Having lived in LA for a grand total of 3 ¾ months, I already know much more about it than you (<—my credentials). It’s a dastardly concoction of tragically dramatic hipsters, altruistic artists, pompously arrogant Westsiders (yes all of you) and a barrage of other archetypes that I’m too lazy to identify, each of whom are inevitably fast tracked to do none other than bolster the already lavish scene of pish-posh and dilly dallie that continually pervade the city… and I kind of like it. With cunning people crafting clever ideas, the potential for an innovative dining experience is all too evident in our city, to say the least. As gloss finished-fondant cupcakes and flamboyantly tinted macaroons begin to tatter the shelves of our shops, it’s hard to not want to be apart of the gastronomical phenomena that has hitherto been so muffled. And so it begins.
In the last few years the LA spotlight has careened away from rockstars and celebrities toward restaurants, their chefs and the art of gastronomy. No longer do we obsess over Britney’s latest debacles or the fact that Lindsey Lohan has somehow managed to atrophy this much without being hospitalized for the nth time. It’s no longer rewarding to sit and watch E! or to read Variety Magazine when you could be spending your time sweeping through food blogs or catching up on the last three issues of the Weekly. These devices have finally lost their clout and I’m not ashamed to announce “good riddance.” Of late, we have taken to gossiping over the latest activity in the Patina Group empire or what type of truffles are being shaved over our pizza at Pizzeria Mozza. All of the sudden, a world about flavors and textures becomes an ego-centric avenue to the rising LA culturist and we have become absolutely smitten with food.
Having usurped the throne of prevalence in the Los Angeles culture canon during the wake (or tumult, arguably) of our down trodden economy, the restaurant vocation has been thrust forth upon the LA career charts wish list, settling just a few seats behind “The Next Ari Gold Super Agent” or “Film Director/Fashion Designer.” With new restaurants treating “open interviews” like casting calls, requiring that headshots accompany resumes, some might actually consider mounting atop a wobbly dining room table to spout off a carefully chosen Arthur Miller monologue in hopes to set themselves apart from the 300 other actors looking on with an undisturbed monotony. With the opportunity to meet and interact with some of the ingenious minds behind this food-de-force, who doesn’t want to scrape up a piece of the unwarranted glamour that seems to inevitably manifests in the limelight of this burgeoning industry. It’s the quick-and-easy to living the LA life and we’re tired of waiting.
With the scent of glory and allure fresh on our noses, we fruitlessly grope along trying to keep up with the interminable collection of restaurants that sporadically spawn throughout the city by the fortnight. Scraping the hallow tin of a can of tuna or regretfully composing yet another peanut butter and jelly sandwich just to insufficiently curb our gastro-famine, we starving artists somehow manage to scrounge together an extra 50 dollars a week so we can finally sate our appetite with the latest SBE installment or the edgiest gastro pub. “No guys I can’t go out tonight, I had dinner last Tuesday at Church & State,” we say, casually declining a trip to the movies in hopes to ensure that we have enough money to go to the new brasserie next week.
In spite of all of this excitement and fervor, one can’t help but to be a little woeful at what is actually happening here. Is any of this recently generated interest genuine or is this just another plight to attain the LA lifestyle that most angelenos yearn for? Unsophisticated palates across the city are unappreciatively experiencing some of the most creative combinations of food on this earth, all the while using ungodly, God-like powers, divined unto by Yelp, to blast their mostly thoughtless opinions across the pages of the web. As they delve into a Brick Roasted Duck and some unbeknownst tuber settled over a muddled Venetian root at the new Lazy Ox Canteen, they articulate a hyperbolized gasp of ecstasy after each bite, if only to create the impression of utter rapture, when in reality they will stop off at Carl’s Jr. on the way home to grab a Big Carl for $1.99. (who hasn’t?)
Surely this is the case, but I tend to ask myself, Is it so wrong that food is the new occult celebrity? Is it so bad that people are beginning to take an interest in LA’s gastronomic aptitude whether it be genuine or simply a means to an end? After all, everyone needs something to attach to. What makes a hipster a hipster if he doesn’t rock a tastefully ironic mustache; and what makes a badass rock n’ roll chick if she doesn’t lace her lips with a blood red lipstick or chain smoke every time she faces an awkward situation? And you certainly can’t call yourself a Westsider if you don’t wear glittered gold stilettos at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I guess it’s just the way we do it. We are attracted to something and want to embrace it, on every level. We want to assimilate to it, and make it our life. We become so obsessed with it that we write a 1,000 word comprehensive diatribe about it.
Someone once told me that being a professional just means that you’ve pretended to be an expert long enough for people to forget that you’re actually just full of shit. So, maybe the best we can do is to continue to read, continue to dine, continue to experience and to continue to fake it long enough to salvage a bit of this acclaimed lifestyle along the way.