A Tip of the Cup to Cusp

It would be easy to think that Cusp Dining & Drinks starts off with two strikes. First, it's atop the Hotel La Jolla, and there's that old rule: the better the restaurant's view, the less good they figure the food needs to be. Given this view is La Jolla in all it's San Diegan splendor--it almost looks a bit wild out there!--and, if you time it right, that big ole ball of sun dumping into the Pacific at dinner, they could probably serve you sawdust burgers and you'd still leave with a smile on your face. Second, it's a hotel restaurant, and too often they cater to a captive audience they assume doesn't want anything too adventurous; after all their lazy diners can't even bother to leave the hotel for a meal. (C'mon people, see the sights!) At least they miss the easy third strike and avoided the curse of cutesy alliteration and didn't name the place Cusp Cuisine and Cocktails.

The good news is that if anybody can hit it out of the park when behinds in the count, it's Cusp. (How un-Padre of them!) (Sorry, cheap shot, I know.) That began with Dennis, our very professional server. Just enough smile, just enough polish, just enough knowledge, just perfect timing. That kind of thing. Gracious.

Well, actually, the space itself probably came before even Dennis. The eleventh floor as you descend to La Jolla shores in a room of all windows and a great grate on the opposite wall, and banquets set a bit higher, and music there but not THERE--it's a very pleasing place to be, a tad retro but also a bit timeless, because what else is the best retro but forever?

To save both my time and yours, I'm not going to do a blow-by-blow, so will, alas, not lavish enticing descriptors on the Oaxacan Sunset cocktail (a Mezcal-starring reinvention of the Margarita), or on the appetizers that appetized (a fried calamari that avoided cliche by laying aside a romesco sauce) or the dessert (apple fritter that was more a donut stuffed with a still pretty crunchy apple round--very clever).

No, I want to talk lamb, which you can see above. Usually the "serve it on something other than a plate" bit seems precious to me, but the black slate really worked, especially since that salsa verde was so blissfully thick. The meat was juicy yet coated with a good crunch and redolent with fresh rosemary and tarragon and lots of black pepper. The vegetables were more than an afterthought, a sprinkle of grilled corn to make it all the more summer (the seasonal menu had just kicked in the weekend we were there) and the squash a fine counter-point in flavor and texture. And if you're wondering, I sure did use my fingers to get each last nibble to the bone.

A San Diego Trail Blais-er

Like no doubt most of you, I don't want to be one of those people. For instance, when I do go to a regular supermarket (and just by making that distinction you know more about me than you need to), it's stunningly clear the checkout aisle magazines are not for me. I do not know who any of these people are, the ones on the covers we're all supposed to be so worried about (are they too skinny, fat, unloved, overloved, under-pregnant, a Duggar?). "Celebrity" culture makes little sense to me. OK, I'd probably get tongue-tied in the presence of an Elizabeth Warren or a Brian Eno, but again, there you go.

All this is prelude to say, the title celebrity chef doesn't mean too much to me, unless said chef can bring the bona fides. It might not hurt if he's endearingly self-doubting and it looks like he's used a trick of molecular gastronomy to make his hair stand up just so. Of course I'm talking about Richard Blais, winner of Top Chef: All Stars but probably more importantly not-winner of season 4. Everybody loves a redemption story, and the man came back and did it.

So when I heard he'd opened a place in San Diego, I wanted to go. It took a year, but we got to Juniper & Ivy recently and in short, he's running an amazing place, even if he wasn't in sight that night--a recent Eater interview suggested "Richard, Anthony [Wells, chef de cuisine] and I [Jon Sloan, executive chef] aren't on the line, we're coming up with the dishes and our staff's executing it."

That quote isn't precise, though--they're killing it. We hadn't had a meal so tasty, clever, and inventive in a long time, and we do a lot of good eating. It starts with the space, surprisingly large (seats 300), but spread out over levels and zones, so things end up intimate anyway. The staff is surprisingly young (especially the "should they be out on a school night?" hostesses) but well-trained and professional. At one point a guy next to us bumped his knife off his table and a server practically picked it up before it hit the floor. Even better, it wasn't that table's server; it's kind of a professional swarm that appears when needed, yet doesn't hover. People who can describe the menu, and make you want everything.

