So I went to Cinncinnati and I walked around the block,
And I walked right into a doughnut shop,
And I handed the woman a five cent piece.
Said I to the woman, “One doughnut please.”
Well, she looked at the nickel and she looked at me,
And she said, “This nickel’s no good to me.
There’s a hole in the middle and it’s all the way through.”
Said I, “There’s a hole in the doughnut too.”
“Thanks for the doughnut. Good bye!”
The Nickel Diner is in downtown LA and it was the first stop off our flight. Supremely gracious Jennifer charted our weekend on a breathtaking tour of LA and Palm Springs. Where does one go from meringue-towered wig heads, you might ask. On to Cole’s, Osteria Mozza , and Clifton’s Cafeteria. For the amuse gueule only, mind you, cause there was more, MORE, MORE.
I came face to face with a painful truth at the Nickel Diner, finding a hole in my middle that is all the way through. Ouch, that smarts. Such a delicate balance between our inner and our outer lives, sometimes tipping – whoaaaa, whooooaaaaa, whhhhooooaaaa – to the interior, and sometimes – thud, bam, whomp – bustin’ hard against our exterior shell, the safer surface, impenetrable. Sometimes the key to the balance is distance, and artificial distance is fine. Turn the binoculars inside-out on yourself and, aaaaah, you are tiny and insignificant. What do you feel? Nothing. All the long CA weekend, my sandwich monitor was at a constant peak, with no chance for a dip, other than a French Dip at Cole’s. More about that later. For now, for this post, we are smacking our mental lips at the Nickel Plate’s Patty Melt and the BLT with Avocado It was not, thankfully, called a BLAT. Now what in the name of tropical veggie-fruit was that thing called? Take a look for yourself up above, the lovely Jenn is glowing over it. And then we must check the clever menu.
Our accommodating waiter could strike a pose – boy, could he! – with the homemade (were it someone’s home) doughnuts, ironically-yours poptarts, and fantastical cakes, this one with chocolate, salted peanuts, potato chips, icing, and….shoelaces, silver dragées, caper berries and fairy dust.
That cake-a-roonie had staying power, in my mind, on my lips, and in the box. The last 4 lbs we could not eat were boxed for us. Staggering around Jenn’s schwanky, thank you Mr. Alexander – Palm Springs kitchen two, or was it three, nights later, rustling about the frigerator, found that box, a cute white cardboard cake box, with a hunka hunka chocolate-peanut-potato-chip-911SNACK cake inside. Polished off all but one big bite and then spent several minutes pondering whether or not to toss the last big bit into the trash. I did not. Seemed bad karma. Bad karma in my quest for an Alexander house.
I want one. I want one. I want one. I want one.
It can be small. Small enough to fit in my Christmas stocking. Thank you.