My Catalina Story

I`m on vacation having more adventures right now, so to keep you safe and off the streets, here is a story I wrote up a few years ago.



When I was a child, my family frequently made the trouble-frought journey to Catalina island on my father’s pride and joy: an old Chinese junk held together with good intentions and rubberbands. It was so slow, its Chinese name translated into “The Flying Snail”. But sailing on the junk was magical. The sea and sky went on forever. Blue whales and flying fish would swim alongside the boat as seagulls soared overhead. Normal daily habits and rules of behavior did not apply on the boat. It was a discipline-free zone. The only rule on the Flying Snail was “One hand for yourself; one hand for the boat.”

My father was forced to sell his junk when I was seven, so most of my memories of Catalina are a random jumble of those things children find memorable. I remember one weekend when I ate nothing but dry Fruity Pebbles straight out of the box, and I once ate an entire package of Dutch chocolate sprinkles for lunch. I remember swimming in the frigid water and using marshmallows for fishing bait. I remember the spray of salt water and the permeating smell of fuel from the outboard motor. I remember the stench of the bilge and the damp weight of the lifejackets. I remember the gentle rocking of the waves and the swinging Chinese lanterns belowdeck.



When I was older, my parents and I would take the Catalina ferry to go snorkeling off of the Casino. And sometimes I boarded it for school field trips to the little town of Avalon. The Catalina ferry is the most horrible, lurching carnival ride of a boat in existence. It could make the most hardy of sailors hurl. It is the only boat that has ever made me queasy. The ocean playground of my childhood had been reduced to an unpleasant, nauseating trip to a little strip of shops filled with tourist junk. I just stopped going to Catalina altogether. That was twenty years ago.

I was recently gifted with two round-trip tickets for a helicopter ride to Catalina. Last Thursday my mother and I took advantage of the voucher for an overnight trip. I was a little nervous about taking the helicopter. But I had no need to be worried. I’ve had scarier elevator rides. I thought, “I took a Xanax for this?” It was a gorgeous trip. As I looked out over the great blue expanse, I asked my mother if it had been nerve-wracking keeping track of five small children on a rickety boat in the middle of the ocean. She quickly replied, “No. Not at all.” After a moment of hesitation, she added, “The only time I ever felt like a bad mother was when your brother fell in.”



We had to share a cab from the helipad to our hotel. The guy sitting "shotgun" had his window rolled down and I was getting blown away by the wind. I gently touched his arm (to indicate that I was speaking to him, and not to the driver) and asked, "Do you mind rolling your window up part way?" He completely freaked out, hissing venemously, "Don’t touch me!! Don’t you ever touch me again!!!" I recoiled, "Woah. Sorry." Maybe he had brittle-bone disease or something.

But my fiesty 70-year-old mother wasn't going to let him speak to her daughter that way, "And I thought I was grumpy!” she exclaimed, “Just praise the Lord there aren't many more out there like him!" After enduring ten minutes of a silent, icy ride, I mumbled to my mother, "We’re in this island paradise and now I'm in a bad mood." She replied loudly, "Well, you never know what people might really be upset about. Maybe his wife beats him. Or maybe she DOESN'T" I'm not sure if it was the invocation of our good Lord Jesus Christ or the accusation of Sado-masochistic tendencies that made him ask the driver to drop him off right there.

The Canyon Resort and Spa was actually a motel, with an Escher-like labyrinth of stairs going every which way up and down the courtyard and a seriously unwelcoming pool area. Since we had arrived well before check-in time, we relaxed in the café. Still a little shaken by our uncomfortable cab ride, I ordered a mimosa. They brought it to me in a pint glass.



