First Restaurant Review: El Compadre (Hollywood).

 

[This marks my first ever restaurant review.  Stick with me; it’s all over the place.]

This past Sunday morning, I woke up half-hazy from the night before (Hollywood, DJ Steffi, lots of Belvedere on the rocks).  Since I never seem to sleep well after going dumb the night before, I woke up around 10:00 a.m. (after going to bed at 5:00 a.m.) and couldn’t go back to sleep.  So, I shot a quick text to my friend Scott to inform him that he wanted to exercise with me.  Thirty minutes later, Scott and I were on the train to Hollywood to hike Runyon Canyon. 

[SIDEBAR:  This hike marked only the second time in all of my visits to Runyon that I did not see Dane Cook running the trails.  A part of me is beginning to miss him.]

After the hike, Scott and I discussed our collective hankering for Mexican food.  Since the hiking trail let us off right on Hollywood Blvd (and we hate tourists), we headed south to Sunset to seek out provisions.  As soon as we hit Sunset, an old friend of mine from Indianapolis (who just recently relocated to Los Angeles) ran right past me with his iPod on.  At first, he didn’t recognize me because he has not seen me since I started rocking the “Tom Hanks:  ‘Cast Away’” haircut.  I was eventually able to stop him and we conversed.  During the convo, my friend gave me a tip on a nearby Mexican spot that he frequents.  Shortly after parting ways with my long lost comrade Scott and I started down Sunset toward El Compadre Mexican Restaurant.

As soon as we walked up in the spot, I almost fell on my face.  It was so dark inside the restaurant that I did not see the step up from the front door.  After almost smashing my face coming through the entrance, a staff member came to show Scott and me to our table…and I nearly broke my neck for a second time in 60 seconds because I did not see the decline ramp leading from the foyer back down to the dining room level.

[SIDEBAR:  I am not a clumsy person.  I am a lifelong athlete and consider myself to be quite coordinated and agile.  I just struggled with the lighting in the restaurant because it was incredibly sunny outside and extremely dim inside.  Since I did not have time to let my eyes adjust to being indoors before being shown to our table, I nearly paralyzed myself…twice…in 60 seconds.] 

Seconds after sitting down, fresh tortilla chips and salsa were distributed and our drink orders were promptly taken.  I unfolded my menu and immediately began double-fisting chips and salsa.  As I was shoveling fistfuls of chips and salsa into my mouth, I noticed that Deryck Whibley from Sum 41 was sitting in the booth next to us.  That would have been worth mentioning back in 2006.  I would have taken a pic for this entry, but as you already know the lighting was poor-and since iPhones take bad pictures in perfect illumination, getting anything useable in El Compadre’s murky interior was highly improbable.

The other reason I didn’t take a picture of Deryck is because it’s not 2006.

Back to the food...

It is important to note that El Compadre may have the best chips and salsa that I have ever had in my lifetime.  The chips were fresh and crisp.  The salsa was more soupy than chunky (just like I like it) and packed a pleasant punch of radiating heat.  It is also important to notate that the salsa might be considered too hot for beginners and fans of ‘Twilight.’  But, if you mess with the spicy stuff, you are in for a treat.  Scott and I crushed three baskets of chips and nearly four cups of salsa before our entrées even arrived.

The restaurant did not seem particularly busy for 12:30 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon, but the food did seem to take a while.  Though I try, I am not a patient man (…boy).  Although, I was less impatient on this occasion because the chips and salsa were so life-altering.

When the food arrived, a fried chicken burrito (sans sour cream and guacamole, per my specifications) was placed in front of me.  It was effectively a chimichanga (shredded chicken and cheese inside a fried flour tortilla and topped with red sauce and even more shredded cheese).  Spanish rice and refried beans came on the side.

I put on my game face and got to business.

