Cafe Hiro's Steak Dinner - Cypress

There are days that leave me feeling beat up and defeated, when I don't just need comfort food, but a comfort place. Cafe Hiro is my comfort place. My happy place. A few weeks ago, after one of these days, I told her, "I don't want to stay in tonight." And before we knew it we both said, "Let's go to Cafe Hiro."

This would happen two more times in two consecutive weeks. What can I say. It's been that kind of month.

But as soon as we arrive, everything seems to immediately get better. Calming and welcoming -- a refuge as a refuge should be -- it's almost as good as home, this place.

Knowing that we always order the passion fruit iced tea, our waitress already has it ready. Two tall, ice cold glasses of it are poured, even before we sit down.

At the center of it all stands Hiro Ohiwa -- the benevolent owner/chef, a Zen Buddha-figure with a backwards baseball cap -- who waves hello to us as he oversees his dominion. Order tickets go through him before it's fired, and he inspects every plate before it's delivered. If something isn't perfect, he'll make it so.

That night he had a surprise for us: a complimentary amuse bouche. Mozzarella, chopped and formed into two quenelles, sits on a extra virgin olive oil puddle, sprinkled with coarse sea salt and cracked pepper. Just a small token of appreciation, which for me, on that night, counted for a lot.

Her choice of main course, as it always is, was the uni spaghetti. Mine was steak, which comes with a salad and soup -- both gobbled up just as quickly as the salad is briskly cool, and the soup, a liquid-blanket of warmness.

Around the plate and flanking the gorgeously browned slab of meat, there's creamy scalloped potatoes fanned out like a magician's cards, but also a welcome bit of greenery: bok choy dappled with drops of miso.

And the steak? Of course, it carves like a dream, but also has just enough chew so that there's something meaningful and meaty to masticate. 'Neath it a soy and garlic pan sauce mingles and mixes with the escaping juices. But the garlic part of the sauce means business. It explodes in sweet but powerful tiny bursts.

I ate my meal hungrily, as if I were eating the first steak of my life. Good? To me, at that time, it was beyond good. It was more than just a steak; it was soothing balm applied to an open wound.

And it isn't fancy like steakhouse's. If I had to describe it, it's more like "mom's house." Cooked exactly to my liking, exactly medium, not too big, not too small...just right. Kind of like Cafe Hiro itself.

Cafe Hiro
(714) 527-6090
10509 Valley View St
Cypress, CA 90630

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
Javier's - Newport Beach

Din Tai Fung #2 - Arcadia

The second location of Din Tai Fung, located within steps of the original, has now been open for more than a year. But as I predicted in a post I wrote about the original Din Tai Fung in Arcadia two years ago, it wouldn't make the lines any shorter.

And that's exactly what has happened. At dinner time today, the usual glut of people crammed the original storefront, as well as this one -- its sleeker, spit-polished sister location next door.

This isn't my first visit, or even my second to the new digs, which looks as dandy as anything in Beverly Hills. Frankly, I've already lost count of how many times I've actually driven up to Arcadia to feast on their juicy pork dumplings at both locations.

At my first time at the new store about a year ago, the staff was still a little wobbly on its feet and the food, slightly off. Figures: it was around opening day when things weren't gelling yet. But look how far they've come. They've matured and matched their master on efficiency.

In fact, both restaurants are so efficient, so well-oiled and well-managed, it's nothing short of choreographed.

At the hostess podium tonight, a tiny and cherubic Chinese gal about half my height had the confidence and fortitude of an air traffic controller. With a flick of her pen and an earpiece walkie talkie, she kept the turnover going -- hungry people in, satiated out. Hers was a job that required constant vigilance. The typical teenage window dressing would blanche and wither at her station.

We were seated in record time: 10 minutes after we arrived.

Once settled into our chairs, the first dish came out within seconds. And the next, seconds after that. The minute something was finished, it would be whisked away. Water glasses were topped off without asking.

