A MADNESS CALLED METH

August 8, 2103.

Yesterday my friend emailed me a story about a huge methamphetamine bust in Los Angeles County invovling the powerful street gang Florencia 13, the Mexican Mafia, (EME) priosn gang and the drug caretl LA Familia Michoacan. It remind me of an old story I was part of .

 On October, 8, 2000 a joint project by the Fresno, Sacramento and Modesto Bees about the growing threat of methamphetamine was published.  My role in the special section called "A Madness Called Meth" was to go to Mexico, to Michoacan, the epicenter of meth, and reported. Freno Bee Phtographer Craig Kolhrus and I spent several days hanging out there, This is a part of the project I wrote that appeared in Chapter 5..

 

FROM "A MADNESS CALLED METH"

 

The young man is nervous during interrogation.

The detective senses it. The story just doesn't add up. Why would anyone pay someone $1,000 just to drive three men from Long Beach to Porterville in Tulare County?

"I'll tell you this right now, once you tell me the truth you're gonna feel like a man," he tells the suspect.

"All I want to do is go home to my wife and kids," he replies.

The suspect, who claims he was on his way to visit his uncle in Fresno when he was caught up in a meth bust, begins to cry.

"Why are you treating me like a criminal?"

A long minute passes. Backed into a corner, the suspect gives something up: He was paid to bring the two men up "to cook."

"To cook what?"

"I don't know. They just say to cook."

This dance is about to come to an end.

"You told me you are from Michoacan. What part of Michoacan?"

"Apatzingan."

Now the detective knows for sure. Javier Ochoa is part of the meth trade.

It's 45 minutes before midnight, and traffic is heavy on the sidewalks of Apatzingan. Bumpy, paved streets in the city's center are lined with hundreds of narrow storefront shops selling everything from new clothes to washing machines to caskets. Sidewalks are crowded with strollers.

A dressmaker watches the foot traffic. "I love living in Apatzingan," Rosalba Conchola says. "It's full of life. It's not dangerous, unlike the United States."

Music, Mexican and American, blares from passing cars, many of them new- or late-model American pickups or BMWs. There are obvious signs of money here, but there are no obvious signs as to why. It's simply understood. The chief products in this gritty farming town are mangoes, papayas, watermelons and meth. And a steady supply of meth makers.

Like some rap music in urban America, much of the popular music in Michoacan romanticizes the drug dealer. Sidewalk booth vendors in Apatzingan do a good business selling "Druga Corredos," the Mexican equivalent of gangsta rap. One song begins: "I am here across the border in America, and I have drugs for you . . ."

Apatzingan anchors the "Michoacan Trail," a pipeline that moves north through Guadalajara to Tijuana, pumping not only the product, but the people who cook it, across the California border and into the Central Valley.

"Yes, it is true," says police officer Ramon Lopez-Valencia as he slowly shakes his head. "The young people want to be crystal dealers."

Says Mike Huerta of the DEA in Arizona: "It's like they have some kind of mini academy down there in Apatzingan where they train people to cook and send them to California."

Apatzingan's police department is in the partially abandoned Palacio Municipal, a tattered two-story colonial with peeling paint, fresh graffiti and plenty of men with automatic weapons. (Across the street is the main plaza, the cathedral and the shining star of the city -- the building where on Oct. 22, 1814, Mexico's first constitution was signed.)

Fernando Fernandez-Castaneda, Apatzingan's police chief, is 23, stands about 5 foot 5 with his boots on and weighs about 130 pounds. His silver ballpoint pen sticks out of his white, blue-striped dress shirt. He wears gray slacks. Atop his burgundy vinyl-topped desk is a Samsung computer loaded with Microsoft Word. He wears no gun, but 3 feet to his left is an AK-47.

Fernandez-Castaneda smiles frequently and talks softly. He says he is determined to do something about meth in his town. "Crystal is a gigantic problem here. It has been for years," he says, as police officers armed with machine guns and pearl-handled revolvers amble outside his office. "We just used to take it all out of the country, but now the locals are consuming it, and it is very worrisome.

"We can spot the obvious drug men, and they don't care that we know what they do."

Their hair is neatly cropped, he says, and they wear gold chains and bracelets and ostrich-skin boots. They drive new pickups with fancy wheels.

During a routine raid of what Fernandez-Castaneda calls meth-rich neighborhoods, the chief runs into 23-year-old Jose Manuel. The two grew up in the same barrio. For the last six months, Manuel has a new passion -- snorting crank.

"It makes me feel excited," Manuel says, "makes me want to move."

"Is it hard for you to get it?" he is asked.

"I'll will show you how hard it is. I'll be back in 10 minutes." But Manuel, on a bike, needs a ride to score, and the chief, eager to show how common meth is, orders an officer to give Manuel a ride. After a few minutes, the chief is eager to continue the raid, so he and 22 officers in four pickups cruise along bumpy dirt roads, randomly stopping to search young men, who submit quietly.

Three crucifixes mounted with suction cups hang from the chief's windshield. A fourth lies near the gearshift -- to ensure his safety, he says. Jesus takes the place of seat belts. "It's like a university for crystal down here," says Fernandez-Castaneda, who estimates there are 10 major labs in Apatzingan and countless smaller ones. "They learn to cook and go to California."

After searching suspects in three neighborhoods, the police come up empty.

When the police arrive back at the station, Manuel shows off what is left of the quarter gram of meth he has copped for about $5. As he extends the dope, half covered in plastic wrap, the wind blows. The dope and the plastic wrap swirl out of his hand in a graceful arc, floating like a parachute to the pavement. Manuel grabs at it but misses, and the drugs fall to the concrete. He is last seen trying to sort the crystal from the dirt.

A short while later, a 17-year-old boy wearing a worn Cleveland Indians baseball cap sits on the chipped front steps of an apartment building. His old green bike rests next to him. He delivers for a nearby pharmacy but admits he wants his own type of pharmaceuticals.

"Yeah, I want my own organization one of these days," says Pablo Hernandez Rodales, taking off his cap to wipe sweat off his forehead. "I'm going to have me a new truck and five girls.

"You know, they are never going to stop the crystal now."

ITALIAN BITES PART 3 MMXIII

AUGUST 7, 2013

As Italy 2013 bites on and on, the team of Nancy Silverton and Michael Krikorian have added a slew of dishes that will compete later this month for the DOT (dishes of the trip) awards, that culminates in that most coveted award, Taste of the Trip. 

Several guest diners have added their tastes to the pot,  they include chef Matt Molina (who won a James Beard Award and the rare James Goatee Award), Liz “Go Go” Hong, chef of Pizzeria Mozza and, it shockingly turns out, not the dumb blonde she was when she entered the country.  Also joining was professori di vino Bobby Silverton, a Philly/Venice Beach  guy devoted to fine dining.

It has been over 10 days since the last restaurant update, and many good dishes will not even make this preliminary list. To get on the following you best grab hold of our taste buds, grab them and say “Don’t I taste good, fool?!”

GELATO IN ORVIETO

Orvieto, about an hour from Panciale, is best known for its cathedral which has a strikingly beautiful façade. I like to take the unsuspecting, like Liz Go Go Hong,  lead them down a small street that live ends at the church, and twirl them around like I did with Go Go and also with Larry Silverton.  Both said “Wow” and “Oh my God!.”  Larry said he was tempted to become a Christian.  As for Go Go, she was so taken with the church that I convinced her to go inside. She hadn’t been in a church since the Battle of Verdun.  Go Go entered the church and said “Ok, lets go get some gelato.” Total time in church 9 seconds.

NOTE - I didn’t see this, but Nancy swears Matty Molina even took a photo of this church.

