by Sarah Rothbard
The 21st-century adman wears a t-shirt, drinks tequila, plays guitar, and checks into our drinks date on Foursquare as he takes a seat at the bar at Venice’s The Tasting Kitchen.
Deutsch LA Chief Digital Officer Winston Binch orders a Crazy Horse, and after he tells me “it may be the best tequila drink I’ve had, ever,” I order one too. (The off-menu combination of Serrano-infused tequila, grapefruit juice, and grenadine is indeed delicious.) …
by Alix Ohlin
In his 1998 New Yorker essay “L.A. Glows,” Lawrence Weschler famously wrote about the light of Southern California, describing how, while watching the O.J. Simpson car chase on TV, he found himself in tears, not because of the crime itself but because he so missed the airy, hazy light of home.
Born and raised in Van Nuys, the oldest of four children, he has lived in New York since 1980, while taking extended side trips around the world as a reporter. Being gone from L.A. means that he hasn’t “felt at home in 30 years.” …
by Brenda Yancor
Prior to meeting up with me for drinks, Leo Carrillo had spent his Sunday afternoon drawing a cholita with a side ponytail. “It happens to everybody,” Leo said. “You get inspired by somebody or something, and you draw.” …
by Sarah Rothbard
Near the end of our lunch at Cup Café in downtown Tucson, Daniel Hernandez tells me that the restaurant’s patio, where we’re sitting now, is one of the last places he saw former U.S. Rep. Gabrielle Giffords before January 8, 2011. That was the day Hernandez, then a senior at the University of Arizona, become a national hero by running into gunfire to save Giffords’ life. But before then, here at Cup Café, Hernandez accidentally blew off the congresswoman while she was sitting by the same table where we’ve been eating for the past hour. …
by Haley Cohen
“Salud!” Rodolfo Cutufia proposed as we clinked water bottles while waiting at a red light. “To friendship and happiness!”
A Buenos Aires cab driver for the past 25 of his 62 years, Cutufia isn’t much of a tippler. Every once in a while he’ll indulge in a Quilmes, Argentina’s national beer, the taste of which resembles diluted Pabst Blue Ribbon. But he works during normal drinking hours and needs all of his wits to brave the inferno that is porteño traffic. …
ArticlesFeuilletonFriday, December 3, 2010 How One Family Created Chinese America
PoetryThis week in L.A.From the green room
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