We called my brother, who frequently sails to Catalina, and asked him for recommendations. "Well, first, you have to get your Wiki Wacked!!! You have to go to Luau Larry's!”. Now, I had been specifically warned that Luau Larrys was a tourist trap. But there are some touristy activities, such as wearing Micky Mouse ears or getting a hurricane at Pat ‘O Briens, that have become such time-honored traditions they surpass their own cheesiness and become obligatory. When we passed Luau Larry’s we went in for the requisite Wiki Wacker. It didn’t seem watered down, and in conjunction with a pint of Mimosas, I was now officially wacked.

As we wandered along the row of restaurants at water’s edge, we happened upon El Galleon, which looked like an nice classic Italian restaurant. Inside, it had a crazy hodge podge of a decor marrying New Orleans and Tiki Room with a nautical flair. Mardi Gras beads, winches, glass floats and fishing nets hung from the ceiling. Mounted on one wall was an “Alligator Bass”, a hideous Frankenstein of a practical joke, an alligator head fused onto the body of a fish. But the brick walls gave the room a warm feeling, and the old-fashioned wooden booths were comfortable and comforting. El Galleon’s current owners bought the restaurant in 1993, but its actual age was unclear from the printed history, which seemed to imply it had been around since the days of William Wrigley. The menu was not Italian, as I had surmised, but a combination of seafood steakhouse and barbecue. There were some modern touches sprinkled in, such as Panko crumbs and Jasmine rice.

We started our meal with the fried artichoke hearts, which were spectacular. Sprinkled with capers, they rested in a lake of melted butter. I could taste the high quality of the olive oil in which they had been friend.



We continued our meal with cups of scallop chowder. The broth was rich with butter and cream, but the scallops were soft and bland. I missed the toothsome chewiness of clams. The entrée was a more difficult choice. When eating in an unfamiliar restaurant, I usually try to suss out their specialty. Failing that, I look for the unusual. They had a “scalone” sandwich, a combo of friend abalone and scallops (I was later told it is a combo of baby abalone from Mexico and all kinds of random shit). But we were informed that the abalone was frozen, in spite of the tank of live abalone at the entryway. Those abalone are reserved for the dinner special.



The waiter recommended Applewood Smoked BBQ Chicken, but I was too intrigued by the "burnt ends" sandwich. It turned out to be bits of succulent tri-tip and ham in an intense Hawaiian-inspired plum BBQ sauce. The sauce overwhelmed the tri-tip, but with the ham it was a match made in porcine heaven.



After a massage and nap back at the Canyon “Resort”, we headed back out for dinner. Although the fresh abalone at El Galleon beckoned, upon first awakening I am just not ready for unfamiliar seafood.



We went to the much-recommended Armstrongs. There was a huge crowd, but luckily most of the patrons wanted to sit out on the deck, so we were quickly seated inside. The crab-shrimp cocktail was sweet and clean and fresh-tasting. The mahi-mahi was perfectly cooked. I can see why it is so popular. But it wasn’t particularly memorable, nothing really jumped out and bit me.



We had tickets for the flying fish tour later that night. Obviously, the fish don’t literally fly. They glide. The fish jump out of the water to escape predators like tuna, or when freaked out by boats and lights. Their large fins allow them to sail through the air, giving them their name. It is purported that the longest recorded "flight" was a quarter of a mile, but I am dubious. Most fish jump quickly, like shooting stars, but I’ve counted out a few “flights" at 5 and 6 seconds, pretty impressive in and of itself. My husband had thought flying fish were an invention for tourists, like the jackalope. So in his honor, we were taking the tour. As nervous as I had been about the helicopter, maybe I should have been more afraid of the flying fish, considering this excerpt from the “Catalina Islander” police blotter that day:


Rescue 6 and Baywatch were called to assist a person with an eye injury. The patient was struck in the eye by a flying fish while on a tour boat.


We boarded the tour boat at 9:30 pm, where the tour guide confirmed that the flying fish attack had indeed occured on his boat. I asked him if we should throw the fish back if they jump into the boat. He said the fish would develop a fungus and die, so that wouldn’t work. I asked him what he uses to throw them back with if he can’t use his hands. He just looked at me the way people look at kids when they first ask where hamburgers come from.

