Kikuchi
French-Japanese Restaurant
Prix-Fixe $40 per person
Definitely a night out restaurant

THE REVIEW
Stealing the show in three acts
It may not be a scene, but Kikuchi, with its understated drama, will wow food lovers with a well-crafted prix fixe trio of courses.
By S. Irene Virbila
Times Staff Writer

August 10, 2005

At night, as cars race north and then screech to a stop behind the line idling up to the entrance of Koi or the Spanish Kitchen, La Cienega north of Melrose is more obstacle course than thoroughfare. Pay attention: Valets will suddenly spurt across, headed for cars they've stashed around the neighborhood in rented lots and alleys. You might as well forget about finding a parking space on the street: It doesn't exist.

But in the midst of all the boulevard's flash and chaos is an improbable find. Tucked in the corner of a strip mall, a tiny restaurant called Kikuchi features graceful French-Japanese cooking and a $40 prix fixe menu.

While the cool crowd at Koi down the street wrestles quite ordinary sushi with their chopsticks, it's hard not to feel smug as you oh so delicately pluck up morsels of poached Japanese scallops and crab from a salad offered as part of the three-course prix fixe menu, or as you savor a bite of Kikuchi's seared La Belle Farms foie gras. Presented on a pedestal of cooked daikon, it is rich all right and literally melts in the mouth. Pairing it with the radish is a brilliant stroke. Without the usual sweet accompaniment, the taste of the foie gras comes through unobstructed. The effect is curiously light.

Kikuchi actually debuted some six years ago under the name Bistro 21, which is still on the sign in front of the strip mall. Last year, however, chef-owner Koichiro Kikuchi and his wife, Akiyo, remodeled the awkward space. Smoked glass windows in silvery frames, Dupioni silk panels and walls set at angles to break up the boxiness give the room a more contemporary look. It's not chic Sona by a long shot, but it's much nicer and just a bit more comfortable than it was. At the same time, the couple changed the name to Kikuchi and gave up the a la carte menu for a prix fixe only format.

Chef's dream

Fifteen years ago, L.A. had a Franco-Japanese moment. In unlikely spots all over the city, you could find reasonably priced cafés and restaurants manned by Japanese chefs who had a love affair with France. Remember Café Katsu and Café Blanc and then Nouveau Café Blanc, to name two? And though 2117 is still around, many of the others have disappeared. I still get letters from readers wondering what happened to this or that chef or that little restaurant they used to go and get marvelous steak au poivre for $10 or something equally ridiculous.

Kikuchi is very much of that genre.

The chef works with a limited palette of ingredients that reflect the seasons and the best of what's available at the fish and vegetable markets. Because of Kikuchi's small menu and limited number of seats — just 17 in the cramped space — he can be flexible. Sometimes you'll come in and he'll decide he wants to add an extra course, or another dish. It's very different cooking for 20 instead of 100 or 300. It's what many chefs dream of being able to do, only Kikuchi — who had cooked at Chaya Brasserie and La Bohème — is really doing it.

On a recent evening, one of my guests brought a beautiful bottle of Grüner Veltliner from Austria. A few minutes after the Japanese waiter opened the wine and poured it all round, he reappeared. Dipping his head almost as if hesitant to intrude on the conversation, he told us the chef would like to make something to go with the wine before we ordered our first courses. Soon an etched glass goblet rimmed with salt and filled with a clear viscous liquid arrived. It's tomato water made from Japanese tomatoes, he told us. Low in acid, the tomatoes have a wonderfully sweet flavor and the water, thickened slightly with agar agar, is a lovely way to begin the meal. And the chef hit a home run in terms of coming up with something that showed off the wine.

But that wasn't all. He sent out a fragile savory custard with a piece of delicate Japanese white fish from Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo. He'd gotten hold of some summer truffles too, and shaved the lightly scented truffle over the loose, warm custard to bring out all its perfume. Delicious.

Selection of favorites

Most evenings there are half a dozen first courses to choose from, including that poached scallops and crab salad in soy ginger vinaigrette. The scallops are so lightly poached, you're not entirely sure if they're raw — or cooked. The taste of the crab is very pronounced and sweet. Wild escargots from Burgundy are nothing like the snails so many French restaurateurs seem content enough to serve — you know the ones I mean, with the texture of rubber erasers. These are tender and plump, napped in a turmeric-tinged curry cream sauce.

Last time I ate there, the chef was serving rosy little rock shrimp with Japanese eggplant in a tart yuzu broth as an appetizer. Fish soup Provençal was on the menu too. Made from sea bass, halibut, sea bream — whatever is freshest — and their bones, it's a ruddy deep-flavored purée with a scribble of rouille (spicy homemade mayonnaise) in the center and the occasional soft, caramelized onion. I did keep wishing for the rafts of toast that are traditionally served with the rouille. But then I realized, since the only bread served at Kikuchi is the chef's own dainty dinner rolls, he can't make toast.

Main courses are more limited, sometimes to just two or three items. That's fine with me if every one of them is good. There's usually just one fish, which may be wild sockeye salmon or a pristine piece of Japanese white bass, pan sautéed to crisp the skin and served in citrus and Spanish olive oil on a pedestal of carrot, Japanese eggplant and a starchy white sweet potato. This is a fish with some flavor.

But my recent favorite was the wild Japanese sea bream he served as part of the chef's menu. It looked beautiful on the plate, too, with the collar and a decorative flutter of fin beneath a chunk of fillet in a burgundy stain of wine reduction. (Actually, it was a Meritage or Bordeaux-style blend from California.)

Roasted Niman Ranch pork loin is firm and a tad dry, but delicious nevertheless in a summer truffle sauce. If you want to splurge, go for the Kobe-style beef rib steak. There's a $40 supplement, which is a bit high. But when the chef comes out with a ham-sized piece wrapped in a white linen napkin, you can see the quality right there in the marbling.

And this is one chef who knows how to cook it, so it simply melts in the mouth, flooding the palate with sweet beef flavor. And if you ever happen to see pan-roasted Niman Ranch lamb chops on the menu, don't hesitate. These were some of the best chops I've had in ages. The chef doesn't use the oven, which is why they took so long to cook them. But they're perfect double chops, rosy at the center.

Parisian in spirit

Not everybody is going to get this restaurant; it's more for people who love food than for foodies. There is no scene to speak of. Nothing to entertain or appall. Just the experience of dining in a small personal restaurant, savoring food that's fresh and has been cooked with care by someone dedicated to the craft.

The other diners are always interesting: One night recently there was a large table of Brits and assorted Europeans in the film business, another night a group of women celebrating a friend's birthday.

It's one of the handful of restaurants I know — other than hotel dining rooms, which are always quiet — where you can go if you actually want to have a conversation with your guests. In that sense, dining at Kikuchi is sheer bliss

On the restaurant's website (home.aol.com/lakikuchi), the chef states his creed as that wonderful line from Escoffier, "La bonne cuisine est la base du véritable bonheur" — which means, more or less, that good cuisine is the basis of happiness and good humor. The odd thing is that this little restaurant is somehow closer in spirit to the kinds of restaurants you'd find on a back street in Paris or somewhere in the countryside than many of the French-owned bistros in town.

Kikuchi started cooking at 17 at the Miyako hotel in Tokyo, then later worked at French restaurants in Japan and Europe before coming to Los Angeles.

Today, with the help of the occasional part-time waiter or waitress, the couple run the restaurant entirely by themselves, Mr. Kikuchi in the kitchen, Mrs. Kikuchi running the front of the house. And just like in France, you can't make reservations casually and forget to cancel. They've saved that table for you and may have turned away another party that night.

His hair tucked under a stylish beret, the chef has the wiry grace of a professional cyclist. Through the cutout into the kitchen, you can glimpse his head bent over the stove or the chopping board. Sometimes his arm will dart up, as he sprinkles salt over a dish from on high, like a flamenco dancer flashing castanets.

Everything about the restaurant is very personal, from the soundtrack of cool jazz to the collection of china in interesting shapes and patterns. Well, except for the wine list, which reads as if it's been put together by a distributor interested in unloading off-vintages and overstock. There are better choices around for almost every category. It wouldn't take much, just someone to rework the list to reflect the delicacy of Kikuchi's cooking.

Not every idea pans out. I'm thinking of the ice cream flecked with a tweed of grayish-brown truffle. Chefs keep playing with the concept, but I've never had one that really worked. In this effort, a dose of truffle oil didn't help the truffle soar over the sugar. It's eclectic and experimental all right, but no.

Lavender brûlée is dreamy, though, and an individual cheese soufflé with a little 25-year-old aceto balsamico dribbled over the top is terrific.

The question is, do you want fashion and scene, or do you want good French cooking and heartfelt hospitality? You decide. Remembering the trio — chef, wife, waiter — standing in the doorway of Kikuchi to see us safely to our car one night, I already know which one I'd pick.

Good travel sites

smartertravel.com
travelzoo.com
cheapflights.com
airfarewatchdog.com

Interesting book, her sophomore effort.
Great reviews overall

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0871138972/qid=1125957760/sr=8-1/ref=sr_8_xs_ap_i1_xgl14/002-0637900-8427236?v=glance&s=books&n=507846

Cook Islands...sounds like paradise

Bliss? You're soaking in it
The tiki time machine is set to the 1970s in the Cook Islands, where tourists are few and chain hotels nonexistent. Modern life fades in the land of the blue lagoon.
By Rosemary McClure
Times Staff Writer

April 10, 2005

I kept the queen waiting.

Thunderstorms had delayed my flight. By the time the plane landed, Cook Islands Queen Manarangi Tutai had been waiting at the airport for three hours.

Despite the imposition, she smiled regally, wished me "Kia orana" — "May you live long" — and draped a fragrant necklace of gardenias around my shoulders. I stumbled through an apology. I had planned to stay at her bed-and-breakfast inn on the remote South Pacific island of Aitutaki during my November trip, but I didn't expect her to pick me up, much less grab my luggage, as she was now doing, and drive me to the B&B herself.

"Don't worry. We're on island time," she said cheerily. Clearly, I had left L.A. behind. Gridlocked freeways, scowling faces and diesel-scented air faded as Queen Tutai hoisted my bag into the back of her well-worn utility truck. In the Cook Islands, I soon learned, there is no traffic, people smile at one another and the air is scented with plumeria. Plus, for $53 a night, any guest can receive a royal welcome.