The church is about 60 meters from GELATERIA PASQUALETTI, where in 2012 I had nine scoups.  This time I cut down to eight. The highlights are the pistachio and chocolate rum.  The Fiore di latte with frutti de bosco is also excellent. Ya know what? All their stuff is good.

YOGURT AMUSE BUSCHE AT CIBREO

Cibreo is one of the top restaurants in Florence.  So many things were good here at our lunch - roasted stuffed rabbit, fish soup, orange cheesecake -  but the most stunning, most sensual single bite was this mold of yogurt flavored with turmeric,  I am doing a rotten job of describing this, so |I’m going to yell upstairs and see if Nancy has anything to add.  Hold up   Ok. “It was a yogurt panna cotta with turmeric set with gelatin and very flavorful and tangy.”  It was a superb  way to wake up .the taste buds and let them know they were in for an exhilarating ride.

The entire lunch  at Cibreo was excellent.

http://www.edizioniteatrodelsalecibreofirenze.it/index.php?option=com_content&view=section&id=12&Itemid=2

MEAT TROLLEY

Our American friends in Panicale, Alan and Barbara, known as “A and B” and from Las Vegas by way of Pittsburg,  spend several months a year in Italy,  tracking down restaurants and operas the way Lord Baltimore tracked Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. “I know my food,” A said last night. He sure does. He has recommended three places this summer and all three were Returners, one of our highest honors.

This place is located in Sansepolcro, where Piero Della Francesca was born in 1415.  The restaurant is Da Ventura and we were alerted by “A” to get the meat trolley. And indeed, for 12 euros, a meat trolley with three roasts pulled up to the table and a waiter starts carving. We had on our trolley a porchetta, a pot roast to rival Jar, and a veal shank.    Avoid the pasta here. Or even any antipasti and go straight for the trolley.

The restaurant is 100 meters from the Musee Civico, which features masterpieces by Piero Della Francesca and several self portraits by Pat Asanti.

http://www.albergodaventura.it/homeeng.html

 

OSTERIA FRANCESCANA had several dishes that will  make it to the grand finals at the DOT awards. A short script about this dining event will appear later.

BISTECCA MOLINA and Roasted Potatoes-

A week ago, while I read a good book called “Southside”, Nancy, Matt and Liz prepared dinner. It was a homeland feast highlighted by a one-kilo steak cooked in the outdoor wood oven and some simple roasted potatoes with rosemary and olive oil.   Go Go made some good salsa verde and would frequently remind us of this throughout dinner.

NOTE Later that night, Go Go destroyed Nancy and myself in a stupid game of Scrabble. It was significant because it was the first inkling either of us had that Liz had a functioning brain.  Days later, it would be revealed that in some societies , Go Go would be considered intelligent. On a nighttime walk, I handed her 30 pages of a novel to read.  Nine footsteps later she handed it back saying “Change the $25,000 purse. Make it 10.” Girl can speed read.  However, I learned she prefers to play down her brain so others will focus on her body. She did a good job of this at the piazza in Panicale prompting one Panicale veteran, George,. 77,  to proclaim  “I’ve seen women with more clothing on at a nudist colony.”

FISH BAKED ON SALT.

In the Adriatic seaside town of Cesenatica, north of Rimini,  is the restaurant La Buca where Matty insisted we go. This guy is talking about this place like the fish is caught by Jesus with Peter as his netman. We went. The crudo was bright.  The big  prawns lightly grilled and good.  The highlight was a sparidae, a fish related to bream and dentrice..   This fish was cooked on, not quite a bed of salt, but more like a yoga matt of salt. Not encased where you crack that salt cover off, the bottom of said fish had a nice, kinda, well,  salty tinge to it. Real moist.  We lucked out here on this \July 31 lunch as the fishing in the Adriatic shuts down for the month of August to allow the fish to build up their population and for the fisherman to essentially do the same while on vacation. .

http://www.stefanobartolini.com/la-buca/

After La Buca, we strolled over to a gelato place called Labratorio, something like that, and I have four flavors, including a pistachio made, they claim, with “100% DOP pistachios”. The gelato here was intense and good and the lady whose photo might be below says they are going to open a place in Malibu in conjunction with the Toscano folks.

NOTE ABOUT GELATO- The hotter it is, the better good gelato tastes. The heat can help a so-so gelato, but it straight out turbo-charges the good stuff. If you could get a real good gelato in hell, it would be out of this world.

FEGATINI aka CHICKEN LIVER ON TOAST.

“A” , our friend from Pittsburg and Las Vegas, hit a three-run homer with his recommendation of Piccolo Trattoria Guastini in Valiano, a 34-minute drive, (timed twice) from Panicale on the back road to Montepulchiano,

With Bobby Silverstein, we went two weeks ago and we very pleased. We decided to give it another try and this time it was even better. The highlights included a simple Fegatini, a dish available all over the country, but never better than this version.  Nancy took one bite and uttered probably my favorite positive food term “delicious”. Coming from her, it has some pulp.

The dish was not cooked down to a smooth or even course consistency and spread on toast. Instead it had, excuse the word, gobs of chicken  liver. The owner of Guastini said it was somewahto an accidental dish.

“We always cooked the dish like everybody else. But one day, we are cooking it down and some situation happened. A commotion. And we turned off the pan to look into the problem When we came back, an hour so later,. I tasted the chicken liver and, wow, it was so good. So we now serve it that way.”  I told him if he changed it, he would be  having a real commotion.

Guastini also scored strong on their ravioli stuffed with pigeon and topped with two gigantic pigeon legs.

http://www.piccolatrattoriaguastini.it/

SAUSAGE AND EGGS

Yesterday for lunch Nancy made a frittata with pancetta, onions, parmesan and aged percorino. She cooked up some sausage from the Coop, a supermarket made famous in a photo with Nancy wearing their shirt.  Added a little salad.  Just the two of us on the porch with the Panicale backdrop.  Lou Rawls was on the box singing “Old Folks”.  I  don’t even have to say no more.  You feel me?  

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90bGU8YX0v0

 

Meat Trolley at Da Ventura in Sansepolcro

Meat Trolley at Da Ventura in Sansepolcro

Panicale Porch lunch August 6

Panicale Porch lunch August 6

MY TURKISH FRIEND

Across the Armenian-Turkish divide

Op-Ed

For years, the genocide fueled my anger at all things Turkish. Then I met Murat Kayali.

April 23, 2013|By Michael Krikorian

In 2001, I wrote a story for the Los Angeles Times about April 24, the annual Armenian Day of Remembrance, that had this lead: "The Armenian genocide."

That was it, the entire first paragraph.

I was proud of it because it didn't say "the alleged genocide" or "what the Armenians consider a genocide." It just called the 1915 massacre of a million Armenians what it was, even though the U.S. government — in deference to official Turkish denials and our air bases in Turkey — won't use the word.

When I was a teenager, I used to go with my grandfather Nahabed to April 24 protest marches on Sunset Boulevard in Hollywood and later on Wilshire Boulevard. I've been to maybe 25. I'll probably go again this week.

I heard the tales of horror from both pairs of grandparents, Nahabed and Siranoush, from the city of Kharpert, and Moses and Siran, from a village near Van. Siranoush saw her pregnant sister bayoneted, the fetus coming back out on the blade. For my other grandmother, Siran, there was never enough distance to completely wipe away what happened. It all enraged me, eliciting a young man's desire for revenge.

When 19-year-old Hampig "Harry" Sassounian shot and killed the Turkish counsel general at a stoplight on Wilshire Boulevard and Comstock in Westwood in 1982, I mostly admired him. What a bold thing to do, I thought then, to kill this Turkish official who denied the ultimate crime.

