The adage goes, “Americans eat to live; the French live to eat.” Somehow, I don’t think that’s either entirely accurate or all-encompassing; but as one who was a gourmet reporter for a number of years, I’ve come to appreciate the joys of good dining. Granted, in this land of McDonald Shitburgers and the revolving fans atop Kentucky Colonel Chicken Cesspools blowing the ghastly stench of rancid cooking fat across the freeways and for miles thereabout, it is more and more difficult to get a meal that doesn’t leave one with a case of Montezuma’s Revenge…even so it behooves me, as a man of conscience, to refer you to an incredibly fine restaurant here in Los Angeles: one that serves exemplary food, charges reasonably, offers a pleasant ambience and whose owner treats his customers with respect and affection. As opposed to the hordes of subdued-lighting, plastichromed, expense-account-writeoff lunch counters that have developed terminal cases of acromegaly-cum-pomposity and stiff you a week’s wages for food a lemming would rather dive over a cliff than eat.
(Actually, the realities of dining in Los Angeles are only reflective of the freeway/Howard Johnson/Taco Bell/Jack inna Box/Co’Cola/frozen french fries idiom into which all Amurrica has been lured over the past thirty-five years. To my certain knowledge there are people between the ages of fifteen and thirty-five who have never tasted real food. From their lips, Trilby-like, the phrase, “Gimme a jumboburger an’ frenchfries anna coke,” leaps unbidden whenever their stomachs toll trough-time. For those miserable unfortunates no uplift or enrichment, such as one derives from the zucchini florentine at Musso & Frank’s Grill, the beefsteak tomatoes and onion slathered with real chunky Roquefort at the Pacific Dining Car, the hot dogs at Pink’s, the moussaka at Greektown…for them only the dark tunnel of heartburn and pseudo-beef patties immolated in yak butter, or whatever it is Pup’n’Taco uses. And it’s their own fault, of course. As Jefferson said, “People get pretty much the kind of government they deserve.” Which explains Nixon, Reagan and, by extension, the kind of food they permit to be shoved at them. Again, by extension, the dining scene runs a parallel to the situation with hookers in L.A. as opposed to the rest of the country. A young lady of my acquaintance, a professional woman in the field of amour, came out here from New York and was both delighted and amazed at the parameters of prostitution. She commented that the johns out here are so timorous and corrupted by Angeleno life that all they expect for their money is a blowjob. In Manhattan, she mused, a hooker wouldn’t last a day with that kind of sole stock in trade. She settled down in Laurel Canyon, happy as an Australian cuscus; the working hours were better, the pay higher, and the wear and tear on her private parts infinitely less. But…I digress.)
So in what will probably be a vainglorious attempt to wrench your culinary habits out of the slough of despond into which they have sunk, let me tell you about El Palenque.
To begin with, it’s an Argentinian restaurant.
In the best traditions of that special kind of cooking.
Where Mexican cooking is spicy and aggressive, Argentinian food is solid and masterful without reaming your sinuses. It is primarily meats…steaks and sausages and other proteins that fill your belly with substance and your mouth with heavenly tastes. Side dishes are similarly unfrightening, but bold.
El Palenque (pronounced puh-lenk-ay) means “the hitching post.” It can be found at 660 N. Larchmont, on the corner of Melrose Avenue; one block west of Gower, well within spitting distance of Paramount Studios.
It’s a small place. If you worked at it, you could probably cram in about half-a-dozen automobiles…about that size. There’s a bar, though beer and wines are all you can get; if it’s booze you want, go to the Luau. Food is what El Palenque offers, in abundance, and at prices that will gladden your heart.
The owner is Roberto Rivera, round and pleasant, and possessed of a mild Latin charm that is happily light-years away from the cloying toadiness of most maître d’s on Restaurant Row. If pressed, Mr. Rivera will tell you he is from Honduras and, with his brother Rudy, opened the Bambi Bakery on Santa Monica in 1964. (It is from Brother Rudy’s bakery that El Palenque gets the amazingly delicious bread it serves; it comes in small rolls the size of your hand, and is served at table warm enough to melt the butter without great clots falling in your lap.) Because of Mr. Rivera’s peripatetic background, the menu is not strictly Argentinian, though all the favorite gaucho dishes can be found therein. Lynda tried the Lomito Saltado the other night ($2.35 à la carte, $2.75 on the full dinner), and I won’t say she raved about it, but when she had eaten all there was on the plate, she began to whimper. When I asked her why, she told me that she was sad there was no more to eat. When I offered to get her another order she added that she was stuffed full—there’d been more than enough to bulge the sexy space where her top and slacks left naked belly—but she was distraught to think there was no more of that goodness to be force-fed. Lomito Saltado, for the two or three of you out there who don’t know it, is a Peruvian wonder containing chunks of sirloin steak, cooked with tomato and onions, mixed with golden brown french fries and served with rice.