It was a beautiful night, and even without the occasional thrill of fish-spotting, the boat ride was definitely worth risking eye injury. It was a spiritual experience just being out on the sea beneath the stars and waxing gibbous moon.



We turned in early, which was lucky because the alarm clock in our room went off at 6:30 am Friday morning. Note to self: always check the alarm clock when you check into a motel. But we were happy to beat the rush at the Pancake Cottage. With its pink formica tables and plastic chairs, it reminded me of an old-fashioned cafeteria, or a department-store lunchcounter. The ruffled curtains on the windows made it officially a “cottage”. They had all manner of pancakes, but in spite of the menu saying “mixed inside” for many of the selections, the waitress told me the only kind with the fruit mixed into the batter was blueberry. so I went with that. My mom got the peach pancakes since they were fresh and rarely in season. The pancakes were fluffy and perfect.



The service was a little brusque until my mom declared to the waitress that these were the best pancakes she had ever eaten, which warmed the waitress up a bit. Strangely, there are no restrooms in the restaurant. My mom suggested maybe they had been around since the days of outhouses. But Avalon is a beacon, nay, a shining star of clean public bathrooms that all the world should emulate. So that was no problem at all.

When we tired of shopping, we decided to take the glass bottomed boat. There were not as many Garibaldi or Sheepshead as I had expected. It was mostly Calico bass. And lots of giant kelp. Giant kelp everywhere. Kelp has always freaked me out a little bit. Ever since I read a Tales of the Unexpected where the kelp reaches out to entangle and drown a greedy treasure hunter.



We had lunch at Antonio’s Pizza, easily the most Roadfood-worthy restaurant of our trip. Established in the 1960s, Antonio’s has long been a fixture in Avalon. There is a second location, which also boasts a mysterious “cabaret”, but even the waitstaff admit it is not as good as the original.



We started off with Antonio’s Cheese Crisp, which could be compared to a white pizza. It is described on the menu as:

A thin pizza crust brushed with garlic butter and topped with five cheeses and chopped pepperoncini



The locals ask for Ranch dressing on the side for dipping, an inspired combination. Although my interest was piqued by the Grilled Prime Rib, Bacon and Cheese Sandwich, I was more intrigued by Mamma Mia’s Day-old Spaghetti:

Spaghetti & meatballs in sauce, blended and chilled for aging, then freshly sauteed in olive oil, butter, garlic, mushrooms, onions and Parmesan Cheese, baked and topped
with Mozzarella and Jack Cheese. M – m - m Mamma Mia!



You could not tell how much trouble had been gone to by sight or taste; it was just like regular spaghetti, but good regular spaghetti. Really good regular spaghetti. It was the closest thing to homemade I have ever had in a restaurant. Maybe even better than mine, and I don’t say that easily.

We waited for our return helicopter at the Buffalo Nickel, conveniently located at the helipad. I ordered the mixed fried seafood platter, then headed to the outdoor restrooms. I passed by a family happily eating hamburgers on the patio. I asked how the food was. The mom asked, "Oh, do you work here?" I admitted, " No, I’m just incredibly nosy." They raved about the hamburgers. The fried seafood platter was good, but I judge by New Orleans standards, which is tough competition. I wouldn’t return to Catalina anticipating a meal at the Buffalo Nickel, but it is the kind of place I would be extremely happy to stumble upon when drunk.

Over the years I had forgotten how idyllic Catalina is. I had forgotten how blue the water is and how brightly the sun shines. I can’t wait to return for long days filled with boating and snorkeling. I can even imagine buying a little cottage on the island someday. I just have to remember not to go around touching strange people. On the flight back, I had gotten so comfortable being in the helicopter I jokingly dared the pilot to buzz the Catalina Cruiser. To my shock and delight, he suddenly swooped down over the boat. I turned around nervously to check on my mother, and she was laughing, laughing, laughing.

I am not the craziest person in the world - I have proof!