In those years, whenever I saw or heard about anything Turkish, I hated it. Even Turkish Taffy. I'm not joking. On Redondo Beach Boulevard near Prairie Avenue there was a bar called Turk's Grass Hut. I doubt the owner was even a Turk, but every time I drove by at night, I considered shooting out the sign with my .38.

When I met Turks, which happened a few times, I immediately said I was Armenian. It's an example of my vast ignorance that I was always surprised when they didn't recoil in hatred.

One of them said he had been engaged to an Armenian girl, but her parents wouldn't allow the marriage. Big deal, I thought. Why would anyone want to marry a Turk anyway?

I knew, of course, that all Turks weren't bad. My Uncle Harry and Uncle Aram told me that many had helped Armenians in their darkest hour. But the rest of them had killed my ancestors, or stood by and then denied the atrocities.

Years passed. My anger eased. And I met Murat Kayali.

He was a delivery driver for the restaurant my girlfriend owns. When I saw this new guy lingering in the parking lot, I introduced myself. As I do with just about everyone I meet, I challenged him with a "Where you from?" (I've probably been hanging out in Watts too long.)

"Turkey," he said.

I said, "I'm Armenian."

And his face lit up.

He told me of the many Armenian friends he had back home in Ankara and how much he loved the Armenian people. He had this engaging smile and a contagious exuberance. We talked for a while.

I walked into the restaurant thinking, "Hmm, I liked that guy. I like that Turk."

Every time I saw him, he greeted me with "Michael, eench bes es?" — the phonetic version of "How are you?" in Armenian. I started to seek him out.

Turned out he had a UCLA engineering degree and was working at the restaurant to put away some money. His goal was a good job in his homeland. He invited me to his wedding at home in Ankara, promising me I would be treated like family.

How could I not like him? How could anyone not like this guy, even someone like me?

On the afternoon of the Oscars last year, the to-go orders were piling up at the restaurant. I went into the kitchen to help. Organize the time sequence of the orders for the delivery drivers, I was told. Soon, Murat joined me, sorting the tickets.

"Check it out," I said loudly to the staff. "An Armenian and a Turk working side by side."

"And having fun," Murat said. "Someone take a picture."

We laughed and gave each other a hard sideways five. Pop. The sting felt good.

Murat finally moved back to Turkey. Two weeks ago, he Facebooked me. He had his dream job as an engineer in Ankara. His marriage was a delight. He was happy. I was happy for him. He wrote, "You are one of my best friends in USA." He told me to come visit. Again.

Imagine that. Me going to Ankara to see a Turkish friend. Maybe I will. Maybe there's hope for the planet after all.

Michael Krikorian, a former Times staff writer, is the author of a crime novel, "Southside," due to be published in November.

Murat and Michael in Istanbul

Murat and Michael in Istanbul

OSTERIA FRANCESCANA - THE ORDER

YOU CAN'T ALWAYS GET WHAT YOU ORDER

 (Note: the copy editor strike at KrikorianWrites continues in its 29th day)

Eigtheen minutes before five Californians were to arrive at the highest rated restaurant in Italy for their 12:30 lunch,  they ordered a plate of mortadella and pancetta, and rocks glasses of red wines from a stall in a covered market less than 400 meters away from their revered destination, Osteria Franscescana.  

The co-owner of this food stall, Sara, proclaimed the mortadella and pancetta "a good order" and started slicing. On this much anticipated gastronomic day, this food would be the fivesome's only order that was delivered.

By 1 p.m., Nancy Silverton, Liz "Go Go" Hong, Matt Molina, Bobby Silverstein and Michael Krikorian had ordered at Osteria Francecana, the three Michelin-starred Modena jewel of Massimo Bottura that is the highest rated restaurant in the prestigious L'Expresso Guide to Italy with a 19.75 rating, tied for highest in the Gambero Rosso guide at 95 (with Vassani, in Umbria)  and currently listed as the 3rd best restaurant in the world according to the curious San Pellegrino list. 

The five ordered three courses each, 15 different dishes for this special gathering. Rumors swirled throughout Emilia Romagna that the Three Tenors"Pass the Plate" record could be shattered today.  However, and somewhat stunningly, these five salavating diners woud get none of their order. 

Ten minutes after their request went into the kitchen. Chef Massimo Bottura appeared at the table holding the paper order and squinting at it like it was either a badly scribbled ransom note or, at the very least, a recipe for culinary disaster.

 "This order of yours,"  he said, then didn't finish the sentence. . A grimace ensued. He had something painful to say and was having difficulty saying it. The Californiansstared in silence for about three, maybe even four seconds. That can be a long time.    

 "I'm thinking it would be better if |I just made you a menu of some of the things I want you to have,"

Krikorian jumped ship first, abandoning his fellow diners faster than a former Kadifi aide at a Misrata spring BBQ.  "I agree, That would be fine. That's what I wanted." 

But, backup didn't come quickly. Go Go sat speechless. Nancy seemed perplexed, Matty looked insulted and Bobby put on a poker face. 

Massimo continued, "I'd like to prepare some dishes that represent what I do here andwhat my family traditions are. It would be a tribute to the land, to the farmers. It would be an honoring of the soil, of the animal. A meal of this land, of our people."

"I'm thinking "Is this guy a chef or is he running for the 52nd State Assembly seat in the San Joaquin Valley," Krikorian said later.   

Massimo continued with her fervent appeal to agree to his order. Soon Bobby Silverstein was converted, later admitting that was what he wanted all along..

But Molina, continued with his efforts to keep some of the original order, "Well, you seen what we've ordered. You have an idea of what we like, Can you make a meal around some of those dishes?"

Massimo, about as low key and charming as a famous chef can be, was starting to leak exasperation. "Look, you can order whatever you like," he said and started to walk away.

Bobby Silverstein  later said it was his very polite way of saying "Order whatever the fuck you want."

Matt Molina later said , "His kitchen probably couldn't handle our order."

A Japanese Francescana sous chef in the kitchen, listening in on a dining room surveilance camera that feeds to the kitchen, said to the staff, "Americans ordering like this is Chinese restaurant. 'I'll have one from column. A,., two column b..."   

Nancy swayed Massimo back and he went on more about what he wanted to cook. She asked how many courses. Seven, he said and made a major point in saying the dessert would be the best ham in Italy, Massimo Spigaroli's 42-month aged culatello.  

Go Go was profoundly moved by that. "He had me with his "ham for dessert" line", she later said.  By then, everyone was in agreeement. We would have the menu Massimo Bottura wanted to cook for us. 

A report on the meal will appear here later.

But, a brief report of the reviews follows now.

After the meal Matt Molina, not a gusher of praise, had this to say "Chef's food tasted like what you would want allMIchelin three stars and San Pelligrino top rated places to taste like. It had soul."

Bobby Silverstein, notorious for finding fault in higly rated places and even more so for complaining about the often-long drive to get to them,  simply said "This place was worth the journey."

Go Go Hong was in a state of rapture. "Culatello for dessert."

Shortly after the lunch, Nancy Silverton was walking near one of her favorite churches. the not grand, nearly rustic Duomo of Modena.  (Yes, Nancy has some favorites churches) when Krikorian asked her how she would rate this lunch with her all time restaurant meals. She started to list her alltime dining out experiences.   

 "Fredy Girardet. Umm, the first time I went to El Buli. The first time I went to Chez Panisse. Pierre Gagnaire. A vegetable lunch at Arpege. The first time I went to French Laundry."