The 15 atolls and islands that make up the Cooks — named for 18th century explorer Capt. James Cook — are strung across 850,000 square miles of ocean midway between South America and Australia. It's a part of the world that is sometimes subject to violent tropical storms and cyclones during the rainy season, November to March. Earlier this year, in a little more than a month, five major cyclones swirled through the islands, a record. But "we took precautions and were prepared," the queen said. No one was killed or injured, and despite the pummeling the islands took, the welcome sign is out once again. During balmier periods, the Cooks — which are part of Polynesia — are known for their sparkling lagoons, swaying palm trees, powdery white beaches and pleasant, gracious people.

Unlike their famous neighbor French Polynesia, about 600 miles east, the Cooks have no McDonald's restaurants and no large hotel developments. They differ from Tahiti in another way too: Everyone speaks English.

Though easily accessible, the islands are relatively undiscovered. Last year, 83,000 people visited — about the same number that arrived in Hawaii in a 12-hour period. That's all the better for travelers seeking a fantasy island experience. It's easy to find an isolated beach to call your own or to stake claim to a private island.

Most U.S. travelers arrive the way I did, on an 8 1/2 -hour Air New Zealand flight that originates in Los Angeles, stops for an hour in Tahiti and continues 90 more minutes to Rarotonga, site of the Cook Islands airport and Avarua, the capital.

Although some visitors see only the beaches and craggy mountains of Rarotonga, about 20% visit the slower-paced Outer Islands, particularly Aitutaki, which is known for its lagoon. Adventure and travel guides have called it one of the most beautiful in the world.

It's easy to understand why. It's the blue lagoon that resides in your daydreams, the one that stalks you on a dreary afternoon when the boss is glaring at you, the water heater has sprung a leak and you can't stand the thought of another long commute.

I saw it first from the air, after a 40-minute flight from Rarotonga. It was striking, a turquoise triangle outlined by waves crashing against a barrier reef. Outside the triangle, the water was cobalt blue and looked deep; inside, it was so shallow and clear that the sandy bottom was visible in some places. Sheltered inside the lagoon was the lush, green island of Aitutaki and more than a dozen of the sandy islets called motu.

Cruising the lagoon

The next morning, I explored the lagoon more closely from the cabin of a 24-foot cruiser. Queen Tutai and her husband, British expat Des Clarke, let me ride along as they took a Danish family to the queen's beach lodge at a semiprivate island in the lagoon. (My cottage at Gina's Garden Lodge — she named her two inns for her daughter Georgina — cost $53 a night; the Danes paid about $170 a night at Gina's Beach Lodge, including transportation and rustic accommodations.)

As we skimmed across the water, Clarke joked about the boat. "It's the queen's Navy," he said, "along with a 16-foot fishing boat."

Queen Tutai's title is primarily ceremonial and cultural. She is a member of the Aitutaki House of Ariki, Maori chiefs who once ruled the islands.

The Cooks are now a self-governing, parliamentary democracy; they receive some assistance from New Zealand, which handles defense. The House of Ariki provides advice and consultation.

The Ariki may not have governmental authority, but they are influential. Queen Tutai, 58, takes advantage of this whenever possible.

One of her favorite crusades is preserving the environment, a difficult task in the face of an expanding tourism industry.

"Tourism offers economic liberation," she said. "But there are drawbacks. Our forefathers had no money, but they had the land and the sea. What part of our environment are we willing to give up to make money? We must preserve the dream that others travel across the world to see."

Many islanders agree. They don't want their Shangri-La to become another Waikiki. Regulations specify that buildings may not exceed the height of the tallest palm tree; they also prohibit nonislanders from owning land. Tourist facilities are mostly small and owner-operated. There are no chain hotels.

Islanders fiercely guard their social and religious beliefs. Sunday, they say, is God's day, a time to attend church, not a day for shopping, touring or traveling. When Air Rarotonga tried to begin Sunday flights into Aitutaki from Rarotonga in the mid-'90s, there was a mini-revolt, Queen Tutai said.

"The pastors and their congregations took bulldozers and cars and motorbikes and parked them all over the runway on the morning the first flight was due," she said. "The message got through: The plane cannot land."

Cook Islands' blue laws surprise American tourists. They find that stores are closed and tours aren't available. Restaurants and mini-marts are open. I heard a few visitors grumble about "losing a day," but it seemed silly to gripe about having to spend a day swimming in a lagoon or napping on the beach.

Besides, the churches are the best show in town on a Sunday morning. I managed to take in three on the island of Rarotonga: the Roman Catholic cathedral, where the bishop wore a plumeria ei — Hawaiians would call it a lei — around his neck, and two Cook Islands Christian Churches, the main denomination here. The coral block buildings are impressive; congregants dress in their Sunday best; and the singing is a waterfall of sound rising and falling with the inspired harmonies of male and female worshipers.

The Rev. John Williams of the London Missionary Society started it all when he landed on Aitutaki in 1821, bringing Tahitian converts with him. They were so successful in spreading the message that Williams moved on, only to be killed and eaten when he ventured west to Vanuatu.

Cook Islanders' strict religious views don't extend to dancing. One of the most popular activities for visitors is Island Night, an erotic, exuberant celebration of Polynesian music, dance and food. The buffet dinner and show rotates during the week from resort to resort. The routines are steamy. The male dancers are fast and aggressive; the females graceful and suggestive. The food is similar to that served on other Polynesian islands: fish, taro, suckling pig.

The islanders I met were warm and welcoming. Most people own a home and a small plot of land where they plant crops and raise pigs, chickens and a goat or two. "But opportunities are limited," said Chris Wong, director of the state tourism corporation. "And many young people leave after high school."

The declining population has become the islands' most serious problem. The nation had about 21,000 residents in 1971; now it has only about 14,000. More Cook Islanders live in Australia and New Zealand than in their homeland. Jobs in the travel industry go begging, and workers must be recruited from other countries. "People are afraid they'll become a minority in their own land," Queen Tutai said.

It's hard for a visitor to imagine that anyone would want to leave. I rented cars on both islands and drove the two-lane roads that encircle them. I felt as though I had pole-vaulted into a different dimension and was seeing Tahiti 30 years ago.

Rarotonga, with about 25 miles of paved highway, is the largest island in the chain. It has about 8,000 residents and is the main tourist destination. It also has the low-key capital, Avarua, where two waterfront restaurants were heavily damaged in the first cyclone, which hit Feb. 6. The town is only four blocks long, with a few dozen shops and stores, five churches, three banks and a smattering of businesses. Visitors can buy fresh fruits and vegetables at the outdoor market or get a chilled drinking coconut or a hand-strung vanda orchid ei.

The drive around Rarotonga takes about an hour — I had to keep reminding myself to stay on the left, British-style — and took me along the coast, where I saw Rarotonga's lagoon. It's not as widely known as the one in Aitutaki, but the water is turquoise and the beaches are inviting. When I heard about the string of cyclones, I wondered how it had fared, so I called hotelier Greg Stanaway.

"I look out at the lagoon now, and the sand is sparkling white," he said. "Cyclones can be devastating, but they also bring renewal. The storms flushed out old sand and brought in new." Stanaway's Pacific Resorts has hotels in Rarotonga and Aitutaki.

Mountains and jungle

A volcanic island, Rarotonga has saw-tooth peaks and razorback ridges in its center, and during my visit I wanted to get close enough to look at the dense jungle growth that covered them. Finally I found a road that wound inland to Wigmore's Waterfall, a small cascade that drops down off a mountain into a swimming hole. Within three minutes of leaving the car, I had five mosquito bites. I jumped back inside and headed for the coast, where the noxious pests don't venture.

A few days later, I rented a car again, this time to circle Aitutaki — a short trip, because it has only about 12 miles of paved road. I stopped in a few hotels and was surprised at the range of prices. Queen Tutai's Garden Lodge is a good buy, as are a few other accommodations. But I found many pricey units. The luxury beachfront bungalows at Pacific Resort Aitutaki have tariffs to match: $518 to $900 a night, on par with expensive over-the-water bungalows in French Polynesia.

Back on the road, I passed through several small, sleepy villages. I saw pedestrians and a few motorbikes, but for the most part, I shared the highway with piglets, coconut crabs and chickens. It's probably not the place to go if you're looking for excitement.

But the scenery was wonderful. I stopped near the water and got out of the car. On the horizon, lagoon and sky met seamlessly, an aquamarine reflection that stretched into infinity, broken only by an occasional outrigger canoe in the distance. The water was so calm and transparent that I could see schools of translucent fish.

I pulled myself away and got back in the car. As I drove, I kept catching sight of the lagoon. It winked at me from behind palm trees and called to me as I skirted its edge.

"Cash in your ticket home," it said to me. "Cash in your ticket home."


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To see a Cook Islands video and more photos, go to latimes.com/cookislands.

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(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX)

South Pacific lure

GETTING THERE:

From LAX, direct service (stop, no change of plane) to Rarotonga is available on Air New Zealand, and connecting service (change of plane) is available on Air New Zealand, Air Tahiti Nui, Air Pacific and Qantas. Restricted round-trip fares begin at $1,398, dropping to $1,158 from April 26 to June 17.

TELEPHONES:



To call the numbers below from the U.S., dial 011 (the international calling code), 682 (country code for the Cook Islands) and the local number.

The Cook Islands are in the same time zone as Hawaii, three hours behind California.

WHERE TO STAY:

Pacific Resort Rarotonga, P.O. Box 790, Rarotonga; 20-427, http://www.pacificresort.com . Nice gardens and attractive rooms at this 64-room resort on pretty Muri Beach. Restaurant, bar, pool, activities center. Doubles start at $248 a night, including breakfast and transfers.

Club Raro, P.O. Box 483, Rarotonga; 22-415, http://www.clubraro.co.ck . Small rooms, but the scenic oceanfront motel is within walking distance of Avarua, the capital. Pool. Doubles $106 a night, including breakfast.

Are Tamanu, P.O. 59, Aitutaki; 31-810, http://www.aretamanu.com . Picturesque location at the edge of Aitutaki's lagoon. Twelve cottages with kitchenettes. Doubles $300 a night, including breakfast.

Samade on the Beach, P.O. Box 75, Aitutaki; 31-526, http://www.samadebeach.com . Small, new, air-conditioned bungalows are clean and efficient. Doubles from $178 a night, including breakfast and airport transfers.

Gina's Garden Lodge, P.O. Box 10, Aitutaki; 31-058, http://www.ginasaitutaki.com . Roomy bungalows with kitchenettes. Pool. Doubles $70 a night. Beach Lodge on semiprivate isle is $170. Transfers included.

