CASSELL'S: BUILD YOUR OWN HAMBURGER IN K' TOWN

Another day and another lesson in Los Angeles cheap eats from my good chum, John Haskell. This time it came by way of Cassell’s Hamburgers on the fringes of K-Town.

Al Cassell first opened his eponymous hamburger joint after returning from serving in WWII, some sixty plus years ago. Although it has changed location and ownership in that time, precious little else seems to have changed about a place that is consistently rated in the top ten hamburger places in Los Angeles. Al Cassell died a little over a month ago at the ripe old age of 98 (who says burgers are bad for you?) but he would have been proud of the fact that his gaff is still turning out a very fine hamburger indeed.

Cassell’s works canteen style. You order your burgers, in our case, two 2/3lb slabs of house ground prime beef, which are then cooked to order before being handed to you so you can slide your plate down the line to choose from an impressive selection of condiments. Now, the “Build Your Own” concept of burger service is one of which I am profoundly dubious, remembering Pete’s in London, which allowed idiot consumers to come up with disgusting combinations including, wait for it, anchovy and radish.

However, at Cassell’s, they keep the choices simple. There are pickles, superb house made mayonnaise, slices of fresh as a daisy tomatoes, crisp lettuce, some Russian dressing and their justifiably famous potato salad (to be topped with the aforementioned mayonnaise). John Haskell has been a loyal customer of Cassell’s for nearly forty years, so I followed his lead and worked my way down the line until I had constructed an impressive, if visually rather unappealing, end result. We filled our cups with Diet Coke and took a seat before tucking in.

Does it deserve its place in L.A.’s hamburger pantheon? Well, yes, yes it certainly does, not only for the fact it is the messiest burger I have ever encountered, but also because it is damn tasty. The burger patty is looser than many I have tried, which is primarily down to the fact we asked for ours to be cooked rare and medium rare. However, the beef is patently from a very good source and the toppings are fresh, crisp and delicious. The potato salad was good enough for me to pay a return visit to the line to spoon some more onto my plate and also make sure to add another blob of that excellent mayo.

This time it was John’s turn to dig deep into his pocket and fork over what I imagine what was about $25 for the lot including a few $$ tossed in the tip jar for the friendly staff. We have shared many expensive meals together since I have been fortunate enough to know John and his wife, Liz Haskell, but we both agreed, as we wiped Russian dressing from our chins, that it is places like this that make us really happy.

The worry is, that the dining room was almost empty. We ate lunch early, but there were still only two tables occupied when we left. Apparently, it is a scenario being played out all over the US now as family run diners and restaurants are slowly disappearing before the juggernaut chains and as young folk go in search on new and often wretched takes on American classics (hang your head in shame Umami Burger, hang your head in shame). They are closing, I am told, almost at the rate that pubs are shutting their doors in London. A huge shame, but perhaps, it is just the end of an era. I certainly got that feeling as I left Cassell’s.

Still, for as long as it is around, I suspect Cassell’s Hamburgers will get a lot more of my custom and, I am sure a lot more of John Haskell’s. I also suspect Al Cassell would be happy to know we approved.

BASTIDE: ON THE CAROUSEL WITH THE HASKELLS

It has been a while since I last contributed to this here blog. There are, however, lots of good reasons for my absence.

For one, I have been gainfully employed for the last month or so. I am not allowed to say quite how yet, but will announce it as soon as I can. Suffice to say the return to a reasonably regular job has played havoc with my good humours and I have found little energy remaining to create when I come home in the evening.

Added to that the fact that I have not been eating out as much since I returned to the US for the same reasons as above and I have had precious little to contribute even if I could be bothered. So, a huge thanks to HP who has kept the good ship Dos Hermanos very firmly afloat with his wit and whimsy while I have been below decks.

What better way then to return to my blogging ways of yore than to discuss our recent meal with two of our favourite people in the world, John and Liz Haskell? This time, it was our turn to treat them and we all agreed on an early supper at Bastide on Melrose.

You can read Liz's report HERE (I of course have made use of her impressive note taking abilities when trying to recall what we ate)

Now, Bastide is one of those places that has been around for a while, but seems to have fallen off the radar because of its regular change of dining format and seemingly carousel approach to the employment of chefs. The latest incumbent is one Joseph Mahon, a young chef with an impressive C.V. that boasts Boulud and Bouley amongst its listings. John and Liz were already sipping on a glass of Prosecco when we arrived and, after a cursory glance at the menu, we decided to let the new-ish guy send out a tasting menu of smaller portions to show us what he could do.

