Back home, Mexican food was a novelty. My mother would take me to La Cantina off the Garden State Parkway on special occasions. She liked the sugary sweet margueritas. I liked the swiss enchiladas, a heavy plate consisting of stewed meat wrapped in a lack luster corn tortilla with rice, green “sauce,” greasy re-fried beans and smothered in a sea of cheese. And while tasty (to the uninitiated) and most definitely filling, the food had a Russian roulette reputation for causing quick exits and intimate acquaintance with white porcelain.

I understood stewed chicken. I could handle that. But as I paused at the order window of Señor Fish with visions of simmering pots filled with stewed fish, I wasn’t so sure. I was at a crossroads. One path lead safely back along the shallow tread of my former LA experiences and the other path lead to the abyss–where mysterious taco shacks appeared in obscure neighborhoods, where mom and pop shops outnumbered franchises and where Rodeo Drive, Brentwood and the trendy side of Hollywood were a planet away.

“Trust me,” said Marilynn.

Moments later, two baja style fish tacos arrived. The fish was delicately battered and fried to perfection, drizzled with a light tartar sauce and nestled into a fresh corn tortilla, cushioned with shredded cabbage. As I hungrily shuttled one of these mouth-watering delights toward my mouth, Marilynn stopped me. “Don’t forget the salsa bar,” she said.

Salsa bar? Of what do you speak? Oh, you mean this veritable cornucopia laden with fresh limes, cilantro, radishes, chopped onion and jalapeños and bowls brimming with multi-colored salsas made from scratch (not canned tomatoes), ranging in spice, flavor and complexity. Oh, this salsa bar.

“Is there more food like this?” I asked.
“Like what?” Marilynn replied.
“Like this mana from heaven.”
“You mean the fish tacos?”
“Yes, but this isn’t the only place like this, right?”
“This is LA. There’re tons of good places to eat. Have you tried dim sum in Monterey Park?”
“Dim sum? Monterey Park?”
“Have you been to Thai Town yet?”
“There’s a Thai Town?”
“Just North of K-Town and Little Armenia,” laughed Marilynn.

I was falling. I didn’t know what to say. I was falling over into the abyss. Los Angeles, from valley to hill to seaside, was unfurling in my mind like a vast treasure map ripe with possibility. It was February and the sun was shining and I had two fish tacos in hand and I was falling in love… with LA.

“Welcome to LA,” said Marilyn with a smile.

(Artwork is from the beautiful compilation album “From L.A. With Love” featuring some of LA’s best underground artists and producers)

How I fell in love... with LA

I used to make fun of LA. From 3000 miles away, my only thoughts of LA were generic visions of Hollywood, all palm trees, skateboards, surfers and movie stars. Newly arrived, the city struck me as little more than a vast, never-ending suburb punctuated by fast food joints and doughnut shops.

Nothing made sense in LA. Bars closed at 2am. “Traffic” was the excuse for pretty much everything—being late, not showing up… even breaking up. Street parking was abundant (compared to NYC) and yet everyone valeted. There was a whole neighborhood called Mar Vista from which you couldn’t see the ocean. And the entire city was mysteriously divided by an invisible barrier, which “Westsiders” and “Eastsiders” seemed incapable of crossing.

During my early days of peripatetic LA friendships and disjointed LA wanderings, I encountered a middle-aged British ex-rocker. He had lived all over the globe, explored world’s greatest cities and he loved LA. Where the sheiks of the Ottoman Empire dreamed of burbling brooks and vestal virgins, this Englishman dreamed of the Hollywood Hills and TV starlets.

“It’s so shallow,” I complained. “How can you stand it?”

“Darling,” he said, scotch in hand, peering at me over his sunglasses, “No one ever drowned in shallow.”

There was something consoling in that whiskey soaked piece of wisdom, as well as realization. You could drown in shallow. That ex-rocker certainly had. But there were clearly depths to LA that I had not explored, profundities beyond a kiddy pool, filled shin deep with the Hollywood Hills and TV starlets. And, for me, the oceanic journey that ignited my infatuation with LA, started with a little excursion to a place, appropriately named, Señor Fish…

Click here for Part 2…