Overheard today: "There are far too many socialists in this lab celebrating this César Chavez holiday." Said, I think, in response to half the workplace not turning up for work today. One hopes it was a bit tongue-in-cheek...

What's with all that cricket; is this still a food blog?

I wouldn't trust Lloyd Grossman as far as I could chuck him, but I guess he merely adds his face to some the apparently ubiquitous sauce bottles that have sparked some lively debate about the cooking habits of the British. OK, I exaggerate. That sparked an article on the four staple meals the British public resorts to by Zoe Williams, whose witty writing we enjoy in our household.

Now under the impression that my little household must also be stuck in the same rut, I felt quite determined to log our weekly diet. Like the state of Schrodinger's cat, the very act of observing one's diet can change one's eating habits. Under normal circumstances, that is. Like all serendipitous findings in the laboratory, our unique circumstances of not having much control over what time we get home, and hence when we eat our single cooked meal of the day, allowed me to log our weeks eating blind since I completely forgot that was what I was going to do anyway. (And you naive folk out there really think I know what's going on when I'm doing my experiments... I ALWAYS do them blind.)

So for what it's worth, and to qualify this as a sometime-food blog, in all its ugliness, this is what D+P ate this week for dinner (breakfast is almost always cereal unless I've baked bread, and lunch is always something leftover or from the canteen or me starving hoping to get finished earlier and thus eat a nicer dinner. ha!):

Sunday: BBQ (friends invited over to christen the pit's new home). Prawns smoked on cedar planks, garnished with garlic and lime. Grilled aubergines: large globes sliced and grilled, then layered up again with mozarella inbetween and oven-baked; chinese eggplant and mediterranean aubergine just plain grilled. Swordfish and mahi-mahi marinated in soya sauce and ginger, cubed and skewered up with a cherry tomatoes and lime slices. Fillet of wild-caught salmon smoked on an alder plank with lemon juice, lemon thyme (from garden) and salt and pepper. Couscous. Sour mango salad (Corrine Trang recipe).

Monday: Bad start to week. D in lab waiting for a 10pm experiment. Leftover breaded chicken from canteen lunch. Yoghurt. Mango juice. P, on the other hand, conveniently FORGOT to pack BBQ leftovers for lunch, and hence dined like a f-ing king while I starved in the lab. Dagnabit.

Tuesday: More BBQ leftovers. And lots of green salad. Dang, I should BBQ more often. Cook for an army, eat for three days...

Wednesday: Chicken wings baked in five spice powder. Steamed broccoli with oyster sauce. Steamed Thai rice.

Thursday: Roasted beef ribs in a pseudo-Galbi sauce. You know, the roasted beef ribs was another serendipitous finding. We left the ribs covered in foil in the oven at 300degF (dammit, I'm even using degF without thinking now; I'm screwed for returning to metric EU), went for a walk with the dog, stayed out longer than we planned (1.5h), and found the ribs cooked to tender perfection. Normally, I guess we'd have them bloodier, but the slow cook helped the tougher fatty and tendonous bits breakdown somewhat.

Friday: Thai takeaway. And no, I'm not proud of this one. In fact, we both acknowledged that we could have easily cooked something from the store cupboard even though the fridge was more or less empty and we left the lab after 9pm. In fact, we could even have had some of the frozen psuedo-siew mai (Japanese style with edamame), or thawed out some squid to fry in Szechuan pepper, or just had couscous and olives. But no, we thought we were desperate enough for takeaway. We didn't even enjoy it. Dog's tummy was bad all week, and cleaning up indoor **** really puts one off a curry. Dangitalltoheck.

Saturday: Post-ballet dinner at En Sushi on Santa Monica Blvd + Barry. Sushi (traditional): hamachi (yellowtail), raw scallops, octopus, snow crab. Agedashi tofu. Veggie tempura. Spinach+enoki cold appetizer. We'd driven all the way back from the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion along Olympic in hope that we'd see some all-night Korean BBQ restau with lights blazing and a neon "Open" sign. Which we did. Only to find after parking that they were closed. Even Zankou Chicken on Sepulveda was closed. But En Sushi's kitchen doesn't shut till "late" on Saturdays. 11.30pm on this particular Saturday. It's one of these places we've avoided because it looks too trendy for us. The cheap and cheerful yakitori place half a block down is more our style when eating out in our neighbourhood. Or when we're feeling fancy, SaSaYa, the small-dish (can't remember the Japanese name) is our fave. It's not to knock En Sushi really. The food was great, the service ever so accommodating despite the late hour. It's the fact that every time I've crossed Barry, either to get to the DVD store or the other less trendy restaus, I very nearly get run over by some fancy SUV or noisy sports car leaving the valet parking for En Sushi. I have little charity for such folk, and avoid their company as much as possible. Which has till now deprived us of the very competent sushi chef at En.

