Hatfields
I write this posting with a slight tinge of sadness for a few reasons. First, my friend from college decided to move out of LA to Menlo Park with her family, as her husband decided to take a job working for Al “Tweed-Is-My-Favorite-Fabric” Gore. In a nice gesture, she took out a large group of her friends to say “goodbye” at Hatfields.
Secondly, I just read Anthony Bourdain’s tribute to the recently passed Harvey Pekar (American Splendor) and it dawned upon me that I will never be able to write anything quite as eloquent or evocative as that piece was. Is it conceivable that a man like Bourdain, who champions the authentic over the contrived, favors substance over the gimmick, and heralds the working class over the self-appointed elite would view an individual like myself as a member of the uninspired class? Am I simply a gossip-attuned automaton with a camera phone who likes to patronize Michelin-blessed eateries? Am I…gasp…a douchebag?
The mere thought was enough to make me shiver in the middle of a July heatwave.
After much soul searching, I looked at myself in the mirror today, plucked out a few grey hairs from my scalp, and breathed a sigh of relief. I came to an undeniable, inexorable conclusion: I’m simply a fat kid who likes to eat. Done. End of story.
Phew! Glad that is over with. Now focus your attention on the first picture: the “croque madame” twist at Hatfields. Extremely tasty and delicate, and also a far cry from the 16 oz. heart-attack-on-a-plate you are normally accustomed to, this variation utilizes a quail egg. I know what you are thinking - how the hell does a quail egg cover the entire croque madame? The optic feat is accomplished because that picture is a close-up. If the camera panned out, my index finger would look like Wilbur’s leg from Charlotte’s Web.
I found the charred octopus to be very buttery, very good, and very opposite to the variety served at Osteria Mozza. Osteria’s version maintains the charred flavor whereas Hatfields’ version almost melts in your mouth. You may prefer one version over the other, but note that because of the different underlying approaches, it is difficult to render an apples-to-apples comparison.
Oh, and the pork belly. Is there anything a pig can’t do? Don’t answer that wiseass, I already know that pigs can’t re-enact all the sequels to High School Musical in pig latin (ironically). Not that I won’t try to choreograph this. Pig Zac Efron, I’m going to eat you for lunch tomorrow. Unfortunately, that is probably not even the gayest thing I’ve said today.
The pork belly at Hatfields wonderfully and delicately undresses itself upon the slightest touch, much like…wait, that is too easy. I’m going to take a cue from Bourdain and favor the subtext over the obvious, just this one time.
Hatfields, 6703 Melrose Avenue (not Beverly Boulevard - that was the old location), Los Angeles, CA 90038, (323) 935-2977.
