Let’s talk about this “illusion” again.
I write a food blog (yes! I do! I actually write a food blog!), which means I do know something about what happens on the other side of the computer screen that you’re reading. However, I have to admit that, along with most other readers of food blogs, I tend to believe this pseudo-fantasy that food bloggers live a rather, well, fabulously foodish lifestyle every single minute of every single day. Food bloggers wake up every morning, float into their sun-kissed kitchens, and whip up star-studded cream scones from scratch. They pick fresh herbs and greens for dinner from their windowsill gardens (unless they’re somewhere in the Midwest in which case they probably have a full-fledged garden in a real backyard), shop at farmers’ markets; hell, they probably make weekly field trips all the way out to the farms themselves. They cook multi-course, multi-tiered meals at home every night, and bake their molten Valrhona chocolate lava a la black sesame gelato fancy schmancy in the middle of two sauces on the plate desserts with a final fleurish de sel.
You see, from my point of view as a reader, other food bloggers’ food blogs are, hm, how you might say? Hard core. I read a post that is only a snippet of the blogger’s life, but since that is the only snippet I get, I simply extrapolate and believe it to be true all the time. And from there, I romanticize about their lives – when food bloggers go out to eat, they. Go. Big. Or small. But small in a charming, gourmet way. Food bloggers eat out at the most wonderfabutastical hot!fresh! now! four-star (but not in LA) reservations-90-days-in-advance-only restaurants in town. Restaurants that are serving up butter-poached Iberian black pork belly on a trampoline of caviar-infused fois gras foam with [insert farm name here] baby beets braised in Alpine runoff. But of course, that’s only when they’re not at home expertly pairing wines with their latest acquisition of unpasteurized cheese made from the milk of the last standing llama on the side of the Himalayas.
Or something like that.
But sometimes I wonder.
I wonder, does she ever eat, oh, I don’t know…a bean burrito?!?!
Or like, has he ever eaten a plate of chili cheese fries? Not gourmet hand-cut fingerling potatoes covered with Kobe beef chili and melted Cabrales Blue? I am talking 4 am. Frozen fries. Suspiciously “meat” chili, and processed nuclear power plant waste, schoolbus yellow, vinyl “cheese?”
Of course she doesn’t. Of course he hasn’t. They’re food bloggers.
They would never *gasp!* stoop to such industrialized, commercialized, pre-packaged fodder-not-food!
The thing is, I know that every “fine food” blogger out there cannot possibly eat at Providence and Sona and Grace and whatnot every night. They cannot possibly be eating home-cooked roasted fig souffle and walnut dusted quail every night. They just don’t blog about the nights when they eat microwaved popcorn straight out of the bag so that the melted butter-flavored oil acts as an adhesive between blackened kernels and the burnt crest of their knuckles.
And thus, perhaps, it is all….an illusion?
I cannot speak for anyblog else but myself, but if ever The Delicious Life gave off the impression that all I do is slip into my leopard print peep-toe stilletos and twirl off to Hatfield’s today, BLD tomrrow, I am here to dispel that myth.
Naw, I would never do that. The closest Applebee’s to me is in the Valley, and we all know that I don't "do" the Valley. ;)
I have a love/hate/love-to-hate-to-love relationship with Acapulco. I love Acapulco because it is Mexican food. Real food bloggers love Mexican food, but they love regional, authentic Mexican food that has crickets and chocolate in it. I love Mexican food, but not the kind that would elevate me to the level of hard-core Mexican foodie. I grew up in San Antonio, so I am a staunch supporter of Mexican food influenced by the big bad red-state: Tex-Mex. I love guacamole, chunky salsa, pickled jalapenos, refried beans, sour cream, and melted yellow cheese on everything.
It is exactly the kind of Mexican food that Acapulco serves.
I hate Acapulco, too. I hate the Westwood location because they have, quite possibly, the worst parking siutation in the world. Is that an exaggeration? No. There is no street parking in Westwood Village, and with all of the construction for mixed-use retailcommercialresidential developer’s profit, there is no public parking lot within reasonable walking distance of the restaurant. This is one situation in which I would very gladly pay out the yin yang for valet parking, but Acapulco in Westwood doesn’t offer such luxury. By the time I furiously circle the block determined to find a spot on the street, then grudgingly park a billion and half miles away per google maps in the structure on Broxton Avenue, I could have gone to the real Acapulco in Mexico. With Captain Steubing and Gopher.
I love to hate Acapulco because it is basically a Taco Bell, but even though Acapulco doesn’t have the convenience of a drive thru, Acapulco does have margaritas. Do Mexican people who live in Mexico even drink margaritas? Or are margaritas some American bastardization of some other truly authentic Mexican drink? I don’t know, and I am quite certain that I would have a hard time, like I do with mole, appreciating a “real” Mexican tequila drink if ever I was presented with one. I just like a simple shot of tequila with a splash of lime juice and a pinch of sugar, poured over rocks. Then again, perhaps my preference is the real margarita and these frozen blended abominations with creatively cutesy names like Rockin’ Razzarita are the Americanization. Hey, I can tolerate Mexican Pizza, but I draw the line at frozen blended fruity margaritas with fruit that doesn’t even come from the same hemisphere as Mexico. Like peachy lychee.
I went to Acapulco with my sisters. We plowed through an embarrassing number of refreshes to our basket of chips and salsa. We had chicken and steak fajitas, but make no mistake, these are chile-citrus marinated, so I guess I can't really say it's the same as Taco Bell. Fajitas, no matter how cheesy it is to feel this way, no matter how many times I have seen, heard and smelled them sizzling away on a white-hot, still-smoking plate, always impress me a little, especially when the server presents it as if it were Quetzalcoatl's gift to man. We also shared one of Acapulco's Especialidades, the Sea of Cortez, which has grilled halibut, grilled shrimp, and a crab enchilada because apparently, seafood from the Sea of Cortez is authentic Acapulconean food. And of course, we had margaritas.
I am not going to do a detailed description of the food at Acapulco, because chances are, you have eaten there before, and if not sepcifically Acapulco, then something almost exactly like Acapulco, except that the name is either Chevy’s or Chi-Chi’s. Or maybe El Torito.
So there you go. The illusion is gone. I’m going to go eat a Pop Tart now.
Acapulco Mexican Restaurant
1109 Glendon Ave
Los Angeles, CA, 90024
** a year ago today, this local yokel drank savvy non blank **