Fantasy Fried Chicken, Finally

In this week’s Los Angeles Times, amongst the many things written about prolific writer Nora Ephron upon her passing, came the tidbit that she was a passionate foodie and cook in her private life. So much in fact, that she wrote a cookbook – one typed and bound in old fashioned spiral fashion which was never for sale but used as a gift for all of her cherished friends. Although she indeed spelled out many of her favorite recipes, the one for fried chicken read as follows: “Everyone loves fried chicken. Don’t ever make it. Ever. Buy it from a place that makes good fried chicken.”

I disagree with her on both points. Not everyone loves fried chicken. I didn’t for the past two decades of my life. Until recently, the last fried chicken I had eaten was a cold, drumstick in thick, buttermilk batter at a beach side picnic with my aunts and uncles as a child. It forlorned my palate due to its soggy delivery at the tail end of a day when the adults were too busy drinking to realize that the quality of the dinner wasn’t prime and I had a bad taste in my mouth ever since for the famous dish. My second try was later on at KFC and I don’t think I need to explain the gross monstrosity of gristle and fat that I received there to forlorn me even more.

But when I first met the Cute Gardener (who frequently chooses a food and proceeds to try every variation of that food he can find), he was on a fried chicken tour so I began to tepidly try a bite of each kind that would end up across the table on his dinner plate. Of the places we’ve gone so far, the honey syrup laced version I had last weekend was my favorite.

But nothing in the world compares to the fried chicken he makes at home. Part of the reason he is on a fried chicken tour is to try and find a version that bests his own. For a typically modest man, you know the chicken is THAT DAMN GOOD when he even admits to something like this. I had it a few weeks back and am still waking up in the middle of the night wishing I had it for a cold, midnight snack.

I am not allowed to say what’s in it. So here is my recipe for fried chicken a’la Ephron cookbook style:

“Find a partner who knows how to make it better than anyone else and seduce him/her so they’ll make it for you.”

Good Ship Lollipop for Adults at MB Post

There’s nothing like a scrumptious lunch waiting at the tail end of a long bike ride to motivate the legs to keep on moving through the crests and troughs of oceanic headwinds on a summer Saturday.

The Marvin BraudeTrail stretches along the California coast from Pacific Palisades to Palos Verdes, only jumping off the beach once to snake its way around the Venice Beach canals adjoining Marina Del Rey. The full loop is 43 miles but this past weekend, the Cute Gardener and I decided to tackle eleven miles at its mid-section from Venice to Manhattan Beach.

Manhattan Beach tends to be a little Stepfordian for my tastes but we were on a mission to try MBPost, the self-proscribed “highly soulful and personal” restaurant created by Chef David LeFevre of Water Grill and Charlie Trotters fame. I was not disappointed.

A friendly atmosphere permeated the place accentuated with blocky, wooden interiors, a full bar, and down home-style food elevated by the Chef from standard, Southern comforts to gourmet, feel-good brunch.  I ordered two of my items from the hand written choices that were added to the menu that morning due to daily inspiration and whatever is ripe and available.

These have taken the favorite biscuit spot on my list for now. Scone-like and gooey with cheddar cheese, butter, bacon chunks and chives and served with a whip of honey butter, they were right up my alley. The CG mentioned that they weren’t really biscuits and wondered why everything had to be covered in such sweet sauces and syrups. He actually may have said something like, “What? Are we six years old where everything has to taste like candy in order to get us to eat it?” Even though he did like the place, it was clearly more geared to the six-year-old little girl in me than the cantankerous, curmudgeon in him.

My salad was a peachy, little pot of stone fruit slices with a nice touch of honey and mint and crushed ice on top. The pluots added a bit of tart to the overall sweetness.

Super yummy, and again a bit sweetened with honey, fried chicken that had a batter of dense yet not dry, flavorful crust.

This sandwich made me swoon. The softest bread ever, verging on pretzel, but not quite and earthy, doughy and yeasty within. It sandwiched a fluffy piece of burrata, a zesty green olive pesto and roasted red pepper. It came with massive chips.

There is also a nice artisan cocktail list, and the CG had one, but I was afraid of getting pulled over for a BUI. Yes, those do exist, as I came to realize when I saw the sign near the marina that they would be performing a checkpoint later on. Biking under the influence is apparently a common crime in these parts with all the Jimmy Buffet style revelry that takes place in all the fish joints near the piers and docks.