I could blather on endlessly about my newly begun love affair with 2nd Ave Deli in New York and the funny, friendly, uber-competent staff there, but I will leave that mash note for the upcoming book. I will though launch up a couple of pictures of Sayed’s intricate food sculptures which live in the deli cases right next to the macaroni salad and roast chickens. Ge’oni.
A couple of weeks ago I went down to Gearhart, Oregon for my beloved friend Chris’s 50th birthday party. This was a hot damn fun party, i.e. dancing like crazed teenagers doing the African Anteater Dance to Peter Frampton (yes, you can dance to “Do You Feel Like We Do”) and eating (no surprise as Chris is a chef) fantastic Mexican fare.
Then there was the house that Chris rented for the party. Probably circa early 1900′s, shingled and properly weathered, looking like what a beach house should look like. It sits plopped smack dab in the middle of Gin Ridge—origin of name obvious. The inside is littered with family mementos and trinkets that all had an intriguing providence. But the highlight of this house was the dining room. It was a ’40s fantasy of pink. I kept up looking for my Grandmother Leona to step out of the kitchen with a dish of German sausage and some lemon bars.
This room made me goofy happy. Of course the gorgeous birthday cake acting as the ultimate pink dining room accessory helped a bit.
Somewhere towards the end of the last century, I was somewhere between my second and third decade. This was back in the day when, if my friends and I wanted to take a vacation, we just quit our jobs. There were no mortgages, children, pets or twitter to weigh us down, and one of us always seemed to have a working credit card.
During these years, my friend Amy and I would drive the 10 freeway east from Los Angeles heading to 29 Palms and Joshua Tree. There would usually be two stops along the way. First stop: Claremont, where we would check in at our friend Nick’s Cafe Trevi. After a little infusion, we’d get back on the road until we came to the super-sized metropolis of Cabazon—population 2,000 or so humans and 2 whopping dinosaurs.
Over the years, and many stops to pay homage to Dinny and Rex—Amy and I decided that if we ever had our own businesses (to note: we had probably just quit another job to take the trip we were on), we would name these businesses in honor of Cabazon.
Though the mythical Cabazon Films never came to pass, both Cabazon Design (my design studio) and Cabazon Books (the publishing entity for eat.shop) are actual functioning entities. Miraculous.