Sunday: Dinner at the ex-neighbours' in thanks for looking after their dog while they were away. Some fabby Indian cooking. Rice+cardamon+sultanas. Chickpeas+spinach. Aloo ghobi. Eggplant curry. And some lovely double-fried sweets from the Sweet Shop (name?) on Pico + Fairfax.

So. In a blind study of the eating habits of some ex-UK inhabitants, we find no evidence for any spag bol (we probably eat that once or twice a year), tikka masala (D is not keen on sweet curries, Brummie or otherwise), chilli con carne (put off that during undergrad years; now have irrational hate of kidney beans) or bangers and mash (have to admit to eating that monthly in Edinburgh thanks to the venison and boar stalls at the fortnightly Farmers' Market in the West End). I think our rut comes more from not trying many new recipes or styles, rather than having staple set meals. Our cultural influences, while many, have grown stale. Sadly, without my library of cookbooks and their ideas or not reading the broadsheets' lifestyle sections or not having the time to browse Flickr quite so much, we've lost the will to try out more complicated dishes or experiment with the ones we know and love.

So, in the spirit Schrody's cat, or rather, in tribute to the spirit of Schrody's cat, we will attempt to change the diet by the very act of observation, thus leading to experimentation.

Joffrey @DCP

We've been to the ballet.

Dichotomy of Japan

Compare and contrast

Japan apology for blossom error

Japan reiterates sex slave stance

I like aspects of the Japanese culture and race; there is much to be admired about the way the Japanese people can be focused, the manner in which they preserve their cultural heritage, and have pride in their nation. But sometimes, I wonder if the outward politeness masks a deep arrogance and feeling of superiority over their Asian neighbours. The sterotyped image I have of the average Japanese person is typified in the first story: absolute apology for any minor error. But the second issue reminds us that WWII was really not so long ago, and that there still exists tension between the nations that the militant Japan of old sought to dominate and this allegedly new generation of Japanese. My parents were born shortly after the war, leaving me two generations from the Japanese occupation of SE Asia. I have no bone to pick with the Japan of now, but if they persist in trying to rewrite the events of 60 years ago, perhaps we should start noting signs of increasing nationalism instead of worrying so much about some Bush administration-invented axis of evil.

Go on, you Patricks

It's been a mixed day for the Irish, hasn't it? 4 points off a 6-Nations victory (merde!). Denied yet again, as far as I can tell... But they're celebrating in Jamaica now. What an upset that was. Good on Ireland, but what on earth happened to the batting order of Pakistan? I feel for them. Their reception at home will not be good. But these things happen in ODI. What an interesting World Cup this could end up being.

house demolition

WTH? I thought I'd just modify a few cosmetic things on my blog and Blogger made me choose a new template. Oh hell. Does this mean another week of working out how to change things to how I like it? Dammitalltoheck. I guess things have changed since I last did any blogging. Darn dotcoms and their love-in takeovers. Dammitalltoheck.

Ms Lazy-pants here will be leaving this place looking like crap until she finishes her own version of March Madness. But she musn't complain. That new "labels" function looks like fun... Even a little... WordPress?

the world is going to hell in a handbasket

What is the world coming to? Global warming, illegal wars, economic and polar icecap meltdown, road rage, the 405, and to top it all, Blue Peter fakes a phone-in! We're doomed, I tell you. Doomed!!!

what world cup?

As far as most sporting games are concerned, I tend to lend my support to my adopted home of Scotland, even though they suck at football, cricket, rugby... You name it, they suck at it. On the world stage, when Scotland don't qualify for whatever World Cup is on that year, I generally cheer on all the other British and Irish teams. So, that will be England and Ireland for the footie, and Wales for the cricket. Ha. Not being a true Scot, I don't have an automatic, born-with hate of the Sassenachs. And they're usually entertaining enough to warrant my interest anyway.