Nancy continued, switching to why there was no Italian restaurants on the elite list. "Usually for Italian restaurants, I like the more traditional, the rustic. But, Osteria Francescana? It was great. It makes my all time list."

The lunch was traditional. The tradition of the life of Massimo Bottura and his family.

 

LAPD's MIchael Hastings Crash Investigation Update

Thirty seven days after Michael Hastings  died when his speeding Mercedes Benz burst into a fireball upon smashing into a tree on Highland Avenue in Los Angeles, the investigation into his death continues.

Yet, despite a strong conspiracy outcry, the lead LAPD detective on the case said Wednesday that "So far, all evidence leads to an accident."

"There has not been any change to the findings of our initial investigation," said Det. Connie White, referring to the LAPD's announcement  two days after the crash that there was "no foul play involved." 

When asked if alcohol had been involved, Det. White paused briefly and said "I cannot comment at this time."

Hastings, best known as the reporter whose 2010 Rolling Stone profile of outspoken, Obama-bashing, Biden-slurring General Stanley McChrystal led to the general's ouster, was speeding southbound on Highland Avenue at  Melrose Avenue at around 4:20 a.m.. Captured on a restaurant's security camera, the car swerves, jumps the median curb that divides north and south traffic, hits a 30" tall metal water pipe causing a large spark to the undercarriage of the car, then hits a palm tree and bursts into flames. The term "burst into flames" is a cliche, but Hastings' "burst" might have set a new standard, at least for a car crash. 

Regarding internet gossip about cyber-hacking into the Mercedes, such a disabling the brakes and jamming the accelerator, Det. White said "There has been no evidence at all leading in that direction." 

White did strongly knock down an internet claim  by the site "infowars" which, based on a report by Kimberly Dvorak of San Diego, stated the LAPD has ordered its officers and detectives not to speak about the crash. "I have never been ordered not to speak about a case." .

"Go Go" Goes to Rome

SALDI!

In the spring of 2013 a quiz about Rome was offered  to every single human on Earth. Unbeknownst to quiz takers, the person that scored the lowest would be awarded a day trip to Rome. Due to war, famine, conjestion on the 405 and altitude sickness only 4.27 billion people took the quiz. Coming in last place with a score of .00003% on the 999 question quiz was Elixzabeth "Go Go" Hong,  a cook from California.  The following is an account of her six hours in the Eternal City on July 23, 2013 with her hosts MIchael Krikorian and Nancy Silverton who were on the .18th day of their summer trip to Italy

TASS News Agency, Mosocw, July 24. 2013 

EDITOR'S NOTE, - The copy editor's strike at KrikorianWrites continues with no end in site, Or is that sight.  

ITALY MMXIII

 

 "Go Go says she will be easy to spot," Nancy Silverton told me as I parked in a restricted area in front of Terminal 3 at Leonardo Da Vinci Aeroporti outside of Rome shorlty after 9 a. m. Tuesday morning. "She says she is the only Asian in the entire airport."  

As I exited our red Fiat rental car, a man holding up what i guessed was a special parking pass yelled at me in Romanese for taking his spot. I yelled back in Comptonese. 

I ran across a construction zone to the waiting area. There were dozens  of Asians, but Liz was easy to spot. She had on the shortest black dress of anyone in the airport.

The drive from the airport to Rome centro was slow, but after about 35 minutes, we were there, first encountering thousands of  people in line outside of an austere building with tall walls.

"What are all those people waiting in line for?" Hong asked.

"That's the Vatican," Nancy said. "There're going to see the Sistine Chapel."

"That's stupid. Only one day in Rome and they waste it in line." 

I considered telling her that these people were not, like her, in Rome  for only a few hours. That some of them had planned their entire vacation about going to the Vatican. About the treasure in the Vatican Museum  About Raphael's "School of Athens", But, why bother?

As we drive away, Go Go has a question about who lives there. "The pope", Nancy tell her.   

 "Is it still Paul John. I mean John Paul. The second, right? Or is it the first? No, it's the second, right?"

Yeah, Liz. Sure you're right. 

I drive on and on, in search of a parking spot while Nancy points out landmarks. "There's the Forum, Liz. And Trajan's Market."  

No reaction. None. A minute later, Liz is actually impressed by  Rome's most famous ruin. the Coliseum. "I've been to the Coliseum!," she announces to the world. From then on. whenever we see a souvenir Coliseum, Hong blurts out "I've been there!"

We park somewhere near the old Soviet Union and walk and walk and walk.. Finally the Campo di Fiori, to the bakery that inspired the pizza dough at Mozza, "Forno Campo de' Fiori.  Then to the bakery's sandwich shop next door. Three sandwiches (Zucchini blossoms and mozzarella, prosciutto cotto and mozzarella and mortadella and arugala, for 10 and half Euro. ) Then we go to lunch at Roscioli just down a lane from the Campo De' Fiori..

An hour of gluttony ensue, endng with Liz grabbing the lefeovers of our mixed salumi plate, opening up the one leftover sandwich, the mortadlla one. and stuffing it with the salumi platter leftovers. Roscioli. was good, but not superb like i have remembered it to be. We had a pasta carbonara, one of their specialities, that was so rich it became dull. And burrata.  What an inspired order, I tell Nancy and Liz. LIke you  dont deal with burrata every day of the year.   Nancy and Liz even order a main course. known in these parts as "secondi". of meatballs and tagliata, sliced steak. These two dishes. prove to be foolish choices, Secon-dudes.

That plate of salumi and cheese is nothing to write home about. unless you like to write home about mediocrity. Chad Colby's stuff would blow this out. The highlight is a sheep's milk cheese with a name I couldn't understand. I tell Nancy and LIz  I'm gonna ask the server to say it again so I can increase my cheese knowledge. But my interest in cheese dimshes with each bite of food. I'm getting full and the last thing i need to find out is some cheese's name.  

We go out into the hot Roman sun and into the Piazza Navona with its striking 17th century Fountain of the Four Rivers by Bernini. Again, LIz seems unimpressed. She snaps a photo without  much wonder or any questions about the piazza, one of the most impressive in Italy, other than to ask "Do tourists come here." I say nothing, but think to myself. "Is she serious?".  

I asked her if  she wanted to see one of my all time favorite paintings. Caravaggio's "Calling  of Saint Matthew" at the nearby San Luigi dei Francesi church, I would have got a more enthusastic response if i had asked her if she wanted to see an abandoned  biscotti factory.

She started seeing the sign "SALDI" in many shop windows.Nancy explained that meant "Sale". Everytime Liz would see the sign. which was often every three seonds. she would call out  "Saldi!". Vendors, many from  Senegal and Liberia, began to look at her with curiosity, A purse seller from Dakar pulls me aside and asks "How long has she been like that? It must be hard on you. Here, take a purse."

We walked to the Spanish Steps.. Led astray by Nancy, she was more interested in the shops on Via Condotti, the Rodeo Drive of Rome.  We walked to the Trevi Fountain, where, back to the fountain.  she threw three coins over her head.Two of them - American quarters - hit an elderly Malaysian woman on the forehead.  The woman screamed "Tahi" which i later learned means "shit" in her native Malay tongue.

Ice cream  time. To il Gelato San Crispino, near the fountain. Good if you near there, otherwise overrated.

By then it was about three thirty and we started the long walk back to our car. Go Go's day in Rome was done, but the memory eternal.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

ITALY MMXIII JULY 22

LITTLE WHITE DRESS (ING)

After lunch at Trattoria Cibreo, Nancy Silverton and Michael Krikorian walked 10 meters  to a piazza and into Enoteca  Sant’ Ambrogio. There, Silverton, sipping Amarone,  suddenly launched into a reverie about her next creation. A ricotta dressing. On and on she described how delicious it would be. How it would take the dressing world by thunderstorm.  Krikorian later said he knew how Mr. Reese felt when his wife  first told him her idea for a peanut butter cup.