The menu is split up into Snacks, Raw, Pasta, Toast, Small Plates, Plates, and if you turn it upside-down, Last Chance (aka dessert). Wines are on the back, split by red and white, but also by Tried & True and Leap of Faith (and there's Special Acquisitions for the high rollers, and I assume some La Jollans love to splurge). Despite, wait, because we wanted everything, we decided to build a meal out of as many Small Plates or smaller as we could. And despite seeing our knife-dropping neighbors get amazing-looking (and soon clean, so probably amazing tasting) bigs of Alaskan halibut and beef shortrib, we didn't regret.

For example, consider the raw razor clams. I've never had a clam that tender, that melt in your mouth. And its seemingly odd accompaniment of oro blanco grapefruit (perfect citrus zip), raspberry (clever color and an acid on its way to sweet), and white Swiss chard (cooked but providing the plate's chew, too) all made for a series of angles totally complementary.

A toast on some serious, tasty bread might seem the most typical of dishes--isn't this just dressed up bruschetta?--was nonetheless dressed in unique style. Green tomatoes (a perfect promise of summer coming), burrata (in all its creamy goodness), and ice wine verjus (since just regular wine verjus is so passe already).

English pea captured winter into spring on a plate, as the peas where paired with some garbanzos, too, and mint (even when being inventive, classics are classics folks, and that's a sign for Blais form follows flavor), but also green hummus for depth. And then what's billed as feta snow, perhaps blasted with liquid nitro to get suitably cold, but a vivid way to concentrate the cheese and chill the entire plate.

Then there was the molcajete (yeah, things all came served unusual--lots of boards, etc.) with Orchard Morels. As if the mushrooms' own fabulous funk wasn't enough (perhaps there's dried morel in the sauce alongside the fresh? just a guess), the dish features "burnt bread," too, that makes you think maybe a kitchen disaster got rescued one night when someone over-toasted the toast. That char and crunch is everything in this dark dish, laced with some chevre and adorned with "onion glass"--think onion sliced membrane thin, then made into something like brittle. Sure, it looks cool, but it provides a sharp onion shock with a minimum of material.

Finally, my dear sweet pescatarian wife let me order one small all my own--foie gras and duck confit terrine. It was my first foie since the ban lifted, and while I had a soft spot for the luscious liver, I forgot how much I missed it until the first taste of this incredible dish hit my tongue. With the vein of confit running through it to add a bass note, it couldn't be better, especially when you scooped a bit of the quenelle of mustard ice cream with it. Yep, you heard right, and it wasn't just frozen mustard, this just-a-touch sweet custard. A dish to prove there is no too rich, if people make things right, and then give you some caraway rye bread to devour it all upon.

Sure, there were fine cocktails, and a Leap of Faith white 2013 Alain Graillot Crozes-Hermitage, because if you want to blend Marsanne and Roussanne well for me, I will say oui. (And then stop trying to say anything else in French, promise.) We didn't have room for any Last Chance, even after we had run in a 15K earlier that morning.

We left delighted, sated, provoked, pleased. That Blais really is a top chef.

A San Diego Saturday

Of course that title means a day of playing taps in the best sense, as SD has the best beer scene in the country. Look one direction, count slowly to ten, turn around, and there will now be a microbrewery behind you, where there wasn't one prior. It's a kind of malty magic.

Here's what you can do in a day and still wake up and do something somewhat similar the next, all without spending all your money or risking a DUI, which will make you spend all your money. It involves a lot of walking, so be ready for that. Begin at Tiger! Tiger! in North Park, where it is easy to park. The place, especially mid-afternoon, is quite laid-backed, even more than its sister bar Blind Lady Alehouse, and hanging out back in the container-carved out porch is certainly a pleasant way to pass the time. If you're lucky there will be Automatic Ale on tap (they make it themselves at T!T! and BLAH--you've got to abbreviate well to be a fine drinking establishment, it seems), and if you're not, there will be plenty of other fine things. We opted to start slow, with nothing too ABVed--a Craftsman Point Five that did session beers proud and a Noble Big Whig IPA that could be a poster child for what a balanced West Coast IPA should be (that is not an oxymoron). Yeah, we kick-off a San Diego beerfest with brews from Pasadena and Anaheim, we're perverse like that. But most importantly, these were beers we don't get in our still sleepy hamlet, enough out of reach of too much Southern CA distribution, it seems.