The butter may have tasted as if it had been sitting around for a little too long, but fortunately house made bread, including Fennel & Olive, Apple & Cashew, Wheat and Raisin, was good enough to require a second helping and enough to see us through to the arrival of our first course.

A mouthful sized amuse of compressed watermelon, toasted pine nuts, celery leaf, feta water and parsley summed up the chef’s economic approach to plating and was a refreshingly lovely way to approach the nine courses that were to follow.

The next course, a corn soup topped with crisp nuggets of pork and a slick of curry oil could have been a contender. The soup was faultless, well seasoned and had a silky texture. The crunchy pork bites adding a perfect counterpoint. Unfortunately, the unnecessary addition of slivers of orange took the dish from pleasingly sweet to cloying in one bite. A shame. The next course redeemed matters immediately. A pork terrine too was seasoned properly and came served with a slick of grain mustard, frisee salad and pickled ramps all of which cut through the fattiness of the meat to good effect.

I was less impressed by the next course, a couple of slices of Yellowtail blanched in brown butter and then served with Chinese long beans, soy beans, shaved asparagus, radish with an apple soy vinaigrette. It was well received by everyone else at the table, but I have been eating an awful lot of crudo recently and the sight of yet another one, however competently made, which this was, did little to excite me.

The next plate to be put in front of us, a seemingly simple salad dish turned out to be one of my dishes of the evening. Two types of heirloom tomatoes were topped with grated goat cheese and served with a little Mache some avocado and a scattering of croutons. At a time when the words ‘seasonal” and “local” have been reduced to nothing more than marketing buzzwords, this dish summed up what those concepts can mean at their best. Stunning ingredients served in prime condition, being allowed to shine without the threat of fifty other ingredients. Lovely.

The next two dishes showed an equally light touch even if they were served in more hearty portions. Salmon on menus in the US is something I normally avoid. The one served up by Joseph Mahon, however, was one of the best I can recall in a very long time. Scottish Salmon had been poached in a mixture of olive oil and duck fat until it was medium cooked and then served with crunchy Beluga lentils, a few sugar snap peas and a port wine sauce which managed to complement rather than over power.

If I normally avoid salmon on US menus, I usually hide under the table quaking in terror when they mention lamb. 99.9% of people in the US (most chefs included) have not got clue number one about how to prepare or cook lambykins. So, the fact that I finished off not only my own portion but also most of Sybil’s and Liz’s tells you that this baby sheep (from Colorado) did not die in vain. French trimmed rack came served with baba ganoush, a concasse of tomatoes and a small amount of its natural juices. All good, but less impressive than the fact the chef had cooked it perfectly pink and allowed it to rest properly before serving it.

We were all fading a bit down the home straight at this stage, which makes the fact we agreed to a cheese course all a bit silly, particularly when I consider America as the place where good cheese goes to die. I am afraid the appearance of a very poor example of a cheese course at Bastide, which comprised small slivers of Petit Basque, Blue and Epoisse served with some slightly mealy apples slices, did little to dissuade me of that opinion.

Sorbets of Yogurt, Mango, Cherry did not meet with much more approval from the table and it was left to an excellent chocolate soufflé served with rum vanilla ice cream and mango chocolate sauce to save the latter part of the meal from total disappointment.

The bill, which included a couple of bottles of something interesting and well priced from Switzerland and something slightly less interesting and well priced from Castilla Y Leon came too, well quite a lot really. It also included a decent tip for superb service from a young woman called Tina who showed that time spent working at Per Se in New York had been put to good use.

Despite a few misfires, I was impressed with Joseph Mahon’s cooking, his respect for good ingredients and his simplicity of approach. It is a style that I suspect has been honed during his time in NYC rather than in LA, but plays well with the impressive larder available on the west coast. I will definitely be returning to Bastide and that is not something I can say about too many of the mid level restaurants I have eaten at/suffered through in Los Angeles.

LOS DOS HERMANOS GORDOS DO EL NORTE: DAY EIGHT – HAPPINESS IS A WARM LIVER

I had the mother of all hangovers the next day, unfortunate as I had to be up at 7am to head to the airport. Robin got an extra hour lay in as his plane to Malaga was not until later and he, unlike me does not have to be at the airport ridiculously early.



So while Robin headed off to warmer climes, I head back by cattle truck (I mean Iberia Airlines) to London and the welcoming arms of a special someone at the airport. The first person in my life to meet me who was not carrying a taxi firm sign with my name on it. 



