Roel C.'s Profile

Don't call it a comeback, I've been here for...

...OK, it's a comeback. I figured it's been a minute since I last wrote a Yelp review, and I finally found a spot that intrigued me. Plus, I can't sleep and after reading some Yelp reviews, it seems Yelp needs some Roel C. writing in its life.

It's in San Diego ("Whale's Vagina") and I felt I needed to school San Diego-ans on proper eating. Why?

1. According to the Best of San Diego 2008 restaurants, the best Chinese food is PF Changs (Google it).

2. 'Nuff said (See #1).

3. More said: I need a proper place to showcase my Los Angeles elitism and food snobbery, and the best place to do that is Yelp.

4. L.A. is better than San Diego in more ways than just eating (See #3. Reference: "elitism").

Anyway, as someone who frequents proper L.A. sushi spots like Sasabune and Echigo, and a big fan of omakase dining, and lives in and loves L.A., I think I have enough sushi stripes and sashimi medals to offer a proper opinion on sushi joints like Sushi Ota. BTW, "proper" is the word of the hour.

Sushi Ota's omakase --

(FYI, it's not on the menu so you need to ask for it. Also, it's $80 a person. The server made sure I knew that before ordering, as if I was going to retreat to a corner after hearing the price. I figure that if you know about omakase and you're bold enough to order it when it's not on the menu, you're not worried about the price.)

-- was pleasantly varied, with a mix of vegetables, otherworldly fish (other than your usual salmon, toro, etc.), and the most tasteful miso I've ever tasted. It was an eclectic mix of courses that rivaled that of Sasbune and Echigo, but only in innovation.

Sushi Ota chefs try too hard to impress, and it's really frustrating when all you really want is a nice set of fish. Instead, I received combinations of cooked, fried, and breaded fish that scaled from mediocre to above average. The staple fish were definitely line with L.A. fish because, for one, Sushi Ota also get their fish from Japan. All in all, I was pleased with the food.

What bothers me the most is that the service is mediocre. There was an instance where the server didn't explain what I was eating after dropping it off. Since I don't know what the hell the chef just sent me, it's the server's obligation to drop some knowledge. Also, the chef didn't wait for me to finish my course, forcing the server to hide the plate before serving it. Last is the consistency of the chef's choosing of meals was way off. There was a point where I was without a plate for 5-7 minutes. That's too long in my opinion to wait for uncooked fish.

The innovation and quality of fish were big positives. The mediocre service and lack of consistency by chefs were minor negatives. That's why it's a three star review.

At any rate, if in San Diego, this place is a proper spot to visit. But if in San Diego and you're going to L.A. anyway, just go eat up there and get your sushi fix. As an L.A. elitist/food snob, I wouldn't go out of my and drive down to eat at Sushi Ota. L.A.'s sushi restaurants are better, but I don't think I had to say it.

There are only three things in life that I would kill for:

1. The chance to lick Jessica Alba's forearm.

2. The chance to make sweet love to Jessica Alba's forearm.

3. Good coffee.

I know the first two doesn't make sense, but you'll soon understand once you see me on the cover of the September issue of Forearm Fetish.

Anyway, good coffee is a must-have for me. I drink my coffee black so I can savor each drop uninterrupted by sugar or milk or half and half or the loose change passersby continue to drop into my cup when I'm huddled under the bus stop bench trying to enjoy my cup o' joe.

When my coworkers brought me to Brickhouse Cafe & Bar, I ordered a Red Eye, my favorite drink when I'm hungover, horny, or trying to get by on two hours of sleep.

Let's just say that the Red Eye they served was the best fucking coffee I've ever tasted in my life. Ever.

I'd fly out to San Francisco every day if I had the money just to drink their coffee.

In retrospect, I may have just been too hungover, too horny, and too tired from only two hours of sleep the night before that my taste buds were just fucking with me.

Either way, at the time, that shit was the shit!

Footnote: They also have an impressive full bar inside so that alone is five stars.

When I travel for business, I always start the day off with the breakfast of champions.

Wheaties?! Yeah, right! Fuck Wheaties!