Next come the walking portion of the day's program, as we hiked ourselves all over town to University Heights and Small Bar. Which it is. Gothed up a bit but in that friendly we serve good food and beer way. People even had their doggies on the patio. What's not to like? It's got a rep for cocktails, plus one of those brunch Bloodys that comes with all kinds of stuff hanging off it, but we weren't there for brunch and didn't want to get so plastered what had to stay for Sunday's. Again, we enjoyed beers--Double Mountain Hop Lava, Rip Current Black Tide IPA, and and Alesmith/Cigar City Ramblin' Rye American Strong Ale. After the walk, we wanted to get some more serious hops on, and did. Plus, I'm pretty sure Rip Current is my new favorite brewery. I had had their Lupulin Lust before (and promise it was love, not just a carnal desire), had their Rip Current Imperial the night before (it's up there with Pure Hoppiness and Pliny the Elder, I'd say), and now they made me really like a black IPA, too. Another big plus for Small Bar, bleu fries, but don't eat them until you've had some fun with the jukebox that even has Big Star on it. We were living large in Small Bar, to say the least.

And then it was time for the hike back, and we figured let's take Adams Ave., which would be a different route and probably more scenic too. It got really scenic only a few blocks in, as I spied a door open to an establishment with available pool tables, and I felt for sure I was close to beerquilibrium for pool. The spot is called The Lancers, evidently been around since the 1970s, and you can play pool for 50 cents per. All the beer is bottled, but what bottles--they had Russian River Pliny the Elder, in its usual bomber, for $7. Heck, I think I pay practically that for it at Whole Foods, if I ever find it at Whole Foods (I'm rarely fast enough). This was great billiards.

The walk wasn't bad, and my dear wife was willing to keep drinking less or not at all, so she got us to our next stop, a very non-Italian location in Little Italy. Craft & Commerce is the kind of place that seems to need a + and not a &--very hiply styled, with recycled wood and exposed elements, and books everywhere and tile and, well, lots of lots. But despite a hankering for cool that could lead to douchery, it instead was plenty comfortable with very pleasant servers, so much so our waiter when we got a table turned out to be the very same guy who took our order back at Tiger! Tiger! hours before. Hi, Anthony! You're great--friendly, attentive, helpful, not pissed we figured out a way to order as little as possible for dinner and still sate ourselves (yep, right there on their front porch). We spent all of $13--total--for food. You see they do these buttermilk biscuits filled with herby, savory goodness, as big as scones but as light as good scones, too. You get some some preserves and a spicy cheese fondue for dipping. This is fine ballast. And then we got and shared the generous Craft salad of heirloom greens, heirloom carrots, pea sprouts, french breakfast radish, in a zippy and wisely not poured on ginger miso dressing.

We were truly full, especially after I had two drinks, Chryss one. We eschewed the punch bowls as we were not "several ladies and gentleman" [sic], but did enjoy both items under both "Shaken & Refreshing" and Stirred & Direct." In the former category we tried a Mexican Fire Drill (jalapeño-infused tequila, pineapple, lime, demerara, smoked salt) and a Giddy Up! (Islay scotch, meletti amaro, orgeat, lemon, angostura bitter), in the latter a DiMaggio (rye whiskey, amaro montenegro, demerara, absinthe). I'm the one with the amaro fetish, especially as a cocktail ingredient--if you want some amazing bass notes, bring the amaro. All three did exactly what they should in perfect proportions; they all became a drink, a new wonderful thing of quality components. Much elegance. And for $11 for chi-chi cocktails, that' practically a bargain, these gouging days.

To finish up, it was time to park the car where we'd be sleeping, and we headed to Pacific Beach. (Thanks Roger and Judy for the fine digs!) PB is an odd place, very much a beach town of smoke shops, tattoo parlors, and too many too young too loud thinking that's too fun, so you really need to pick your spots. One we like is simply called The Tap Room, a hint to its unfrilly charms. Again, very pleasant help who know stuff about the beers and want to know if you like what you're drinking. Chryss enjoyed a refreshing Societe The Publican, a hoppy pale ale (yep, one of those that blurs the lines between PA and IPA, insisting there's no "i" in pale ale). I had two, again, of course: a Taproom Seven Deadly Sins (for their seventh anniversary), an imperial stout made by Modern Times. You could commit many sins in its delicious darkness. And then, after all those sins, I closed with an Alesmith Horny Devil, brilliantly Belgian and a chance for too many puns I will only regret.

