A flauta is a corn tortilla wrapped tightly around a meat filling and fried. The flautas at Ciro's, an iron-barred, low-ceilinged room alive with the funk of frying meat, are tiny things, piccolo flautas, that come six to an order, tightly rolled and very crisp, sauced with thick, chunky, fresh guacamole and a splash of Mexican cream. The shredded meat inside is usually frizzled to a chewy consistency almost like carne seca, and tends to be a little salty, with a smack of pure beef flavor that cuts through the strong tastes of corn and hot oil. Restaurant taquitos tend to be pretty prefab. To go to Ciro's is like visiting a friend's grandmother who just happens to have homemade flautas on hand. Ciro's, 705 N. Evergreen St., E.L.A. (323) 269-5104.
The Gorbals' Dill Fries
Scottish-Jewish cuisine may be a construct that exists solely within the perfervid imagination of The Gorbals chef Ilan Hall, but an order of his French fries, cooked with whole garlic cloves and great, aromatic handfuls of fresh dill, is, as they say, a fact on the ground. Do you eat them before, after or along with the bacon-wrapped matzo balls? That part is up to you. The Gorbals, in the Alexandria Hotel, 501 S. Spring St., dwntwn. (213) 488-3408.
Jitlada's Fish Kidneys
PHOTO BY ANNE FISHBEIN
Mozza pizza: not your mama's pie
PHOTO BY ANNE FISHBEIN
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This southern Thai curried fish, at least as interpreted at Jitlada, is one of the more intense things you will ever put in your mouth, a stunningly complex brew of organ stink, aromatics and chile heat that can be compared to biting down on a 9-volt battery, and I mean that in the nicest possible way. In southern Thailand, curries this intense are served over fluffy, hard-fried Thai omelets instead of mere rice, and the rich blandness of the eggs does indeed increase the dish's user-friendliness at least tenfold. Jazz Singnasong swears that some people from the Bay Area stop by her restaurant every few weeks and leave with 30 portions of fish kidneys to go. She thinks they may resell them in their own Thai restaurant, but I think they might just be in need of something to eat on the way up the 5. Jitlada, 5233 Sunset Blvd., Hlywd. (323) 667-9809.
Chicharrones de Queso
Northern Italian frico, a cheese crisp traditionally made with grated Montasio, was a Valentino signature for years, and good enough that Joe Bastianich built a New York restaurant around it before he decided to throw his lot in with Mario Batali. But the Mexican version, as served at Lotería Grill, may be even better: grated cheese sizzled on a flattop until it becomes a glossy, crisp mass as broad and as thin as a proper Indian dosa. You know the bits stuck to the pan after you've made a grilled-cheese sandwich? It's like that, a guilty, over-the-sink pleasure turned into public ritual, folded into a hot, freshly made tortilla, completed with a spoonful of guacamole and a shot or two of tequila. Chicharron de queso is thirsty work. Lotería Grill, 6627 Hollywood Blvd., Hlywd. (323) 465-2500.
Ivy's Corn Chowder
The Ivy's patio is where the much-photographed dine when they wish to be photographed at their best; laughing, splashed with sunlight on a Los Angeles afternoon, in a location where paparazzi are part of the décor. When at the Ivy, they often find it necessary to eat. And when they eat, they are likely to have the corn chowder, wholesome Americana as reinvented long ago by a chef from tropical Mexico with his nose pressed up against the window. The soup, not too caloric, sizzles with gentle chile heat, brightened with a sunny hint of fennel and a sweet bit of pepper. Here, the most Midwestern of ingredients masquerades as a Mediterranean prince. Ivy, 113 N. Robertson Blvd., L.A. (310) 274-8303.
Philippe's French Dip
Long before anybody thought to shave pig ears onto $33 entrées, Los Angeles was famous for its French dip sandwiches, sliced roast meat laid onto French rolls sopped in meat juice. The family that owns Philippe's claims the sandwich was discovered when an employee accidentally dropped a roll into some beef drippings; most of a century later, politicians, circus clowns and families in town for the Dodgers game still shuffle through the sawdust on the floor of the old dining room for the damp taste of history, seasoned with the restaurant's nostril-searing hot mustard. I always get the lamb dip with blue cheese. Philippe's, 1001 N. Alameda St., L.A. (213) 628-3781.
Cole's French Dip
Cole's, which until it was almost invisibly redone by downtown tavern auteur Cedd Moses had been the oldest L.A. restaurant in continuous operation, always claimed that one of its cooks came up with the French dip as an accommodation to a customer with sore gums. It too has a proprietary hot mustard. It also has good things to drink, although they tend toward the champagne cocktail rather than Philippe's Napa cabernet. Cole's French dip, reimagined by Grace's Neal Fraser, is a carefully constructed sandwich, roasted beef or pork on a crusty, custom-baked roll, small-producer cheese if you want it, jus on the side. The ingredient crowd likes Cole's. The gestalt crowd likes Philippe's. I, on the other hand, would like another rye old-fashioned. Cole's, 118 E. Sixth St., L.A. (213) 622-4090.
El Parian's Birria