WHERE TO EAT:



Flame Tree, Muri Beach, Rarotonga; 25-123. Flavorful, nicely prepared Indonesian specialties and curries. Entrees from $15.

Cafe Tupuna, Tautu Village, Aitutaki; 31-678. Open-air dining. Seafood, chicken, taro, other local dishes beautifully presented. Entrees from $17.50.

TO LEARN MORE:

Cook Islands Tourism Corp., P.O. Box 14, Rarotonga, Cook Islands; 29-435 or, in the U.S., (866) 280-1739, http://www.cook-islands.com .

— Rosemary McClure

WEEKEND ESCAPE
Chic touches, hold the hassle
Easygoing Ventura has shops, restaurants and beaches, but without the crowds or prices of Santa Barbara.
By Nicholas Riccardi
Times Staff Writer

April 10, 2005

Let's say you're a midsize city, blessed with a location on the Pacific in Southern California where velvety peaks rise dramatically behind your well-preserved downtown. But you're only a few miles down the coast from that 800-pound gorilla of idyllic beach towns, Santa Barbara, where the beautiful people and their platinum cards go.

Well, if you're poor, overshadowed Ventura, you drop some chic bistros and boutiques into your downtown and try to lure people like me, for whom hassle-free goes a long way.

My wife, Joyzelle, and I wanted a weekend away that would be easy — an easy drive from our home in Los Angeles, an easy walk to shopping and dining, an easy stroll to the ocean. And easy on the wallet.

So we came to Ventura. There was an additional motive: Joyzelle spent 10 years of her childhood in Ventura. We'd often craned our necks from U.S. 101, wondering what it looked like today. So, on an overcast Saturday morning last month, we took the plunge.

We drove past the old split-level and Joyzelle excitedly called her parents to report that the subdivision was still flanked by a lemon orchard and strawberry farm. In fact, the whole city seems stuck in the late 1970s, when its suburbs first began encroaching on farmland and no one could figure out how to balance the two modes of living.

This contributes to the charming not-ready-for-prime-time feel of Ventura's downtown. This six- or seven-block strip of Main Street is an odd mix of thrift stores, yuppie shops and an Art Deco multiplex that shows both foreign films and action movies. Off Main, lovingly restored Victorian and Craftsman houses (now law offices and day spas) share the streets with tire shops.

Many of downtown's buildings date to the 1920s and boast attractive detailing; the Ojai International Co. clothing store is worth a visit for its wood ceiling alone. But there's little in downtown that holds the eye for long.

The San Buenaventura Mission, which anchors the western end of downtown, remains a place for locals. When we poked our heads inside, more people were engaging in silent prayer than examining the Stations of the Cross paintings. San Buenaventura State Beach is a quick stroll under the 101 and through the parking lot of the convention center (hosting a gun show the weekend we visited). There's a pleasant path along the thin strand of rocky sand, but driftwood littered the shore after the winter's record-setting rains.

What I know about retail as recreation fits in this sentence. I took refuge at Bank of Books while Joyzelle scoped out the boutiques. She returned with $11 face cream from Bosa Nova. (The boutique's motto, "Bohemian Opulence," is my new favorite oxymoron.) Meanwhile, in the cozy Calico Cat Bookshop, which has a splendid used and antiquarian selection, I snapped up an obscure Stendhal novel.

There was no Barnes & Noble, Borders or any chain retailer in sight along Main Street. In the cosmic scheme of things, prices are pretty low; an elegant glazed plate at the Palermo home shop cost $15, less than I imagine it would in West Hollywood but more than we were willing to drop during a cheap weekend. And so, as we moseyed past the upscale home shops and boutiques squeezed in among the modest thrift stores, the Ventura paradox persisted.

But a variety that feels haphazard in retail can be joyfully eclectic when it comes to dining. Because of the proximity of the bars and restaurants, you can piece together more interesting meals in downtown Ventura than in most three-block stretches of sprawling Los Angeles. Our weekend took on the feel of an eating binge.

We started with lunch at Cafe Bariloche, a longtime local favorite that recently moved into a chic, white-tablecloth space at Main and California streets (Ventura's Hollywood and Vine). An odd cross of tango and trip-hop came from overhead speakers; credit for this so-carefully designed space was found in the restroom, where the interior decorator's card was prominently displayed. Our empanadas and Milanesa sandwich were tasty and moderately priced but took an hour to arrive at our table.

Dinner was in the courtyard of our hotel, the Bella Maggiore. The layout and ambience of this 1920s place will be familiar to anyone who has rented a studio apartment in Hollywood. A prime attraction was the $125 rate (with AAA discount) for our large room, which featured a gas fireplace and the sounds of the Ventura Raceway in the distance. There's free wine in the afternoon in the lobby, where copies of Field & Stream are an agreeable alternative to the luxury travel magazines that litter comparable establishments a few miles up the coast.

At the inn's restaurant, Nona's Courtyard Cafe, my duck in cherry lavender sauce and Joyzelle's seafood in tomato broth were tasty but not at the level to merit $25 and $18 apiece. The 10% discount for hotel guests helped, but the place was dead for a Saturday night, so we moved on for desert.

Wines and samples

A few blocks west, we stumbled into the Westside Cellar Cafe & Lounge, which looks as if it could fit in nicely in yuppie Greenwich Village. The narrow room was packed, so Joyzelle and I positioned ourselves on a couch in the front, sipped wine and sampled luscious sorbets and a generous and tasty cheese plate.

Sunday lunch was at a Good Thai & Peruvian Restaurant, which is both the eatery's name and an apt description. It's the sort of soulful place that can get forgotten as trendy eateries proliferate. There are no fusion-cuisine tricks here, just a menu with both Thai and Peruvian entrees, like the excellent Peruvian stir-fry standby of lomo saltado that I had or the spicy shrimp salad Joyzelle enjoyed.

We left Good Thai & Peruvian knowing we had to do something to work off our cumulative meals. Perambulating Main Street wouldn't cut it anymore, so we drove north for 20 minutes into Los Padres National Forest and passed a couple of muddy hours walking the Cozy Dell trail, which, after the winter deluges, resembled a rain forest.

When we could go no farther, we backtracked and pulled into Arroyo Verde Park in eastern Ventura, where we circumnavigated drier chaparral until our stomachs rumbled again.

Even on a Sunday night, Cafe Fiore was bustling. We secured stools at the copper counter in front of the open kitchen and soon saw why: My pappardelle with porcini mushrooms could stand proudly alongside pasta I've consumed in Italy.

But our reaction to Ventura overall is best summed up by our theatrical experience. At the eastern edge of downtown stands the Rubicon Theatre, one of the region's best-regarded venues. We went there to get tickets to the Saturday-night show of a cabaret-style musical, "Songs for a New World," and were stunned to find it sold out.

We marveled at the demand and plunked down $76 for the matinee instead.

We soon saw why the place was full. The entire space had been imaginatively transformed into a coffeehouse for the production. The show was uneven, but three of the four cast members had been on Broadway. Even with iffy material, their sheer talent, good nature and charmingly low-key approach made it work.

Urban Ventura

Expenses for two on this trip:

Lodging

Bella Maggiore Inn, one night $134

Dinner

Nona's Courtyard Cafe $79

Cafe Fiore $49



Other meals $102

Entertainment

Rubicon Theatre $76



Total $440

Distance from L.A. 68 miles

WHERE TO STAY:

Bella Maggiore Inn (and Nona's Courtyard Cafe), 67 S. California St., Ventura; (805) 652-0277. Inn with 28 rooms in 1920s building. $75-$175. Breakfast included.

WHERE TO SHOP:

Bosa Nova, 493 E. Main St.; (805) 652-1727.

Calico Cat Bookshop, 495 E. Main St.; (805) 643-7849.

Bank of Books, 391 E. Main St.; (805) 643-3154, http://www.abankofbooks.com .

Palermo, 321 E. Main St.; (805) 643-3070.

WHERE TO EAT:

Cafe Bariloche, 500 E. Main St.; (805) 641-2005, http://www.cafebariloche.com .

Nona's Courtyard Cafe, 67 S. California St.; (805) 641-2783.

Westside Cellar Cafe & Lounge, 222 E. Main St.; (805) 652-7013.

A Good Thai & Peruvian Restaurant, 583 E. Main St.; (805) 643-0583, http://www.thaiperurestaurant.com .

Cafe Fiore, 66 S. California St.; (805) 653-1266, http://www.fiorerestaurant.net .

OTHER STOPS:

San Buenaventura Mission, 211 E. Main St., (805) 643-4318, http://www.sanbuenaventuramission.org .

Rubicon Theatre Company, 1006 E. Main St.; (805) 667-2900, www.rubicontheatre.org.

Cool bar in Glendale

www.side-bar.com
Sidebar
1114 N. Pacific Ave
Glendale

About 90 miles north of Manhattan, a Victorian-era resort preserves the style and pace of an earlier era.

http://www.mohonk.com/recreation.cfm

Ever wanted to understand the meaning of songs?

www.songmeanings.net

Papa Cristo's Greek Restaurant
2771 W . Pico Blvd.
L.A., CA
Normandie
323-737-2970
800-732-3212

A 6:30 dinner date is a bit early for me, but the idea of a family-style dinner at Papa Cristo, the taverna attached to the soulful Greek market C & K Imports, was too much to resist. Held on Thursday nights, the "My Big Fat Greek Family-Style Dinner" is usually a sold-out event and reservations are a must.


Galacto-Baklava custard, an original creation, is one of the bestselling desserts at Papa Cristo's.

In the parking lot behind the restaurant, a grapevine twines up one wall and someone has lovingly planted corn, Mediterranean herbs and flowers in big pots. The entrance is through a storeroom painted with murals of Greek village life and stacked with sacks of flour. Past the deli with its rows of olive oils, honey and jams, Greek wines and other groceries is a big whitewashed room with long tables set out to accommodate the guests.

-- S. Irene Virbila
Times Restaurant Critic
June 16, 2005


Hours: Tue.-Sat., 9 a.m.-8 p.m.; Sun., 9 a.m.-4 p.m.

Fax: 323-737-3571

Restaurant with a fireplace

Ocean and Vine (in the Loews Santa Monica)
Beechwood (822 W.Washington Blvd, Venice
Dominicks (8715 Beverly Blvd)

Idea for a larger dinner: Rockenwagner in Santa Monica.