The Sunday night specialty of chicken mole at El paseo on Olvera Street during Dia de los Muertos wasn't very good, and was served cold to boot. So I ate the beans and delicious tortillas. And of course I drank the entire margarita.



And then I looked over and saw her. Yes, look behind the woman sitting at the table. This woman is standing on a chair to take a picture of her food. This is proof, (albeit fuzzy, like bigfoot) that I am not the craziest one out there.

But the View is Spectacular!

Thanks to Mike Watt for sending me these photos of the most difficult restaurant to reach in the world. I don't know where the email originated, but it comes with this commentary:

This restaurant is in China
If you manage to reach the restaurant the food is free. Let me know how the food is. I'm not going.

I have my doubts about the food being free. Can you imagine how much it must cost to get the Sysco truck up there? But it really makes people complaining about how hard it is to get into Mozza or Momofuku Ko sound like whiny little bitches, doesn't it?

Sexual Innuendo TV

Stir that buttermilk! Yeah, yeah, baby! Pour on that syrup! You like it? Yeah! Yeah? yeah! I aim to please! You feelin it? You feelin it?

Armageddon with be Catered by Wolfgang Puck

OK, I promise I do have lovely pictures of beautifully presented food for you all, but first I have to go on a rant.

I just returned from a "presentation" about the future of development in Downtown LA. I am all for the gentrification of downtown, it has been a creepy ghost town since the residents of the Victorian homes of Bunker Hill were kicked out in the early 50s. Only Little Tokyo and the loft district around Alameda and 3rd, home to Al's Bar, ever had a breath of life in it. But the new LA LIVE "Campus" is a sea of cement and chrome, plastered with giant screens blaring commercials directly into your cerebral cortex. It is a flagship in the homoginization of America.



LA Live has their own "security" to supplement the LAPD, in very sheriff-like outfits. I wonder if somewhere underground they have their own jail/dungeon. Something made me feel like I was in a movie where man's hubris, like with the Titanic, would lead to its imminent doom. Pave it over and paint it green; fake palm trees with hidden security cameras; all set to incessant images and blasting music from those gigantic videotrons.



More screens and more speakers



One of the PR women said she lives near Universal Citiwalk and rolled her eyes at what a nightmare it is to visit there. She doesn't realize the irony that they are just building another Citiwalk in someone else's neighborhood. One more Downtown Disney. One more Promenade. And now they are encouraging you to move in. Who wants to live at Universal Citiwalk? Who wants to live inside the mall?

I am not a flight attendant but I play one on TV



The future of downtown LA





At least the Variety Arts Center building still stands



I asked where in the model The Pantry was



Not nearly enough cars



LA on the clearest day since the invention of the internal combustion engine





This is some kind of music center or something with a recording studio that they are building



Everything is so pointy and sharp



I thought it was cool they were solar, but those aren't solar panels. They are just there as a design element



I imagine this tacky old Holiday Inn must just make them insane. I asked about it and they had a very smooth answer as if they love it there right in the middle of all of the fancy, shiny buildings.



The PR people kept touting it as the "Times Square of the West". That's exactly what we need. We don't have enough traffic and chain restaurants yet. I hate to be a big wet blanket on the starry-eyed developers' visions of the future, but it just reminds me of THEY LIVE. By the way, if you have not seen the movie THEY LIVE you need to rent it immediately. Like now. Get Magic Christian while you're at it too - which continues the "Can anybody be bought?" theme, which brings us to the culinary portion of this rant. To sell the idea of the LA of the future, we were wined and dined as never before. Can Chinois Salad in a Cup make me buy into Live LA???



We were hosted in the offices of the still-under-construction Ritz Carlton Hotel and Apartments. These people are serious about selling this idea. For about 7 bloggers and guests (as in lil' ole me) they had Wolfgang Puck catering set up with a cold buffet, passed hors d'ouvres, a carving station, cheese plate and dessert station. They also had a well-stocked bar. I did a little mental calculation, and along with the gift certificates presented to the bloggers, the event probably cost about 10 grand well before the salaries of all of the salespeople.