Two days later, when he asked her about the dressing Silverton replied “What dressing?”

“The ricotta one. The one you was goin’ on and on about like it was the second coming of 1,000 Island.”

“Oh, yeah. We need to go to the Tavernelle market and gets some bufala ricotta tomorrow.”

The next day, Silverton was making the ricotta dressing when Krikorian asked “Should I test it out? See if it’s any good.”

She looked at him like Miles Davis did when Marilyn Monroe asked him if she could sit in with her ukelele.  “Leave me alone. Go downstairs and Google “Big Evil.” or something.”

An hour later, the front porch table laden with a lunch fit for an emperor, Krikorian asked “Where’s the ricotta dressing?”.

“It didn’t work out. “

“That’s it. No dressing. Just like that?”

“That’s how it happens. Just like that.”

Reuters news Agency Jul 22. 2013

EDITOR’S NOTE – The copy editor strike at Krikorianwrites, lead by legendary copy editor Saji Mathai, remains in effect.  Originally striking in solidarity with the California prison inmates on hunger strike, the Mathai-led organization has added free Butterscotch Budinos on Wednesdays to their list of demands. Expect some typos.

NOTE II The first 10 days of the trips saw a few disappointing meals.  Like I wrote last week, I am not a food writer. And like I say this week, I get that when one is truly hungry any food is good. I am fortunate beyond paragraphs that I am able to eat well.

So, with that,  here is an update on the dining adventures of Nancy Silverton and myself with and guest appearances by some friends and family.

ITALY MMXIII

Seventeen days into Italy MMXIII, our dining and eating adventures have shifted into a higher gear, thanks largely to Days 13 and 14 in Florence which began at the Cibreo Trattoria and ended aboard a southbound train headed to Umbria eating culatello di Zibello and drinking red wine.  Dinner on July 18, (Day 13) at the home of Massimo Tarli and his wife Faith Willinger in Florence’s San Spirito neighborhood, was easily the best of the trip.  

The upswing of our dining batting average, which i told Osteria Mozza backwaiter David Rosoff was hovering around a paltry .235, began at the lunch at Trattoria Cibreo', little cousin to the Ristorante, one of the acclaimed joints in Florence, which is known 'round these parts as Firenze. 

We arrived at Florence's Santa Maria Novella train station at 1 p.m., and took a cab through the city center, past a very large church smack dab in the middle of downtown,  to Cibreo where we were immediately sat. 

I had a procini soup that brought to mind that tired food phase "depth of flavor", which this soup had in spades and clubs.  The above spelling of porcini appears wrong at first, but if you tasted this soup, you'd agree these were some PROcinis. You feel me?  Nancy had a fish soup that was good, too.

From main i had a roasted pork with spinich and some sterling mashed potatos topped with browned parmesan. I ate Nancy's portion  Nancy had, damn what'd she have? Hold up. Three times I had to yell upstairs, "What main did you have at Cibreo?" She had rabbit. Was fine.

We took a two, three kilometer walk to our hotel called the  Annalena near San Spirito that Faith had suggested. $120 for a nice room and a sweet balcony overlooking a garden.

It was dinner for six, us, the hosts and Dario Cecchini. the world's most famous butcher and KIm, the world's most famous butcher's wife.  

Now this meal  was outstanding. Here is where my lack of food writer skills becomes even more evident. Plus, I didn't take no notes. There were green beans, and beats with something, The beets were good. But, I remember Faith saying these green beans, (plain and called by her "haricots verte") , she said "these beans are to die for." Me i took one bite and i'm thinking "no way I'm gonna die for these beans."

But, the main course, an oxtail stew cooked, simmered and braised for, I think, 17 hours, was extaordinary. I wouldn't die for this dish either, but I'd surely take some indigestion and even a sore throat and maybe a mild fever for half a day for it. Faith added some chocalate and almonds to the dish that had such a extremely rich beefy flavor, almost like a Stegosaurus tail stew, but without the anxiety.

 "I knew the moment that I started cooking this oxtail. that it was special.  I never cooked a piece of meat like this," Faith said. "Just the aromas. My god." The extra large bull, raised by the winmaker Fontodi,  was five years old. (Two years is normal age to slaughter an  animal around here). The steer  was a castrated bull which accounted for his size as apparently he ate extra because he was so ornery at not being able to - or maybe even not wanting to - make out with all the fine young cows that graze the Panzano en Chianti lands.

I ate three portions. More importantly, I got to sit next to Kim. Thank you Faith and Massimo for a memorable evening. 

The next day we went to the San Lorenzo covered market about a five minute walk from the striking Basillica of Santa Maria di Fiori, maybe the most stunning urban structure I have ever seen. Your walking along a street lined with shoe stores and wine shops and turn the corner and sha la la la, sha boom!, there's the Duomo. 

At the market,  I had a pork sanwich with the roll dipped in pan juice, like a Philippe "double dip." Then we went to Perini. one of our all time favoirte delis, with meats from all over italy. We got the Culatlello di Zibelo here.  We were here a year ago. and the counter man, Andrea, remembered me. Even before i ordered, he said "You got the culatello last year. I remember, for the train ride home."  Going back there, for sure.

That was a Thursday. Friday, we stayed around the house, which is really the best day of all. We hung out in the piazza with some friends we know from here and Nancy, her dad Larry and our friend Bobby Silverstein, a professori di vini, a Philly guy  who has traveled the world in search of fine food and drinks.  This year is a small L.A. crowd. No Linda or Olivia, or Enid and Richard or even Margy and Robert or even Carly Kim.  Nancy' sister Gail and her husband, Joel Hoops, had already gone.

Saturday we set out, at my suggestion. to an Umbrian hilltop village of Saragano, west of Montefalco and Foligno, if that means anything to you. The restaurant there, which i had read praise about and recevied a 14.5 rating for the guide book. L'Expresso, was Locando del Prete, a charming inn and ristorante with a sublime view.  

A quick word about numeric Italian restaurant ratings. This guide book rates restaurants from 12 to 19.75 points, that highest rating going to Osteria Francescana in Modean where we are going July 30. The thinking behind the ratings, is like the French school systyem and maybe the Italian too for al| I know, 20 is unobtainable perfection. Nancy and I have found that we prefer the restaurants rated 13.5, 14, and 14.5 to the more fancy, 16, 17s and up.. We will see next Tueday about the 19.75. Those 14ish places are more representative of the pure and good rustic cuisine of Italy that we like.  So this place, Locande Del Prete got a 14.5 and I talked Nancy Larry, Bobby into the hour and 15 minute drive there.

The problem here is the charming manager, Lucia, informs us, as we take the first bites that the chef, one Riccardo Benevenuti who had earned that 14.5,  has moved on to consult around Umbria and work on his opening own place.. The food is all right now, but not worth the drive. Maybe the lesson is to call and ask if the chef you read about is still there. 

Bobby give me a ration on the drive home, saying he'll stick with his 12.5s.  

Sunday it was another drive, this time two hours there and two and half back. and this time it is worth it: Locanda Del Glicine in Campagnatico, on the road toward Grosseto. We had been here last year and it was a highlight. It was again Sunday. 

Bobby, leery of my suggestions, didn't go, but Larry did, praise God..

I had a soup. a cream of their garden zucchini with a ricotta sorberto in the middle. |t might sound bizarre, but it worked for me big time.

