Salt’s Cure opened up a few blocks from me about a year ago. I think just knowing it was so close bumped it further down my restaurant list.

I’m a lazy muthafather.

But when Sonigram suggested we check it out for brunch, I figured why the hell not.

Brunch usually doesn’t appeal to me. Brunch means 11 o’clock.

Do you know how many meals I’ve consumed and errands I’ve run by then??

I need to eat as soon as I wake up, people.

Brunch was invented to cure hangovers. There’s a reason everyone is eating so late and wearing sunglasses.

Salt’s Cure (they cure their own meats!) is a simple, quaint, neighborhoody spot with a tiny, somewhat random menu.

They have some traditional morning fare such as quiche (very light and fluffy), pork chops and eggs (perfectly seasoned but a bit fatty) but then also offer burgers and a cheese plate (didn’t order them, I’m not a pig!)

Before I made my big move to Seattle, I had a few options for work there.

My friend, SnakeFace, was working at Blockbuster Music and offered to get me a job there.

Trouble was, the pay would barely afford me my new Seattle apartment (preferably in the illustrious Queen Anne neighborhood) and I would essentially be broke for God knows how long.

Luckily, I didn’t have to worry as my friend was shortly fired.

She was an expert thief and would stuff her backpack full of stolen CDs to later sell at a rival music store.

She did this on many occasions.

She would sell her CDs to get me money to take the ferry back home from Seattle when I would visit her.

She would sell her CDs when we needed a late night Jack in the Box dinner.

Problem was, as she was leaving Blockbuster for the day, she forgot to take the security tag off of one of them and set off the alarm.

She spun a gossamer thin explanation to her boss who let her keep the CDs but kindly asked she not return to work.

My friend Nancy was working at a fresh pasta deli and managed to get me a job selling pretentious Spanish olive oils, Morrocan tagines, overpriced French chickens and some pretty tasty fresh Italian foodstuffs.

I’ll go more into that job in another post, but I eventually got greedy and wanted to get a second job. My friend at the pasta shop told me about her second job. Data Entry.

I didn’t really realize what this meant. All I saw were dollar signs (they paid $10 an hour) as they were paying more than my pasta job.

I have never been more bored in my entire life.

The job was at a cancer research center, entering data for a prostate cancer drug trial.

All I did, all day long, was transcribe written words such as “heavy stream” or “constipation”, which popped up on thousands of patient’s reports, from one screen to the other screen.

My brain went to sleep 8 hours a day.

I began to surf the web to alleviate the boredom. I surfed a LOT.

I downloaded songs illegally from Napster. I downloaded a LOT.

One day my boss came in, sat down, and showed me a progress report of my work.

I was averaging about 40 hours of actual work on the transcribing computer program. 40 hours A MONTH.

She said she realized this type of work was dreadfully boring and that taking multiple breaks was expected.

But perhaps a few more hours spent actually working might be recommended.

I only lasted nine months before I packed up everything I owned in my car and drove to LA.

Never having set foot there before.

Eva is probably the smallest restaurant in Los Angeles.

It’s adorable.

Like a puppy.

A puppy that takes over 20 minutes to bring you your drink.

Our waiter appeared to be the only one servicing the entire restaurant although there were plenty of eager bus boys.

All that being said, the food was excellent. While I bitched and moaned a bit about the price and subsequent size of the egg dish above (they ended up charging us less on the bill) the Chicken Milanese was simple and fantastic.

Pounded flat within an inch of its life, the chicken was perfectly breaded with just a touch of lemon and capers.

The best part was getting 30% off our meal due to some deal we got on OpenTable.

It more than made up for finding the adorable cockroach in the bathroom.

My first foray into crock pot cooking seemed to belie common sense.

Seal a hunk of raw meat in a pot in a pool of Root Beer and let it sit all day??

I kept worrying there wouldn’t be enough liquid or that it was under seasoned.

Truth is, it couldn’t have come out more perfectly.

Crock Pot Cooking couldn’t be easier. It’s almost too easy. Watch your cat doesn’t crawl in there in the morning and become a hearty stew by the time you get home from work.

The only mistake I made beforehand was, while soaking the ceramic ‘crock’ in hot water, I seemed to have forgotten it even existed or was necessary so plopped down my hunk of pork butt right into the metallic crock pot base.