And the food? Identical in every way to what they serve next door. Our juicy pork dumplings, those lovingly crimped pouches, burst with broth. In their spicy beef soup, hunks of tender tendon and long-braised meat swam with spinach beneath a dark, spicy liquid with a red chili-oil shimmer. And of course, there was the green beans, which are done in the classic Chinese manner -- a quick hot oil blanching and a toss with garlic. Each spear crisp, snappy, vibrant. No other preparation of green beans is so reverential to its original texture.

After we ambled out rubbing our stomachs, we saw our diminutive hostess already sending the next set of eager and hungry mouths to take our place.

Din Tai Fung #2
(626) 446-8588
1088 S. Baldwin Ave.
Arcadia, CA 91007

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
Myung Dong Kal Guksu - Anaheim*

*Special Thanks to polar for the tip on Myung Dong Kal Guksu.

HanArum Roll House - Irvine

I do not advocate the eating of those sushi-like products wrapped in cellophane and kept in refrigerated sections of supermarkets. There's just too much at stake, the least of which is flavor. If you're going to have sushi, have sushi. Go to your local itamae, sit in front of him and eat it as it's meant to be eaten.

But when it comes to the Korean version called kimbap, the cellophane is almost an inevitability; because other than a few exceptions, kimbap is mostly sold in supermarkets wrapped under plastic to function as a light lunch, a snack, or an accompaniment to a bigger meal. Every major Korean store in town has a kimbap station, where middle-aged ladies roll nori sheets around rice and savory fillings.

H-Mart's kimbap station is called HanArum, which sells what is possibly the cheapest and most filling lunch you can get anywhere in the Diamond Jamboree complex.

Their tuna roll ($3.50), is tightly wound, crammed with so much stuff to a critical mass that it immediately unfurls in your mouth like a coiled spring of moistness and crunch. A Subway tuna sandwich could only dream of beating it in nutrition, value, and flavor.

The secret is in the ingredients. It contains no less than a dozen components, including tamago-style egg, imitation crab, spinach, carrot, pickled radish, burdock root, sesame leaf, cucumber, tuna salad, celery, onion, and cucumber, with a hint of sesame oil, salt and vinegar for seasoning.

All the layers amount to rings of textures and tastes beyond that in a typical sushi roll. No soy sauce or wasabi needed. Above all, it's refreshingly simple -- a no fuss, grab-and-go lunch.

And if you want even more variety, HanArum also does a combo selection of kimbap for $5.00: colorful medallions filled with just as many yummy things as the tuna roll, but with different proteins at the nucleus. There's cooked beef as well as ham and cheese. That's right, I said ham and cheese.

And yes, they'll be wrapped with cellophane...but here's a tip, come early and you'll catch 'em as they're being made. The ladies will still package it up in plastic as they serve it to you, but it will be so fresh it might as well be made to order by an itamae. Well, the Korean equivalent anyway.

HanArum Roll House
(949) 553-8808
2600 Alton Pkwy
Irvine, CA 92606

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
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Tacos Tumbras a Tomas @ The Grand Central Market - Los Angeles

I don't go to L.A. proper more than I have to. It's because that section of Interstate 5 between La Mirada and Norwalk irks me to no end. An impermeable barrier that I like to call "The La Mirada Crawl", it is like a force field that keeps the populations of both counties separate and isolated within their own bubbles.

But a few weeks ago, brunch at The Bazaar came calling, so I had no choice but to spend what seemed like a decade inching along staring at brake lights all the way to La Cienega.

And this week, we did it again to go to the Grand Central Market and then afterward, The Getty Villa. Both represent two things O.C. does not have a lot of: markets that have been around since the turn of the century and grand museums built by long-dead oil tycoons.

I know what you're saying: what about The L.A. Farmers' Market and The Getty?

Been there, done those.

The Villa and the Grand Central Market, on the other hand, we haven't done. And when we arrived, we found both were smaller than the Travel Channel would have you believe. Within minutes at the Grand Central Market, we were already familiar with the lay of the land. There were produce vendors, but not as many as there were Chinese steam-tray joints and taco stands. There was one mariscos counter that served caldo de siete mares out of real bowls and lime wedges for squeezing.