You eat at the Stammtisch (Regular table) - the party has to be bigger than 5 - and you get a prix fixe for 20.20...that's pretty cool

2435 Main Street
Santa Monica

Below is an article by Günter Grass, the German author of "The Tin Drum" and winner of the Nobel Price in Literature. It first appeared in German and was printed in today's New York Times. It is an eloquent presentation of how corporate capitalism is the greatest threat to human freedom of our time.

Although it is "off-topic", it not really. Israel's declne is intimately tied to its move away from the values of social justice upon which it was founded, to a whole hearted embrace of U.S.-style capitalism. Whether the occupation is the cause or the effect of this embrace, doesn't really matter. Israelis, for the most part, no longer see democracy and social justice as defining Israeli identity, quite unlike the early Zionists. Until this changes again, there will be no real solution to the Israel-Palestine conflict.


The Gravest Generation By GÜNTER GRASS
Lübeck, Germany

TOMORROW, it will be 60 years to the day since the German Reich's unconditional surrender. That is equivalent to a working life with a pension to look forward to. It goes so far back that memory, that wide-meshed sieve, is in danger of forgetting it.

Sixty years ago, after being wounded in the chaotic retreat in Lausitz, I lay in a hospital with a flesh wound in my right thigh and a bean-sized shell splinter in my right shoulder. The hospital was in Marienbad, a military hospital town that had been occupied by American soldiers a few days earlier, at the same time as Soviet forces were occupying the neighboring town of Karlsbad. In Marienbad, on May 8, I was a naïve 17-year-old who had believed in the ultimate victory right to the end. Those who had survived the mass murder in the German concentration camps could regard themselves as liberated, although they were in no physical condition to enjoy their freedom. But for me it was not the hour of liberation; rather, I was beset by the empty feeling of humiliation following total defeat.

When May 8 comes round again and is celebrated in complacent official speeches as liberation day, this can only be in hindsight, especially as we Germans did little if anything for our liberation. In the initial postwar years our lives were determined by hunger and cold, the misery of refugees, the displaced and bombed-out. In all four zones occupied by the wartime allies - Britain, France, the Soviet Union and the United States - the only way to manage the ever increasing crush of the more than 12 million Germans who had fled from, or been driven out of, East and West Prussia, Pomerania, Silesia and the Sudetenland, was to force them into our own cramped living rooms.

Whenever the question is posed, "What can we Germans be proud of?", the first thing we should mention is this essential achievement - even though it was forced on us. We had hardly become used to freedom when compulsion had to be applied. As a result, in both German states, huge long-term camps for refugees and displaced persons were avoided. The risk of building up feelings of hate was thereby diverted, as was the desire for revenge engendered by years of camp life, which, as today's world shows, can result in terrorism and counterterrorism.

Even then there were spokesmen for the rhetoric of liberation. So many self-appointed anti-fascists suddenly set the tone, so much so that one was entitled to ask: how had Hitler been able to make headway against such strong resistance? Dirty linen was quickly washed clean, with people being absolved of all responsibility. Counterfeiters were busy coining new expressions and putting them into circulation. "Unconditional surrender" was changed to "collapse." Although in business, law and in the rapidly re-emerging schools and universities, even the diplomatic service, many former National Socialists maintained their hereditary wealth, stayed in office, continued to hold onto their university chairs and eventually continued their careers in politics, it was claimed that we were starting from "zero hour" or square one.

A particularly infamous distortion of facts can be seen even today in speeches and publications, with the crimes perpetrated by Germans described as "misdeeds perpetrated in the name of the German people." In addition, language was used in two different ways to herald the future division of the country. In the Soviet-occupied zone, the Red Army had liberated Germany from the fascist terror all by itself; in the Western occupied zones, the honor of having freed not only Germany but the whole of Europe from Nazi domination was shared exclusively by the Americans, the British and the French.

In the cold war that quickly followed, German states that had existed since 1949 consistently fell to one or other power bloc, whereupon the governments of both national entities sought to present themselves as model pupils of their respective dominating powers. Forty years later, during the glasnost period, it was in fact the Soviet Union that broke up the Democratic Republic, which had by that point become a burden. The Federal Republic's almost unconditional subservience to the United States was broken for the first time when the Social Democratic-Green ruling coalition decided to make use of the freedom given to us in sovereign terms 60 years ago, by refusing to allow German soldiers to participate in the Iraq war.

THE question today, then, is have we dealt carefully with the freedom that we did not win, but was given to us? Have the citizens of West Germany properly compensated the citizens of the former Democratic Republic, who, after all, had to bear the main burden of the war begun and lost by all Germans? And a further question: is our parliamentary democracy still sufficiently sovereign as a guarantor of freedom of action to act on the problems facing us in the 21st century?

Fifteen years after signing the treaty on unification, we can no longer conceal that despite the financial achievements, German unity has essentially been a failure. Petty calculation prevented the government of the time from submitting to the citizens of both states a new constitution relevant to the endeavors of Germany as a whole. It is therefore hardly surprising that people in the former East Germany should regard themselves as second-class Germans.

The jobless rate is twice as high as in the former West Germany. West German arrogance had no respect for people with East German résumés. The mass migration, feared from the beginning, is happening now, daily. Whole areas of the country, its cities and its villages, are being emptied. After the Treuhandanstalt, the entity responsible for privatizing East Germany, had completed its bargain sales, West German industry and banks withheld the necessary investment and loans and, consequently, no jobs were created. Here, fine exhortations have been of little use. To right this skewed situation, only Parliament, the lawmakers, can help. Which brings us back to the question of whether parliamentary democracy is able to act.

Now, I believe that our freely elected members of Parliament are no longer free to decide. The customary party pressures are not particularly present in Germany; it is, rather, the ring of lobbyists with their multifarious interests that constricts and influences the Federal Parliament and its democratically elected members, placing them under pressure and forcing them into disharmony, even when framing and deciding the content of laws. Consequently, Parliament is no longer sovereign in its decisions. It is steered by the banks and multinational corporations - which are not subject to any democratic control.

What's needed is a democratic desire to protect Parliament against the pressures of the lobbyists by making it inviolable. But are our parliamentarians still sufficiently free to make a decision that would bring radical democratic constraint? Or is our freedom now no more than a stock market profit?

We all are witnesses to the fact that production is being demolished worldwide, that so-called hostile and friendly takeovers are destroying thousands of jobs, that the mere announcement of measures like the dismissal of workers and employees makes share prices rise, and this is regarded unthinkingly as the price to be paid for "living in freedom."

The consequences of this development disguised as globalization are clearly coming to light and can be read from the statistics. With the consistently high number of jobless, which in Germany has now reached five million, and the equally constant refusal of industry to create jobs, despite demonstrably higher earnings, especially from exports, the hope of full employment has evaporated.

Older employees, who still had years of work left in them, are pushed into early retirement. Young people are denied the skills for entering the world of work. Even worse, with complaints that an aging population is a threat and simultaneous demands, repeated parrot-fashion, to do more for young people and education, the Federal Republic - still a rich country - is permitting, to a shameful extent, the growth of what is called "child poverty."

All this is now accepted as if divinely ordained, accompanied at most by the customary national grumbles. Worse, those who point to this state of affairs and to the people forced into social oblivion are at best ridiculed by slick young journalists as "social romantics," but usually vilified as "do-gooders." Questions about the reasons for the growing gap between rich and poor are dismissed as "the politics of envy." The desire for justice is ridiculed as utopian. The concept of "solidarity" is relegated to the dictionary's list of foreign words.

THOUGH we initially did not know what to do with our freedom when we were given it 60 years ago, we gradually made use of this gift. We learned democracy and in doing so proved star pupils, because after all we were incontrovertibly German. With the benefit of hindsight, what was crammed into us through lectures was enough to get us a reasonable end-of-term report. We learned the interplay between government and opposition, whereupon long periods of government ultimately proved arid. The much lauded and reviled generation of '68 produced a different kind of political leaders and ultimately also tolerance. We had to acknowledge that our burdens could not be cast aside, they are passed by parents to children and that our German past, however much we travel and export, comes back to haunt us. Neo-Nazis repeatedly brought us into disrepute. Even so, we felt that democracy was here to stay.

It had to withstand several challenges. After the debris had been cleared and disposed of in both German states, reconstruction in the East proceeded under the constraints of the Stalinist system; but in the West, it took place under favorable conditions. What retrospectively is called the "economic miracle" was not, however, the result of any individual achievement but was won by many. Included in that number are displaced persons and refugees, those who had in fact to start at square one in terms of material possessions. We must not forget the contribution of foreign workers, initially politely called "guest workers." In the rebuilding phase businessmen were exemplary in investing every penny of profit into job creation. The trade unions and businesses were clearly aware of the decay of the Weimar Republic, so they were forced to compromise and ensure social equality.

With so much toil and profit-chasing, however, the past was in danger of being forgotten. Only in the 60's did we meet the second challenge, when writers and then the student protest movement began to ask questions about everything that the war generation would sooner forget. The protest movement strove for revolution but was paid off with reform; without it, we would still be living in the claustrophobic fog of the postwar years under Adenauer.

The third challenge arose when the Berlin Wall fell. The two German states had existed for four decades more against than beside each other. As there was no willingness on the Western side to offer equal rights to the East, the unity of the country has so far existed only on paper. It was all done too hastily and without an understanding of what far-reaching consequences this haste would have.

Since then, the expanded country has stagnated. Neither the Kohl government nor the Schröder government succeeded in correcting the initial errors. Lately, perhaps too late, we have come to recognize that the threat to the state, or what should be regarded as Public Enemy No. 1, comes not from right-wing radicalism but rather, from the impotence of politics, which leaves citizens exposed and unprotected from the dictates of the economy. What is being destroyed, then, is not the state, which survives, but democracy.

When the German Reich unconditionally surrendered 60 years ago, a system of power and terror was thereby defeated. This system, which had caused fear throughout Europe for 12 years, still casts its shadow today. We Germans have repeatedly faced up to this inherited shame and have been forced to do so if we hesitated. The memory of the suffering that we caused others and ourselves has been kept alive through the generations. Compared with other nations which have to live with shame acquired elsewhere - I'm thinking of Japan, Turkey, the former European colonial powers - we have not shaken off the burden of our past. It will remain part of our history as a challenge.

We can only hope we will be able to cope with today's risk of a new totalitarianism, backed as it is by the world's last remaining ideology. As conscious democrats, we should freely resist the power of capital, which sees mankind as nothing more than something which consumes and produces. Those who treat their donated freedom as a stock market profit have failed to understand what May 8 teaches us every year.