Sadly, the chicken smelled and tasted like it was cooked on Saturday, spent the night in a bucket of water at room temperature, and reheated in a microwave for my tasting pleasure on Sunday.  After my initial foray into the burrito, I gagged back a few more bites just to make certain that I was officially having the nastiest burrito of my career.  After the 4^th bite I gave Scott the official confirmation and laid the thing to rest.

The Spanish rice smelled like mop water and yet somehow had no taste whatsoever.

The refried beans were satisfactory in every way.

 

I found the staff at El Compadre to be pleasantly attentive and polite.

I found their chips and salsa to be remarkable-so much so that Scott and I each ate them to the point of extreme discomfort.

I found their chicken to be similar in many ways to road kill.

But, this place has that good crushed ice that makes everyone happy (these things matter).

Overall, I would give them a 6.8.  Everything was good except for my entrée (and maybe the rice).  My love for Mexican food makes me want to give this place a second run with a different entrée…and maybe on a Saturday.

El Compadre Mexican Restaurant

7408 West Sunset Boulevard

Los Angeles, CA

 (323) 874-7924

If you are in Hollywood and looking for Mexican fare, maybe pop in.  If you do, send us a message and let us know what you thought.  Just don’t get the chicken (on Sundays).

Quite possibly the perfect place to spend a relaxing afternoon the next time your optometrist dilates your pupils.

You’re welcome,

-@WordsByTodd  (Follow Me!)

Over (2-16-2010)

Getting Your (insert noun) on.  I saw this ad on a bus stop in North Hollywood this week.  Once the people handling the “Smokey The Bear” ad account align with a catch phrase, it’s a pretty good idea to sprint in the opposite direction. 

I am a fan of Chelsea Lately.  And, considering how unapologetic and progressive her show is, I am shocked to see that she still allows her promo tagline to be “Get Your Chelsea On.”  Really?  How can she make fun of other people for their shortcomings while sporting that tagline?  Either way, as of today (or as of 1998, depending on where you live) no one is getting their anything on any longer.  Agreed?  Agreed.

Mr. T impressions.  We know, you pity the foo’. In 1978, we did too. 

Pouring out liquor to your dead homies.  Given the meteoric popularity rise of African-American culture in the 1990’s, thanks to films like “Boyz N The Hood,” it was permissible for several years thereafter for White people to make ironic jokes about pouring out liquor to their dead homies.  That ended.   When I saw Dave Duchovny doing this in a “Californication” rerun a few months ago, I winced in embarrassment.  That show is too good, and this gesture it too old.

Blow-up sex dolls.  I am just ready for people to be ready to be over these kinds of cheap jokes.  If executed in the perfect situation by the proper personnel this could still play, but it’s safe for everyone to move forward assuming that you and your situation do not fit those criteria.

Clapping in restaurants when a staff member drops something.  First, it isn’t funny.  Second, they are trying as hard as they can.  Third, they hate their jobs enough already.  Ninth, who the hell are you?  You’re a dumbass, and we all know you’re a dumbass-so stop acting like you never make mistakes.  Remember your Von Dutch hat?  So do we.  Stop clapping.

Olive garden commercials.  I don’t generally watch commercials because I DVR everything in an effort to bypass stupid commercials such as these and make my obsessive TV watching 20% more efficient.  But, occasionally I will catch a live program and every time I do, I seem to end up suffering through the horror of an Olive Garden commercial. 

First, I can’t help but think I could be an Advertising executive when I see how atrocious the creative is on this account.  It can’t be that hard to cast bad actors and have them recite unfortunate copy in the most cheese-dick way possible.  Why I am not an overpaid/underachieving ad exec again?

After all of the scriptwriting, casting, acting and directing went straight to hell, they could have at least hired a good voice-over talent to handle the tag lines…but no.

Dear Olive Garden, is there any way I could get you to hand your advertising account over to me and a couple of dudes I know?  We kinda sorta know a little about writing, producing, editing and voice acting.  What we don’t know, I am somewhat confident we might be able to learn.  In any event, I am sure we could produce equally dreadful promos for your company, and at a twentieth of the cost of your current agency.  If interested, hit me up at WordsByTodd@Gmail.com.  I don’t have a phone, but I will get back to you as soon as I see an email.  Let me know. 

