Tag Archives: Downtown L.A.
Bottega Louie
2 Jul
Never in my life has waiting for a table for 50 minutes been so enjoyable. The casual elegance of Bottega Louie and it’s Downtown Los Angeles location make it a hipsters paradise. When we arrived at 8pm, we quickly registered our names with the hostess, were told it would be thirty to forty minutes and so quickly proceeded to the bar. The restaurant/patisserie/gourmet market, with lofty ceilings and white-washed walls, exposes everything. The cooks can be seen behind pellucid glass – chopping the onions, preparing Capreze, stuffing the artichoke; while distant ovens advertise fire cooked Italian pizzas. The crowd is eclectic. Charming in its fashionable sensibility, a conglomerate of the high-end and casual; t-shirts and jeans, short shorts and low tops aka club gear, colorful eccentric vintage and designer suits. There are no rules (especially in L.A., especially Downtown L.A.). On the shelves in the Gourmet market, I find Squid Ink spaghetti, canned Octopus and a variety of imported goods. Though the Bottega is largely Italian, it’s patisserie and comestible fare speaks to its European neighbor, France. While I sip my Vodka in the shop, a waitress offers a complimentary appetizer of delectable white or chocolate chipped bread.
When we are called to the Hostess’ table, she introduces herself as Erica, and Erica politely lets us know it will be just a moment. When we sit down, our waiter promptly attends our table and also makes his introduction. His name is Will. Will serves us perfectly. He takes our order, fills our glasses, brings our food and wine and delivers the check when asked without any vexatious hovering or leaving us elaborately gesturing for his attention. I am thrilled and the food is delicious, our bill manageable. Bottega Louie was recommended to me by a friend, and after our inviting experience, I would do the same.
Daily Photo: Million Dollar Hotel
29 May
The scene of the depressing and sickly haunting story of L.A. transients and junkies living in the dilapidated building known as The Million Dollar Hotel. Milla Jovovich is beautiful, Mel Gibson is unconvincing. The plot is thin, the dialogue worse.
Smash Labs
21 AprSmash Labs is located at 1714 Albion street, a very isolated strip of industrial downtown Los Angeles. Tonight I’m here to check out several garage bands and a make-shift artist’s gallery. Think your loser boyfriend’s fledging rock band – corner table stocked with vodka, beer and wine with amateur bartender shuffling $2 dollar drinks and a crowd touting conspiracy theories, chief among them that Facebook is owned by the CIA.
So here I am…
The Bands Start to Play
You Can Imagine…
14 Stations of the cross..
It’s Starting to Get Weird..
Outside on the patio..
The Smoker’s Backyard…
Leaving Las Vegas..
Is The Price Right? Goats Concur
11 SepHow economic and green is it to transport 100 goats into the midst of Los Angeles denizens? Minus the transportation costs and exhaust, it’s resulted in a savings of $4,500 (human hires cost $7,500, goats go for $3,000 all in) for The Community Redevelopment Agency, inaguarated in 1948 to clean up the town so to speak – at least when it concerns housing.
In their owns words, “The Community Redevelopment Agency (CRA/LA) of the City of Los Angeles is a public agency established to attract private investment into economically depressed communities, eliminate slums, abandoned or unsafe properties, and blight throughout Los Angeles,” – Thus the Corona Bearded Goats acting as clean-up crew to a weedy and steep hillside, known as Angels Knoll, in smoggy downtown Los Angeles. Assuming it’s been good to the terrain (imagine the fertilizer!) in aesthetics and savings, it might not be the last time we see this atypical sight.
Hazed Horizon
3 AprTonight it’s cool, the city enveloped in fog. I’ve snaked my way through Pasadena and now head home, back to Hollywood on Highway 101.
As I drive past downtown L.A., I can see the skyscrapers tower above me, advertisements and signs atop the buildings effectively blurred by vapor. The traffic bellows but it’s quiet as I travel, as if the brume submerges the sound.
No one is out, save for a woman with a platinum blond mohawk looking to cross the street at Franklin and Highland. But I am taking side streets. I drive through the dark; and finally, I am home.
NO SAINTS IN L.A. 