PALM SPRINGS
You might wonder why I would choose to spend a long weekend
in Palm Springs in 108 degree temperatures. Well, because Phoenix was
predicting thunderstorms, and the surface of the sun was all booked up. We
headed out on the 10 Thursday morning. We decided to have lunch at Farmer Boy’s
to see what the big deal was. We pulled into the franchise in Ontario near
Truck City. I ordered the Farmer Boy, and Bob got a regular hamburger. I added
on fried zucchini, then when I noticed a stacked cone of giant onion rings on
another diner’s table, I called back to Bob to get them too. I didn’t realize
he had also ordered fries, so when our tray arrived there was a mindboggling
array of fried goodness.
I have to say, though,
it was kind of greasy, and the onions had lost their bite. But the
hamburger...wow. It was fantastic. And huge. I can see what all the fuss is
about. I would definitely return for that burger if we lived nearby. I had
worried that the guacamole and thousand island-style sauce would clash, but all
of the flavors melded perfectly. The patty was nicely charred, which is the
make-or-break factor for me.
Although it was not
table service, the counter person appeared twice to make sure our food was satisfactory
and to refill our drinks, which was a nice touch. I have to confess that the
explosion of country charm was a bit much for me. Small towns out in the
country have always made me inexplicably nervous. Maybe it is because I am
scarred from watching 200 Maniacs and Easy Rider. Maybe it is the phrase, “You
ain’t from these here parts, is you?” Maybe it is from reading The Lottery by
Shirley Jackson or from listening to Bob Seger:
“Well you walk into a restaurant, strung out from the road.
And you feel the eyes upon you as you're shaking off the cold.
You pretend it doesn't bother you, but you just want to explode.
Most times you can't hear 'em talk, other times you can.
All the same old clichés, “Is that a woman or a man?”
And you always seem outnumbered, you don't dare make a stand”
Whatever the cause, the more I looked at the bonneted wooden
geese and painted milk jugs, the more I started to sweat. I remember one of my
friends once tried to goad me into attending an air show. She said, “These are
salt-of-the-earth people, my people.” The only thing I could think of was that
these were the people who would probably hang me as a witch.
When we hit Cabazon, we stopped at the Hadley Fruit Orchards.
It was like snackers paradise. They sold all manner of dried fruit, nuts and
candies, as well as every single wine mentioned in the song “Wine
Spo-de-o-dee”. Then, just in case you were not already impressed by the endless
selection of nuts, there was a refrigerated section containing ostrich eggs the
size of cantaloupes.
We left with bags full of Jordan almonds, sesame-coated
peanuts, dried apricots, banana chips, and sugar-free toffee. Cabazon has
turned into something of a boom town with the arrival of the Morongo Casino.
The Wheel Inn used to be a lone oasis in the desert, but now a row of outlet
stores has joined the casino, the Burger King, and the cartoonishly named Mega
Burger, which surround Claude Bell’s giant dinosaurs.
We stopped in for some pie, and were surprised to see that
all of the employees have been outfitted in Flinstones-style caveman uniforms.
I wonder how that staff meeting must have gone. Anyways, I ordered my usual
peanut-butter pie...the pie of the gods, and Bob ordered peach cobbler. It is
amazing how they manage to keep the crusts so crisp, with no filling seepage
whatsoever – even in the cobbler. They must serve them so fresh the crusts
don’t have a chance to get soggy.
When we got to the hot springs, we were too tired to do
anything but have a long soak. The impeccable landscaping of the grounds gives
each hot tub complete privacy. We were relaxing in a secluded two-person
jacuzzi when a little girl walked over and just stood there staring at us.
Finally Bob said, “Hi.” (Translation: “Why are you standing
there staring at us?”)
“Hi.”
“Hiiiii.” (Translation: “Please go away. You are making us
uncomfortable.”)
“Do you know where the pool is?”
“Oh. It’s over there.” (Translation: “Whew. She had a valid
reason for wandering over here to stare at us.”)
“Oh, I know where it is. I just wanted to know if you knew
where it was.”
For dinner, we hit
the Sunshine Café in the affiliated Desert Spa next door. The service was
insanely slow as the teenage workers kept getting into squabbles with each
other and power struggles with the chef. When we finally got our pasta dishes,
they were OK. There was really nothing wrong with them. They were OK. But I felt
like I had squandered my precious appetite, an appetite which could have been
put to good use eating good food. I started wondering if maybe there is
something wrong with me. Something that separates me from the average person
who is perfectly happy eating Applebee’s and Lean Cuisine. “OK” just doesn’t
cut it with me.
