I Want to Go There

by Rebecca Schoenkopf

Marcel Vigneron—the foam-obsessed “twat” from a season ago’s Top Chef—is killing time as a sous chef now at The Bazaar by José Andrés in Beverly Hills. Don’t you want to see Marcel? Don’t you want to see the Bazaar? Here is what the L.A. Times said about the Bazaar in its four-star review: “Fellini-esque, a gastronomical circus, a flirtation with the flavors and soul of Spain? Los Angeles has never seen anything remotely like this exciting restaurant from Spanish chef José Andrés.”

After rapturous tales of jamon, and foie gras lollipops in cotton candy, comes this: “Another cart parks next to our table, this one plying any takers with caviar, pretty little cones, either salmon roe with crème fraîche or paddlefish with cauliflower cream. They're offered in such a delightful way, like somebody just picked a wildflower for you.”

I would like a wildflower! Picked just for me! Like Liz Lemon idiotically spit out when faced with a handsome neighbor who smells of cupcakes: “I want to go to there.”

And I will, possibly (I won’t), because even though I am unemployed, we must spend for the economy, and I’m pretty sure, with no evidence whatsoever, dollars spent in restaurants have the highest rates of circulation. If you buy a teevee at the Wal-Mart, the money goes to Wal-Mart heirs and China. (It certainly doesn’t go to the greeter.) But if you go and you spend, say, 300 clams at the Bazaar, at least $40 is going into your stewardess’s pocket (she has to tip out the busboy 10 bucks), and she will pay her rent, and the busboy will pay his, and Marcel Vigneron has to live somewhere too. Plus, a farmer somewhere is getting paid for raspberries and cilantro.

It’s sort of appalling, really, that as an unemployed woman I would even daydream about a trip to the Bazaar. But when you’re middle-class and you lose your job (or leave it, as the case may be), you tend to have a bit of a buffer. You may cobble together a bit of part-time work, and find that even if you don’t meet your nut each month, you’ve got, say, somewhere around exactly ten-and-a-half months to ride. You cancel the extra channels on your premium cable package and make do with just the necessary 50; you check your bills and discover you’re only using 700 cell minutes each month, and you call up T-Mobile but good; you maybe switch to regular sugar in a five-pound bag instead of 32 ounces of organic. These are good steps to take when you’re out of a job and don’t know when the next will be in the offing, but they are hardly evidence of suffering. You don’t have to worry about your home, at least not just yet.

But in case you are worrying about your home just yet, L.A. is in the midst of a fine rental glut. Walk down any street in my Mid-City hood, and witness the plethora of come-ons. Many pretty blocks have half a dozen signs, entreating me to take a look. Where have all the tenants gone? There are no jobs in Palmdale!

I used to think there was no more cost-cutting I could do; that my rent, though obscene, is a hell of a bargain. For $600 a month saved, we could live in a building with boarded-up windows; for $600 a month saved, my son could sit in his room to avoid the rampaging Avenues gang; for $600 a month saved, we’d have to actually walk our dog each day instead of just letting her trot ’round our Valley-sized back yard. It’s really that last one that clinched it.

But a trot ’round CraigsList may yet change my mind. There are Neutra houses in the Hollywood Hills for under $3000 a month (not for me, but for thee). There’s a guest house in Highland Park that is darling and modern and has a smallish private yard for the dog. That one would save me $1000 a month, and for that I could live in 600 square feet. My son just needs to check in with the Avenues.

It’s easy, when you’re comfortably middle-class. I can move if it comes down to it, downgrade to a small yet adorable place. Frankly, I’m probably in too much house as it is. I can even fork over first and last. Even in all this, the only part of me that’s hurting is the part that wants to dine at Bazaar. My delightful e-mail correspondents at the Coalition for Economic Survival remind me of that.

The Oriental Mission Church owns the buildings at 435 and 465 N. Oxford Avenue [they write me and the rest of their e-mail list]. Since last year, 35 families have been evicted from over 40 units of affordable housing by the church. The church is stating that it plans to demolish the apartment building to create a parking lot.

Only five remaining low-income, disabled and elderly residents remain in the two buildings. They have not moved because they have nowhere to go. The average income of the current residents is around $600 to $1600 per month. They are mostly elderly, on fixed income tenants.

Masako Mochizuki, has lived in her apartment for over 35 years. She said, “This has been my home and neighborhood since 1973 when I got the apartment as a honeymoon home. I stayed because I fell in love with the neighborhood. Besides I cannot afford to move anywhere now.  At 73 years old, I don't know how I'd start over. The idea of new neighbors and learning to get around in a new neighborhood scares me.”

Icelandic elves have more rights of tenancy than old American women. I’m totally serious; click the link for yourself.

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