Hmmm…is this right?

I didn’t even realize the error for a while…

Anyhoo, I made my own BBQ sauce and spicy cole slaw as well and together they made the perfect threesome.

Oh, I put them on Hawaiian buns, so make that a foursome.

When most people hear the word “Grandma”, they picture a nice (or mean) old lady sitting in her doiley-ridden chair, scolding you for only visiting on holidays and buying you awful presents at Christmas.

My Grandmother was only the latter.

Vera Browning, who passed away on Sunday, was kind of like a second mother to me. During my childhood summers, she was the one who watched my sister and I while our parents were at work.

I’d spend many weekends at my grandparent’s house, even into my teens. A typical schedule would be Grandma admonishing Grandpa for having ready for me an ENORMOUS bar of Hershey’s chocolate. We’d watch Golden Girls, Empty Nest and Amen before Grandma would head off to bed and Grandpa would let me watch some awful horror movie.

The next morning we’d be off “garage saling” before beginning our thrift store/junk shop pub crawl. “If you wash it a few times, it’ll be good as new!”

For a treat, we’d go to McDonald’s and she’d make sure to stain her lipstick on the bun of her Filet ‘o’ Fish sandwich. If we were at home, she’d fix me tuna or braunschweiger on toast.

She always adored a bargain, she never paid full price for anything.

She was also a germaphobe and a neat freak. Dust was the enemy. Our hands were probably dry and cracked due to our being forced to wash them more often than a surgeon. Touching doorhandles was forbidden.

She loved to tell tales of her childhood in England, during the war.

“We only had one egg a week!”

When most parents were sending their kids out of London during the Blitz, Grandma’s parents inadvertently sent her INTO London.

I recall stories of Grandma and her sister running from snipers hiding behind trees and bomb shrapnel falling from the sky and crashing into her baby doll carriage as she was pushing it.

Grandma was social to the point of embarrasment. She’d talk to anybody, much to my teenage chagrin. She’d call across the store “Bryan, isn’t this the acne cream you said works the best!?”

Grandma would be my movie buddy where the embarrasment would continue as she attempted to ‘whisper’ questions about the movie to which she was constantly hushed.

If Grandma didn’t like a movie, she’d ask for her money back. Even after viewing the entire film!

If the movie was too loud, she’d ask the projectionist to turn it down.

She could also be quite critical, mostly with my mother. She was famous for what I call the Terminator Scan when she would greet you. As she said her hellos, she’d also subtlely examine you up and down, stop what she was saying and insult you in the nicest possible way such as “Oh, are we in need of a new pair of jeans then?” or “Don’t worry Bryan, those pounds will drop right off ya!”

She always had a lesson to teach or wisdom to impart.

“Always do something every day”, she could not tolerate laziness.

“Do a little as you go” about tidying up.

When someone was being cruel, “Take no notice”.

If it was cold, “pop it in the radar range!”

Or when I was doing something gross, I would be hit with “Gag a maggot!”, “Swine” or “Snot Swallower!”

This would always make me burst out laughing.

Grandma was a talker.

At dinner, she’d balance the perfect bite on her fork and as soon as she was done critiquing her friend Joan’s rude tone earlier that day, the fork would have been shaken empty.

Even when I visited her for the last time this past Christmas, and she was fading and bed-ridden, she couldn’t stop talking.

“Don’t ever grow old Bryan, shoot yourself first”.

I always pictured Grandma as someone disappointed with her life and full of regrets.

She once played a record of her singing for me. She had recorded a demo in England and was keen on pursuing a singing career.

But in those days, most women gave up careers for family and my grandfather whisked her away to the states after the war.

I could sense a lot of bitterness there growing up, and while I’m not sure she was always the world’s greatest mother, she made a fantastic grandmother.

Because of this, she always encouraged me to follow my dreams, take advantage of every opportunity and seemed excited for my world travels.

She was the one that took me to meet with my eventual acting agent.

Up until the end of her 79 years on this planet, we were very close. We’d email or talk on the phone pretty much every week. I haven’t deleted a single email from her in almost 8 years.