The next morning we ordered room service. Miracle Springs
has excellent room service. As usual, the eggs benedict and biscuits and gravy
were perfect. Maybe I am not so difficult to please after all. We spent the
better part of the day soaking in the hot springs. I went to book a massage,
and the spa receptionist had the greatest hairdo ever. I had a fantastic
massage, relaxed for awhile in their not-too-suffocating-not-too-hot-just-right
sauna, and then sunk into my very own jacuzzi with a cold Fiji water and copy
of “A Cook’s Tour.” Life could not get any better. It was the perfect day. And
I knew we were going to have a perfect evening. We had reservations at Cuistot.
After Le Vellauris disappointed us on our last trip, I
started researching French restaurants in the Coachella valley. I chose Cuistot
in Palm Desert, just East of Palm Springs (and this time I made sure East was
East). Their chef, Bernard Dervieux, serves highly lauded California/French
cuisine inspired by his native Lyons. The ambiance is simultaniously homey and
impressive, with high cathedral ceilings and an imposing fireplace. But best of
all was the aquarium-like glass wall looking into the kitchen. While we waited
for our table, I unabashedly stood at the glass, staring at the chefs as if
they were a television set. I watched one chef cut cute little teensy chops,
then he pulled out a huge, meaty chop and set to work carving. I knew what I
was having for dinner.
Once we were seated, they brought out amuse bouches of goat
cheese in puff pastry, a nice touch. For appetizers, Bob ordered a crab gratin,
and I ordered the foie gras with apples and Calvados. The sommelier proactively
offered me a Sauterne to pair with the foie gras. I don’t like wine. It is just
too tannic and vinegary for me. I am a champagne afficianado. Now, let me just
say that three of my brothers are relentless wine snobs (the fourth drinks
nothing but Coors silver bullets). For years my brothers have been making me
taste the most expensive wines they can find, thinking they can change my mind.
One of them even bought me a 1966 something-or-other since that is the year in
which I was born. The sommelier was exceedingly charming and had already shown
his psychic powers by bringing me one of my favorite champagnes after only
listening to a description of my preferred characteristics. So I said, “OK. If
you think you are the one who is going to succeed in turning me out after all
these years, bring it on.” I swirled, sniffed, swished and admired the legs. It
was cloyingly sweet and not too tannic. It could work. The foie gras was as
good as the foie gras I had in Paris, which is an amazing feat. The sauce was
generous, and quite sweet, which rendered the Sauterne redundant. But if there
had not been any sauce, the wine would have been a perfect foil for the foie
gras. Bob’s crab was delicious if a little intense for me. The sommelier had
suggested a Pinot Noir from a small winery called Westley for Bob, and he was
falling madly in love with it, frequently saying things like, “I just want to
fall into this glass.” And “I want to live in this wine”. Our main courses
arrived - a filet mignon for Bob, and one
of those giant beef chops for me. I always knew there were pork chops and lamb
chops. I don’t know why I never realized that there would be beef chops as
well. The filet was delicious and dense, as dense as liver. It must have been
seriously aged. My chop was just heaven. Pure heaven. Both dishes were
accompanied by fresh farm vegetables, and mine arrived with a surprisingly
delicious celery root puree and some sharp watercress to cut the richness of
the beef. We split their signature dessert, a raspberry feuillette, which was a
heavy custard sandwiched between homemade puff pastry. Raspberries and caramel
were an unusual pairing, but it worked. At the end of the meal, as we were
leaving, the chef was standing behind us and bid us goodnight. I caught him
off-guard, and maybe frightened him a little, by squashing him with an
impulsive and aggressive bear hug.
We awoke on Saturday with a half-hour to check out of the
hotel. We were having such a nice holiday that we decided to call the front
desk and reserve an extra night. We headed into downtown Palm Springs for a
little shopping. Bob needed another shirt since he hadn’t packed for three
days. We checked out a few boutiques and were absolutely floored. Sticker shock
does not begin to describe it. Men’s shirts averaged 180 dollars!
We decided to hell with the shirt and went to Taylor’s for
sliders. Taylor’s is in the center of the Palm shopping center. There is a
small dining area inside with stools, and lots of seating outside on a terrace.
I got two sliders instead of one regular-sized burger...because they were
cuter.