More surprising than the size was the noticeable lack of tourists. Instead, the lunch crowd consisted of a hodgepodge of cultures from every socioeconomic strata. Diners included transients with oversized backpacks, downtown office workers in ties, neighborhood residents, and on this day, us: two hungry O.C. bumpkins.

What we were we to order? I shunned the usual info sources of Chowhound, Yelp, and L.A. Weekly for a foolproof method that has proven useful at hawker centers in Singapore and Hong Kong: find the stall with longest line and eat from there.

The longest queue was at Tacos Tumbras a Tomas -- a neon-lit, gaudy stall where a traffic jam of bodies crammed the narrow walkway between it and the next stall. If you needed to get through, you had better find another route. Or better yet, order your lunch here like everyone else.

At the front of the line, meats that had been roasted, boiled and simmered rested under heat lamps. Proteins were plucked out when someone ordered, then chopped by cleavers, and assembled into tortas, tacos, burritos, and combo plates in a flurry of ladles, tortilla, hot sauce, and chopped onions.

When our counterman constructed our burrito, the fillings had reached such an impossible height that for a second I questioned how he proposed to roll it up. Defying all physical laws, he did it, and without a trace of filling escaping.

Also, though the burrito was as heavy as a shotput -- as thick as it was long -- the densely packed mass of rice, beans, onions, cilantro, salsa, and the overly generous heap of shredded carnitas never became cloying.

What you see is the last quarter of it, after my lovely dining companion and I cut it in half to share. Inside: A nicely salty, but not over-seasoned, moist porky carnitas feast which fueled us for the freeway journey to Malibu.

Grand Central Market, Space A-5
(213) 620-1071
317 S Broadway
Los Angeles, CA 90013

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
Fora Restaurant - Long Beach

Roma D' Italia - Tustin

I'd like to file Roma D' Italia's cannelloni in the category of "Where have you been all my life?" Until last week, it's a dish that hadn't yet met my acquaintance. And if my friend, who treated me to dinner, didn't order it, I would've never been introduced to this sexy Italian seductress. Even as I heard my buddy utter her name, I thought I heard cannoli, which isn't the same thing.

For those who haven't enjoyed the pleasure of cannelloni, it is essentially an Italian enchilada. Although that description doesn't quite do it justice, it's the closest approximation I can make since it has a some sort filling rolled up into a starchy tube, baked in a casserole dish, and engulfed in sauce and cheese.

But there endeth the similarities. The filling is usually veal chopped to a fine pulp, the rolling medium is a homemade crepe, and the sauce is gooey with mozzarella as stretchy as lace. Voluptuously rich and supple, it is as much an enchilada as dim sum is tapas.

To eat Roma D' Italia's cannelloni is to be seduced, immediately and completely. Brought out a fuming, bubbling, you gently lift it out of its warm slumber. The thin sauce covering slips off slightly as you do, revealing its lithe and naked skin. And when you take your spoon to it, it yields at your touch as if it were half-melted Häagen-Dazs. Every part of it that passes your lips trembles in ecstasy and liquefies instantly into a mouthful of savory protein pudding. Now that's amore!

Roma D' Italia‎
(714) 544-0273
611 El Camino Real
Tustin, CA 92780

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
Best of OC 2009
El Francés (the Frenchman): Pascal Olhats
May Garden - Costa Mesa

The Bazaar by José Andrés - Los Angeles

I'm sure that in the countless words that have been spilled about The Bazaar by José Andrés (and there have been many), I won't be the first to say that it is Disneyland. Plain and simple, it is a theme park made for people like me. And it isn't just for the fact that there are three distinct themed rooms, which is obvious; but for the food, which takes you on a ride as head-trippy as a Small World on acid.