Grandma was a beautiful, proud, fiesty lady (“Growing old SUCKS!”) who was always the hippest gal on the block. Many people mistook her for my mother.

Her last days were filled with a lot of pain and suffering, sadly, and so it was a bittersweet relief when she passed away in a coma, peacefully.

I love you and will never forget everything you’ve taught me, Grandma! You’ve helped shape who I am today and I am forever grateful.

UNFUNNY REVIEW ALERT!

I really dig Fuku Burger.

Finally, a gourmet LA burger I could actually bite into without unhinging my jaw.

No boring lettuce and tomato (at least not on the burgers we chose)

Just unique enough to make things interesting yet still able to satisfy that specific burger craving.

The meat patty was juicy, well marinated and thin – which I prefer.

The bun was brioche but didn’t disintegrate when it came in contact with sauce/burger juice.

I really enjoyed the combo of pickled ginger and crispy bacon on the Pig Burger.

The Spicy Burger was actually spicy.

The fries were tasty but the sauce could have had more oomph to it.

Fuku Burger also boasts a full bar so instead of hunting down a greasy burger to soak up a night of booze, you can just come here first and save yourself a step.

Places like Mezze infuriate me because they give me nothing to write about.

(Besides the fact that most of the photos turned out blurry)

Nothing was dreadful.

I didn’t have any boughts of diarrhea (am I the only one that has to constantly look up the spelling of that word??), my car wasn’t towed and there were no weirdo patrons to make fun of.

The food and service were both great.

Boring!

So, if you’re like me and prefer being surprised by foreign objects in your food and enjoy the unpredictability of the waitstaff, do NOT go here.

You’ll only get a good, friendly meal, which is just unacceptable.

More cleansing action. I actually found this ultra healthy stew to be on the tasty side.

It’s no mac and cheese, granted. But it does NOT make me want to vomit.

Since cleansing is a serious thing, I thought I’d tell a serious story.

In 1997 I was affected by a devastating fire that cost four people their lives.

It was my very first apartment, the 1960′s Tiki-themed Kona Village, about an hour and a half outside of Seattle.

It was essentially a retirement home (I was the youngest resident by a minimum of 40 years), I seemed to be the only one living there for the kitsch factor.

In addition to Tiki gods affixed to the sides of the 150 unit complex, you were greeted at the entrance by two enormous tiki gods, about 25 feet tall each, and a tiki water fountain with huge torches.

The cranky old manager gave me the option of two units. One in the corner and one directly above him.

I chose the latter, for some unknown reason.

I had a jolly good time decorating my new swank pad.

What I basically did was turn it into living art.

I completely covered a wall in tin foil and painted abstract characters and not so famous quotes on it. I brought in tacky, vintage furniture and plastered something weird on every square inch of the place.

I called it the Tiki Room.

I’d have people over and fix them cocktails with various pixie sticks dumped inside. Each combination had it’s own name, my favorite was the Tiki Swamp, due to it’s greenish hue.

As I wasn’t used to living alone, I’d have people there all the time, begging them to spend the night.

And they’d all sign the guest book.

This guest book is now a cherished collection of random, hilarious stories that I hope to God is somewhere buried in my parent’s house.

One morning I woke up to an extremely inviting, warm bedroom. Who had turned on the heat?

Something brought me to the front door and I opened it up to witness a blazing inferno in progress.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I felt like I was dreaming.

Everything was silent. No fire trucks, no yelling.

Here I was staring at a crackling, devilish fire that was dripping from the windows and languidly devouring unit by unit. The fire moved so fast, I actually stood there and watched in reverie as it enveloped two entire units, like water over a sand castle.

I didn’t panic. I had a plan.

After collecting my photo albums and my CD case, I did what any normal guy would do.

I raced to the bathroom to fix my hair.

I knew I’d be standing on the sidelines for a while and didn’t want to look a fright.

As I left my apartment in a daze, I saw photographers taking pictures of the scene, and began kicking myself I didn’t do the same.

It was quite the sight, the deadliest fire in the cities history. You could see the smoke all the way from Seattle.

A few hours of watching the scene and being told countless times I could NOT remove my vehicle even though I had a clear exit, I called my grandfather who drove me to my job at the mall.

Apparently, before I left, I was supposed to check in with someone that I was still alive. Oops.