So, it's with no compunction whatsoever that when the Ashes are played, unlike the Scottish tabloids, I give my misplaced yet wholehearted support to the underdogs: the English. And like every other cricket fan who is not pro-Aussie, I suffer. Mind you, the suffering is less great when you can't even watch the damn tests. A number on a website is a lot easier to quickly erase from your memory.

It gets complicated when both teams end up in the same championship. But they tend to be separated into different groups. And Scotland sucking at everything means the teams usually don't meet (apart from the odd game or so... but it's been a couple of decades. at least). So this time round, I was trying to work out how or when the Auld Enemies would pit bowlers and batsmen against each other.

Then this happens. If you're 203 short in an ODI, even if you are playing possibly the best side of the tournament, maybe it's time to start saying things like "It's the taking part that matters" or "At least our fielders can catch the ruddy ball". But I'm proud of Scotland. They took on a giant and didn't flinch. (OK, they might have. I dunno. I don't get to watch any cricket in this god-forsaken country! Not even the ruddy highlights!!) From the blow-by-blow account, courtesy of the Beeb, it looks like underdogs made a valiant attempt to limit the run rate, but were out-classed. And in typical Scotland fashion (at least in rugby.nobody mention the 6-nations please. it hurts), gave too much at the beginning and suffered at the very end.

It may make more sense for someone from the Asia-Pacific region to cheer on the best of the local talent, especially when one can choose from giants like the All Blacks or even the Aussies. But once you've lived and supported in Scotland, it seems so traitorous to go glory-seeking in Australasia. Here's to many more decades of cheering wildly whenever Scotland score a collective century.

Kirin

We adopted a dog.

Banana and blueberry muffins

I'm always envious of those Martha Stewart types who seem to have it all together. You know, nice home, nice garden, nice kids, good food on the table, nice table settings. And I've always suspected that while Martha Stewart herself has a huge operational team to make that happen for her, there really exist real women and men out there who live the life she has trademarked. Such people can get up in the morning, put the coffee on, make the bed, groom themselves, get breakfast ready, get the kids ready, yadda-yadda-ya... And that's just within one hour in the morning.

On the best of mornings (and only weekend ones at that), I just about manage to get out of bed some time after 1000h, stumble to the shower, waste copious amounts of water to get my eyes open, and demand breakfast very loudly until P gets up and makes it. But today, for some odd and unknown reason, I made muffins. Banana and blueberry ones at that. I've never made muffins. Not successfully anyway. I can make the most intricate of damn sachertortes, but hand me a muffin tin and crap comes out. Figuratively. Please, what do you think I am? Cack-handed?

Recipe courtesy of Epicurious.com. Not having a Martha Stewart team of organised people to ensure all reagents were in place prior to baking, I was about 2 bananas short of a full cup and completely lacking oat bran. But I had frozen blueberries. That counts for something. Substituting oat bran with some weird New-Age seven-grain hot breakfast mix seemed to work, with the pleasant side-effect of crunchy, nutty bits without the sat fats of nuts. But substituting a shortfall of bananas with milk, vanilla and maple syrup results in an overly moist muffin lacking structure.

No matter. P liked it. While not a success, it wasn't a complete failure.

Eww. I've just looked at this post on Firefox and my muffins look like crap. They looked OK on iPhoto and Safari. What's up with that?

Cross posted on akatsukieats.

:():

Sweep those ashes away. It was all over after the first test, wasn't it? Some would say it was all over before it even began with a dismal English summer, injuries and coaching changes. I'll never know; didn't even get to see any highlights in the boondocks. Oh well. Time to shore up the defences for the upcoming 6 Nations. We'll no doubt be watching Scotland get trashed in a pro-England pub yet again. I tell you, it's worse than living in England.

The 1.5 year wait is over... In 14 hours.

akatsuki crawls from under the very big rock she's hiding under in anticipation of... The Ashes!

I know it's not very Scottish and all, but I can't help backing England when it comes to the Ashes. They've been the underdogs for a long time, but I guess you could say the same for the Aussies. Come to think of it, in a competition between two countries, they both get to be the underdogs every so often. Ach well. Who cares? (Besides, when all Scottish cricket will aspire to is the occasional inclusion into the World Cup and Div2 county cricket, one's kind of lacking of a local team to support. Though you can't say I didn't fully back the Saltires while in Embra; I at least peeped over the wall on my way home if the games lasted long enough. And even paid for entry to quite a number of weekend matches. And watched all too many drunken brawls in the process. Scottish football is a little more civilised. They at least wait till you're *outside* the grounds to throw glass bottles at you.)