The menu, itself, is like a park map which asks: What do you want to go on next? Every section is like a new land to explore. With the traditional, like cheeses and charcuterie, you got yourself Frontierland. And with the dishes that uses the much-bandied-about techniques of molecular gastronomy, it's Tomorrowland.

First, let me tell you about the design of the place: It will remind you of the Haunted Mansion Holidays, the one that incorporates the splashy color schemes and characters of Tim Burton's Nightmare Before Christmas -- a merger of the weird and the classical, as if a MOCA installation vomited on The Getty.

There are chairs that glow. A restroom from the future (see above). Shapes that shift. Giant electronic portrait frames which feature baroque art that morphs at intervals. Philippe Starck, the go-to guy for nightclub design, seems to have designed the place to put you off kilter, to conjure up the same kind of giddy childlike excitement you had when you saw an audio animatronics statue move for the first time. Most of all, there's a playfulness here, a testament that imagination and creativity didn't die with Walt Disney or Salvador Dali.

But with everything that titillates and beguiles, you are let in on the joke. Take for example, the wall behind the reception desk. It's covered with 8x10 headshots of people. You gaze at it, cock your head and wonder if you're supposed to know these faces. Then you walk around to the other side of the wall and you laugh your ass off. Now you get it. There are 8x10 framed pictures of the backs of their heads. Punchline delivered.

Once you sit down and start ordering, the E-ticket ride really begins. And though we had reservations for brunch on a Saturday, it turns out we didn't really need it. We had the restaurant all to ourselves. When Space Mountain doesn't have anyone in it, you don't need a FastPass.

The plan was to get the tasting menu for $40, but our server warned us: you don't get much with it, maybe four items tops. Better to pick out stuff yourself, discover things on your own, he said. And he was right.

There was the "12 Tiny Eggs Sunny Side Up", subtitled "Huevos a La Cubana 'Andy Garcia'", from the brunch menu. I still have no idea what the dish had to do with the Ocean's Eleven actor, but when you can get a penny-size, unbroken yolk in every spoonful, you don't wonder about anything else other than why the dish hasn't been copied for every IHOP and Denny's in America.

Though I secretly hoped that José Andrés has found a way to coax a chicken to lay an egg with a dozen yolks, these are, of course (or at least I presume) twelve quail eggs cracked into a round pan. And like it had been through a ticker tape parade, it's showered with confetti slivers of salty rendered ham, chives, and drips of sauce. Beneath the egg disk: a platform of a jasmine rice that's been crisped up to a crunchy texture, like the Koreans do with their bibimbap. The only thing I wished for was a bottle of Maggi to douse over everything, maybe Sriracha, too. Still, it's easily the heartiest of all the dishes we tried that afternoon.

A play on "Philly cheesesteak" is the lightest and quickest to go, since it's the size of a canapé. No hoagie roll is employed here, just something they call "air bread", which has the stale crunch of a puffed-up motza cracker, its hollowness filled with cheese, exactly like an eclair. Instead of chocolate, it's topped with a few microplaned slices of Wagyu beef so thin you're liable to inhale it directly into your lungs if you breathe in too heavily.

There is a section devoted entirely to the Spanish love of canning, and of course, they have to actually serve it out of an oval tin. The sea urchin roe -- one of the best things we ate -- sits like ice cream over silky oil and bits of finely diced vegetables with the jarring crunch of Pop Rocks and the sharpness of relish.

The "Not your everyday Caprese" is true to its name, unless you're already a student of Ferran Adria, Wylie Dufresne, or José Andrés, whereupon it would be the starting lesson in Molecular Gastronomy 101. The liquid mozzarella that constitutes a quarter of the dish is made by a process that involves syringes, sodium gluconate and sodium alginate. The result is a Mr. Wizard science magic trick that creates a thin film of skin around the liquid -- a temporary water balloon that bursts on your tongue. The trick for the diner is to pick up the fragile orbs with a spoon, along with the de-skinned cherry tomato, the pesto, and the Cheez It-like cracker. And when it's all in your mouth: POP!

