Juan Mendez was a wonderful man. He was a resourceful man who revolutionized Mexican cuisine by introducing one of the greatest creations of all time, the Burrito. I know I sound a bit crazy but then again throughout the years I’ve developed a crazy burrito habit, I eat one at least once a week. There are weeks that can go by where I try really hard to fight the cravings and sometimes it works, but for the most part I end up giving in. My friends tease me about it but I honestly can’t help it, every time I bite into a Carne Asada burrito I get a huge smile on my face and my stomach sings a joyous song from sheer delight.

The word Burrito translated to “Little Donkey,” and comes from the shape the burrito takes which resembles the ear of a donkey. Something as cool as a burrito naturally has a history that’s just as cool and that’s what makes this little love in a pouch more than just a serious addiction for me. Naturally my obsession with Burritos lead to a little bit of research and according to accounts by Spanish missionaries “Burrito” like foods were eaten by the Aztecs who would often wrap their food with tortillas. The first actual burrito originated in the Belle Vista neighborhood in the city of Cuidad Juárez in Chihuahua where during the Mexican Revolution (1910-1921), a taco salesmen named Juan Mendez in an attempt to keep his tacos warm wrapped them in a large tortilla giving birth to the burrito. I’m curious to know if the timing had anything to do with the Revolución? Maybe the revolutionaries needed food that would be filling yet easy to eat giving them more time to fluidly execute the Revolución, who knows?  If I close my eyes I can almost see Zapata and Villa holding their guns in one hand and burritos in the other preaching to their compañeros that Diaz should be ousted.

Judging from the dozens of Taquería’s and taco trucks I’ve frequented throughout the years burritos have definitely taken on a life of their own. Of course I’m being biased when I say that L.A. and San Francisco have the best burritos outside of Mexico. In San Francisco the “little donkey” became famous due to its cultural attributes and larger size. Its history goes back to the Central Valley Farm Workers Movement and the city’s Mission district where during the Seventies it became an important symbol of the Chicano movement. Who would have thought that a wrapped up tortilla filled with meat, beans and rice would be something of cultural pride? When I moved to S.F. I made it my mission to eat my way through the Mission District searching for the best burritos. And there were so many of them that the wonderful aromas permeating through the streets of the Mission are forever imprinted in my mind. One place in particular, El Farolito in was ridiculously addictive, between the good quality of the meat and the perfectly spicy roasted salsas, it was my usual place to be. They were always open late so all that greasy goodness would hit the spot perfectly after late nights of drinking or battling it out in a hot kitchen.

Growing up in L.A. it’s impossible to avoid the influence of Latin food and culture, it practically runs through MY veins. It’s that inexplicable warm feeling I get when I drive down the streets of L.A. and the pleasant sounds of Ranchera music thumping out of someone’s car fills my ears or the sight of a happy, young Latino couple and their 11 kids walking down the street that brings a smile to my face, but mostly I feel at home when I read a lovely, inviting sign in front of a random Hollywood house that reads “Asada, Pollo, Carnitas, Lengua… tacos $.99″ as barbecue smoke fills the front yard and spills into the street. This is the L.A. that I love and at the center of all of it is food, Latino food to be exact. I remember the first time I visited Armenia eleven years ago, I was gone for six weeks and realized at the end of my trip that I was having serious Chicano-burrito withdrawals. Even though six weeks isn’t a long time until then I never realized how large a role Latino food and culture actually played in my life. I was in the middle of getting my B.A. in history at the time and my focus was Latin America and thanks to Yuca’s which was right down the street from my apartment, my appreciation for burritos and revolutions blossomed. My ex boyfriend asked me once why I had a framed photo of Zapata hanging on my bedroom wall and my silly answer was that he was a daily reminder that “the Revolución is never really over plus Zapata came from the land of the burrito.”

The photo of Zapata is no longer on my wall although as a reminder it does make an occasional appearance on my desktop. However, you can imagine the panic that I was stricken with recently when I decided to move to Armenia. Aside from the conveniences that I’ve been spoiled with living in the U.S. my main concern for the move was food and at the top of that list were burritos. I had heard of a couple of Mexican restaurants in Yerevan the capital, but I couldn’t imagine how good they would be compared to the ones in Los Angeles. Burritos were more than just a weekly habit, they signified a comfort zone that pacified my mental and physical state, it’s a comfort zone that had taken years to build and all of sudden would possibly be stripped away with just one plane ride. At the center of those fears was moving to a country where I felt I would simultaneously gain and lose parts of my identity, my culinary identity to be exact.