This caused a mild panic for my mother when the firemen on the scene couldn’t find my name on the list of survivors.

This was the precursor to her thinking she’d lost me to the Tsunami in Thailand, years later.

I was busy at work, slinging pretzels. However, it all seemed even more pointless today.

I eventually had to go in the back room and cry.

Of the 150 units, only 6 or 8 survived. Mine being one of them.

Even though the cranky old manager would often come out in his underwear and scold me and my friends for being too loud, I guess I can be thankful I chose to live above him.

A military man (who had just shipped out I think) had left his space heater on, killing four tenants on either sides of him.

Two of them were a sweet, old couple I’d often encounter at the pool in the morning. They’d both show up in matching bathrobes, saying “Good Morning!” in unison.

A few days later, the tenants of the remaining units were allowed to collect their things.

I had no idea what mess I’d be coming back to, or if anything survived.

I was unnerved to be escorted onto the premises by men encased in space age suits (like the scene in ET), wondering why they thought it was OK for ME to breathe in the asbestos-ridden air.

I was in the first round of folks allowed in, we only had 1.5 hours to remove all of our furniture and belongings from the premises. Such pressure! I brought in reinforcements (friends and family).

I later found out the next round of tenants only had an hour to do the same.

My manager and someone from FEMA accompanied me into my apartment to survey the scene.

Fortunately and unfortunately, nothing was damaged….

…I was mortified by, not only what they must have thought seeing all the “art” on the walls, but the fact that me and a friend just had a candy eating contest shortly before and there were wrappers all over the floor.

They must have had zero doubts they were dealing with a crazy person.

I have to chuckle when I recall that, before I first moved in, the manager warned me about how I’d lose my security deposit if the window slats weren’t spotless upon moving out.

Because the building was never fitted with a sprinkler system, we were all awarded some money resulting from a lawsuit, the check came from FEMA a few months later. Since I didn’t lose anything, I was only given a few hundred bucks.

I probably blew it on CD’s and movies.

While all my friends joked that I started the fire with my tin foil covered wall and we still make fire jokes today, I’m traumitized by the incident.

No one bothered to wake me and get me out! The fire was moving so quickly, what if the wind changed directions and it came my way??

And watching a hundred little homes burn before my eyes is a sight I will never forget.

Funny enough, I’m currently living in another old apartment building with no sprinklers. At least there’s an ancient fire extinguisher outside my front door.

Conveniently, the glass has already been ‘broken in case of emergency’ and I’m somewhat certain it hasn’t been serviced in 10 years.

And so the cleanse begins!

For this week’s stomach fillers, I chose two cold, raw soups to pour down the gullet in between meals.

The Watermelon soup is basic. Watermelon, ginger, lime, honey, apple juice and mint. Pureed.

The Cucumber soup is Emeril Lagasse’s recipe and it’s packed with fresh herbs, jalapenos and non fat yogurt. Very refreshing. And takes far too long to make.

Let the pooping begin!

If there was ever an obvious candidate for a new year’s resolution, it certainly slapped me in the face and spit in my eye when the top button of my jeans popped right off, landing directly into the toilet as I was taking a pee.

Disappearing perfectly down that little drain hole.

“Lose the chunk!….” that little bastard chided as it sunk to it’s watery grave.

Wow. About to set off for my New Year’s Eve festivities and I burst out of my last good pair of jeans.

Gross.

I don’t think there’s any question what to do next.

Bun Boy is gonna cleanse.

Needless to say, you can see above and the abysmal photo below (blame the champagne) that I chose the vegan options that Mohawk Bend had to offer that night.

And I barely ate either item. Too depressed from the button incident.

We came here for the incredible beer selection, however we just needed a place that could fit 17 folks without charging us $75 pp just to step foot in the door with the dim promise of a dusty glass of Cook’s Spumante at midnight, passed to us by a minimum of four grubby pairs of strange hands.

All molesting the rims of the glass, like their asses depended on it.

No thank you.

Mohawk Bend, with it’s $65 three course meal, stay as long as you want and a beer toast at midnight, tickled our fancy.

Good times with good friends.

It’s now 2012.

Time for smoothies and green foods.

Time to get skinny before the world ends.

My ass depends on it.