There are more traditionalist, straight-forward, no-nonsense offerings like buñuelos, codfish fritters which were a bit salty but ate like a perfectly fried hush-puppy, still damp and oozy in the center. A dish called "The ultimate Spanish tapa!" straddles the line between the ordinary everyday and extra-ordinary once-a-year-for-a-birthday (which this was). Essentially, it's a rich potato salad; but it becomes much more when you start digging and discover hard boiled eggs, carrots, peas, and a nicely fishy tuna belly -- all deluged with blanket of eggy foam, the wonder froth that binds it all together.

Then there are boneless chicken wings, as close as you can get in the restaurant to a McNugget in shape; but also not that far off in flavor either, with a divet of olive puree on top. And a cookie, called volcano, which is a chocolate hazelnut brittle that tastes like an inside-out Ferrero Rocher.

But the best, as they say, is always saved for last. And in the dessert called "Nitro Coconut Island" we found a bulbous, hovering dome like E.T.'s spaceship. What is it? What is it made out of? Is it meringue?

Upon the mere touch of our spoon, it cracked and crumbled, like the climactic scene of an avalanche movie, when one minute a main character is innocently admiring a snow cavern, and the next, a fissure suddenly develops. Then someone frantically yells "RUUNNNN!!!"

In the aftermath of the collapse we found out how they did it: it's a ball of coconut milk foam quick-frozen under nitrogen. As if it weren't already fun as cotton candy, there's accompaniments of passion fruit sauce and caramelized banana coins.

I dreamt of it last night, hours after our trip, which I thank my lovely dining companion for treating me to. And although it was only slightly more expensive than two one-day tickets to the real Disneyland, just like my first trip to the Magic Kingdom, I went to bed overstimulated, my head dancing, swirling with the wonders I've seen and tasted, everything that I've described above.

The Bazaar by José Andrés
(310) 246-5545
465 S La Cienega Blvd
Los Angeles, CA 90048

To read Pepsi Monster and Kevin Eats' review on
The Bazaar CLICK HERE and HERE

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
Haven Gastropub - Orange

Thai Nakorn - Garden Grove

Two is always better than one, especially when it comes to Thai Nakorn. The venerable restaurant, considered by many (including myself), as the best Thai in O.C., has multiplied.

As everyone knows, there's one in Stanton, which opened because this Garden Grove store burned to the ground a few years ago.

Now, the Garden Grove sibling has risen up again, and yes, quite literally, from the ashes like the proverbial phoenix. But look! This bird's grown out new plumage! The place got a facelift, the only kind I can't mock, because the restaurant does look a lot younger than before.

This, ladies and gents, is the most stylish Thai Nakorn ever. Not that disliked the way the old building looked, with its A-frame Googie charms, but this, to put simply, is up with the times and an elegance that befits the food.

Even without all the new recessed lighting, this dining room would shine, with tables so sleek it gleams like mirrors. There are private banquet rooms, the requisite photo of the king, and enough elbow room for everyone to pass around plates of their fantastic dishes.

If you are new to the place, allow me to offer a tip: Come here with lots of people. The more mouths you bring, the more you can order, the more you can sample. Trust me, you'll want a taste of everything.

Another tip: the parking lot is still as tiny as ever, with a capacity to accommodate about ten cars at the most. We were lucky. We arrived early at quarter to seven, before the dinner rush was in full swing, so we easily secured a spot. Those who came in the thick of it all had to resort to inventing their own parking spaces.

Also, if you're new, go ahead and get the pad thai, the satay, the tom yum. They'll be the best version you'll have anywhere. But when you're ready, mix in some dishes from the Issan specialties. This is the list on the first page of the menu; the one crammed in single space with no prices. Among other things you'll see here: The stir fried morning glory, one of the most vibrant, refreshing plates of stir-fried greens you'll ever crunch.

You'll also encounter the clams, a dish that takes you deep into the jungle, into the hearty darkness and glorious stench of fermented shrimp paste. It clings to the clam shells, gathers on the plate like mud on a river bank, and sticks in your memory as one of the funkiest substances you've ever put in your mouth. It's delicious.