14 hours to go. I cannae wait! I even got broadband in my apartment so I could get at TMS on the internet. Shame there's absolutely no way to watch highlights apart from the 30 seconds that Sky Sports occasionally lets us have during the weekend round-up on Focks Sport Sucker Channel. (Although I must say AZN, the Asian-American channel, had a decent 30 min program at the weekend during the India-England series this summer. Here's hoping they're interested in the very non-Asian Ashes as well. But who knows. Monty is quite the looker.)

And akatsuki crawls back to being the over-worked, under-paid, under-appreciated scientist lab dogsbody that she has grown accustomed to being. Food blogging? What food blog? I don't even eat anymore. Let alone bake, cook or blog...

Washoku

Feeling the heat in LA, both weather- and work-wise. Going through a depressive slump as a result. What's a girl to do to combat the resulting insomnia when crosswords aren't doing the trick? Buy some new cookbooks, that's what!

After a particularly cruddy day at work (and I mean this in the literal sense; omg i'm never going to do anyone a favour again), the satisfaction from opening the Amazon box sitting on my desk was close to that gained from tearing off the wrapping of an anticipated Christmas present. For within the box were two impulse purchases: Harumi's Japanese Cooking and Washoku- recipes from the Japanese Home Kitchen.

I spent 20 minutes waiting for my agar to set salivating over the photo and recipe for Buckwheat Noodle Roll, an insane-looking maki sans rice, but made with buckwheat soba. That's definitely one to try one of these weekends.

Happy now...

Cross posted on akatsukieats.

Madeleines

Ce soir j'attends Madeleine.

J'aime des madeleines. And they're surprisingly easy to make. I simply followed the straight-forward recipe from Epicurious.com with a few modifications. Self-raising flour instead of all-purpose flour plus baking powder due to an unfortunate invasion of weevils in our store cupboard. And vanilla extract in place of the much better vanilla pod. (Sacrilege, I hear you murmur...)

I must say the use of a silicone madeleine tray probably made things easier. I didn't have to butter multiple moulds, nor worry about things sticking. The madeleines popped out easily. And there was only one disastrous batch of darker-than-necessary cakes. (still edible, just not very pretty.)

But critically, they passed the taste test of our French neighbours.

Technorati tag: madeleines..

Cross posted on akatsukieats.

Sushi Sasabune

Omakase. Trust your Itamae. With instructions courtesy of our friendly and efficient wait staff. (No dipping! Dipping allowed.)

Technorati tags: Sushi Sasabune.

Cross posted on akatsukieats.

darn it

Looks like I won't be swaying to the sound of Keane next month.

Bummer.

Battera sushi

After a half-hearted attempt to enjoy some jazz on Thursday, we gave up and went for more palatable sushi instead at Sushi Isshin (Lindbrook and Tiverton, Westwood). We've had all sorts of food at Isshin: bento for lunch, tempura, california-style rolls (like black dragon and caterpillar), chirashisushi, noodles. But we've never been on a Thursday, when the chefs make battera sushi!

Apparently, this is how sushi was for hundreds of years, before the advent of nigiri sushi (see here). The combo of pickled veg and fish was refreshingly different from nigiri sushi. And considerably easier to eat too, without the dilemma of whether to stuff ones mouth or bite the massive sushi in half. Much easier than determining if a ball has been tampered with when it starts to reverse-swing.

[and so we segue into cricket]

All too convenient for England, me thinks. What with the slim chance of catching up at all, let alone hanging in there long enough for a draw, this hulabaloo might be the way out of straight-out defeat.

An evening in Venice

Straying a little further than usual, we spent a few twilight hours out west on Venice Beach last weekend. (And, yes. It took me a whole week to get round to writing this.) Someone had the rather nifty idea that we should try out Jin Patisserie on Abbott Kinney Blvd. While living out there last year, I walked past it SO many times, but never felt the inclination to go in alone. On the other hand, I went into the Taco shop and coffee place on California many times. Some places don't look so inviting when you're on your tod.