OG, if you dudes want to see a cover letter first...well I just happen to have a few of mine online. 

The Disney vault.   Some things are so lame that it makes me grit my teeth.  This is one of those things.  I wish these bastards would make one literal version of a promo where they explain that they are going to start withholding copies of their films for years at a time in an effort to create artificial demand.  And, that no copy of any movie of theirs will ever be “gone forever.”      

“Are you ready for some football?”  Yes, I am.  I just hate when you put this as your Facebook status before the season starts.  It is not original.  It is not cute.  It IS annoying.

 

Breaking wood planks with your Martial Arts.  Not gonna lie, Suuuuuuper dope when Karate Kid came out in 1984.  The only issue is, it’s 2010.  Regretfully, I saw a guy doing this on the Ellen DeGeneres show a couple of weeks ago.  C’mon White people...

  

Michael Buffer and getting ready to rumble.  Michael, everyone hates you.  But, if they’re dumb enough to pay-it only makes cents to continue to cash their checks.  It’s just important that while you are cashing the checks you know that we all wish something semi-serious would happen to you and your vocal chords, thereby rendering you unable to speak.  Ever again.

Further, it is my personal feeling that anyone involved with any of the Jock Jams albums should be forced to move to Siberia or face public stoning (Technotronic , Rob Base & DJ E-Z Rock, Notorious B.I.G., Puffy, and Deborah Cox are excluded, of course).

Making a “record scratch” motion and sound effect when someone talks about DJing.   Unfortunately, I have been a DJ for years and have consequently run into this on an incalculable amount of occasions.  I have a sneaking suspicion that people do this for my benefit.  Quick note, it does not make me like you.  In fact, it makes me want to stab you in the neck with the nearest writing utensil.

Thermometers that represent some sort of numeric goal and are progressively filled in with red marker to symbolize progress.  Twenty more boxes of cookies and it looks like you will break the National Girl Scout record!  PS – we would all understand just as clearly if you didn’t put the bulb at the bottom of the thermometer drawing.  What a waste of perfectly good red Sharpie.

These things matter. 

Please spread this around. 

We really need to start taking action.

You’re welcome,

-Words

Toddy Chesney: On A Steel Horse I Ride.

There have been a lot of emails rolling in about last week’s “Drinking” blog.  Thank you for those emails (and the one death threat).  Even as brilliant as the piece was, none of the emails were in regard to the subject matter “Drinking” tackled.  Instead, all of the emails inquired about the reference to my alter ego, “Toddy Chesney.”

I figured I would shed some light on the guy.

Toddy Chesney started on a serendipitous day back in 2006.  I was living in Indianapolis then and I somehow let a couple of my friends convince me to attend Indiana’s State Fair.  Since “a couple of my friends” means “a girl I was trying to bed” I agreed.  I had always been resistant to the idea of the Indiana State Fair because rednecks, tractors and livestock are not really my scene.  In an attempt to make the best of it, I rounded up my old cowboy hat and set out to impress (schtup) my lady friend.

Seven friends, four mozzarella sticks, three mixed drinks, one hay ride, two goldfish, one corn-on-the-cob, 76 digital pictures, and one amateur rodeo later, “Toddy Chesney” was born.

[SIDEBAR:  For some reason, I get really pissed off when girls (who are not “Country” in the least) go out and buy cowboy hats before they attend the one and only Country music concert of their lifetimes.  Something about it just feels so corny.  I am also not “Country” in the least, but I am giving myself a pass on owning a cowboy hat since 1) I bought it as a Halloween costume and because 2) I wear it less in the name of acceptance and more in the names of humor and consummation.]