Argentinian, Peruvian…and the side orders of Platano Fritos are Cuban. Again, for the uninitiated, platanos are the exquisite green bananas called plantains, fried till they assume the color of Spanish doubloons. They are served in a heaping jumble with sour cream. I can assure the gourmets in the audience that I have not tasted such well-prepared and oil-free plantains since one remarkable dining experience in the Irish Channel in New Orleans several years ago.
Preparation of these Central and South American dishes is effected by two stalwarts: Vidal, the night chef (with a sure assist from Roberto), and “Toyi,” who has been with the Rivera family for more years than they can count. “Toyi” prepares most of the dishes earlier in the day, setting them up in such a way that Luis, the waiter, can hustle them to your table steaming hot from the kitchen. Luis, by the way, is one helluva waiter. Though I can’t swear to it, I’m sure he must have tiny wings on his feet…for the service at El Palenque is not merely fast, it is virtually instantaneous.
And when it comes, ah! What happiness. Let me give you a suggestion for a typical dinner:
Begin with either a Chi-Chi cocktail or a margarita. Then a small salad, crunchy and fresh and nicely accoutered with bleu cheese dressing. It isn’t a big, or even an elaborate salad, the usual staples, but it rests lightly in the stomach and doesn’t cloud the main issues, yet to come.
For the appetizer course, try the meat turnovers, the empanadas. They’re akin to kreplach, but the pastry shell is crisp and brown, and the meat inside is handsomely spiced, but not hellish.
The main course ranges from familiar dishes like soft beef tacos (for those who venture into unknown lands toe-first) and traditional T-Bone and New York steaks; to the full gaucho dinner, the parrilla mixta, which includes ribs, skirt steak, sweetbreads, kidneys, plain and black sausages, and comes served crackling on its own hibachi. The mixta, I must warn you, is a big meal. Though I’ve seen one person almost finish the selection, he had not eaten all day and was ravenous…and even so, he had to have help to the car afterward. But despite his bloated appearance, he wore a beatific smile.
For first-timers, I would recommend the marvelous entraña, a charbroiled 12-14 ounce skirt steak. The skirt is something like a London Broil, the way Raquel Welch is like Kate Smith; they’re both women, even as both edibles are related cuts of meat. But after the name, all similarities cease.
The skirt comes in a long, thinnish slab with a tender middle and a crunchy outer shell. It is one of the universe’s special gifts. It comes with french fries, which are absolutely correct and as crunchy as the steak itself. Consumed in company with an order of plantains, this delight offers the diner a range of tastes, sweet and pungent, that make the dinner hour a pleasure.
For dessert, a cup of El Palenque’s excellent coffee (with refills that keep coming endlessly and without charge) laced with fresh milk; and “Toyi’s” incredible flan, a caramel custard pudding that will make your eyes roll up in your head.
Then sit back and try to get your hands locked across your stomach. You will know what satisfaction is, at last.
El Palenque has other things to recommend it, as if what has been set down already weren’t enough:
A lively and variegated group called Rocky and The Latin Image, a five-piece percussion and piano operation, plays every night but Monday and Tuesday. With vocals by a gentleman announced as “the internationally famous Velasquez,” the mood of the restaurant is constantly one of life and exuberance. A small dance floor adjoins the bandstand and the clientele—a wild mixture of South and Central American-born residents of the Los Angeles barrio—move on and off the space with that willowy grace and zest for life that can only be captured in dances of Latin origin. On a recent evening, the hypnotic oneness of several couples swaying to the mambo almost drew our attention from the pursuit of stuffing our stomachs. Almost.
But on Monday and Tuesday when The Latin Image is silent, El Palenque makes up for the short-changing by lowering its dinner prices. It is possible to sock away a meal for two, with wine, such as the one I’ve outlined here, for less than seven dollars. Similar dining bargains are few and far between in Los Angeles.
El Palenque is open Sunday from 2:00 in the afternoon till 2:00 in the morning. Monday through Thursday: 11:30 A.M. till 2:00 A.M. Friday and Saturday: 11:30 A.M. till 4:00 A.M.
And if the sheer improbability of those hours doesn’t bring you up short, just stop to think of how hard it was to find a restaurant open late enough after a movie to give you a good meal, the last time you were caught out in the city after eleven o’clock. El Palenque burns with life till well after the rest of provincial L.A. shuts down.
So. Go have a good meal. But don’t tell your friends about the place unless they can be trusted. The only drawback to my sharing this wonderland with you is the fear that it will be invaded by the Strip rats, the talent agency phonies and the bores. It’s happened with other good, small restaurants. I’d hate to see it happen to El Palenque.
But Rivera’s paradise is too special and too worthwhile a treasure to keep to myself. So I share it with you, in hopes your taste buds will return to life; I share it with you as an act of camaraderie; please don’t abuse the privilege.
And tell Roberto Rivera that Harlan Ellison sent you. If you do, he might sit down a while and tell you what goes into the black sausage.