Anyhoo, we arrived to find a hen party in full swing. Or at least it looked like a hen party. It could have been a baby shower too. I'm not very good at identifying occasions of all-female parties, never having been to any. Besides, we got there too late too sip some tea with cake, and had to make do with takeaway. All the cakes had pretty names, but I can only remember the Louvre, helped by its pyrimidal shape.

The cakes were absolutely fabulous, when we got round to eating them at midnight. What was meant to be mousse was. What was meant to be cake was light and spongy. What was meant to be stodgy and chocolatey also lived up to expectations. I'm sure our enjoyment of these delectables would have been enhanced in the calm garden/patio of the patisserie. The chef-owner must be living a dream come true: which food-loving little girl has never dreamed of owning a bakery or patisserie? Mine kind of died when science beckoned and I realised that one had to have the skill of decorating as well as baking. No matter. I can now spend my hard-earned money on such luxuries without the slaving away by a hot oven all morning bit.

We also went to Wabi-Sabi. But felt kind of out-of-place there. It was packed full of the typical beautiful characters of Venice. And while the menu looked interesting, something was lacking in us that day. It's like being back at school again. Sunday nights are always marred by the prospect of work on a Monday. I enjoyed the lychee martini though:

Russia comes to the Hollywood Bowl

Courtesy of a German conductor.

This weekend has been Tchaikovsky-tastic at the Hollywood Bowl: two nights of the Russe with fireworks. The evening started rousingly with T's Cossack dance: your steroetypical populist folksy tune made classical. It set the scene for a evening of entertaining cheesiness. Now, don't get me wrong. I lurve Tchaikovsky, and for all the same reasons that most people do: his music is very emotional and involving. But because of that, his music has been used in all too many soppy, tear-jerking, sentimental (you get the picture) movies and soap operas. The second piece of the night was his Piano Concerto No.1, which is beautiful. No doubt everyone knows the opening bars (or if you didn't know it was Tchaikovsky, you'd still recognise the melody). And I will forever more associate with a Japanese tear-fest of a drama about a talented young woman and her struggle to become a concert pianist.

The interval was a necessary break from the emotion welling within. OK, I just needed more alcohol*.

Which brings us to the even more spectacular second half, with T's Romeo and Juliet Fantasy Overemotion. Yes, one can have a little bit too much Tchaikovsky. Again, nothing wrong with the composition nor the orchestra. In fact, the Bowl's changing lighting scheme came into its own with this piece, turning a dangerous red for the fight, pink for their love, and blue in tragedy. Maybe I just wasn't in the appropriate romantic mood to truly appreciate the Fantasy overture. I was somewhat more concerned about P's chilly hands (poor circulation, poor dear) than in just holding them. And I have to confess to having favourites when it comes to Russian composers of a certain period. Prokofiev, too, scored the Romeo and Juliet tragedy. And that has been my favourite since my cranky adolescent years, being just a little less sentimental. (Oh, who am I kidding. I love Tchaikovsky's too. I think I was just tired.)

The 1812 overture, like the R+J F.O., is overemotional and overly testosterone-inducing. But what a crowd-pleaser it is! All the more when fireworks are timed perfectly to replace the cannons. Bringing on the red and gold-clad USC Trojan marching band was another perfectly cheesy, over-production, populist move that just fit the evening perfectly. I was thoroughly entertained despite my jaded-ness. After all the years of staid concert-going, being quiet and appreciative, trying not to fidget too much lest the neighbours shush me, last night's concert was quite liberating. I felt able to throw off the cynical overcoat and wow at the Russian rooftop that appeared over the roof of the Bowl, and clap and cheer for every firework.

While this can never replace the true satisfaction of watching the final fireworks of the Edinburgh festival, the Hollywood Bowl certainly puts on a damn good show in spectacular surroundings. Even the moon obliged and loomed large and low for the R+J F.O. It's not the best venue for delicate chamber music. It's not the best acoustically for rock/pop concerts. But it's perfect for Hollywood style grandness.

*For drinkipoos that night: a Merlot and some Polygamy Porter** from the Wasatch Brewery, both 100% from Utah. Of the two alkys, the porter was far superior (the less said about the wine the better). After initial laughs and nudges from my fellow Tchaikovskites, it was generally agreed that Wasatch produces a fine porter indeed. Unfortunately, one can't get beer shipped just now. Which is why I'm going to Utah again in a few weeks.

**Why have just one! is their slogan.

Palms Thai

Pad See Ew must be the Thai equivalent of Char Kway Teow (a dish truly deserving of captalisation).