I'm talking a nice, juicy, meaty, John-Holmes-sized, Latin Inches cover model hot dog.

And there's only one place to get them in San Francisco: City Gourmet.

OK OK. The hot dog wasn't really my first choice. I wanted a breakfast burrito and apparently they ran out of eggs, despite the fact I saw six of them next to the counter (Minus one star for dishonesty!).

I also ordered a bagel that took like an hour to make, a can of Red Bull, and a pack of gum. I didn't eat the bagel, gulped down the Red Bull, and saved the gum for later.

I love expensing food. Thanks, Yahoo!

My coworker dragged me into the Victoria Pastry Company near Chinatown, after a long day's work and two hours of sleep the night before, claiming they have the best 'Eclairs in the world.

I took her word for it.

1. I was still hungover.

2. I only had two hours of sleep.

3. WTF is an 'Eclair?!

Anyway, she bought me one and sure enough they were tasty, nearly orgasmic. Let's just say if I was 100 percent at the time of consumption, I would've bought a dozen of this fucking things and ate them all on the spot.

In retrospect, I'll just stick to eating my all-time favorite pastry from the liquor stores I used to frequent as a child in ghetto Long Beach:

Chocodiles.

There are certain rituals I perform every time I visit a city:

1. Eat at the local McDonald's to see if the quarter pounder tastes the exact same at home.

2. Visit the nearby strip club and/or brothel (if applicable) to see if the women are as anatomically correct as the women back home.

3. Visit H&M (if applicable)

Thankfully all of the above were applicable, though I didn't get to check out #2 seeing that I only stayed in San Francisco for seven hours.

So I checked out H&M and not surprisingly it's the same shit as in L.A., though they have a better store. For one, it's two stories like in NYC. Second, it's cleaner.

After every visit at the Beverly Center H&M, I either feel like washing my hands or just jumping into a vat of bleach altogether.

Either way, the H&Ms in NYC still beats all.

And, yes, the quarter pounder does taste the same!

It's 3:20 a.m., early Wednesday morning, and I just completed the fourth consecutive Epic Tuesday. The streak goes on!

But this Epic Tuesday is different. For starters, I have a business flight to San Francisco at....

...7 muthafucking AM!!!!!

That means I shouldn't sleep. Thankfully, the gallons of Grey Goose I drank at the rooftop on the Standard will help me stay up for at least another ten minutes or whenever I finish this review.

If not, I'm sure the pounds upon pounds of meat I ate at the Original Pantry Cafe will not only keep me awake, but it was also help me gain the oh-so-needed (yeah right!) 20 pounds that will keep my curvaceous figure.

At any rate, people ask why they call me "Roel Majors":

1. I get especially drunk when I know I have an early morning flight for work.

2. I make girls rendezvous at the bar around 2.

3. I type better when I'm drunk (i.e., right now)

Anyway, it was boys night out tonight, what with my closest friends being taken and all, and me being the only single man in the house.

Now that I read that list. They shouldn't call my Roel Majors rather Roel Stupid.

Wowsers.

Anyway, I need to make this flight.

Dwight Schrute:

Question:

Should I sleep?

Should I just drive to the terminal?

Should I pound more Grey Goose?

Should I continue typing until my flight is up?

Should I exercise off all this meat I ate?

Is the sky blue?

Is the grass green?

Answer:

Major = Roel

Epic = Summer 07

To quote NWA:

"If it ain't rough, it ain't me!"

Major.

Major.

Major.

Major.

Epic.

Epic.

Epic.

Epic.

When I left my house in Eastside Santa Monica to go skateboarding down to the 'Nade, I didn't quite expect to continue onto the Santa Monica pier, through the beach, and all the way down to the end of Venice Beach.

Ten miles one way: That's the longest I've ever skateboarded in my life!

Twenty miles total? Wowsers!

But this -- on the beach, under the sand, dodging tourists -- was one of the most enjoyable Saturdays I've ever had that didn't involve:

1. Grey Goose
2. Massage parlors
3. Masturbation

Amazing!

I am now what you call a cross-country skateboarder. 'Nuff Said, cuz.

