I’ve been a worker bee and part-time resident of downtown Los Angeles for several months now and I’m finally acclimated enough to have declared a few joints as my own.
The first place – Seven Grand – I found last week, just days after it opened. It is a whiskey bar on 7th Street between Grand and Olive. I read an article on it and immediately wanted to go because it conjured up images of spaghetti westerns and pensive noir films. Also because I had actually never tasted whiskey before, and how very, very lame is that?
Luckily, I had another very, very lame friend who had never tasted whiskey either and so we went together. I knew I’d like Seven Grand even before I stepped inside because the very kind bouncer asked me for my I.D. Ten minutes later, after I had finally stopped laughing, he ushered us up the stairs, which were covered in tartan-patterned carpeting. The walls were dark wood and festooned with the stuffed heads of dead animals. Oddly enough, I loved it.
The main room of Seven Grand has a long bar, an open area with a pool table and a lot more dead animal heads on the wall. Leather booths line the perimeter and the music they play is good ol’ rock and roll and R&B. Behind the bar are the shelves that hold dozens and dozens of bottles of whiskey.
Seven Grand also offers any other kind of beverage you might want, but I was there for whatever it is that whiskey-drinking people ask for. The bartender handed us a menu with long lists of whiskey, scotch and bourbon from Scotland, Ireland, the U.S. and many other places. Since I had no idea what any of it meant, I just asked him for something interesting and something Irish. He presented me with a glass containing an ounce or two of golden liquid, in which drifted a single ice cube. Sensing possible disaster, the wise young bartender also gave me a big glass of water.
Much was learned over the inaugural whiskey shot:
1. If you want to go with me to Seven Grand sometime, be prepared to spend at least a couple of hours there, because that’s about how long it takes me to nurse my way through a single shot of whiskey.
2. If you want to beat me at pool, wait until I’ve had maybe four sips of whiskey, since I will get a bit dizzy by the third sip, thus ruining my ability to line up my bank shots accurately.
3. I’m not crying, it’s just that when I raise the whiskey glass to my lips, the alcohol makes my eyes burn.
4. I actually remember the lyrics to the Doors’ “Whisky Bar.” Tease me about my dizziness and watery eyes and I’ll sing it and embarrass you in front of the patrons of Seven Grand
5. Seven Grand, which currently serves nary a crumb of food, would do well to throw a couple of bowls of nuts or popcorn onto the bar to help cushion the blow to one’s empty stomach after drinking Irish whiskey.
6. For the record, I did not barf.
I may have drunk only an ounce or two of whiskey in my life, but as we all know, I have gargled down an ocean (and possibly two) of coffee. I am addicted to the aroma, immune to the caffeine and forever on the hunt for a perfect coffee house serving a perfect cup of coffee.
And that’s why, when I read in the newspaper that Groundwork Coffee Company in downtown Los Angeles had acquired an $11,000 coffee maker reputed to produce the most amazing cup of Joe in the entire history of cups of Joe, I grabbed a colleague and headed right over.
We stopping by my favorite Groundwork outpost on Traction Avenue -- the one with the good sandwiches, cool art, great coffee and lowdown vibe –- only to be told that the fancy coffee maker, called the Clover, was housed in their 2nd Street branch. So we jumped back in my car, retraced our route, parked the car and burst through the door of the other Groundwork.
“Where’s the $11,000 coffee maker?” I asked the barista. She pointed to a sleek metal object about the size of a bread-making machine. I have to admit I was disappointed. I had been expecting – hoping, really – for something Willy Wonka-esque: coiled tubes, bellows, a giant temperature gauge and steam shooting out in all directions.
I wasn’t disappointed with the Clover’s coffee, however. The barista poured some beans into what appeared to be a shot glass (notice the symmetry here?), ground the coffee and then shook the grounds into the shiny Clover. Then she pushed a button and waited. After a few moments, hot coffee streamed into a white ceramic cup. I gave her a dollar and change and she handed it over to me. I sniffed then sipped. It really was excellent. Pungent yet smooth, a slightly tangy kick and really hot the way coffee is supposed to be.
The dilemma, unfortunately, is that although the 2nd Street Groundwork has the Clover, it doesn’t have the lowdown vibe like the one on Traction Street. In fact, it’s a little sterile. So this weekend I’m going to do a test run: Stop by 2nd Street, get my first cup of coffee from the Clover, then scoot over to Traction Street for cups two and three. Let me know if you want to meet me there.
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