Another specialty is more accessible to all palates: The whole, deep-fried deboned trout. You eat it all. The skin crackles like dry parchment. The moist meat flakes. The golden casing of batter smacks of turmeric. On top of each morsel you pile shredded mango salad that comes in a side bowl. A warning: The stuff is riddled with finely diced Thai chilies you might not see at first, but will melt your face into dribbling mess of flop sweat and tears. Approach with extreme caution.

If it's already too late, cool off with a salad, which you should've already ordered. But don't think it'll provide much of a reprieve. The yum yai salad will do its best though, since it's probably the sweetest thing on the menu aside from dessert. Also, it is a salad the way a cobb salad is a salad. There's hard boiled egg in it, which works really well to soak up the sweet and sour sauce that coats everything else in the dish -- a roster that includes celery, tomato, cucumber, chicken, and the clear Jell-O jiggle of glass noodles.

The nam sod is also a good palate cleanser. With the dish, I'd suggest the plain nam sod over the one with crispy rice. In the latter, the nutty crunchiness of the Rice Krispy-like grains are pleasant at first but distracting when all you want to do is focus your attention in how the ginger slivers and lime juice join forces to make ground pork as light as a prance. Lettuce leaves, cilantro, ram-rod straight green onion stalks, and lemony leaves that make you pucker, are always served on the side to refresh -- as if you need it.

By the end of the night you'll groan, rub your stomach satisfied, and swear you'll never gorge yourself like that again...at least not until you come back to one of the two Thai Nakorns in O.C.

Thai Nakorn
(714) 583-8938
12532 Garden Grove Blvd
Garden Grove, CA 92843-1907

To read Das Ubergeek's review on
Thai Nakorn CLICK HERE

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Q Restaurant - Westminster

Pizza & Chicken Love Letter - Irvine

Pizza & Chicken Love Letter, the Korean fried chicken and pizza chain (yes, there is such a thing as Korean pizza) has one of the awesomest restaurant names in the whole of Orange County, if not, the world. And now, Irvine has one. It is, of course, located in the most Asian-y (that's not a word, I know) complexes in Irvine, Diamond Jamboree.

But before you shout "YOU LIE!", I can assure you I speak the truth.

Nevertheless, I can understand your disbelief. Even if you've staked out the plaza from the parking lot, walked it foot-by-foot, or stood in the forever-line at 85°C Bakery Café, you couldn't have seen this place coming.

It's not even hidden in plain sight. It is just hidden. Hidden inside the H-Mart supermarket, which itself is laid out in a confusing labyrinthine maze worthy of Ikea.

Pizza & Chicken Love Letter is at the very end of the store, next to the restrooms, at an unremarkable booth, existing as almost an afterthought.

Here's how unassuming it was: I was sitting right in front of it and I didn't realize what I was looking at while I perused the menu marquee.

"Hmm...that's interesting, this place serves Korean pizza and fried chicken like that Love Letter place I've head about in Garden Gro...heeeeyyy, waaaaait a minuuuuuuuttttte!!!!!"

The realization, of course, was followed with a scramble to order something. I took the easiest, most accessible item: the 6-piece fried wings for $4.99. With it came unexpected and complimentary sides that included a plate of shredded cabbage, which became a coleslaw the second they drizzled on thousand island, and a salad when they added corn kernels.

But the complimentary extras didn't end there. Pickled radish -- the customary accompaniment to Korean fried chicken -- came brimming in a generous bowl. Kyochon in Stanton, it must be noted, charges a buck per serving. Love Letter's, however, bit more sharply and were less soothingly sweet than Kyochon's.

While I'm making comparisons to Kyochon, I'll talk about the wings I chose. They were the base model, without the upgrades that could've gotten them glazed in a spicy sauce or honey, which I believe are standard at Kyochon.