I suspect both Robin and I were both very sanguine about the way our holiday ended.



SM
13th September 2005

The Epilogue



A few hours later I was sitting down to some more seafood in the 30C heat of the Costa del Sol. But that, as they say, is another story.


LOS DOS HERMANOS GORDOS DO EL NORTE: DAY SEVEN – BILBAO & HOME (WELL FOR ONE OF US THAT IS)

The service for our morning Chocolate y Churros was even slower than we had experienced before. A shame really as both were really very good. We left some money on the table and picked up our car for an early start to Bilbao.



The toll road to Bilbao is pretty expensive (about EU15) but worth it alone for the fact you can get there from Burgos in about two hours. Two hours in fact to bring me to the very brink of a nervous breakdown. 



We had planned to return our car to the Hertz office in central Bilbao before heading to our hotel. Simple enough it would seem. But, that is without reckoning on two factors



1) The roads of central Bilbao are less pleasant than the Devil’s armpits. Choked with roadworks and cars and with signposts that were Lilliputian to say the least it was a bugger to take our big old jalopy through the narrow streets where obeying parking laws seemed to be optional. I was grateful for Robin’s navigation skills.



2) After all of this, we arrived at the Hertz office to find it closed. Yep. A Hertz office in a major city closed for a siesta. Well, as one can imagine, I thought that was just peachy keen and expressed my indignation to the world in general and had a right old hissy fit. Once that was over, we decided to head to the airport, return the car there and take a cab back to town



So, a couple of hours later than planned we checked back into the Shirimiri, dumped our bags and headed out for a last wander.



What Brighton is to London, Getxo seems to be to Bilbao. A seaside resort within easy reach of the city. On the one side of the estuary is a charming well to do town with great beaches and excellent bars. On the other side accessible by cable car, is Portugalete, the industrial port.



We took the 20 minute journey out there using the efficient tube service entering through the distinctive entrance (called locally “fosteritos” after Norman Foster their designer) and spent an entirely agreeable couple of hours wandering around the beaches and the town itself with a couple of beers thrown in. A lovely way to wind down.



Taking the subway back to the Old town, we were slightly confused by some of signs on the doors of the trains. One in particular struck us as odd and the best interpretation we could come up with was “ Please do not sit down while men are Greek dancing”.



Back to the hotel and then out for a last evening of pinchos and supper. About six or so bars in an hour or so was not a bad haul and included Victor Montes a famous bar on the Plaza Major and one excellent bar whose name escapes me where we had some fabulous pinchos of foie (this being the Basque country) and the best calamari I think I have ever eaten. [Ed's note:I agree]



Then, once more as if to end our vacation as it began, the heavens opened and the rain fell. Being too weary to do much more, we headed back to our part of the old town and dived into the Asado Lizzaro next to our hotel. We were and remained so for the whole evening the only people in the place, but we didn’t care. The chuleton was good, the wine cheap and we had a large glass of Pacharan to finish, so all seemed well with the world as we headed back for one last night’s sleep.

Some non-food shots


Cable-car


I don't know what it means either


Back to the food










The best Calamares fritos in the world - ever !








Que Rico !

LOS DOS HERMANOS GORDOS DO EL NORTE: DAY SIX - BUGGER BURGOS AND THE CREATION OF TAPATHEID

OK, to save time, let's just assume we both had blinding hangovers when we awoke, took some ibuprofen and some milk thistle (and Hairy Lemon) and staggered out of the hotel for our morning stroll about 10am. A reviving hot drink later, we managed a quick fire tour of the cathedral and headed out towards Burgos.



We took the Autopista Camino de Santiago, which followed almost exactly the route of the pilgrim's trail and we saw many people walking towards Leon en route to Santiago. 



"Burgos is known for its elegance, its courtliness and civility" we were informed by The Footprint Guide.

The people are known to be quite proper and a little up themselves and it has a reactionary air to it. It is, in fact Harrogate ! Despite the fact it is achingly beautiful and the Cathedral was the most interesting of all those we saw, I found relatively little in the city to charm me and there is little wonder in my mind that Franco chose it as his base.



The people, from the moment we arrived to the moment we left, were charmless. Not the amiably gruff attitude of Asturias or Galicia, just downright surly and, at times actively noxious.