I Got Younger and Younger

Turns out I blogged too soon, and with another attempt at it, I ended up with a whistle wet with Pliny the Younger after all. The sublime Blind Lady Ale House in San Diego--which exists in the brilliantly named neighborhood Normal Heights (that's a goal for life if anything is)--pre-sells their Pliny allotment. Through Brown Paper Tickets, which doesn't charge too much extra and gives a bit of that back to charity, too. That's where BLAH's profits went also (oh, and they call themselves BLAH even if they're anything but), to a literacy group called Room to Read. So it was all win-win.

Especially when at 6 pm the Friday night the tickets went on sale my purchase sailed (saled?) through flawlessly. That meant we had to be at BLAH Sunday, March 10 between 11 am and 12 noon, get checked off the list, and get our tickets for a .25L glass of Pliny the Younger and a .25L glass of Pliny the Elder. People really seem to be into the mini-flight presentation of Pliny this year. I like people. You can see our tickets at this entry's heading.

We did have a tiny bit of a problem, end-of-the-alphabeters that we are. They really wanted to be sure no one bought multiple drinks for him or herself (it was about 65% guy/35% gal if you were wondering--the cult of hops definitely leans male), so I went back in and changed the name of my wife's ticket to be under her own name. And it seems Y-o, coming after Y-a, also pushed her off the list onto a new page...they forgot to print. So we had a teeny-tiny "don't tell me this is going to go wrong" moment, but they let us both in and BLAH owner Lee Chase himself very kindly helped sort stuff out. As you can tell from the photo, all's well that ends with beer.

Is Younger worth all the fuss? It is a sublime beer (it's on the right, Elder on the left). Stick your nose over your glass and it seems like you have walked into a pine forest, that much lovely resiny hops hit you. I almost would be happy just sniffing the stuff all day. The taste is the same, rounded with floral notes. Russian River manages the balance impeccably, though, especially for a beer at 11% ABV. It seems nowhere that strong, lacking any alcohol spank at the back of the throat like some double and triple IPAs. Instead, its flavor lingers for a good thirty seconds like a fine wine. I drank it first, the Elder second, and it took the Elder about half the glass to assert itself as the brilliant beer it is; it's kind of like, "Yeah, Kelly Hogan, you sing great, but you need to back-up Neko Case, ok?"

So, is it worth the fuss? Depends upon how much fuss you want in your life, I guess. It's certainly cheaper and easier to get (if you don't mind a drive and some planning) than landing some Screaming Eagle Cab, say.

Even better, in addition to getting the original beer for your $15, you got a raffle ticket. You could buy more tickets for $5, so of course we did (for literacy!). Then they started pulling numbers, and each time the digits got close my Pliny-loving-heart skipped a beat. Keep pulling glasses, I thought. And they did, and did, and perhaps the fifth to last one was one of my tickets. So I got to have it all again.

The food's mighty good at BLAH, too, thick cut Belgian style frites with three excellent dipping sauces (all ketchup needs curry, evidently) are particularly useful for soaking up beer. And the pizzas are delightful, very thin crust yet crust with taste, and toppings like Bordeaux spinach. Plus the regular beer list always rocks, too--a Craftsman Cave Art managed to seamlessly blend a smoked beer and a sour, and that was mighty new and delicious.

You'd Be a Turkey to Pass the Pork in These Buns

Sure there was turkey this weekend, but then there were also delectable these, the steamed pork buns from The Neighborhood in San Diego. I promise they don't really glow red--that's just the odd lighting from the red ball on the table in the dark room--but they do leave the person who devours them with a pleasing glow, both from their rich deliciousness and the Sriracha. And then there's the stunning fact they bring out three of them, as if you'd eat three regular burgers, which is what they more appear to be than steamed buns. For while the dough is steamed-bun soft and chewy, it's sliced, not stuffed. So that means you might have a rogue wild mushroom, expertly cooked, sneak out of the sandwich on you. Or, preferably, on your plate. And you will pick it up and eat it, every last bit. As for the pork, it's perfectly tender and rich from it's soy and apple cider braising, perched on the exact spot you want the sweet/sour teeter-totter to be.

If you need more balance, of course, The Neighborhood offers more fine beer than one can drink in an evening, but you certainly can't go wrong enjoying a Russian River IPA with these buns--the hops sharpness playing off the pork richness in a magnificent sensual symphony.