Although I've found my haunts and joints that I love in my grimy - yet still charming - city of Los Angeles*, they pale in comparison to the places I came to know and love in SF. Perhaps it's because I didn't learn to appreciate and really worship food until I moved there. I got my first taste of everything from jaw droppingly expensive meals, what it means to eat locally, how good vegetarian fare can actually be (said the non apologetic carnivore), the most delicious meals I've ever had for a mere pittance, and everything in between when I lived there.
*like the Allston Yacht Club on Echo Park Blvd. and Garage Pizza on Sunset Blvd.
You couldn't bribe me with a lifetime supply of Hog Island oysters or falafels from Truly Mediterranean to move back to the city by the bay, for I'm attached to Los Angeles as I am to my own limbs, but still...sometimes, I get cravings.
Cut to this past Tuesday night. I'm walking home from my very favorite bar. One that doesn't serve hard alcohol and whose chalkboard menu won't list any beers you've ever heard of (if you're a novice, such as myself), but is warm and welcoming and whose back patio housed the meeting spot of a certain new man in my life, one fateful evening (Valentine's Day, if you can believe it).
Craving ice cream, as I'm wont to do, I quickly ducked into the drug store and was met with a beautiful sight: from the bottom shelf in the frosty freezer peaked my favorite San Francisco edible. I wouldn't have even recognized it, had I not been so very familiar with the wrapper (having almost shoved the entire thing, familiar wrapper and all, into my facehole on many occasions).
I've written about them before -- the magical being that is an It's It ice cream sandwich. Since I moved back to LA three years ago I've been searching for them in every liquor store I patronize, begging sweaty ambivalent owners of said liquor stores to carry them, and driving into the Valley, of all places, just to track down the illusive treat. And now, here they are practically at my doorstep...sold in singles, no less (the first I've found in LA).
I walked back to the house and finished the whole damn thing, wrapper and all (jay kay...maybe) by the time I reached the front door. That's the way they should be eaten: while heading somewhere in a rush -- whether because one has to catch the very last train, or in the case of Tuesday night, because one has to piss so freaking bad she can feel it in her very fingernails (woe is me and my minuscule bladder).Another piece of my heart has now secreted itself away from San Francisco, where it can begin being encapsulated by the life I've formed for myself here in Los Angeles.