Günter Grass, the author of "The Tin Drum" and, most recently, "Crabwalk," won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1999. This article was translated from the German by UPS Translations.

Below is an article by Günter Grass, the German author of "The Tin Drum" and winner of the Nobel Price in Literature. It first appeared in German and was printed in today's New York Times. It is an eloquent presentation of how corporate capitalism is the greatest threat to human freedom of our time.

Although it is "off-topic", it not really. Israel's declne is intimately tied to its move away from the values of social justice upon which it was founded, to a whole hearted embrace of U.S.-style capitalism. Whether the occupation is the cause or the effect of this embrace, doesn't really matter. Israelis, for the most part, no longer see democracy and social justice as defining Israeli identity, quite unlike the early Zionists. Until this changes again, there will be no real solution to the Israel-Palestine conflict.


The Gravest Generation By GÜNTER GRASS
Lübeck, Germany

TOMORROW, it will be 60 years to the day since the German Reich's unconditional surrender. That is equivalent to a working life with a pension to look forward to. It goes so far back that memory, that wide-meshed sieve, is in danger of forgetting it.

Sixty years ago, after being wounded in the chaotic retreat in Lausitz, I lay in a hospital with a flesh wound in my right thigh and a bean-sized shell splinter in my right shoulder. The hospital was in Marienbad, a military hospital town that had been occupied by American soldiers a few days earlier, at the same time as Soviet forces were occupying the neighboring town of Karlsbad. In Marienbad, on May 8, I was a naïve 17-year-old who had believed in the ultimate victory right to the end. Those who had survived the mass murder in the German concentration camps could regard themselves as liberated, although they were in no physical condition to enjoy their freedom. But for me it was not the hour of liberation; rather, I was beset by the empty feeling of humiliation following total defeat.

When May 8 comes round again and is celebrated in complacent official speeches as liberation day, this can only be in hindsight, especially as we Germans did little if anything for our liberation. In the initial postwar years our lives were determined by hunger and cold, the misery of refugees, the displaced and bombed-out. In all four zones occupied by the wartime allies - Britain, France, the Soviet Union and the United States - the only way to manage the ever increasing crush of the more than 12 million Germans who had fled from, or been driven out of, East and West Prussia, Pomerania, Silesia and the Sudetenland, was to force them into our own cramped living rooms.

Whenever the question is posed, "What can we Germans be proud of?", the first thing we should mention is this essential achievement - even though it was forced on us. We had hardly become used to freedom when compulsion had to be applied. As a result, in both German states, huge long-term camps for refugees and displaced persons were avoided. The risk of building up feelings of hate was thereby diverted, as was the desire for revenge engendered by years of camp life, which, as today's world shows, can result in terrorism and counterterrorism.

Even then there were spokesmen for the rhetoric of liberation. So many self-appointed anti-fascists suddenly set the tone, so much so that one was entitled to ask: how had Hitler been able to make headway against such strong resistance? Dirty linen was quickly washed clean, with people being absolved of all responsibility. Counterfeiters were busy coining new expressions and putting them into circulation. "Unconditional surrender" was changed to "collapse." Although in business, law and in the rapidly re-emerging schools and universities, even the diplomatic service, many former National Socialists maintained their hereditary wealth, stayed in office, continued to hold onto their university chairs and eventually continued their careers in politics, it was claimed that we were starting from "zero hour" or square one.

A particularly infamous distortion of facts can be seen even today in speeches and publications, with the crimes perpetrated by Germans described as "misdeeds perpetrated in the name of the German people." In addition, language was used in two different ways to herald the future division of the country. In the Soviet-occupied zone, the Red Army had liberated Germany from the fascist terror all by itself; in the Western occupied zones, the honor of having freed not only Germany but the whole of Europe from Nazi domination was shared exclusively by the Americans, the British and the French.

In the cold war that quickly followed, German states that had existed since 1949 consistently fell to one or other power bloc, whereupon the governments of both national entities sought to present themselves as model pupils of their respective dominating powers. Forty years later, during the glasnost period, it was in fact the Soviet Union that broke up the Democratic Republic, which had by that point become a burden. The Federal Republic's almost unconditional subservience to the United States was broken for the first time when the Social Democratic-Green ruling coalition decided to make use of the freedom given to us in sovereign terms 60 years ago, by refusing to allow German soldiers to participate in the Iraq war.

THE question today, then, is have we dealt carefully with the freedom that we did not win, but was given to us? Have the citizens of West Germany properly compensated the citizens of the former Democratic Republic, who, after all, had to bear the main burden of the war begun and lost by all Germans? And a further question: is our parliamentary democracy still sufficiently sovereign as a guarantor of freedom of action to act on the problems facing us in the 21st century?

Fifteen years after signing the treaty on unification, we can no longer conceal that despite the financial achievements, German unity has essentially been a failure. Petty calculation prevented the government of the time from submitting to the citizens of both states a new constitution relevant to the endeavors of Germany as a whole. It is therefore hardly surprising that people in the former East Germany should regard themselves as second-class Germans.

The jobless rate is twice as high as in the former West Germany. West German arrogance had no respect for people with East German résumés. The mass migration, feared from the beginning, is happening now, daily. Whole areas of the country, its cities and its villages, are being emptied. After the Treuhandanstalt, the entity responsible for privatizing East Germany, had completed its bargain sales, West German industry and banks withheld the necessary investment and loans and, consequently, no jobs were created. Here, fine exhortations have been of little use. To right this skewed situation, only Parliament, the lawmakers, can help. Which brings us back to the question of whether parliamentary democracy is able to act.

Now, I believe that our freely elected members of Parliament are no longer free to decide. The customary party pressures are not particularly present in Germany; it is, rather, the ring of lobbyists with their multifarious interests that constricts and influences the Federal Parliament and its democratically elected members, placing them under pressure and forcing them into disharmony, even when framing and deciding the content of laws. Consequently, Parliament is no longer sovereign in its decisions. It is steered by the banks and multinational corporations - which are not subject to any democratic control.

What's needed is a democratic desire to protect Parliament against the pressures of the lobbyists by making it inviolable. But are our parliamentarians still sufficiently free to make a decision that would bring radical democratic constraint? Or is our freedom now no more than a stock market profit?

We all are witnesses to the fact that production is being demolished worldwide, that so-called hostile and friendly takeovers are destroying thousands of jobs, that the mere announcement of measures like the dismissal of workers and employees makes share prices rise, and this is regarded unthinkingly as the price to be paid for "living in freedom."

The consequences of this development disguised as globalization are clearly coming to light and can be read from the statistics. With the consistently high number of jobless, which in Germany has now reached five million, and the equally constant refusal of industry to create jobs, despite demonstrably higher earnings, especially from exports, the hope of full employment has evaporated.

Older employees, who still had years of work left in them, are pushed into early retirement. Young people are denied the skills for entering the world of work. Even worse, with complaints that an aging population is a threat and simultaneous demands, repeated parrot-fashion, to do more for young people and education, the Federal Republic - still a rich country - is permitting, to a shameful extent, the growth of what is called "child poverty."

All this is now accepted as if divinely ordained, accompanied at most by the customary national grumbles. Worse, those who point to this state of affairs and to the people forced into social oblivion are at best ridiculed by slick young journalists as "social romantics," but usually vilified as "do-gooders." Questions about the reasons for the growing gap between rich and poor are dismissed as "the politics of envy." The desire for justice is ridiculed as utopian. The concept of "solidarity" is relegated to the dictionary's list of foreign words.

THOUGH we initially did not know what to do with our freedom when we were given it 60 years ago, we gradually made use of this gift. We learned democracy and in doing so proved star pupils, because after all we were incontrovertibly German. With the benefit of hindsight, what was crammed into us through lectures was enough to get us a reasonable end-of-term report. We learned the interplay between government and opposition, whereupon long periods of government ultimately proved arid. The much lauded and reviled generation of '68 produced a different kind of political leaders and ultimately also tolerance. We had to acknowledge that our burdens could not be cast aside, they are passed by parents to children and that our German past, however much we travel and export, comes back to haunt us. Neo-Nazis repeatedly brought us into disrepute. Even so, we felt that democracy was here to stay.

It had to withstand several challenges. After the debris had been cleared and disposed of in both German states, reconstruction in the East proceeded under the constraints of the Stalinist system; but in the West, it took place under favorable conditions. What retrospectively is called the "economic miracle" was not, however, the result of any individual achievement but was won by many. Included in that number are displaced persons and refugees, those who had in fact to start at square one in terms of material possessions. We must not forget the contribution of foreign workers, initially politely called "guest workers." In the rebuilding phase businessmen were exemplary in investing every penny of profit into job creation. The trade unions and businesses were clearly aware of the decay of the Weimar Republic, so they were forced to compromise and ensure social equality.

With so much toil and profit-chasing, however, the past was in danger of being forgotten. Only in the 60's did we meet the second challenge, when writers and then the student protest movement began to ask questions about everything that the war generation would sooner forget. The protest movement strove for revolution but was paid off with reform; without it, we would still be living in the claustrophobic fog of the postwar years under Adenauer.

The third challenge arose when the Berlin Wall fell. The two German states had existed for four decades more against than beside each other. As there was no willingness on the Western side to offer equal rights to the East, the unity of the country has so far existed only on paper. It was all done too hastily and without an understanding of what far-reaching consequences this haste would have.

Since then, the expanded country has stagnated. Neither the Kohl government nor the Schröder government succeeded in correcting the initial errors. Lately, perhaps too late, we have come to recognize that the threat to the state, or what should be regarded as Public Enemy No. 1, comes not from right-wing radicalism but rather, from the impotence of politics, which leaves citizens exposed and unprotected from the dictates of the economy. What is being destroyed, then, is not the state, which survives, but democracy.

When the German Reich unconditionally surrendered 60 years ago, a system of power and terror was thereby defeated. This system, which had caused fear throughout Europe for 12 years, still casts its shadow today. We Germans have repeatedly faced up to this inherited shame and have been forced to do so if we hesitated. The memory of the suffering that we caused others and ourselves has been kept alive through the generations. Compared with other nations which have to live with shame acquired elsewhere - I'm thinking of Japan, Turkey, the former European colonial powers - we have not shaken off the burden of our past. It will remain part of our history as a challenge.