We arrived at the well appointed Meson El Cid (the most expensive hotel of our stay @ EU125 a night and named for the city’s most famous son who we found out was far from the Charlton Heston-like hero of yore but a mercenary who was as happy to fight for the Moors as he was against them depending on who paid the most)



Elmo the Grouch (I mean the receptionist) illustrated the service style that is obviously promulgated to the people of Burgos by the city fathers. She looked like someone had nailed a dead fish to her lower lip and then offered her poison. I can seldom think of a more unfriendly encounter. Still, the room was lovely and with stunning views over the Cathedral and the town, so we had high hopes.



Hopes soon to be shattered by the slothful service we received if we could be served at all. Now getting served in Spain is an art form. In Madrid one has to be forceful, in the South one has to be patient, in the North one has to be doubly patient. But one does always get served. In Burgos it appears, the service is wilfully glacial. We waited nearly 20 minutes in one bar while the woman (ah, there's the rub, we broke ROBIN'S RULE No 6 - All Spanish bars should be staffed by men in their late 50s wearing ill fitting jackets and bow ties) ignored us, chatted to friends, mopped up a bit etc etc. In the end we flounced out which is not much good if you have not been noticed in the first place.



Finally, we found a cerveceria in the square where we managed to drag a waiter to our table and order some Morcilla de Burgos, some picadillos (small cubes of pork in a rich sauce) and some pimientos. All were fine. No more. 



So, somewhat sated, we headed out for a long stroll around what is admittedly one of the most beautiful cities in Spain. A town with a over 30 hospitals, a castle that was destroyed when it ceded from the town in the 12th century (perhaps they could not get one of the ornery bastards to serve them either) and a charming tree lined river walk. After a couple of hours we were pretty much bushed and wandered back for a siesta.



However, before we both fell asleep, the thought struck Robin that he had another week of holiday to follow this one as he planned to head to Malaga and meet with other members of the family. Me on the other hand had to go home to work. Being the kind compassionate and caring brother he is, this led to the rather puke inducing sight of a middle aged man dancing around the room in ill fitting boxer shorts singing “ I have another week off while you-oo don’t” I HAVE PICTURES TO PROVE IT!!



By the time we awoke at 7pm, the paseo was in full swing and the cathedral square , which had been empty all afternoon, was thronged with the delightful denizens of Burgos swapping stories about how rude they had been to pilgrims and tourists during the day.



We wandered out with a plan in our hands for an evenings convivial fun. A few bars, naturally , a decent meal, of course, and a nightcap, surely. What could be better? Well, think again boys. After a couple of bars we decided to call it quits and head for a ridiculously early supper. Why? Well, primarily because we encountered what I dubbed “ Tapatheid”



Now, we know enough about Spain to know that the regional differences in the bar culture are vast. In some towns a freebie is obligatory with your beer. In others you are expected to order your own pincho. Where we get thoroughly hacked off is when you order a drink, don’t get a freebie while every local in the bar is handed a lovely looking snack free , gratis and for nowt. That Sir, is just bollox and neither Robin nor I were prepared to take it. Let them stuff their patatas bravas up their collective arses. Bastards!



So, we went straight to El Angel, a highly touted restaurant just off the main square and, not unsurprisingly, at that hour we were the sole diners bar one lonely businessman. 



Well, what a turn up for the books. El Angel proved to be a real winner and an oasis of good service amongst the slough of despond outside.

A couple of glasses of house Albarino restored our good spirits and we ordered from an interesting menu that took classical Asador staples and gave them a Nuevo twist. Normally , this would give us the hee bee gee bees, but here the concept was handled rather deftly



We began with some sublime Iberico. I would argue the best I have ever had. Glistening in its oil showed it had been properly kept and sliced perfectly. Heaven on a plate.



With it, yet more croquetta. But these were different. Small, crisp balls of seafood on skewers. Perfectly cooked and melting on the inside. Spot on.



An interim salad course made use of that rather glorious jarred tuna that is so readily available all over Spain and gave us a brief respite while our main course was cooking.



We had ordered a beautiful Ribera, a bottle of Tarsus 1999 Reserva and it went perfectly with the quarto of Cordero that appeared some 15 minutes later. Again, this was some of the best lamb I have ever eaten. Crispy skin, creamy melting flesh and delicious fatty bits. There are few better things in life do not involve handcuffs, cream from a spray can and calling people Mistress. This was one of them.



The postre were better than average, but desserts are really not Spain’s thing. Still the glasses of Pedro Ximinez and Malaga that went with them certainly were. Both excellent.



A nightcap later and a bill of EU150 to the good we left the restaurant by now full to the brim, much happier than when we arrived.