Prior to surfacing 1/23/2010, “Big Chez” had not made an appearance since his inception in 2006.  Being that I was attending friend’s birthday party 1/23/2010, I wanted to take my game up a notch (to notch two)---thus, I donned the hat. 

When my friends showed up at my apartment for Cocktail Kickoff hour and saw me sporting a Stetson they almost went home.  I received threats during the entire cocktail hour that if I wore “the hat” out of my apartment that night my friends would call the whole thing off.  60 minutes and a few shots of vodka later, everyone was so worried about leaving to get to the bar that no one realized I snuck out of my apartment with “the hat” still intact.

I had it figured this way:  We go out a lot and the action is hit and miss.  I hoped stepping out in a ridiculous hat would at least be a possible conversation starter (and trust, a conversation is all “Toddy Chesney” needs to start another amateur rodeo).

Standing in line outside the bar two Saturdays ago I was feeling good.  People outside were telling me they loved the hat (and not in a “he’s really a d-bag and we’re going to be making fun of him as soon as he turns around” sort of way.  I can sense these things).  I felt amazing and my spirit was riding high…until we made it inside.  Because NOTHING EVER goes my way, the only open table was in the back of the bar...RIGHT NEXT TO THE ONLY OTHER GUY IN LOS ANGELES THAT WORE A COWBOY HAT OUT THAT NIGHT (because Bret Michaels was out of town).  Immediately, my entire group of friends started pointing and laughing at me.  I Told You So’s started rolling in faster than…something that’s really fast. 

I was actually proud of how I shrugged off the embarrassment. 

The other guy’s hat was white and my hat was black (it was a lot like the “Friends” episode wear Joey sells cologne.   A showdown).  I figured there was room enough for both of us in the bar. 

“Blanco” apparently figured differently. 

As soon as Blanco saw me, he and his friend stood up and sprinted for the door.  At that point, I knew it was gonna be on and subsequently crackin’ because I was the only hat in town.  Moreover, I was taller, thinner, more funny, and better looking than Blanco.

Now, free of all other cowboy hats, we ordered the first round and beganst to get it popping. 

Soon, I was all over the bar drinking, telling jokes, and doing what I now refer to as “the move.”  It’s where Toddy Chesney (Yes, I am now referring to myself in the ninth person) uses his index finger to pop the front bill of his cowboy hat up so you can see his mysterious eyes.

It worked.

Well.

Two hours after our arrival at the bar, Ice Man, Slider and me were all engaged in combat (it was what I call a “target-rich environment”).  The interesting thing about my conversation is that the young lady I was conversing with had told me an hour earlier that she was not drinking because she was her party’s designated driver for the evening.  One hour later, this woman was on her third glass of wine, wearing my cowboy hat and asking me if I was in possession of several pieces of football equipment that I now believe to have been euphemisms for sex acts.

I’d say the hat played.

(“Face” @allofmyfriendswhodidn’tbelieveinToddyChesney).

As you know from last week’s blog, I didn’t go home with the woman who was pursuing me.  I am too hard to get.  Instead, I fulfilled my friend responsibilities and 1) took the drunken birthday girl to breakfast, 2) handed her off to her roommate for safe keeping and 3) hit on a gorgeous Spanish girl at the breakfast spot who will probably never call me.

[SIDEBAR:  Does anyone ever go out with anyone?  As evidenced by my most recent night out, it feels like I am never interested in the women who make advances toward me.  Meanwhile, the women I ask out are never interested in me.  It feels like we’re all just in limbo.  How do people ever get a date these days?  Online dating?  Shameless.]

So, that was a little background on, and some of the goings-on in the life of, my alter ego.

It’s really anyone’s guess as to when Toddy Chesney will ever ride again.

Regardless, I can’t wait to saddle up for another round.

ReTweet,

-The Chez



[Author's Note: I do not even know one Kenny Chesney song.  Points will be awarded to the first five people to post K.C. song titles that you think I should download.  Get on it.]