Harumi-esque, depending on where you live). Her cooking and hostessing skills have been elevated as well as culturally enriched in terms of presentation, tastes, and subtlety.


Watching my sister cook and knowing what she and her fellow Moms turn out daily in their respective kitchens, is a lesson in what Japanese Americans call "chanto," or self-discipline. Being ten minutes early for any appointment or always having change for the parking meter are forms of chanto. Using hand tools to do what a food processor does is Chanto 2.0.

Kurikinton, topped with chunks of sweet golden chestnuts,
signifies wealth.

That being said, it stands to reason that the delicacies that are served to celebrate Japanese New Year require unusual ingredients not used in everyday Japanese cooking, and are laboriously prepared, fortunately, only once a year. The feast we enjoyed on January 6 (the holiday is celebrated anywhere between Jan. 1 and 4, but we're not that chanto) was, happily, a modern abbreviation of a meal that usually takes days to prepare.

Tomoe led the feast as mistress of the o-zoni, the traditional soup served at New Year celebrations, topped with the infamous cakes of fresh mochi. Great caution must be taken when eating ozoni, particularly by the elderly or by children, who can easily choke on the sticky, gooey rice cake. Our mochi, another homemade marvel thanks to Tomoe and her Volkswagen-sized mochi maker, was cut into safely navigable pieces. Anna and I were fascinated by the way it puffed up when toasted, and tended batches of it in the toaster oven, squealing with glee at the pillowy, crispy cakes.

Rollin' in dough: Nothing says "Happy New Year"
like fresh mochi.

Another example of chanto has to be the fresh tamago that Tomoe was cooking throughout the meal. Cooking a thin layer of omelette while simultaneously rolling it into a log in a tiny rectangular pan takes not only a lot of skill, but infinite patience. It is among my favorite Japanese comfort foods, and reminds me of the crepe-like sweet omelette filled with grape jelly that our Dad used to make, except that there's no jelly in tamago. It is just a marvel of very simple ingredients - eggs, rice vinegar, and a little sugar or soy sauce - cooked to perfection, and eaten at flavor's peak.

The rest of the meal was a cornucopia of traditional Japanese osechi-ryori and various world cuisines. On the buffet table were Amy's Thai beef curry, Anna's famous coconut milk tapioca pudding, a Spanish sweet made with almonds called turron, and Yayoi's presentation of a jubako, a tiered lacquer box filled with traditional Japanese foods served to welcome a healthy and prosperous New Year. There was also an unexpected treat, a "dip" that Judy kept warm in a Crock Pot, that earned for her our undying worship as a culinary goddess. While the name "Hot Crab Salad" might be more reminiscent of a 1970s Southern rock group, it actually makes a better hors d'oeuvre. We enjoyed eating scoops of it on top of hot, fluffy rice. A good, buttery cracker or slices of toasted baguette would work nicely too.

Tomoe puts all her eggs - and concentration - in one basket
with her amazingly light and carefully created tamago.

Judy graciously parted with the recipe and few days later, the coveted formula was in our email inboxes. The scan of a handwritten recipe was labeled, "From the kitchen of Watanabe," a family friend. It was charmingly related in the kitchen shorthand that only expert cooks and busy recipe-sharing moms can decipher. I will insert some descriptives in brackets, but here is - in verbatim, the originally penned formula:


Hot Crab Salad
Bake 350 at 45 minutes

1 kamaboko (package of Japanese fish cake)
13 shrimp
8 imitation crab (this means 8 sticks of surimi, not 8 actual crabs, as I had thought!)
2 c. Napa (cabbage)
1 t. pepper
1 potato
1 egg (raw)
1 c. celery
1 c. onion
2 c. mayonnaise

Dice (all ingredients) w/pepper & and mayonnaise. Put in casserole dish. Sprinkle paprika and bake.

At Oshogatsu, most of us ate the Hot Crab Salad on top of rice, like a fluffy and oceanic souffle. In retrospect, crackers or slices of toasted baguette would be good too. What made it stand out, I think, was that it was different from most of the food. While the menu was far from the fare at a traditional Oshogatsu, our collective dishes tended toward an ethnic theme. Judy attributed the unabashed luxury of Hot Crab Salad and its appropriation of a non-Asian ingredient like mayonnaise, to its Hawaiian origins.

The groaning board at Oshogatsu.Clockwise
from left:Thai beef curry, renkon no sunomono,
osechi-ryori rice, and Hot Crab Salad.

Hawaiian cuisine combines influences from indigenous culture, immigrants from throughout Asia, and the islands' European colonizers, to create food traditions that are an idealization of what America is at its best: perhaps not a melting pot where individuals are obliterated into a mainstream, but where they create the mainstream.

Ethnic and cultural differences are not always smoothly navigated (see this book trailer on Sarah Vowell's "Unfamiliar Fishes" - really, it illustrates my point!). However, the preparation and enjoyment of food is what we all potentially share.

I think our Oshogatsu embodied this very well. The entire meal embraced the polyglot of cultures that had gathered together due to each person's connection to Japan or Japanese culture, whether by birth, marriage, or association with friends. I hope that in the New Year as always, that we can find a way to understand each other, if nowhere else, at the table.