On my second day in Yerevan, when asked by my cabdriver where I want to go I uttered the words “Taco Maco” and off I went to get my fix. Taco Maco is owned by Mexicano chef Oscar De Loza. Oscar moved to Armenia from L.A. a few years ago and opened Armenia’s first Taquería. The décor and feel of the place is typically Los Angeles/Mexico except it’s in the middle of Yerevan. As soon as I walked into the restaurant without even looking at the menu I immediately ordered a couple of Asada taco’s, a Corona and an Asada burrito. I sat outside accompanied by a rogue street cat with a bottle of Tapatío ready to get a taste of my fist burrito in Yerevan.

The taco was good, the tomatillo salsa was delicious and overall it tasted as close to an L.A. taco as one would get in Yerevan, but sadly the burrito tasted different. It didn’t taste like the burritos I’m used to. The rice was over spiced, something about the Pico De Gallo and beans were off and to top it all off it was wrapped loosely with no heart put into its making. After I was done I went back inside to throw my trash away and I couldn’t help but give the Armenian cook a disappointed look due his nonchalant way of wrapping a burrito. I left a bit disappointed but knew I was unrealistic in my expectations that it would be the same as back home. That’s the boat I’ve been floating on since arriving in Armenia, that “I’m out of my comfort zone” that takes a while to get over.

Sacrificing a good burrito is just one of the “culinary” sacrifices I’ve made since arriving in Armenia. Burritos are definitely not the same here but neither are a lot of vegetables, fruits and protein that I’m used to. The positive side of it all is that I’m sacrificing burritos, sushi and good Thai food for organic food and not just organic by U.S. standards but food that is truly organic by nature’s standards. The fruit and vegetables here actually taste like fruits and vegetables. The meat is delicious and has very little fat due to the cow actually eating grass instead of processed cow meat  and being pumped with hormones and drugs. Even so I’ll admit that the lack of culinary diversity with regards to ingredients that I’m used to is weighing a bit heavily on me. My poor palate is in constant search for familiar things. But this lack of comfort is also a good thing. It’s kicking my creativity in the butt and pushing me into the kitchen with a whole new playing field. I’m finding inspiration in things I wouldn’t have paid nearly as much attention to back home because there’s such an abundance of ingredients to choose from. I’ve realized that I have to take advantage of the fact that I have a blank gastronomical slate in front of me and all I have to worry about is making sure my culinary worlds collide cohesively. In the meantime I’ve gone back to Taco Maco several times and luckily the burritos have gotten better mostly because Oscar has been the one wrapping them with his own hands while he and I yap about L.A. and our love for cooking and Ranchera music. But mostly we talk about our new life in Yerevan and how different the Third World is from the First World and the irony of how much Armenian culture is now running through HIS Chicano veins. The world is a lot smaller and connected than before. At the heart of it for me is food, it’s the connective tissue that makes my life delicious so on that note Viva Burritos, Viva Armenia and Mexico but mostly Viva the new culinary Revolución of my kitchen and of my homeland!

I take a deep breath on this unusually chilly Monday evening in May as I root for the Boston Celtics, who are slowly beating down the Orlando Magic.  The Magic are fighting to keep the series alive. I’m anxious though, I want them to lose so that L.A. and Boston will once again fuel another NBA showdown. The look on the faces of the Orlando players closely resembles the countenance my friends and I wore on our own faces last night. It’s that formidable look in your eyes when something that you’ve invested so much time in slowly slips between your fingers, and out of your hands.

Last night another showdown occurred. It was between the survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 and a Man in Black trying to free his soul. Last night we lost LOST, which by far without sounding dramatic, is the most phenomenal thing I have ever seen on the T.V.  I was not ready to part with the Island. My infamous vegetable stuffing friend Lalig wasn’t either. We glanced at each other consistently while we watched the last episode anticipating and avoiding the end. I can’t lie, it hurt but doesn’t losing always hurt. In moments like this my void is often filled with a single poem, “One Art” by Elizabeth Bishop. I was 20 years old when I first read the poem and its been a constant in my life ever since.

“The art of losing isn’t hard to master;

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn’t hard to master

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster…”

As the poem expresses, loss is a natural part of life. We gain, we lose and we move on.  The city of Los Angeles, and all the appreciative palates within its vicinity recently lost one of the best restaurants in the city, Sona. I summoned Lalig and we made our way over there on the evening of May 7^th, a week before the restaurant’s closing. On our way there I described to her the two grueling nights that I staged in Sona’s kitchen. The things I saw in that intense, seasonally driven kitchen were glorious. A few thousand dollars worth of black truffles at the Garde Manger station, a sexy chef-owner by the name of David Meyers, and a waif thin Japanese Sous Chef who moved so swiftly and smoothly I named her Neo. Yes, it is this Sona, the Michelin starred restaurant whose clean and elegant French cuisine will no longer grace La Cienega Boulevard.