Regardless, it was well-cooked, gilded with just a barely-there covering of batter, which allowed the subcutaneous fat to melt off, transforming floppy skin to a thin crispness: the most coveted part of all Korean fried chickens.

The meat beneath, however, was surprisingly flavorless, which was probably why they included a cute oval thimble of peppered salt for dipping.

Forget about trying to fit the wings in them though. To say that they were humongous is still understating it. Judging by the wingspan of the things, these mutant hens could've gone against a condor in a welterweight match-up. Either that or someone had finally had enough of Foghorn Leghorn's snark.

But wait, how's the pizza, you ask? I don't know. This post wasn't so much a review as it was a "preview". I tried only one dish, after all. So I am not yet ready to grab the mike and proclaim that Pizza & Chicken Love Letter has the best music video of all time....I mean, pizza.

It does, however, still has the best name.

Pizza & Chicken Love Letter
(949) 852-2900
2600 Alton Parkway
Irvine, CA 92606

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
Nana San - Newport Beach

Alebrije’s Grill - Santa Ana

The subtitle of this post is "My lunch with Gustavo Arellano", because the story is also about who I was with, as it is about what I ate. To me, eating at this taco truck in the heart of Santa Ana with Gustavo was like teeing up with Woods; jamming with The Edge; or, to put it in terms a foodie would appreciate, eating with Bourdain in New York.

We were in his element. Gustavo Arellano -- the man, the myth, "The Mexican" -- is the sage of all things O.C. food, especially about SanTana's loncheras. He wrote the definitive story on the subject, a behind-the-scenes tale of everything you ever wanted to know about OC's taco trucks but were afraid to ask. And this was Alebrije’s Grill, the lonchera at the heart of the article, which coincidentally, Gustavo proclaimed, was one of his favorites.

"The thing to get here is the tacos acorazados" he said as soon as I met him on the street.

A common mistake people make, he tells me, is not going beyond the usual and forgoing the specialities of the house...er, vehicle. With only a rudimentary knowledge of Mexican cuisine that doesn't extend past al pastor at my usual hole-in-the-wall taquerias, I certainly would've fallen into that trap. So it was easy to say yes to everything. I was in good hands, like masa to be molded. Whatever he told me to eat, I was going to eat!

"What do you want to drink?"

"Umm...water?"

"Don't you want Jarritos?"

Now that he mentioned it, of course I did.

With a few quick words to the owner, our lunch was ordered. Using a cloth towel, the lonchero started by wiping off the ice from two bottles of mandarin Jarritos. He gave the chilled drinks to Gustavo, who popped the caps off, and handed me one.

I took a swig and felt the surge of its nectar -- a throughly refreshing orange soda, made with real sugar and without the sickeningly sweet, lingering aftertaste of high fructose corn syrup that often weighs down its American cousins.

Later came the food. And despite the name, the taco acorazados didn't look like a taco at all. At least not initially. It is an "eventual" taco. First, it exists as a pile of food so massive, you hardly notice that beneath it all, there is a hand-formed tortilla the size of a dinner plate.

"Acorazado" is the word for "battleship", Gustavo explained. Battleship tacos. Well, now it makes sense, I thought. Though "aircraft carrier" might be more apropos.

Also the contents didn't look like your standard taco fillings. It starts with rice, spread out in layer, eclipsing the tortilla below from view. Then on goes acres of milanesa: a beefsteak, breaded with the concentrated flavor of spice, pounded thin, fried to a crispy brown, sliced into strips -- the best country fried steak I've ever eaten. Finally, creamy avocados, pickled jalapenos, carrots, and my favorite of them all: piquant fingers of marinated and briefly grilled cactus.

On top, I saw Gustavo squirt orange day-glo hot sauce, a house blend offered in squeeze bottles chilled under an avalanche of finely crushed ice. Afterward he added pickled onions with miniscule bits of finely diced habanero dotting its surface. I followed his example, though I was decidedly more timid in the amounts I applied.

As we began to whittle away at our bounty, I relished how well it all worked together. The crisp with the soft. The rice with the protein. The fried with the pickled. All was lashed together with the unifying force that is the hot sauce.