 

I also had a excellent ravioli with spinach and a sage and butter sauce. Mo' butter!  Fernand PoInt was right 

Nancy loved her main course, a guinea fowl. The leg and thigh were boned and stuffed with roasted eggplant and wrapped in proscuitto. The breast with the wing attached was confit'd. "It was such a sensible way of treating the white and dark meat separately without using over the top modern techniques. It was delicious." said Nancy. "Respectful, sensible and thoughtful. You got that?"

Nancy had  a mixed salad of vegetables from their garden, a tangle of carrots, zucchini, cherry tomatoes and tender young lettuces. "The chef  was channelling Alice Waters," says Nancy, now demanding to be quoted. "You just don't see that kind of attention to salads around here usually."

Larry, aka in these parts as "Lorenzo", had a grilled sliced veal dish that was tasty, but not outstanding. Green beans wrapped in pancetta  accompained this.

I had a brick flattened chicken that was very good. The menu frequently changes, and had only five main courses. The other two were a one kilo Bisteca and cod.

Desserts were pretty. A plate o five sorbets, aka sobetti, aka sherberts, and i had three creme caramels. i need to figure out how to get some photos up on this report. I have the photos, but not the technical support to get them on here. Spookie, where you at?

The drive home from there was another highlight. With Lorenzo as my navigator we took the winding and long way home, skirting Montalcino and driving on, at times, gravel roads. On once such road there was a warning sign that i took a photo of prompting Larry to say, "The authorites will go though your phone and figure out that was the last mistake we made. Drive down this road."

One that road, Nancy said "I think I was on this road with Taylor," referring to Taylor Parsons who accompainied Nancy here in February to accept an award to Osteria Mozza for the best list featuring wines from around here.  

At 6:30, seven hours after we left for lunch, we were home.  Typico, 

Today we had that feast on the porch. And stayed home. One of the best days. Hitting our stride. For baseball fans, our batting average up to .314.

Michael Krikorian

 

Locanda Del Glicene's creme of garden zucchini soup with ricotta sorbet.   

Locanda Del Glicene's creme of garden zucchini soup with ricotta sorbet.   

Locanda Del Glicene's sorbetti   

Locanda Del Glicene's sorbetti  

 

ITALY 2013 July 17

“I’ll know when Nancy gets Alzheimer’s, She’ll tell Michael to snack while she’s preparing a feast,” Gail Silverton.

This quote from Gail was in response to Michael Krikorian’s disgruntled demeanor after Nancy Silverton scolded him, told him how annoying he was and threatened to ban him from Umbria for life  after he repeatedly raided  several of the plates she was preparing for a dinner for six Monday evening July 15 in Panicale, Umbria, Italy .

- From Reuters News

 2013 ITALY

It’s day 10 of our annual summer trip to Italy and so far, despite the predictable jabs, hooks and uppercuts, it’s going typically delightful.

Restaurant wise, we haven’t  got into the master groove.  There’s been several mediocre meals and one dinner in the town of Tavernelle so bad it will be the standard of which all bad meals will be judged.  I’ve had better meals at Men’s Central.

I mean I think grey is a useful color. It is excellent for warships. Most of the history’s greatest battleships were grey. Though if my memory is accurate,  I believe the USS West Hollywood was peach and lime green which worked well for it and the crew during the Battle of Sweetzer Creek.

Gregory Peck had a movie about a grey flannel suit. Grey is a leader among primer colors. But for a steak? No way, Giuseppe. For lamb?  Sorry. I don’t know how they got the beef. lamb and  the chicken the same shade of grey. Nancy’s father, Larry, saw one such colored dish come by and asked the servers. “What is that? Chicken?”  “Bisteca fiorentina”, came the answer. Dario Cecchini would have strangled the grill cook. . .

But, who wants to read about the lousy food? On to the highlights.

WARNING. - Let it be understood two things before you read on, if you do. Though the first byline I ever had at the Los Angeles Times (1992) was a small restaurant review of the Spoon House,  Japanese spaghetti restaurant in Gardena,  I am not a food writer. This will soon become quite clear.  Secondly, the website Krikorianwrites.com  is in the second day of a copy editor strike, so there might be a few copy edits missed and heading your way. The copy editors at Krikorianwrites.com have decide to strike in solidarity with the California state prisoners who are on a hunger strike.

That said... -

THE TOP TASTES  OF THE FIRST 10 DAYS

Not in any order of preference. All we would have again with pleasure.

CHOCOLATE CANDY BAR at Marconi Ristorante in the town of Sasso Marconi, about 20 minutes south of Bologna. The 15 euro raisin and brandy soaked cherry 70% bar by Claudio Corallo came in a cardboard box and was devoured by Nancy and I (mainly Nancy)  in one minute and 52 seconds, six full seconds quicker than Chris and Dahlia’s Vegas wedding.

Corallo is said, according to the Marconi menu at least, to be the only chocolate guy who grows and produces chocolate in the same site. That site being the small African island nation of St. Tome and Principe located in the Gulf of Guinea. This candy bar had a rich complex flavor and a borderline tender texture.

Claudio Corallo chocolate is available at Alegio in Berkeley. Though this particular bar is a long shot. UPDATE, I emailed Marconi to see if I could swing by and just by some bars, but they said they were ut until October.

http://www.alegio.com/corallo-chocolate/

I need to mention the seafood risotto i had here. While excellent, it was one of the only  dishes I have ever had that could one could say, as the cliche goes, looked like a painting. Som,etime abut it, the colors, reminded me of a paintin that hangs in Nancy's den here, a plate of fruit by our friend Jeff, husband of Collinette.  Check it out below. Way below. Scroll down extra. Couldn't figure it out to bring it up.  Looking at it, it don't look all that much like the Jeff painting.  Not a food critic, certainly not an art critic. 

Restaurant web site

http://www.ristorantemarconi.it/ristoranteMARCONI_home.php

NANCY'S JULY PORCH SALAD, at home for lunch today, Iceberg, anchovies, tuna, eggs, onions tomatoes. Extraordinary view of Nancy and the Panicale hillside

ROASTED PORK w/ ONION CAKE at Trattoria da Amerigo 1934 in Savigno,This was a standout of several good dishes. we had here. At Day 10, this meal, enjoyed at Day 4, is becoming more highly thought of than originally.  There is even the possibility we will return. The ultimate honor. Well, not ultimate, but high.  One factor in returning here is that this place is a 15 minute windy drive from Marconi so we could go by and get a Corrlo chocolate bar

 http://www.amerigo1934.it/content/show/section/trattoria

Via Guglielmo Marconi, 14-16, 40060 Savigno Province of Bologna  051 670 8326

SPIDER PORK PIZZA at Pellicano in Macchie. 7 minutes from Nancy’s Panicale home. Of all the restaurants in Italy, this place is my favorite. Not for the food, for the wonderful memories I have here. This is a place where we would cram Oliver, Max, Ida, a few adults and head to at one in the morning. I have been here maybe 70 times. The pizza, the only pizza I am legally allowed to eat under the terms of my contract with Pizzeria Mozza, is very good. The Tenant Super beer from England of somewhere like that comes in a size called Giraffe. ‘Nuff said.

Via Pineta 12 | Macchie, 06060 near Castiglione del Lago.

FOCCCIA  topped with coppa, split and smeared with crescenza or stracchino cow’s milk cheese, at Osteria Perilla in Tuscan hilltop village of Rocca d Orcia.

NOTE The kitchen-made KETCHUP  at Osteria Perilla came close to being listed here separately , but at the last minute, the council decided to merely add it on to the Focaccia spiel.   It came with lime zested potato chips and  was unquestionably the best ketchup I’ve ever had. I ate some of it like a soup.