The softly lit Zen dining room with empty concrete walls kept our eyes focused on the food that evening. The minimal plates resembling pieces of art hit our table in perfectly paced waves. Unfortunately, the dim lights were not so good for my camera and being a novice photographer I have yet to learn to get around these moments. The photos came out underexposed but describing food with a lack of visuals is no bueno, so bare with me.

In order to gain the optimal taste that the kitchen had to offer, the Pre Fixe menu was the only road to take. We chose a splendid bottle of Pinot Noir to compliment our dinner.

First to arrive was the amuse bouche, a palate cleansing pineapple gelée with a soy sorbet.  It was followed by a divine piece of toro with Tokyo Negi, a Ponzu zaballone and nori, which was so thinly shaved it disappeared in your mouth like rice paper.

A sous vide Ocean trout with Fiddlhead fern, fava beans, caviar and coriander leaves soon followed. I love Fiddlehead ferns, their bitter taste was a perfect contrast to the sweet coriander and salty caviar.

The Poussin (young chicken) Roulade was next. You could feel the youth of the bird with each tender bite. It was delicious and creepy at the same time. The spicy chorizo marmalade that lay on top of that poor baby bird added a nice smokiness to it.

If enjoying the baby bird wasn’t bad enough, the veal loin and succulent braised veal cheeks gave me a frightening glimpse into my karmic future. This was my second time eating veal and I definitely resisted at first but dove in anyway. Guilt aside, it turned out to be my favorite dish of the night. It was accompanied by a ridiculously mouthwatering Green curry pomme de terre pavé with mustard greens and carrots.

Lastly we had the Alaskan halibut with Pilipino mushrooms and Pea shoots, it was a little bland but the mushrooms made the dish.

Relieved that we weren’t overwhelmed by the savory courses, Lalig and I blissfully welcomed the desserts and petite fours. The first dessert was a sweet and tart, hard-shelled Meyer lemon tube filled with lemon crème, and served with a Muscato gelée, Buddha fruit and ginger ice cream.  The second was a great example that something savory can be sweetened with success. It was a charred eggplant with toasted marshmallow, coco nib ice cream and topped with a Chocolate tuile.

At the center of the petite four’s plate was a cherry-raspberry with a vanilla bean stem. As Lalig said, “it starting off a cherry and ending up a raspberry.” The other mini, sweet bites were a dehydrated chocolate mousse, Pistachio nougat, a Chocolate macaron and an aromatic fennel cake.

David Meyers is a testament that less is more. I’m genuinely saddened by Sona’s closing. Meyers plans to re-open at a different location in 2011, but naturally it won’t be the same. As Lalig and I were finishing our dessert Chef Meyers appeared to our left and graciously introduced himself to us. Lalig and I both got what she described as “that look on your face when a really good- looking man comes up to you.” I told the chef that I was honored to have staged in his kitchen and that we looked foreword to his next venture. He smiled and I took the opportunity to slip him my card. He said he liked the card and I blushed looking down bashfully like a rosy-cheeked culinary groupie.

Reflecting on this past month, life has once again reconfirmed that the “art of losing” is instantaneous and continuous. I lost one of my favorite restaurants as well as a beloved T.V. show that had generated incredibly deep dialogue between my friends and I. On top of everything else, and to my dislike the Magic fought their way back and ended up beating the Celtics in the playoff game. It’s ironic that I hoped the Celtics would win tonight only so I can have the pleasure of watching them loose to the Lakers in the weeks to follow. After all these years I think I finally get Elizabeth Bishop’s point. Loosing is easy. Gaining is thee bona fide challenge of life. We lose sight of that more often than we should. Luckily a simple poem is there to remind us that our lives should be measured by how much we strive to gain in the midst of loosing so lavishly.

Birthdays are funny things. It’s that one-day a year, where self- absorption is excused, the one day where the words “thank you,” seep out of my mouth over and over again. In retrospect, every day is ours, but birthday’s are that one day a year when an inexplicable, great feeling takes over us.  As the years have passed, no longer are trips to Disneyland, Cabbage Patch Dolls or Salt and Peppa tapes a priority. Neither are bars or clubs, nope, these days its all about food.

On my 30th birthday, I woke up at 5 a.m. to be in class by 7 a.m. I was in culinary school and it was the first day of my last class “Production,” with the very sweet and patient, Chef Mike Weller. The cold San Francisco wind slapped my face into adulthood as I left my apartment that morning. I spent the rest of that day in class and the rest of the evening in a glutinous, food and wine haze. That year signified more than a number for me, it was when I inherited a lifestyle that makes me grin from ear to ear. It was when I realized that for the rest of my adult life, my hands were going to be very, very busy. Ever since then, my birthday has turned into a night dedicated to multiple foodgasms.

