Cinnamon Buns and Burnout (Oh yeah, and French Laundry)

You know a food blogger is burned out when she doesn't even write a real post about her recent trip to the French Laundry. What to say? It was enormously expensive. Almost all of the food was quite good, except for a hunk o' beef that had too much of the sous-vide thing going on (flabby, no crust). Dessert was forgettable (I can say this because I've forgotten it), and the winter squash soup was so good that I will never look at a squash dish again without feeling short-changed. I grappled with pangs of guilt for spending that much money on food. They shoved us out of there in 2.5 hours, which stank, and did not even offer us any coffee after dinner. Can you believe that? Can you believe that? Me either. Anyway, I would still go back, if someone else was paying. I guess this indicates that my sense of self-respect defers to my sense of gluttony.

Now, on to more interesting topics--to me, anyway. Cinnamon buns. Every single time I walk past a Cinnabon anywhere in the world, I feel compelled to stop. But I never do. I suspect they taste like chemicals and contain 1000 grams of fat and frankly, the chain reminds me uncomfortably of the '80s.

You know what else reminds me of the '80s? Palm Springs. Which is where we went last weekend, and which is where I encountered a roach the size of my fist in the bathroom of our adorably hipster modernist hotel. I also encountered a cinnamon bun the size of my skull at Rick's. Here it is, with a knife stuck in it right where one might stick a knife into a skull, if one was so inclined:

Our waitress asked if we wanted it warmed and slathered with butter. You already know the answer to that one. Additionally, my breakfast came with these:

Am I bad food person if I confess that the sight of the cinnamon bun and its knife and the biscuits with Knott's Berry Farms jam and the plop of whipped butter made me at least as happy as many of the beautiful items on the menu at French Laundry?

It's been so long since I posted that I will throw in an extra bonus cinnamon bun photo for you; these are made from Molly's recipe in Bon Appetit, which was truly a gem. Give them a shot.

Bluth bananas in LA

We went to Los Angeles a few weeks ago. We did many things, and most of them involved eating. In between mouthfuls of food, we occasionally managed to converse with our friends Jake and Lexi. Here we are at the Farmer's Market, eating perhaps the most well-documented chocolate-covered frozen bananas EVER:*

There's no way to eat a frozen banana suavely. You just have to go for it, assuming a position not unlike the Al's-Italian-Beef-Eating Stance: hunched forward, raining detritus all over yourself and on the floor, gnawing away.

Bananas and I have a complicated relationship: I never ever eat them, except in airports. (There's quite a bit of neurosis lurking behind that statement, but I'll save the explanation for another date.) I don't care for that pasty texture. But, like raisins, I enjoy bananas when they've been gently coddled in a nice warm bath of butter and sugar, and even better, lots of booze. In LA, I learned that I really like them frozen, too. The pastiness becomes rich and creamy, and dark chocolate tempers all that fruity sweetness.

Jake was full of great suggestions for us, so during our short stay we managed to eat piles of strawberry pancakes and huevos rancheros at The Alcove (where everyone was extraordinarily good looking); heaps of yummy spaghetti and meatballs at Il Capriccio; out of control gelato at Pazzo Gelato; strange BLTs in the middle of the night at Piper's; and last but not least, an enormous box of Stan's Donuts. Their specialty? Imagine a glob of peanut butter squished into the pocket where the jelly would usually be, and you get the idea. One bite, and you too will come to believe in the power of the chocolate chip peanut butter donut.

*Except for the Bluths', of course.