And not having been back to S'pore for nigh-on a decade, this is the closest I've had to the magical fatty friedness that is CKT. Unfortunately, the use of broccoli and chicken makes it far too healthy to qualify as CKT. For that, one probably needs full-fat pork lard, cholesterol-laden prawns.

It was Ticketmaster what did us a favour. Their sometimes ridiculous "convenience" charges (ok for a couple of tickets, but not for ten!) forced us to the Hollywood Bowl's box office last Saturday. By public transportation, no less. It's one thing to take the Hollywood Bowl Park and Ride shuttle for a hour to get to the Bowl for a concert. It's quite another to trek out with the Metro bus system for the same amount of time. For one, you could get quite unlucky and get on a smelly one. Which always seems to happen to me whenever we have to venture further east than Westwood. So, a three hour round-trip requires maximisation of our time. While we had some hope of taking in a hike in the Hollywood Hills, it transpired that getting to somewhere fairly pleasant is not exactly easy once you're actually at the bottom of the hills.

No matter. We have more than one interest. And having been told about Thai Town, we were determined to get some Thai food after. Barcelona FC's visit to the nearby Hollywood and Highland mall nearly side-tracked us until we realised how long we'd have to wait to catch a glimpse of the second-highest paid (but best bang-for-buck) team in Spain. And the new Beard Papa made a stab at stopping us in our tracks too. A cool cream-filled chocolate eclair definitely makes pushing through the tourist-throng outside Mann's Chinese Theatre a little more bearable. By the time my lips were licked clean, P had gotten bored of looking at long-dead people's footprints. And off we set on our hunt for Thai cuisine. Helped by the Zagat guide.

Wee side note: does anyone else find the Zagat restau guide somewhat awkward when looking for food within a neighbourhood? Yes, they have a section at the back with lists of restaus by LA areas. But it's terribly difficult to wield the book, flip to the relevant page, check the darn address on a map balanced precariously between other hand and lap, give up cos it's not bus-able or walkable (in the heat, anyway), and whittle out the non-Thai places.

No matter. We found one within a 30 min walk. Palms Thai on Hollywood and Bronson is a somewhat canteeny looking place with an allegedly resident Elvis. But I guess an hour before real dinnertime starts isn't the best time to catch him. No maatter. That isn't why we went. We were after the exotics. Well, as exotic as it gets in LA anyway. Palms has a Wild Things menu, which includes raw shrimp, deer and frog legs. I think the only thing on that menu I'd find just beyond my ability is the raw shrimp. That's just asking for food poisoning, I reckon. In my prejudiced way.

But it was the leg of a frog that I managed to convince P to try. (Quail and deer are somewhat tame when one's had game all one's life.) The frog meat was a little tougher than I had hoped it would be. There's nothing quite like frog legs, French-style: all tender but with a garlicky kick. And I thought it'd be even better in a spicy sauce. Alas. I think our frog legs came out of a freezer drawer. And perhaps had been there a while too. I guess not enough people take advantage of the Wild Things menu to make getting in fresh frog legs economically viable. A shame.

Otherwise, we had pretty good service for off-peak. It wasn't overly attentive, and our bill (check, D! always ask for the check. no wonder no one understands you...) got a wee bit lost on its way to us. But that's kinda understandable when the entire wait staff is having their pre-game dinner. (Which looked soooo good.) It's also a little difficult to judge a restaurant's atmosphere at 5pm. The only other folk in were mainly small families with kiddies, and the odd tourist-looking couples (like us). Apart from the pad see ew, I enjoyed their coconut juice, which was really coconut water (the stuff wot will splash out if you're not careful when cracking the but) with floating chunks of coconut flesh. While not having to scrape crazily to get the sweet juicy flesh can be good, having it all in a glass can be somewhat.... mundane.

I think I'd go back again. But without the expectation of the exotic. (Goddamit. It's kinda hard to find exotic when you've grown up with the very cuisine Johhny Foreigner thinks of as exotic.) Maybe as pre-concert fodder for the nearby Henry Ford Theatre. (Did I mention I have tickets for the Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah concert? Yes, I do. Not that I was familiar with their music before coming over.) I guess my search for spectacular Thai food in LA will just have to continue. But next time, I'll leave the Zagat behind, and take some Santos™ with me.

Technorati tags: Palms Thai, thai food.