This year, in continuing this new tradition, I went to dinner with my two lovely ladies Ani and Talin. Ani and Talin are what I refer to as my “Ying and Yang,” Talin is my mind and Ani is my soul. Our destination of choice was The Bazaar, chef José Andrés’ venture into Lala a.k.a. Los Angeles. Chef Andrés is a culinary gift from Spain by way of Washington D.C. He comes from the school of the great culinary god, Ferran Adria of El Bulli. El Bulli and Mr. Adria will be discussed on another occasion, although finding the right words to talk about him might prove difficult. No, today dear reader, we will take a subtle walk through the colorful pathways of The Bazaar.

I say subtle because this was my first trip to The Bazaar, therefore I think its only fair that I reserve passing full judgment on the experience until I’ve gone back at least one more time. So lets think of this as Part 1 of exploring L.A.’s new trip down Molecular Gastronomy lane. We arrived that Sunday evening at the SLS in Beverly Hills, the sleek, butter smooth, Philippe Starck designed hotel that houses The Bazaar. Starck’s design begins from the driveway of the hotel and runs all the down to the depths of the stunning  women’s bathroom. It’s detailed, clean, and has a cold warmth to it.

We were seated in the middle of the Rojo room where waiters and waitresses with electronic devices strapped to their arms ran around like robots. The open kitchen was to the right as a bar laden with charcuterie stared at us from the left. Divided into sections, the menu showcases both old (Blanca) and new (Roja) world Tapas. The choices were abundant, sounded heavenly, and although a bit overwhelmed, this is what we chose…

Our wine of choice was the very delectable Roja Sangria made with a fabulous Tempranillo. We all hummed with wide eyes as we toasted our glasses, the wine was truly wonderful. Plus, Talin is pregnant and there is nothing more beautiful than the site of a pregnant woman with a great glass of wine in her hands. It was a proud moment, our little niece currently tucked safely in her mommy’s tummy, got her first taste of Molecular Gastronomy. The parallel being that both she and this movement in food signify the future.

The Seared Piquillo Peppers stuffed with Goat Cheese were first to arrive and a good start. The warm and silky pepper was a perfect backdrop for my favorite cheese.

The second to arrive were the Ottoman Carrot Fritters with Pistachio sauce. Seemingly a dabbling in Turkish food, these deep fried fritters were crispy yet textural and tasted like a carrot donut. The pistachio sauce gave a creamy and almost bitter contrast that worked well.

The creamy Egg & Cauliflower Custard with its minimal presentation, had a soothing taste & texture.

The parpadelle resembling Apple and Fennel salad with Manchego cheese, walnuts, and Cave vinegar was a good palate cleanser.

Next, the Cotton Candy Foie Gras floated onto our table. One of the restaurants most popular dishes, the lollipops consisted of foie gras, coated with chili, and wrapped in corn chip cotton candy. The taste of the liver reminded me of a creamy terrine as the taste of the corn from the cotton candy slowly faded to the back of my mouth. It was just as good as I imagined it to be.

Yummy Sweet Potato chips with a dip made from Greek yogurt foam, tamarind reduction, and star anise. Chips and Dip in a Four Star restaurant couldn’t have been better.

Tuna Toro Nigiri with watermelon, wasabi, jalapeño, and a Soy foam, I loved the idea of it but the fish could have been fresher that day.

The achingly tender Braised Veal Cheeks were cooked sous vide and served with California orange segments. The Philly, which melted in our mouths was a reinterpretation of the classic sandwich. The “Air bread” was filled with molten white cheddar and topped with seared Wagyu beef and a shower of scallions and sea salt.

For dessert we were taken to the open spaced Patisserie, which is adjacent to the lobby. After reading all the decadent dessert choices, we chose the Nitro Coconut Floating Island. The coconut cream takes on the texture of a meringue sans the egg whites with the help of Liquid Nitrogen. The banana’s on bottom were coated with caramel and chocolate, the meringue was nice, I like the way it dissolved at first bite, leaving a strong taste of coconut behind.

Talin, Ani and I had a beautiful and much needed night of reminiscing, bonding and laughing. We’re of the age now where marriage and children have given way to the crazy nights of debauchery we experienced throughout our 17 years together.

The restaurant has been open for over a year, and for some odd reason I held back from going there for a long time. My foodie friends were always baffled as to why of all people I had not yet allowed my palate to absorb Chef Andrés’ creations. I have no answer except maybe subconsciously I was scared that it would disappoint me.  Since having moved back to L.A. it’s been somewhat of a challenge readjusting to this city’s food trends, San Francisco spoiled me greatly. I look foreword to coming back and walking down the paths of The Bazaar. I’m happy to say that I was not disappointed and that my palate did experience a beautiful waltz that night. Yet another beautiful culinary memory has danced its way to the corners of my mind.