ORDER BIG, EAT HAPPY
ORDER BIG, EAT HAPPY
By Arty Nelson
It's hard to really even admit this, but if we're to go on the way we obviously must, for this particular piece the following set of admissions is essential. You see, the thing about a place like Toast is that it captures the essence of all that is horrible and beautiful – and, I worry, altogether mediocre – about this lovely city where we currently struggle and giggle and moan, whimper and whine.
There's something very Authentic Café 1991 meets Cracker Barrel meets Kings Road 1993 about Toast, meaning that it's rife with a lot of classic Tweener L.A. Neighborhood signifiers that offer a kind of comfort, a kind of overstuffed-couch security blanket in the never-ending Tinsel Pooh Storm. But, as is so often the case, all you might be doing when you eat there is denying the inevitable with an overdose of the temporarily fashionable: the super-average turkey sausage, the menu brimming with “wrap” sandwiches, egg-sential dishes like the highly agreeable Shakashura, or something to that effect, with its eggs over a bed of sautéed tomatoes and garlic and maybe onions, that sort of faux exotic with a hint of Morocco. What I'm trying to say is, sure, it's the kind of place you should run to immediately and try, because the food's not bad and there's some good-looking people sitting around. But ultimately, what you find in a place like this, Buddha-Lover, is not the kind of repast that transports you to the Land of Milk and Honey. From where I stand, and that's pretty much precisely level with the Technicolor worms, sooner or later you're going to realize that Toast is only a brief pit stop along the way to deeper meaning. That its muffins and weird pots of creamy things devilishly adorned with Oreos are only going to blind you from the Setting Solar Inevitability for so long. That, in the end, TV is a kind of funhouse mirror peopled by mooks who eat egg-white omelets at Toast. And that, even if that's OK with you, it should never be the End All Be All.
Still, it's your life, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy my meal there. It's just that, with every bite I took, I was very aware of how much I was gambling. In the past, I would have been quick to embrace the Big Shallow, or even quicker to condemn it. Now, with a few more years and pounds on my body and considerably less hair on my head, in a way it was exactly the kind of establishment that made me go “Boo-yah!” in the middle of the night, ringed in stale-muffin sweat. As I savored my eggs and that strange but admittedly appealing Shaka-Whatever Sauce, I was scared. I felt that, on some level, I was betraying ancestors who had struggled and suffered endlessly so that maybe I could have a little bit more than what I was shoveling down my gullet at that moment.
Oh, well, what can you do? In the end, if you have any real sense of self, you'll give this place a try and see exactly what you think. At that point, you'll either enjoy it and return with a bunch of girls all wearing slightly too new Earl Jeans, or you won't, secretly suspicious that maybe what I'm trying to explain is that there's some kind of X-Factor at work on this sunny corner. That the Indian Burial Ground Rule is clearly in effect and that, in fact, centuries ago there was suffering on this corner that's all but been erased by a thoughtful menu and convenient valet parking, not to mention sexy outdoor seating.
It's truly difficult to pinpoint this feeling. All I can really say is, I got the heebie-jeebies when reflecting upon my experience. Could it all have been a product of my much-maligned synapses? Sure, most certainly. But – day in, day out – that's as close to a constant as any of us ever gets. Order big, eat happy, and lie only as much as you can get away with.
Published: 09/09/2004
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