We can only hope we will be able to cope with today's risk of a new totalitarianism, backed as it is by the world's last remaining ideology. As conscious democrats, we should freely resist the power of capital, which sees mankind as nothing more than something which consumes and produces. Those who treat their donated freedom as a stock market profit have failed to understand what May 8 teaches us every year.

Günter Grass, the author of "The Tin Drum" and, most recently, "Crabwalk," won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1999. This article was translated from the German by UPS Translations.

I always wanted to go to Belize. Maybe when Astrid is a little bit older...
May 29, 2005
A Belize Hideaway, Even for the Fish
By DANIELLE PERGAMENT

HE boat ride can be a little rough, though some might argue that's part of the appeal. The destination is a three-acre spit of floury white sand called Ranguana Caye, 18 miles off the coast of southern Belize. Local residents have intoxicated me with stories of fishing and of snorkeling alongside dolphins in the world's second largest reef.

I have visions of grabbing snapping sea lobsters out of the coral and throwing them on the grill. Or of wrestling a 50-pound marlin. I've heard tales of polka-dotted rays, stoplight parrotfish with their tie-dyed-looking scales, skin-singeing fire coral, and whale sharks feasting on guppies.

But first I have to get there. To do that, I board my ride from Placencia, a peninsula in the south of the country, on a postcard-perfect January day. Imagine a slab of wood with a blender fastened to the back navigating 10-foot swells for 45 minutes. O.K., maybe it's not that death-defying, but nevertheless, all I have to protect myself is the giant Hefty I'm wearing and the assurances of the gangly teenage captain.

I remind myself of what I've been told dozens of times since I got here: "You just gotta Belize."

This tiny country, a little smaller than Massachusetts, has caught the collective eye of vacationing hordes for years. In about a week, I've come to realize what travel agents have long known: Like every nation between Mexico and Colombia, Belize has been sucked into the Central American marketing machine and churned out as "the next Costa Rica," a sobriquet that's worked. The tourists have swarmed like locusts to Ambergris Caye and Caye Caulker, islands in northern Belize.

There was a recent hiccup in the booming tourist business in April, however, after word got out that striking telecommunications workers had caused rioting, the closing of borders and an airport shutdown. In truth, the two major political parties in Belize's parliamentary government are feuding over when to hold elections, and strikes by teachers, customs workers and telecommunications workers in Belize City disrupted phone lines (and credit card transactions) for a few days. Also, two airlines canceled one flight each into the country.

"My, how rumors run rampant," wrote a Belizean hotelier, Risa Frackman, in an e-mail message last month. "During the phone strike, some of the credit card machines didn't work, but other than that it is business as usual - we are 95 percent full at the moment."

Her hotel is in the village of Placencia, on the end of the peninsula and my point of embarkation to Ranguana Caye. It has gone undetected by the trampling, sunburned masses, basically because it's a bumpy, bruising, hours-long car ride from anywhere else.

"The average life of a car in Placencia is two years, and I wish I was kidding," said Mrs. Frackman's husband, Robert, who with her owns the Inn at Robert's Grove and lease my destination, Ranguana Caye. "There's one road in and the big news recently is that it was just paved, at least partially. San Pedro on Ambergris Caye is 30 years ahead of us. That's the Belize the tourists know; that's where the travel agents send them."

As a result, Placencia is a place few know. "There are only 700 residents in the town and a couple thousand on the whole peninsula," said David Vernon, co-chairman of the Plancencia Chapter of the Belize Tourism Industry Association.

Placencia is how Hollywood would do a laid-back Caribbean hamlet. (Interestingly, the ritziest place in town, the Turtle Inn Resort, is owned by Francis Ford Coppola.) The set would include the wooden fishing boats painted primary colors moored along the beaches, thatched-roofed bars with sandy floors, and smiling Belizeans in colorful sarongs selling hand-carved salad tongs.

"Placencia will never be Cancún," said Mr. Frackman, who first visited Belize with his wife eight years ago and stayed. "There's no risk of overdevelopment because the infrastructure, hell, even the electricity, couldn't handle it."

For all the charm of the mainland, however, the real action takes place several miles out to sea. A few days into my vacation, it became increasingly apparent that what I was looking for could only be found offshore, on the Belize Barrier Reef - the world's second largest - which brings me back to the sad, little boat and small mountains of waves that pummeled me nearly senseless.

Just when I thought I could not ingest any more seawater, there was Ranguana Caye. It was gorgeous and small - not quaint little island small, but really tiny: three acres of stunning white sand with a thicket of palm trees sprouting out the middle. Walking the perimeter of Ranguana, which takes all of five minutes, has a post-apocalyptic feel to it. No other land mass is visible, leaving you with the sense that you're the last person on earth.

"On a very clear day you can see Coco Solo," Andrea Villanueva, who used to spend her summer vacations on Ranguana and is now one of its caretakers, told me. "Coco Solo is about 12 miles from Ranguana and only 10 feet wide, but you can see it because it has a tree, one little coconut tree."

Ranguana is perched atop the barrier reef, which acts as a shroud, breaking the surf around island. You can walk hundreds of feet out and the water still feels as calm, warm and shallow as bath water. Underwater visibility can reach 150 feet.

Even the fish know a good deal when they swim in it - they don't migrate from this spot. In practical terms, that means fishing, snorkeling and kayaking conditions that rival the best in the world.

"We customize Ranguana to the guests," Mr. Frackman said. "We've sent out scuba instructors to get guests certified. We've even arranged for a priest to go out there and marry a couple."

Ranguana has four cabanas (three for guests, one for the caretakers) and a restaurant - although the term restaurant is used loosely: a few benches and a grill under a thatched roof is more accurate. The caretakers, who also act as chefs, maids, gardeners, fishermen and repairmen, work on a rotating schedule, a few weeks at a time.

"I don't get lonely out here because there are a few local fisherman who anchor just off the beach and sleep in their boats overnight," Miss Villanueva. "I'm a fisherman's daughter - the sea can't scare me. Sometimes, we fish until past midnight and have fresh barracuda for lunch the next day."

There are no phones, fax machines, or televisions for guests on Ranguana. Outside communication is by marine radio, and everything is solar powered (there's a generator for emergencies).

"No one gets cabin fever out here, not even the Americans," Ms. Villanueva said. "Sometimes the problem is that they don't want to leave. And it's no fun to have to kick someone off the island."

Visitor Information

Getting There

Because it's on the southernmost tip of a long, skinny peninsula, Placencia is miles off the beaten path. Most visitors drive the circuitous - and often bumpy - road from Belize City to Plancencia, which can take three to four hours to cover about 100 miles. For more information, see www.placencia.com

Maya Island Air, (800) 225-6732, www.mayaairways.com, has several flights daily from Belize City to Placencia. Flights take about 35 minutes and cost about $75.

Where to Stay

The most comfortable accommodations are a short bike ride north of the village. Most places add a 10 percent service fee plus taxes to their rates.

If you stay at Kitty's Place Beach Resort, north of Placencia village, (501) 523-3227, www.kittysplace.com, try to book a beachfront cabana with a veranda ($149 a night) and visit the bird-watching deck. Budget rooms start at $35 a night .

The Inn at Robert's Grove, north of Placencia village, (800) 565-9757, www.robertsgrove.com, is home to three great pools, a very popular beachside bar and the most reputable dive shop in Placencia. There are 50 rooms, with doubles from $145 a night. A night on Ranguana Caye on the barrier reef starts at $323 a person, including transportation, meals and drinks.

Turtle Inn, north of Placencia, (800) 746-3743, www.turtleinn.com, is the brainchild of Francis Ford Coppola. All the 18 rooms and suites are free-standing cabanas, either on or just off the beach, with thatched roofs. Quaint footpaths lead to the beach, restaurant and two bars. The immaculate grounds, Balinese décor and the Mare Restaurant, (501) 523-3244, serving Italian and local cuisine, add up to the nicest hotel in Placencia, if not all of Belize. Double rooms start at $240, with Continental breakfast.

Where to Eat

The Galley, Market Square, (501) 523-3133, has Belizean and Creole dishes like conch steak or spicy snapper (each $9).

The beachfront restaurant DeTatch, (501) 503-3385, has great views and drinks, but the coconut curry shrimp ($10) and fish burritos ($5) are the real draws.

Travel review from the LA Times (5/29/05)
Twentynine Palms, one of my favorite spots in California

WEEKEND ESCAPE
A nice spot in the desert to do nothing
In Twentynine Palms, empty spaces and a quiet pace are exactly what a weary L.A. couple need from a vacation.
By Scott Timberg
Times Staff Writer

May 29, 2005

There's a contradiction built into how many of us travel — into the way I do, at least. My wife, Sara, and I typically schedule vacations when we're exhausted by our lives in Los Angeles. We head to new cities or countries — often places so rich with important and obligatory sites that our schedule is as unforgiving as any workweek. No matter how fast we move, we fear we're missing something.

By the end, we need a vacation to recover from our vacation. The trick has been to find the right place to do nothing — and to do it as slowly as possible.

The high desert is an annual escape for us, so we know the territory reasonably well. But there always turns out to be some undiscovered pleasures. Twentynine Palms, known mostly as the home of the largest U.S. Marine base or as the gateway to Joshua Tree National Park, is less chic (if that's the word) than nearby Joshua Tree. Like all desert towns, most of it is empty space.

Not far off the main drag is Roughley Manor, a bed and breakfast that looks like a stone mansion in Oxfordshire. There's something oddly appealing about the contrast between the harsh desert scrub and Roughley's lush 25 acres with a rose garden, gazebo and an owl nesting in the trees. Tea is served each evening.

The rooms, especially the suites, are spacious and well-appointed, with antiques and a style that strikes me as a cross between French country and Victorian. In much of the world, it's hard for us to afford a four-poster bed and sitting room, but here a suite goes for $160.

Jan and Gary Peters, the friendly but not intrusive owners, are among Roughley's best assets. After turning it over in 2003 to a couple who found innkeeping wasn't for them, the Peterses came back to Twentynine Palms last year. Their excellent breakfasts are among the reasons we were glad for their return.

At the better-known 29 Palms Inn, adobe bungalows more closely fit the desert oasis setting. Even if we're not staying there, we rely on its restaurant. The kitchen provides reasonably healthy preparation, with fresh vegetables (some grown on the grounds) and homemade bread. For some reason, the inn's parking lot is my ceremonial place to look up at the stars, breathe the air and be glad to be out of Los Angeles.