Noticing the streams of sweat now pouring down my face, Gustavo said, "Here, you want this shade?"

"Oh no, it's not the sun. It's this!" I pointed at my food.

Eventually, I had nibbled off enough toppings to fold up the tortilla as a taco. But in my enthusiasm to blot out the fire, I had consumed most of the meat. All that was left to eat with the dense and coarse tortilla was the rice and pickles. And by then, I was stuffed.

We paid a ridiculously low price of $8 for the both of us (though I'm sure it had to do with the fact that the owner knew Gustavo). After the meal, I thanked Gustavo for bringing me here, but also for the ulterior motive for our meetup: he was giving me the OC Press Club Award we won for last year's OC Weekly Food Issue.

Since there was only one trophy, he insisted that I take it. But he had one condition: he wanted to take a picture with me. Of course, I obliged. That's the least I could do. Still, I couldn't help but think: How surreal is this?

Alebrije’s Grill
On Cubbon Street between Main and Sycamore streets
Santa Ana, CA 92701-5724

To read Christian's review on
Alebrije's Grill
CLICK HERE.

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
French 75 - Laguna Beach

Wahoo's Fish Taco - Tustin

It was one of those nights. No one wanted to cook, but no one could could agree on where to go.

"How about Cambinos?"

"Cypress? Nah. Too far. Shibucho?"

"Too expensive for a middle of the week. And I'm not hungry enough for omakase."

After a half-hour more of this fruitless exchange, we finally made a decision. And that was to leave the decision up to fate, or at least the computer generated randomness of Urbanspoon's iPhone app. Whatever the electronic slots of the program decided was what we were going to eat for supper. The only parameters we entered was that it must be in our immediate vicinity (Tustin) and cheap (one dollar sign).

What the wheels landed on was Wahoo's Fish Taco, the Orange County-born chain that three Asian surfer dudes began more than a decade ago, now everywhere.

There was just one problem. I've never cared for their fish tacos. I'm of the deep fried camp. Battered, crunchy, greasy and decadent -- that's what the fish in a fish taco should be. Never grilled or made to be "healthy".

But that's not what I want to talk about here. This post is about the rediscovery on what I consider the best condiment I've ever had in a quasi-Mexican restaurant. Heck, I'll even go as far as to say that it's the best condiment ever served in the whole of O.C's restaurantdom. Called simply "Mr. Lee's", it's a chili paste of unparalleled complexity, flavor and depth.

Do not mistake it for salsa. No. This, my friends, is Indonesian sambal. Or at least it is something that tastes just like it. Thick, dark, a little oily, it is the doppelganger to the many kinds of sambals that Indonesian home cooks carefully mash up in a stone mortar and pestle.

And it's freakin' wonderful.

It's hot, of course, with the equivalent slow but intense burn of napalm on your tongue. But it's also gently sweet. Behind it, there's a hint of fishiness, a discernible but understated presence of umami, the fifth flavor.

If you've mastered Sriracha, Mr. Lee is the next level -- the advanced course in the hot sauce arts.

And best of all, it's free. Just ask for "Mr. Lee's" and they'll hand you a thimble of it, which is enough for some, but not for me. I used up two and would've gone for a third if I hadn't already finished my enchilada plate.

I slathered it on everything. On their enchiladas, which are better than I remembered them to be. On the beans. On the rice. Everything.

The sambal elevated it all, but especially the carne asada steak in the enchilada, which was cut into stamp-sized squares, already unexpectedly tender. The carnitas that filled the other enchilada -- blubbery and moist -- were perfect in their design to grab on the Mr. Lee's like a mop.

Now, just imagine what a few dabs of this stuff would taste like on a deep fried fish taco!

Wahoo's Fish Taco
(714) 544-1154‎
13791 Newport Ave # 4
Tustin, CA 92780-4695

THIS WEEK ON OC WEEKLY:
Which Wich - Santa Ana