I can't help sneaking into the "kitchen"





First the passed hors d'ouvres:



parmesan chip with carmelized pear marscapone (kicked ASS)

filet mignon on crostini

tuna tartar in a cone

chinois salad in a cup (b-o-r-i-n-g, but OK - it's a signature "dish"



What is this? Did I even eat this? Looks like tuna tartare on a blini. No, that's puff pastry. Hmm... wonder bloggers??? Any of you remember?



I asked the bartender to make me something "fun"



And after the "doots" - a cold buffet. The chicken was dry and boring, but the filet mignon rivaled the most tender I have ever eaten









Then after that, a hot buffet with carving station





I definitely had sufficient horseradish



the desserts were lovely, if a tad sweet. Of course, who could really eat anything else? The shining star was the cheesecake cone - so whimsical. Sherry Yard is definitely innovative.



We were also able to check out the model apartment for the new Ritz Carlton Homes.





We decided to take a few pictures as if we really lived and blogged there. The next thing you know, some of us were climbing in the bathtub, spilling drinks, and generally acting like howler monkeys. Maybe we do need to live in a homegenous police state. A nice buffet, a few fruity drinks and we quickly degenerate into anarchy.





Best random moment...

"Where is the restroom?"

"Next to the VAULT."

Preparing an Altar for Dia de Los Muertos

November 1st and 2nd are the days set aside to celebrate Dia de los Muertos. Originally celebrated in Mexico, it is becoming increasingly common in Los Angeles. The origins of Dia de los Muertos have been traced back as far as Aztec festivals dedicated to the godess Mictecacihuatl. It is now celebrated on the Catholic holidays of All Saints' Day and All Souls' Day. It is believed that during this time it is easier for souls to travel back to earth to visit their loved ones. Altars with offerings and refreshments are set up to encourage a soul to visit and to provide sustinence and rest after their long journey back.

Making an altar for Day of the dead is a highly personal experience. Even though it may not be a part of your family tradition, you can always start a new tradition. The ritual of cooking your departed loved one's favorite foods and decorating the altar can be a peaceful and loving way to honor their memory. It can also be highly cathartic. It invites the spirit into your home for a loving visit without the tears and drama. It reminds us that their spirits are gentle and loving souls we once knew, not creepy ghosts and shadows.

Any counter, shelf or table can be converted into an altar; the size is determined by the number of people you are honoring, the size of the pictures, and the amount of food. Traditionally, small amounts of food and drink are set out to welcome your loved one. Often a little alcohol or even cigarettes are left for them to enjoy. It is a joyful if bittersweet holiday, and cartoonish calaveras depicting the hobbies or professions of loved ones are usually present. Flowers (especially marigolds), sugar skulls, candles, religious icons, letters, paper decorations and other mementos can also be used to personalize the altar.

I usually make a bread pudding for my father and blueberry muffins for my grandmother. My husband's dad only wants whisky and cigarettes. Sadly, this year I will be adding my Uncle Warney to the altar. Maybe some Nanaimo Bars will be in order - or another shot of whisky.

The important thing is that the altar is meaningful to you, and allows you to honor your lost loved ones in a way that that feels appropriate.


Dad's Favorite Bread Pudding

6 cups day old bread (approximately 1 long baguette)

1 tart green apple, peeled and chopped (approximately 1 cup

1/4 cup raisins

6 cups milk

3 eggs

1/4 cup sugar

1 teaspoon cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon vanilla


Preheat oven to 325 degrees. butter a 3-quart baking dish

Add bread, apple and raisins to dish.

In a medium-sized bowl, whisk together remaining ingredients.

Pour milk mixture onto bread and mush it all together

Sprinkle top with a little more cinnamon and sugar.

Bake for 1 hour or until brown and crusty on top.