We also ordered coleslaw, fries, a small chili and a root
beer float. Bob went with a vegetarian burger because the copious amounts of
beef I was devouring was starting to get to him. He said it was a great veggie
burger. The chili was interesting – it was made with beans, then pureed so it
looked like Cincinatti chili. The spices were well-balanced, but it was a
topping. Great on top of a hot dog, not as good in a bowl. The coleslaw was
sweet and creamy and perfect. The fries were good. But the sliders were a
revelation. I heard angels singing. Or maybe it was the sound of my arteries
slowly clogging. The patties were thick and juicy and delicious. The buns were
light and fluffy and brushed with a little oil. Wow. Go there. Now.
We noticed a banner for the Palm Springs art museum. We
weren’t sure there would be much to it, but I figured a town full of rich
retirees probably makes for some nice donations. As expected, there was plenty
of “Old West” and native art, plus a few desert landscapes. What I was not
expecting was to see a Lichtenstein in the Old West area. As I walked up the
stairway to the second floor’s Mesoamerican art exhibit, my eyes were hijacked
by a huge glass sculpture on the third floor – Dale Chihuly! One of my
favorites! I headed straight for it.
At the top of the stairs we were greeted by a Borofsky
figure monotonously intoning, “Chitter chatter chitter chatter chitter
chatter...” It was a great collection, with big pieces of glass that I had fun
taken pictures through.
On the way out I decided we should check out a painting of
the number 4 on the landing. An old couple had been sitting in front of it the
entire time we were there. So there must be something to it. As I approached,
the old couple did not stir, so I realized that they were sculptures. But as I
turned my head to look at them, the woman blinked. I stopped dead in my tracks.
Bob gestured to a sign that said: DO NOT DISTURB THE OLD COUPLE. They were
definitely an art installation. But I have seen art installations that included
live people, so I just kind of backed away. They definitely gave me the
willies, which is all you can really ask of art. On the way out, I asked the
guard about it. He said that they were made from molds of real people, but that
they were just inanimate objects. I asked if they were animatronic or
something. He said they do not move at all, but that visitors always insist to
him that they do. He said their realism makes him wonder when androids might
walk among us. After a few minutes of deep conversation, I realized, “Oh no. I
have gotten myself into a conversation about robots taking over the earth and I
have no idea how to extricate myself from it.”
On our way back to Miracle Springs, we spotted a Ross and
ran in to get Bob a couple of 14 dollar shirts. In your face, 180-dollar
boutiques! We read and took long baths, then headed back into town to LG’s
Prime Steakhouse. I was on a roll. I had found a theme – burgers and steaks.
From the moment you enter their ceiling-high wooden doors, you are transported
into a world of old-school charm. The servers are solicitous yet unobtrusive as
they fill your water, remove extraneous silverware and clean crumbs from the
table. I immediately fell in love with our funny and charming waiter, Troy. He
took my every picky little need extremely seriously. He was only happy if I was
happy.
The warm sourdough rolls that arrived in the flurry of our
arrival tasted homemade. Bob, having had enough of my beef-fest, ordered crab
cakes and shrimp scampi. Their two-step aging process (wet, then dry-aged)
looked good, but I got the wet-aged filet mignon with crab legs surf-and-turf.
Everything is a la carte, so I ordered a small side of fried potatoes and a
large side of green beans. The crab cakes, made with dungeness and snowflake
crab, had a very different taste than the blue crab I am used to. It was not
seared and crispy, more of a crab “loaf”, rich with crab, in an intense red
bell pepper sauce. My crab legs were fine...it’s kind of hard to really make
them shine, or really screw them up.
The potatoes were good, and the green beans would have been
good if not for an overzealous hand with the crushed red pepper. Although Bob
preferred them with a little kick. Later my server, Troy, noticed that I hadn’t
eaten the green beans and was aghast that I did not tell him right away so they
could have made me another batch. Don’t you love him too? The scampi was
interesting. It went beyond the usual garlic and butter with the generous
addition of ground chili spices. Bob and I thought it was delicious, but I know
my mom would have raised hell if she had ordered scampi and gotten that. I save
the best for last. The steak. Oh my God, that filet! As my knife glided through
it, I thought, “It’s just like butter.” Then I thought, “Geez, just like
butter? How clichéd can you get? There must be another simile out there
somewhere.” But I couldn’t think of one. It was like butter. That steak says,
“Now THAT is why LG’s is in the Top Ten Hall of Fame Steakhouses!” Slap a blue
ribbon on that filet! As we waddled out, my new favorite person, Troy,
recommended that we come back to try his fantastic tableside Caesar salad and
gave me a brochure with the recipe.
