Butter Whore-dom and Earl Grey Heaven at Hatfield's

My Cute Gardener is as fair as they come so when he told me with a smirk that Quinn Hatfield irritated the heck out of him, I knew this Hatfield man had to be a true culinary wizard. You see my boyfriend is one of the most discerning foodies I know, and although he will try anything and likes a bit of everything, there is a barometer of traits that occur when something has truly blown his mind. For instance, he giggles (something akin to lightning striking for someone as poker faced as he normally is), he curses under his breath, he starts to hold his sides to coddle the swish of his palate’s preferred overdoses of butter and fat and he is usually eating something French, Japanese or Italian inspired when all the aforementioned occurs. So when he told me he was taking me to Hatfield’s on Melrose on the eve of a recent plane trip together, I dusted off the three-inch heels for the occasion and wore my brightest red lipstick knowing that the meal would be legendary.

Without hesitation we ordered the seven course tasting meal, the obvious choice in a place where the kitchen was located next to our table like a crystalline aquarium floating with a mass assortment of chefs residing over stainless steel double boilers and complex preparation set ups surrounded by pristine white glossy bricks.

“We are going to make you work tonight,” we told the waiter as we confessed that there was nothing we wouldn’t eat.

I had previewed the menu online before we arrived so I knew that there were certain dishes that I craved with all my being and I said a little prayer that they would all be included in our tasting. And of course they were, leading to the magical ambience of the night that had me rolling over in bed later during the witching hours, clutching my sides all night where visions of sugar plums were replaced by foreign longings of new things that had passed amongst my tongue just moments earlier, highlights of which included but are not limited to:

An amuse bouche in a neat, square miniature bowl of house cured salmon, green beets, and green (yes, refreshing and surprising green!) hummus.

Raw marinated curlicues of sea bream with bits of cool corn and melon, compressed cucumber and purslane like a sweet kiss upon the lips.

A miniature Croque Madame with hamachi, prosciutto, quail egg and buerre blanc provided me with my year’s worth of saturated fat and butter, but even so, I wished I had an entire plate’s worth of the stuff after only getting two tasting sized bites to share. I would fight someone for this dish. I would spend my entire allowance on this dish. I want to go back and sit at the bar and order nothing but the popcorn I have been told about and this dish with some nice Montmartre cocktails.

Months ago, the CG laughed at me when I extolled the virtues of a sweet bread preparation at one of my favorite Palm Springs restaurants Le Vallauris. Now I know why. The one breaded in fragrant panko, curry, sugary goodness that floated, speared, atop a coconut cream soup wafting atop a fluffy bed of butternut squash flan and Japanese mushrooms was possibly the most exquisite morsel of heavenly creaminess that’s ever alit pre-melt upon my tongue to date. It makes me want to start spouting Shakespeare.

A pan seared diver scallop floated atop a slightly sweet celery root puree accentuated by candied bacon and cippolini onion.

I wish I would have snapped a photo of the chicken breast, steamed in buttermilk, and set tenderly atop a surprisingly tangy and interesting puree of celery and raisin but it disappeared down our throats too fast.  

Lamb is my favorite meat so it’s not hard to make me swoon but this preparation was so original in that the breading was date and mint encrusted, leaning it towards a candied application that made me want to lick the slices rather than chew them. I didn’t want to chew because I wanted them to sit on my tongue and melt. The CG made fun of me for knife cutting each piece into the smallest portions ever so it would last longer.

An ultra refreshing watermelon granita for dessert was topped with strawberry coulis and the bite of black pepper in the toille.

I wanted the Earl Grey milkshake more than any other dish as it is my favorite essence infused into tea and sweets and this one didn’t disappoint alongside a rich, cocoa beignet and some warm Venezuelan chocolate sauce.

It was almost sacrilegious that these grapefruit gummies were my last taste impression of the place but it only makes me want to go back again and again for more. It’s a good thing I am not more of a butter whore or I would be in serious trouble but I know that now I want to give Sycamore Kitchen a try, which is the newest Hatfield’s concoction in Los Angeles that boasts fresh pastries and lunch for a bit less of the price.

Eva's Sunday Supper

Tender veal, simply adorned with light jus and exquisite buttery, fried potatoes

I’ve written before about my love of Sunday suppers even though I haven’t  really been a part of one since I was a kid and my grandfather Bruce would make spaghetti for the whole Southern California crew in his Placentia home. That’s the whole point though, I cherish the ritual that has rapidly become obsolete in this day and age when family and friends rarely have time to maintain a consistent tradition such as a shared meal together over a lazy early evening at the end of a week. So, I was thrilled when the Cute Gardener told me we had reservations for Sunday Supper at Eva this past weekend.

Italian chopped salad with chickpeas and salami, room temperature and slightly dressed with a creamy, tang

Many restaurants may claim to offer Sunday Suppers while really only adding a newly captioned gimmick to their menu item to get people in during slow spells but Eva went above and beyond to create an atmosphere and service that reflected something truly special. Maybe this is because Chef Mark Gold named the restaurant after his grandmother Eva who clearly impacted both his sense of cooking and hospitality.

According to his website, “Memories are made when we come together, share a bottle of wine and a couple of stories. Add to this a thoughtfully prepared meal and the memories become unforgettable. This is what inspires us at Eva.”

While we ate at the restaurant Gold made a point to frequently leave the exposed kitchen to warmly walk the room and converse with just about every customer, most of which he seemed to know by name, furthering my notion that eaters love it when they find a dining room that truly feels like home.

Although he touts himself as a Jew in a cowboy hat (with a ten gallon personality to match), on this particular Sunday he was chapeau-less and calling himself Jewish-Italiano in honor of the special menu he had created for us. Oftentimes you don’t even know what Eva will serve on Sunday until you show up but I had discovered earlier on Facebook that dinner would include chopped salad, shrimp scampi, veal and potato, lemon bars with Italian meringue and wine.

Lemon bars that passed the "tongue-smarting" test, addictive and tart

The food was tasty and the kind you would expect at home, swiveling on big platters around the lazy Susan. The wine (of which four kinds were offered in unlimited pours that the waiter constantly filled the glasses with when empty) flowed freely even though the entire cost of the meal was only $39 per person. If I lived in the neighborhood, I might make it a habit but for now it is definitely up there in the memorable moments category for me.