There are certain rules for Epic Summer:

1. Epic Summer never happened.

2. Epic Summer never happened.

3. When throwing a birthday party at the Standard Downtown with a muthafuckin PENTHOUSE!!! room, never leave any of the Epic Summer boys with the room key!

So it was my homegirl's birthday tonight...we're talkin' LBC, high-school, back in the muthafuckin' days, homegirl and she came up with a penthouse at the Standard.

The Standard was so major, they wouldn't even let some of the people with a room into the rooftop.

Anyway, my homegirl got some sushi and dope cheese spread, topped off with a big (the large) bottle of Grey Goose.

And guess what I was magnetized to? GG of course!

So I got so hyphy that for some reason or another I got the roomkey all to myself!

What do I do with a key to a penthouse, 12th floor room to the Standard?

I throw all the sushi down the window of course!!

LOLs all around.

Grey Goose is a helluva drink.!!

So it's 2:50 a.m.

I only state the time to let the readers know that I'm more hyphy than a man drinking Kool-Aid in outer space.

Tonight, my old friends from back in the day tells me to roll out to Spanish Kitchen. I was doing laundry at the time: the first round of the dryer.

Since I haven't seen these muthafuckas in such a long time, guess what i did?

NO. i did not masturbate. Instead I left my clothes in the PUBLIC dryer to dry, wrote a note to myself to remember to pick it up when I get home, and peaced out to Spanish Kitchen.

Spanish Kitchen has a special place in my heart.

1. Like someone who looks like me, a lot of people think it's Mexican. It's not...and I'm not.

I'm half Ugandan and Finnish. I look Filipino but I'm not mexican. Viva la raza!

2. I'm drunk. and i've drank there more than you can say Hermione Grandger.

Anyway. I'm drunk from Sapnish Kitchen and voila! Mood. Mood fucked me up tongith, dunnys. I'm fucked up.

But it wasy hella hyphy at Spanish Kitchen with the firme heinas and gueras.

Me gusta? Si.

Anyway, I hung out at Spanish Kitchen til 11 am, peaced out to mood around 12-ish, and left Mood at 2 am.

i'm drunk.

But met som e really cool people tonight.

Conclusion?

I love spanish kitchen. I love mood. I love home.

Kenji C. rocks!

Anyway. blah! I'm done.

MOre done thatn ever. I laugh when I read this tomorrow.

Peace out, as they say in 1995.

Audi 2000!!!

P.S. I came home thankfully and my clothes were still in the dryer all fresh and clean.

Conclusion: I need to stop drinking.

jafl;djfal;sjkasdf
asd
fsadjl;jasf;adfjds
jk;saj;ldsajd!!!!

There's nothing like channeling your inner Neanderthal by getting absolutely shit-faced on Courvoisier and Pepsi on a Friday night, forcing you to sleep in your car in a desolate parking lot in Venice Beach, and then waking up Saturday morning, drunk, un-showered, and hungover to go rock climbing at Rockreation.

This, my friends, is what I experienced this past weekend (among other things) because a friend has decided to voluntarily lock himself up in jail, er, marriage prompting a much-needed bachelor party.

Lessons Learned:

1. Courvoisier is a helluva drink.
2. Venice Beach is a helluva city.
3. Do not rock climb hungover, unshowered, and well, just plain hungover.

Because when you're up 40 feet in the air with a just a piece of rope wrapped around you and you're relying on a friend down below, who also happens to be hungover, to hold onto that piece of rope, you'll be immediately praying to Jesu Cristo for some of that hyphy juice, er, red wine or whatever them Catholicos drink in a crisis.

Thankfully, the folks at Rockreation realized how hungover everyone was and made sure we listened intently and learned the proper ways of rock climbing, with clear instructions and of course the signing of a waiver just in case you...uh...die.

In the end, I actually enjoyed this Neanderthal act of being one with nature, albeit it's not really a rock and we were actually indoors. But I felt like I was with my ancestors.

So I topped the rock climbing experience off by peeing on trees to mark my territory and clubbing a girl over the head and making her my wife.