LG’s
Prime Steakhouse Classic Caesar Salad
10 oz Romaine lettuce, chopped in 1-inch squares
1 oz. anchovies (approximately 2)
1 Tablespoon fresh garlic, pressed
1 Tablespoon Dijon mustard
½ Tablespoon Worcestershire sauce
1 egg yolk, coddled
½ cup good quality virgin olive oil
1 teaspoon lemon juice
2 Tablespoons Red wine vinegar
¼ cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese
1 cup seasoned croutons (homemade preferred)
Freshly ground black pepper
Place anchovies and garlic in a wooden salad bowl. Crush
into a fine paste with two dinner forks. Add Dijon mustard and Worcestershire
sauce to paste and stir. Add egg yolk and continue to stir.
SLOWLY add olive oil while continuously stirring. Add lemon
juice, red wine vinegar, and half the parmesan cheese. Stir.
Place Romaine lettuce in dressing mixture and toss, making
sure to wet all sides of lettuce leaves.
Add croutons and the remaining parmesan cheese. Serve on
cold plates with chilled forks. Sprinkle with ground pepper to taste.
Sadly the Fabulous Palm Springs Follies, with the world’s
oldest showgirls, featuring a 71-year-old dancer, doesn’t open it’s new show
“Gotta Dance!” until October. Sigh. What a disappointment. We had a choice
between female impersonators or a new Cirque du Soleil. We decided to call it a
night.
The next morning we packed up and drove straight to the
Wheel Inn for breakfast. We love their breakfast more than any other breakfast
in the world. I scanned their menu for beef, since now it was more than a
theme, it was a mission. I ordered chicken-fried steak and eggs. I have never
been big on chicken-fried steak, it seemed like an exercise in Southern excess.
I mean, what could you possibly do to it to make it worse for you? Pipe it full
of Twinkie filling and candy coat it? But at least it was steak. And I was on a
mission. I took one bite of the perfectly crispy chicken fried steak and
thought, “Well, slap my face and call me Bubba. I am a convert”.
Bob went for a simple Denver omelette. Everything was good.
As always. And the waitresses were friendly. And the room is cozy. And they
have Area 51, the world’s greatest video game. How the truckers must look
forward to this stop!
I had a number of possible stops on my agenda for the trip
home...the Beaumont Swap Meet, The Donut Man, an interesting little cemetary,
but I had to show Bob some mercy. Marriage is about compromise. Somewhere around
Rosemead I had to make a pit stop. As we drove around, I saw the coolest sign.
For a burger joint. I looked at Bob. He looked at me. I asked, “How far are you
willing to go to humor me?” He hung a U-turn and we went into E&J Burgers.
It was a combination burger joint/taco joint, which is really not uncommon in
the Los Angeles area. I ordered a small burger, and a carne asada taco.
As we drove off, I offered the burger to Bob. He just looked
at me like I was crazy. It was a nice charred patty, if a bit thin, with fresh
trimmings and a soft bun. I set it aside and opened the glistening asada taco.
That was really what kept them in business. So if you ever find yourself in
Rosemeade, E&J beats the McDonalds across the street by a mile, but I wouldn’t
go out of my way to hunt it down. Unless, of course, you are looking for
birria.
As we got closer to home, we knew we would have to stop for
dinner. I felt like no burger tour would be complete without a trip to our
home-town favorite, Rick’s.
We ordered a burger and fries to split. When the waitress
set down our tray, it felt like she was setting down a brontosaurus burger. It
had a thin, nicely charred patty, nice bun, and the only really ripe red tomato
I have ever seen on a burger. But it is just not the same. I told Bob, “I guess
Tyler’s has ruined me for all other burgers. It’s good, but I remembered it as
being sooooooooo good.” Bob said, “Well, usually when we come here you’re
hungry. The fifth burger is just never as good as the first.”
Cuistot 72-595 El Paseo, Palm Desert 92260 (760) 340-1000
LG’s Prime Steakhouse 255 South Palm Canyon, Palm Springs
92292 (760) 416-1779
E & J Burger 9510 East Garvey Ave.,
South El Monte 91733 (626) 443-0644
Rick’s Drive
In and Out 2400 Fletcher Dr Los Angeles, CA 90039 (323) 660-5988