On our way into the desert in late April, a stop at the Crossroads Cafe, a laid-back place with one foot in the Mojave and the other in Silver Lake, settles our minds. The food isn't gourmet, but it's better than it needs to be, and the restaurant has a long list of beers, friendly service and an easygoing crowd.

That first night, after settling into our suite, we went for a quick hike in Joshua Tree National Park before the sun set, playing an obligatory Gram Parsons songs — the essence of California country-rock — as we drove. The wildflowers had peaked in April, but the desert floor was still colored with spiky purple bristles, bright red cactus flowers and tiny yellow poppy-like blooms. A cold front had moved through, and the temperature hovered in the 70s.

Saturday, we woke up far earlier than usual for a weekend and hiked most of the way up Mt. Ryan, which offered an amazing view of the park at sunrise. Sated by a breakfast of twice-baked potato with scrambled eggs and bacon in Roughley's dining room, we began the most transcendent, if least glamorous, part of the trip.

Instead of racing through museums or squeezing into crowded nightclubs, as we often spend weekends, we read (novels by the Swedish detective writer Henning Mankell) in the shade outside our inn. I blasted through my iPod headphones some new music I'd purchased (Schoenberg's "Transfigured Night," Sibelius' Symphony No. 5). Physically, I was in the dry, warm Mojave; mentally, I was in cool Northern Europe.

We put in as many hours of this as we were able.

Roughley's well-tended frontyard, with a Mediterranean fountain, made this easy. A row of enormous palm trees looms over couches and chairs and keeps the yard shady most of the day. The side and back areas, which soon will include a small pool and hot tub, are even more relaxing.

*

Pioneertown Palace

Things were livelier over at Pappy and Harriet's Pioneertown Palace, a locally famous high-desert outpost where anyone from Lucinda Williams to Calexico might drop in and play. A friend saw a Johnny Cash tribute band there recently, and it's hard to imagine a better spot for that. The bar collects shaggy bikers, crew-cut Marines, lots of desert rats in beards and cowboy hats and a few eavesdropping urbanites.

I called to ask about Saturday night's band. The hostess said, "They're great. They play everything" — which reminded me of "The Blues Brothers" scene in which a waitress describes the music at her bar: "Oh, we got both kinds. We got country and western."

If there's anything left in 2005 to the concept of the West, it's here in Pioneertown, a nearly abandoned, half-century-old film set on a piece of parched desert land. You reach it by driving half an hour down a winding road through largely empty hills. Today, the idea of Gene Autry or Roy Rogers making movies out there seems nearly as remote as the closing of the frontier.

The band we saw served up such standard fare as "Sweet Home Alabama" and "Born to Be Wild" interspersed with cries of "God bless America" and offers of "some Southern-fried rock 'n' roll for y'all." I have a sneaking suspicion that these good ol' boys are accountants during the week.

I doubt many go to Pappy and Harriet's strictly for the food. Still, as someone who experiences L.A.'s near-vegetarian tendencies as a type of purgatory, I found this place to be red-meat heaven. "Our tender meat is smoked and grilled over our outdoor mesquite fire," the menu says. Unable to decide between the baby back ribs and the beef tri-tip, I ordered a platter with both and was glad not to have had to take sides on the matter.

After checking out Sunday, we hit a kitschy shop called Spin and Margie's Trading Post, run by two city slickers transplanted to Joshua Tree. It sells an array of hip books, retro signs and funky crafts. There are some fine antiques shops around too, especially in Yucca Valley, and we tramped through a few, appraising their out-of-print books, used ice skates and 1930s grandfather clocks. I love wondering about the origins of such objects.

Our last major stop was the Pioneer Bowl. This is one of the oldest bowling alleys in the country: Roy Rogers threw out the first ball in 1947, and little has changed since. The staff dresses in period garb, antique pinball machines ping away in a back room, and charmingly goofy murals from the '40s are on the wall beside the lanes. We just missed a cowboy reenactment outside.

Thanks to all the Wild West atmosphere, I logged what may have been an all-time low score.

We could have spent a lot more time bowling and could have killed several hours at the cool and relaxing Water Canyon Coffee Co., on Yucca Valley's main drag. Sara is a cappuccino fiend, so this brief stop was essential, and it allowed us to postpone our reluctant return home.

We would have liked to have done more hiking; there are huge regions of the park I've never seen. This wasn't our first trip out here, and it won't be the last. But it may be the only one from which we didn't return lobster red.

*

(BEGIN TEXT OF INFOBOX)

Pioneers at the inn

Expenses for two on this trip:

Lodging

Roughley Manor, two nights in a suite with tax $349

Meals

Crossroads Cafe, dinner and lunch $44

29 Palms Inn, dinner and lunch $95

Pappy and Harriet's, dinner $61

Water Canyon Coffee Co. $15

Entertainment

Pioneer Bowl $10

National Park entrance fee $10



Total $584

Distance from L.A. 140 miles

WHERE TO STAY:

Roughley Manor, 74744 Joe Davis Road, Twentynine Palms; (760) 367-3238, roughleymanor.com. Variety of rooms in the 1928 farmhouse, barn and cottages. Doubles $135-$150; suites, $160. Breakfast and tea with dessert included.

WHERE TO EAT:

Crossroads Cafe and Tavern, 61715 Twentynine Palms Highway, Joshua Tree; (760) 366-5414, crossroadscafeandtavern.com. Relaxed, colorful place for coffee, beer or food. Salads, sandwiches $5-$10.

29 Palms Inn, 73950 Inn Ave., Twentynine Palms; (760) 367-3505, 29palmsinn.com. Casual décor, including seating outside around the pool. Entrees $14-$23; salads and pastas less. Inn has 23 rooms, cottages and bungalows, $50-$295.

Pappy and Harriet's, 53688 Pioneertown Road, Pioneertown; (760) 365-5956, pappyandharriets.com. Ribs, steaks and chicken in Wild West-saloon setting. Entrees $13-$25, sandwiches less. Upcoming shows: Bluesman Leon Russell tonight. Honky-tonk songwriter Mike Stinson, June 3. Americana songstress Rosie Flores, June 4.

WHERE TO PLAY:

Joshua Tree National Park, nps.gov/jotr. With almost 800,000 acres, there's room to roam. Our favorite hikes are Mt. Ryan, Indian Cove and 49 Palms Oasis; maps and directions are at the entrance station. $10 entrance fee per car is good for a week.

Pioneer Bowl, 53613 Mane St., Pioneertown; (760) 365-3615. Bowling as time warp. Open weekends only, 11 a.m.-7 p.m. Information about it and other Pioneertown sites, pioneertown.com.

Spin and Margie's Trading Post, 61731 Twentynine Palms Highway, Joshua Tree; (760) 366-3195, deserthideaway.com. Kitschy gift shop next door to a hotel with four suites.

Pioneer Crossing Antiques, 55854 Twentynine Palms Highway, Yucca Valley; (760) 228-0603. The best and largest of the antiques shops we visited.

— Scott Timberg

Marriage, a History (Stephanie Koontz)

Ii just ordered this book from the library.

“Marriage, a History is filled with amazing stories and examples for all eras. Coontz is scholarly, incisive and entertaining. She tackles our most central questions about the meaning of marriage with evidence, not platitudes. Her powerful book is timely and profoundly apt.” —Dr. Mary Pipher, author of Reviving Ophelia: Saving the Selves of Adolescent Girls

“Brimming with surprises and rich with insight. Stephanie Coontz provides a penetrating and fresh look at an institution we thought we knew well. Marriage, a History is not just a survey of varying cultural and historical approaches to marriage; it is a probing yet unbiased analysis of some of the most important, and divisive, issues of our day. For anyone who cares about the future of our society.” —Ellis Cose, author Bone to Pick and Envy of the World

“This is a magnificent, beautifully written book on an eternally interesting—and politically timely—subject. Coontz’s vast knowledge and superb scholarship should make this book the resource for anyone who is married, was married, wants to marry, can’t marry, hates the very thought of marrying, or thinks they know what the one right kind of marriage is.” —Carol Tavris, Ph.D., author of The Mismeasure of Woman

“Marriage, a History will force an entire reevaluation of our so-called marriage crisis in America. Coontz’s exquisitely written new book is a must read, not only for those of us in a modern marriage, or, with mixed emotions, contemplating commitment, but for every policy and law maker who would have us believe they have a monopoly on the truth. A page-turner.” —Willam S. Pollack, Ph.D., author of Real Boys: Rescuing Our Sons from the Myths of Masculinity

“Stephanie Coontz has written an extraordinary book with a powerful message: that today’s marriages are fragile not because Americans have become more self-centered and career-minded, but because we expect more from marriage than any previous generation. Scrupulously researched, filled with fascinating detail, and written with grace, humor, and wisdom, this book reveals that marriage is not a static, unchanging, and increasingly unattainable ideal, but a relationship whose success or failure ultimately depends on our willingness to adapt to social realities unlike any that existed in the past.” —Steven Mintz, John and Rebecca Moores Professor of History, University of Houston and author of Huck’s Raft: A History of American Childhood

“I love this book! It is sheer pleasure. Stephanie Coontz has delivered another pathbreaking, dialogue creating, scholarly tour de force! This book is the best source we could possibly use to credibly inform us about how modern marriage was created and what our past tells us about our future: trenchant analysis, interesting data, and graceful prose. I can think of no other modern scholar who so perfectly helps us explore the themes of modern marital malaise or who helps us understand who we are now—and how we got there.” —Pepper Schwartz Ph.D., author of American Couples: Money, Work and Sex and Love Between Equals: How Peer Marriage Really Works

“Fair, lucid and enormously informative. It may outlive us all, for Coontz has captured our times like a bug in amber.” —Professor Helen Fisher, author of Why We Love: The Nature and Chemistry of Love

Naya

We should check it out. Below a post from the Chowhound Message Board.

After reading Chowhound for quite some time, I finally have felt compelled to post. Thank you all for your great insight over the years.

My husband and I went to Naya last night. We did not make reservations, just hoped they would have room on a Sunday night, and they did. Restaurant was not quite half full at 8pm.

Let me get to the punch line - it was terrific! And, as Pasadena residents, we are grateful to have such a restaurant here. There is no other restaurant in the Pasadena area like it. Derek's has similarly good food but is CONSIDERABLY more expensive and without the hip look and vibe. We also like Bistro K quite a lot but it does not have the atmosphere or level of service either.

We went to chef Scooter Kanfer's The House probably a handful of times. Naya is much more sophisticated but still has an emphasis on comforting food at excellent prices with great wine finds.