The magnificient Cathedral at Burgos (you have to pay to get in but you get a nice little booklet which gives you a tour of the place)


some perfunctory tapas


_good_ jamon


lovely little croquettas


salady tuna thing before...


...the main event


Majumdar attacking on all fronts


I love you - you're my bestest brother no, really, you are...


I think our piccies got mixed up with someone's holiday snaps from Ayia Napa

LOS DOS HERMANOS GORDOS DO EL NORTE: DAY FIVE- THE KINGS OF LEON

True to form, as we were about to leave Santiago, the skies cleared and the rains stopped. This gave us one more chance to take a walk and see a tiny bit of what this city obviously has to offer when it is not raining (for reference, The Footprint Guide says, not entirely tongue in cheek, that the next sunny day is scheduled for sometime in 2009)



We had time for one more coffee at El Marte before picking up our car and heading out of town. 



All in all a disappointment of a visit. What we did see of the town was attractive but thronged with tour groups and, the meals apart, there was little to make me want to return in a hurry. 



When, some years from now, I do walk the entire length of the pilgrim trail, I only hope God treats me better than the poor sodden saps who sploshed into town while we were there. The very definition of anti-climax.



Still, onwards and upwards and out of Galicia and to Castilla y Leon.

Although neither is the state capital, Leon and Burgos are the two most visited towns of this autonomous community. Both are very different. Leon represents the more liberal end of the community, more free spirited and with no great love for the Castillian towns with which they were merged. This spirit is ably represented in their offering of a pincho with every drink and the amiable nature of everyone you meet.



It was another long old drive, around three hours. But, with the aid of a toll road, we arrived in Leon a little after 2pm and found our way easily to the next hotel on the route. A mainstay of Leon and a real gem called Hotel Paris Leon. Slap bang on the main pedestrian drag of the old town.

And, what a town. For once the new town was not a range of mountainous breeze block constructions but, was quite elegant with horse chestnut tree lined boulevards and wide roads. There was an air of gentility about the place that was pervasive.



The cathedral was closed when we arrived in the early afternoon so we took a stroll around the old town and a number of the bars in the Barrio Humedo (literally, The Wet Barrio) named after the many bars in the area. Leon has as Robin put it "a well evolved bar culture" and we managed about six of them before heading back for a siesta. All were very good and in most cases our beer came with a little freebie even though we were deep into the injury time of the lunch break.



SIDE NOTE - however many different names there are for a small beer in Spain; Cana, Zorito or, here in Leon, Cortos one thing remains constant, the Spaniards inability (wilful, one could argue) to understand what you are trying to order. At different times during the trip and after giving it our "best Spanish shit" we were offered Coca Cola, coffee, Albarino and various other drinks all of which were not the small beer we craved. Amusing if annoying. At one point a man looked at me so horrified when I ordered I wondered if I had inadvertently asked to see pictures of his grandmother pleasuring herself with a sweet potato while Franco looked on.



After a much needed siesta, we were ready to hit the town. Before we toured the barrio again, we did a short stroll taking in both a new area for tapas near the Symphony auditorium and some of the small unassuming bars in the residential districts where a couple of Cortos or whatever the hell they were called cost as little as EU1.



We slowly worked our way back via two of the more celebrated bars one of which was a deli specialising in wine and food from the region where, along with our Jamon we tried a glass of red made with the local Mencia grape. Nothing to it as far as we could tell. Not unpleasant, but hardly challenging.



Then on to a bar which specialised in offal. While I went to point Percy at the porcelain, Robin managed to shoulder his way through the crowded bar and order two drinks with a plate of callos in a rich sauce. Very good indeed.



As we bar crawled, other highlights included some Morcilla de leon, very different from its Burgos colleague of the same name. This was, basically, Black Pudding in liquid form spread on toast. Robin declared it "black puddingy" and preferred if to the rice stuffed version. It was a little bit too sludgy for my tastes, I have to admit.



We also had a plate of Mollejas at another bar where the waiter, being officially the campest man in Northern Spain took great delight in giving us lessons in how to pronounce the word for sweetbreads. 



I made the fatal mistake of finishing off the night with a large pour of Gran Duque d'Alba caliente (rich dark brandy served in a warmed glass covered to keep in the delicious fumes) fun at the time, but they don't half come back to haunt you in the morning. Robin was much more sensible with a Pacharan on ice. 



And so, to bed.

The mighty cathedral at Leon

















































Sort of like a meal at El Bulli but with more jamon and a lot more beer (and less foam).