With the ketchup and the focaccia, then a good pasta, (a tortelli with ricotta and peas) Osteria Perilla, which we went to on the high recommendation of Faith Willinger, was off to a very good start. Twice, Nancy raised her glass of local red and toasted to Faith for bringing us her. Bu then, a rain fell and we moved inside, the meal skidded off course and into a chicken coop. While Nancy pork was fine, my main course of a local farm raised capon the server gushed over, was bad.  It was like two pieces of package pressed Leo’s Deli Meats chicken smashed together with passion fruit sauce. Even though Nancy didn’t order it, she was more upset with the dish than me and proclaimed the meal a once promising but ultimately disappointment..

THE NANCY TAVOLA. This is the well-documented spread that lead Nancy Silverton to lay into me for AS, attempted snacking.  She prepared red pepprs, onions, flattened roasted chicken, pistachios from Adana, Turkey, barlotti beans, a pesto to rival, but ultimately lose to  Genoa’s finest, an assortment of cheeses we bought at farmer’s markets, notebale an old percorino and bufala bucconcini.  The best spread.  

SPECIAL K CEREAL.  After a 2.5 k walk and a 2.5 k run, this bowl of cereal Special K,. from the heralded the 2010 vintage, with rich milk was a delight.

DEB CAKE    Osteria Mozza cook Deb Michail, who is visiting her sister in Milan, brought this round almond cookie cake to Nancy as a show of affection. I received nothing from Deb. Well, I got a couple a hugs. But, can one really eat a hug? Still, though this buttery gift from a bakery in Milan was for Nancy, I  proceeded to eat much of it while standing up in the kitchen. 

DARIO COW’S ACL - This very tender and tasty beef dish was served Sunday July 14 at Dario Cecchini's Solociccia, the modern glass-stepped eatery of the world’s most famous butcher. .  His supreme wife Kim, said this as the platter of this was being passed,  “What is that part of the knee that the atheletes always injure?" Deb said “ACL”.  Yes, Kim said, explaining the dish was composed of the meat and tendons and ligaments around the cow’s knees. “It’s Dario\s favorite part of the cow,” Kim said

 As a placard states, Dario Cecchini is not a restaurant. It is the home of a butcher. It is also the place that Nancy and I know we will find happiness. And a greeting like none other. For many years, Dario has greeted me with a bear hug than he picks me up. Tradition has it that, in turn, I pick him up. To prepare for this on this trip, I picked up Nancy – half Dario’s weight,- in a parking lot a couple times. That was fun.  

This list will grow.   

Seafood Risotto at Marconi

Seafood Risotto at Marconi

Spider Pork Pizza at Pelicanos,  a favorite of the Berettos street gang. 

Spider Pork Pizza at Pelicanos,  a favorite of the Berettos street gang. 

The Michael Hastings Crash

FROM THE WEBSITE "WHOWHATWHY'

The Michael Hastings Wreck–Video Evidence Only Deepens the Mystery

 

 

Michael Krikorian, an essayist and former Los Angeles Times crime reporter, happened upon the scene a few hours after journalist Michael Hastings’s speeding car slammed into a palm tree and burst into a fireball.

Krikorian has seen his share of fatal car wrecks. But this one was different. As he put it, “This demands a closer examination.”

In accident-investigation parlance, it was a roadway departure–a non-intersection crash in which a vehicle leaves the traveled way for some reason.

But how and why did Hastings’s Mercedes depart the traveled way, and why was it traveling so perilously fast?

North Highland Avenue in L.A.’s Hancock Park neighborhood is not exactly Dead Man’s Curve. A fatal car accident there is rare.

Highland is a four-lane neighborhood artery as straight as a laser, with a narrow, grassy median lined with towering Washingtonia robusta palms. In the two miles between Wilshire and Santa Monica boulevards, not a single traffic fatality was recorded on Highland from 2001 to 2009, according to National Highway Traffic Safety Administration data. http://map.itoworld.com/road-casualties-usa#fullscreen

In the final moments of Michael Hastings’s life, the car he was operating accelerated to a treacherous speed before swerving off the pavement, mounting the median and slamming into one of the palms. There were no skid marks—no apparent attempt to brake before the collision.

Hastings, 33, covered the Iraq War as a young correspondent for Newsweek. But he made front-page news (and won the prestigious George Polk journalism prize) for his 2010 Rolling Stone magazine profile of “The Runaway General,” Stanley McChrystal, commander of NATO’s security force in Afghanistan. Hastings’s story portrayed the dismissive contempt with which McChrystal and his staff viewed President Obama and Vice President Biden. The general apologized, calling the profile “a mistake reflecting poor judgment.” But he was forced to resign.

Michael Hastings was carving out a journalism niche as a muckraker, and some see nefarious forces at work in his death.

We asked Michael Krikorian for his take on the curious accident, which happened in his hometown on a block he visits several times a week. He provides the details of new video evidence that offers a few clues about the seemingly inexplicable fatality.—David J. Krajicek

————-

By Michael Krikorian

Shortly before 9 a.m. on Tuesday, June 18, I was walking with my girlfriend, Nancy Silverton, to get my car, which I had left the night before at her restaurant, Pizzeria Mozza, at Highland and Melrose avenues. Walking west on Melrose, we noticed crime scene tape as we arrived at Highland. Just to the south, a wrecked and charred car was being pulled away from a palm tree in the median.

We lifted the yellow tape and walked down the sidewalk to get access to the alley leading to the lot where my car was parked. A Los Angeles police officer stopped us. Nancy explained she owned the restaurant and I identified myself as a reporter. The officer let us walk on and gave a quick rundown: A man had driven into the tree at 4:30 that morning. He was dead.

My first thought was that another early morning L.A. drunk had killed himself. I told the officer that a security camera located outside the front door of the pizzeria probably captured the crash.

As we talked to the police, a Mozza employee named Gary, who has been staying at a small apartment above the restaurant, approached us to say that he had heard the crash.

“I heard a ‘whoosh,’ then what sounded like a bump and then an explosion,” he said. “I thought the building had been hit.”

He said he rushed down and saw the car ablaze. Gary listened as two men who claimed to have witnessed the crash told police the car had sped through a red light at Melrose.

Later, when the pizzeria manager arrived at work, we watched the security camera footage.  There’s no wonder it was a fatality. The crash ended with a hellish explosion and fire. The officer, watching the video with us, was as stunned as we were. He said, “I have never seen a car explode like that.”

Soon, a flatbed truck with the burned Mercedes CL 250 aboard drove slowly by, going north in the southbound lanes of Highland. The front of the car, particularly on the driver’s side, was badly damaged. I snapped a couple of poor photos with my iPhone.

The Man Who Brought Down General McChrystal

Nancy and I got in my car and went home. I went on to Watts to do some reporting on another story and later to Gardena. That afternoon, I got an email from a friend to whom I had mentioned the crash. It included a link to an L.A. Times story about the wreck. My friend wrote, “The driver was a well-known journalist: Michael Hastings. What a drag. Obviously a talented guy. Wonder why he was driving so fast?”

I went online and read about Michael Hastings, the guy who brought down General McChrystal. The conspiracy theories were already being spun on the web: that a bomb had been planted in the car, or that its controls had been hacked and the crash was engineered remotely by an unseen hand.

For nearly five years, McChrystal served as chief of the Joint Special Operations Command, which oversees the military’s commando units, including the Army Delta Force and the Navy Seals. This was not a paper-pushing general.  McChrystal was a soldier’s general who would go on raids with his men. A reporter brings him down—and then dies in a mysterious crash three years later. If this had happened in Russia, wouldn’t we all figure it was some dark military conspiracy?