Service was very lovely - solicitous but not obsequious if the waiter seemed still a bit tentative. We are slow decision makers and the maitre d/GM/sommelier came by to see if he could help with our wine selection (we hadn't even looked at the list yet) but we took advantage of his presence, told him our food choices (veal shank for me and bass for my husband - more below,) and he recommended a lovely Cotes du Rhone (Signac '99) that was just $30.

The amuse arrived - a torchon of foie gras on a yummy, eggy slice of brioche. It was topped with a (poached? marinated? sauteed?) slice of strawberry. At two bites' worth, just right.

Four choices of small breads and rolls - walnut, olive, rosemary and mini-baguette. I found the olive unexplicably hard but my husband loved the walnut.

The waiter then came by to apologize that the kitchen was running behind so he brought out a complimentary serving of the chef's signature mac n cheese which is available as an appetizer. We did not feel like we had been kept waiting but we were prepared for a leisurely evening. Neither of us could figure out what the fuss was about this dish. Kanfer uses a variety of white cheeses and tops it with (IMO) too many very fine, crispy breadcrumbs. Certainly not bad, but nothing special.

I started with the sweetbread salad ($12) - a take on a salade lyonnaise with frisee, a perfectly soft-cooked egg, crispy sauteed sweetbreads and a wonderful mustard vinaigrette that had the right amount of acidity without being vinegary. Nice complement to the creamy and rich sweetbreads and warm egg yolk.

My husband wanted to start with the pumpkin soup with duck and shisito pepper relleno but they were out of it. He quickly went to his second choice of lemon pepper risotto ($9). Timing for a risotto appetizer must be difficult (could this be why they were behind or perhaps it was several parties of 4 or so who were having the tasting menu). Risotto was perfectly al dente and really tasted of lemon and black pepper - not a combination I had had before. I really liked it (but I love lemon.) My husband felt the crispy fried onions on top were too plentiful.

It was hard to choose entrees as they all sounded good. I had the veal shank ($24) which came with spaetzle, dried plums and baby fennel in a vanilla-laced sauce. A small spoon was provided for the marrow. I loved it! It could have been cloying but wasn't. The veal and spaetzle melted in your mouth but the fennel gave some crispness and the plums some chewiness.

My husband had the wild striped bass ($26) served with merguez sausage, cockles in a romesco sauce. We couldn't identify all the flavors but it was also a hit.

The only downside was that the portions were so generous that we had no room to keep going (or could it have been the mac n cheese?). We wistfully watched a cheese cart go by - no one has a cheese course in Pasadena and what a price ($7 for three, selection of five also offered but I don't remember the price)! The table of four next to us had the tasting menu and they were served a selection of all of the desserts. They're fancifully presented with monkey cookies standing in some. Lots of favorable sounds came from them as they shared.

We were then presented with two dishes of candies and mignardises - mini cream puffs filled with lemon or chocolate and a variety of mini lollipops, chocolates and cookies.

We asked the waiter how long they had been open and he said about two weeks. He reported that they had a gala opening the night before. Anybody go?

I asked whether there were any plans to have the very affordable Sunday night dinners (set menu, sides served family style) like at The House. He said there were plans for a variety of special dinners including wine dinners.

It appears that a fair amount of money went into this restaurant. In the middle of Old Town, it's an odd location given the mediocrity found on Colorado. There was nice stemware, nice silver service (fish forks and knives for the bass), soft lighting and a bar with cruvinet (a la AOC) that seats maybe 8 or so. Waiter said there was a separate bar menu. We asked if the cheeses were available at the bar and he said, not generally, but it would depend on how busy they were. I did see someone with wine and a plate of cheese sitting there.

Please join us in patronizing this place. Looks like a great place for a glass of wine and some snacks (homemade potato chips and olives on the bar) as well as a delicious, imaginative and (given the quality of food, atmosphere and service) quite reasonable dinner.

Total tab was $109 + tip.

Naya
49 E. Colorado Blvd,
Pasadena
(626) 793-4712

Interesting book: first-person account of a group of local ex-punks, addicts, graying rockers, party boys, nihilists and not-so-garden-variety-ne'er-do-wells who get saved - by baseball. And it plays in Griffith Park.

Too bad the library doesn't have that book in stock. Maybe a Christmas present...

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0743246322/qid=1125948128/sr=8-1/ref=pd_bbs_1/002-0637900-8427236?v=glance&s=books&n=507846

Touching column from the Travel section of the NY Times

September 4, 2005
Father and Son, 5, Share a Journey and a Memory
By WENDELL JAMIESON
WHENEVER I told someone I was taking my 5-year-old son, Dean, on the overnight train to Chicago, I heard the same words in response: "He'll remember it for the rest of his life."

Then I'd hear stories. Everyone, it seemed, had taken an overnight train as a child and remembered very specific details, like lights flying by the window at night, or eating in the dining car with all the plates bouncing around, or stepping out onto a station platform in the South and feeling that first press of humidity just before dawn. (The colleague who told me that last one said he could still feel the warmth of that morning if he closed his eyes.)

I wanted to give Dean that kind of a memory of travel. By the time he's my age, there may well be no overnight train on which to take his own son. But he'll be able to share the tiny details that his brain chose to separate out from the rest, to polish and to keep new.

Amtrak's Lake Shore Limited leaves Penn Station in New York at 3:50 p.m. and travels north along the Hudson before swinging west through Utica, Syracuse, Rochester and Buffalo, south along Lake Erie and then through northern Ohio and Indiana. Its scheduled arrival time in Chicago is 9:30 a.m. A sleeper for an adult and child, with all meals in the dining car, was roughly $800 for the round trip. Dean quizzed me for weeks beforehand, asking whether our compartment would be bigger or smaller than the elevator in our building and whether there would be a television in it. I told him that there wouldn't, and resisted the urge to buy a portable DVD player. We'd be going in late June, so it would be light out until 9 p.m., when he'd go to bed, I reasoned - plenty to see out the window. We packed some games and a few toy dinosaurs.

At Penn Station, we went downstairs to the platform along with the crowd; the train was fully booked. While most went one way, heading to coach land, we joined a far smaller tributary bound for the first two cars, the sleepers.

Our compartment was actually smaller than our elevator: two seats facing each other next to the window, a little legroom. A heavy metal chessboard folded over our laps. It was hardly luxurious, but it was very clean and there was a certain functional appeal to its design. Dean got excited when he saw that there was a television, but the porter said it had long ago stopped working, if it ever had. He wasn't sure.

We did have a small toilet beneath a lid that doubled as a countertop, and a folding sink. Having the toilet there seemed a little weird to me: it was perfect for traveling with a 5-year-old, but I couldn't imagine any other situation where its intimate presence would be anything less than hugely awkward, even when traveling with a spouse.

Soon the Lake Shore Limited was rocketing along, and the window, as planned, provided plenty of stimulation: graffiti in Manhattan, a wedding party posing for pictures by the Hudson, West Point, bridges. After Albany, where the train changed locomotives, we went to the dining car and ate with a woman taking her granddaughter for a weekend in Syracuse. "Isn't that fun, sleeping on a train with your dad," she said to Dean. "You'll remember it for the rest of your life."

Dean was excited to find the compartment transformed for sleeping and happily climbed up into the upper bunk. He fell asleep in minutes, but I didn't: every vibration shot up from the rails, and when the train came abruptly to a stop outside Utica, I felt my body's momentum continue forward.

It became evident the next morning that Amtrak's long-distance schedules are approximate. We spent a good deal of time shunted onto sidings watching freight trains roar by. No one on the crew seemed the least fazed when the train was still outside Chicago at noon, two and a half hours late.

"Daddy, when are we going to get off this train?" Dean sobbed, pounding his fists on his seat as we inched by hellish-looking oil refineries outside Gary, Ind., before shuddering to a stop for the 100th time. He had been patient until the moment the journey's scheduled 18 hours and 40 minutes passed. At least we were on a train and not a plane: we could move from car to car, chase each other up the corridors.

Chicago, when we got there, was fun for both of us. We looked at dinosaurs in the Field Museum, toured a U-boat and a coal mine at the Museum of Science and Industry, spent the night at a downtown hotel where Dean discovered room service.

Then it was back on the train. I was a little worried that Dean might resist such a quick return to the rails, but we settled right back in. Our little compartment had become somehow familiar, even though it was a different one, in a different car. The television still didn't work.

Coming and going, our experience with crew members was mixed. Some were genuine and enthusiastic, especially the sleeping-car porters and the dining-car staff, who greeted Dean by name whenever he bounded into their domains. But others seemed perpetually annoyed that anyone was on their train.

The first day, when we came to the cafe car on a get-acquainted tour of the train, the man behind the counter snapped, "We're closed" and then turned away.

"It's O.K., we don't want anything," I told him. "We're just taking a look around."

"I said we're closed - you can't come in here," he said, his back to us.

I wanted to say, "Hey, I paid $800 for this damn trip and you are going to be polite!" but I didn't want one of Dean's train memories to be that of his father getting into a fist fight.

This is a danger of taking a trip mainly for the purpose of remembering it: you fear the smallest slight will last forever; you feel a subtle tinge of panic every time things threaten to go wrong, as they inevitably do. But the slights fade: we'd been back for two weeks, and I'd completely forgotten about the cafe car confrontation when I found it buried in my notebook.

I suppose this is a cliché of travel: you forget the bad times, you remember the highlights. Does that adult I know who remembers the bouncing plates also remember whether the food on them was any good? Or that colleague who can still feel the heat: does he enjoy humid days now? I'm writing this in the middle of one, miserably, and I can't imagine he does.

On our last night on the train, we were seated with a couple from Swindon, England, who had flown to New York and then taken the train to Milwaukee for one night just to see Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Having once traveled from New York to Philadelphia to see Elvis Costello, I knew a little bit about serious fandom, although not that serious, and we hit it off. Dean did his best to follow along, but finally he got everyone's attention when he announced, "I'm so tired my legs hurt."

We went back to our compartment, palms against the sides of the corridor to keep our balance, and Dean changed into pajamas and scampered gamely into his bunk. I stood in my socks on my bunk so I could be up there with him, and we chatted about the events of the day while I scratched his back. Outside, the lights flew by. Then he was asleep.

I lay down on my bunk with my book, but I thought of Dean - the way he had shushed the table, the somber tone he had affected to share the news of his aching legs.

I'd remember it for the rest of my life.

WENDELL JAMIESON is an editor on the metropolitan staff of The New York Times.