I’m not a conspiracy guy, but my reporter’s instincts told me that this demands a closer examination. So I snooped around.

Mysteries on the Video Tape

“I’ve never seen an explosion like that,” said Terry Hopkins, 46, a former U.S. Navy military policeman who served in Afghanistan, told me. “I’ve seen military vehicles explode, but never quite like that. Look, here’s a reporter who brought down a general. He’s sending out emails saying he’s being watched. It’s four in the morning and his car explodes? Come on, you have to be naïve not to at least consider it wasn’t an accident.”

I turned to the one piece of evidence I had: the security camera footage.

The camera shows the view from near the entrance of Pizzeria Mozza.

Four seconds into the start of the tape, a minivan or SUV goes by the front of restaurant. Three seconds later, another vehicle goes by, traveling from the restaurant front door to the crash site in about seven seconds. At 35 seconds into the tape, a car is seen driving northbound and appears to slow, probably for the light at Melrose.

Then at 79 seconds, the camera catches a very brief flash of light in the reflection of the glass of the pizzeria. Traveling at least twice as fast as the other cars on the tape, Hastings’s Mercedes C250 coupe suddenly whizzes by. (This is probably the “whoosh” that Gary, the Mozza employee, heard.)

The car swerves and then explodes in a brilliant flash as it hits a palm tree in the median. Viewed at normal speed, it is a shocking scene—reminiscent of fireballs from “Shock and Awe” images from Baghdad in 2003.

I have heard and read a wide range of guessed speeds, up to as much as 130 mph. I think it’s safe to say the car was doing at least 80.

Driving 80 on Highland is flying. Over 100 is absolute recklessness.

Highland has a very slight rise and fall at its intersection with Melrose. It’s difficult to tell by the film, but based on tire marks—which were not brake skid marks, by the way—chalked by the traffic investigators, it seems that the Mercedes may have been airborne briefly as it crossed the intersection, then landed hard. Tire marks were left about 10 feet east of the restaurant’s valet stand.

(Later, I drove the intersection at just 45 mph, and my car rose up significantly.)

About 100 feet after the car zooms by on the tape, it starts to swerve. At about 195 feet from the camera, the car jumps the curb of the center median, heading toward a palm tree 56 feet away.

About halfway between the curb and the tree, the car hits a metal protrusion—perhaps 30 inches tall and 2 feet wide—that gives access to city water mains below. This is where the first small flash occurs. This pipe may have damaged the undercarriage of the car, perhaps rupturing a fuel line.

I looked at the tape frame by frame. A second flash immediately follows the first. It might be the brake lights, but it’s hard to tell. The next frame is dark. Then comes the first explosion, followed immediately by a large fireball.

I showed the video to a number of people. Everyone had the same reaction: essentially, “Wow!”

“This Was Not a Bomb”

I showed the video to Scott E. Anderson, an Academy Award-winning visual effects supervisor with Digital Sandbox who has engineered explosions for many films.

He viewed the footage more than 20 times at various speeds, including frame by frame. Anderson concluded, “This was not a bomb.”

He said a bomb would have propelled the car upward, not forward.

“It’s very hard to blow up stuff well,” Anderson said. “I think too many things would have to go right. Luck would be involved. Good and bad. Does someone doing this to Hastings want to rely on luck? Too many things have to go right. It would have to be perfect. And that’s almost impossible.”

He continued, “It comes down to physics. A bomb would have lifted the car and the engine up. Based on this video, the car doesn’t go up, and the engine goes forward, which makes sense since the car apparently did not hit the tree head on.”

He said the fireball may be enhanced by the recording device.

“That type of surveillance camera has auto exposure so it can change what it sees based by the ambient exposure day or night,” Anderson explained. “This camera is set at night and anything that happens very quickly, be it a flash light or a big ball of fire, the camera won’t react fast enough, so the first flash of light is going to appear much bigger in the viewing. So the initial explosion would always look bigger than it is.”

He suggested a simple demonstration using a cellphone video app: Strike a match in a dark room and it will flare up on camera much more than in reality.

Why Was He Driving So Fast?

The pizzeria video is compelling, but it fails to answer the key question: Why was Michael Hastings traveling so fast?

As Anderson put it, “None of this happens without the speed.”

Some theorize that the car was hacked—operated remotely (like a drone, for example) by someone who wished to harm Hastings.

That may be technologically possible, but is it plausible?

Hastings ran at least two red lights, and possibly a third. Could a hacker have planned for no cross traffic, which might have derailed the mission? If the flash before the dark frame was indeed brakes, that would indicate the brake light was functional. If the car were hurtling along out of his control, wouldn’t Hastings have been plying the brake pedal all along, not merely in the last second before the crash?

And even if the brakes and accelerator were rigged, the steering must have been functional, according to a Los Angeles Police Department officer, speaking on the condition of anonymity. “For nearly a half a mile, that car must have been going straight,” the officer said. “That can’t be done at that speed for that long, even with the best alignment.”

“Stanley Got Him”

The day after the crash, I found myself in the homicide squad room in South Los Angeles. The Hastings topic came up, and one of the detectives said, “Stanley got him. Took his time, but got him. That wasn’t an accident.” (Meaning General Stanley McChrystal.)

On cue, a sign showed up the next day on the now-singed Hasting’s Palm: “This was not an accident.”  By nightfall, someone had replaced it with another message: “Go to sleep people. This was an accident.”

Hastings’s death was national news briefly, but it was soon pushed aside by subjects deemed more pressing to the mainstream media. The George Zimmerman homicide trial was gearing up in Florida. Edward Snowden, the National Security Agency leaker, was playing Tom Hanks at a Moscow Airport. Istanbul had erupted in the biggest anti-government protests in its history, and political strife in Cairo was taking center stage.

Michael Hastings was put on the mainstream media’s back burner—or perhaps on an unlit hibachi behind the garage.

But on YouTube the conspiracy thrived. One video that has received over 8,500 views proclaimed that the plot was so over-the-top that the culprits had removed the bombed car, and in the process, placed another car in front of different trees. It also stated there was no damage to the front of the car.

I saw the car being towed away.  It was absolutely mangled on the front, particularly the driver’s side. I’ve lived in Los Angeles most of my life and have seen the aftermath of many car crashes. This was one of the worst. There was no way a driver could have survived.

LAPD Traffic Bureau: ‘No Foul Play’

Two days after the crash, the LAPD announced that there appeared to be no “foul play” in the single-car fatal crash. That ignited even more conspiracy talk:  The “feds” had gotten to the LAPD and were hushing it up.

A week after that statement, the lead investigator on the case, Detective Connie White from LAPD’s West Traffic Bureau, contradicted that. When I asked her if “foul play” had indeed been ruled out, she replied, “No. Nothing has been ruled out.”

White said the investigation was nearly complete, but she refused to give details. She said an official report, including toxicology results on Hastings’s remains, may be weeks away.

As far as a bomb or car-hacking, White said, “At this point there is nothing that leads us in that direction.”

When asked if any explosive materials had been discovered on the car or at the crash scene, White sounded like she chuckled.

She said, “Oh, boy. Hold on.”

I thought maybe I had asked a touchy question, and I expected a “no comment.” But she returned to the phone and said, “No.” The way she said it, I wondered if she had shared a laugh with other detectives about my question.

She added, “If this were anything other than an accident, other departments would have been brought in to investigate,” alluding to homicide, the bomb squad or a terrorism unit. (Though one might think “other departments” would have been needed in any case–simply to determine whether it was an accident or not.)

On TV, Hastings Provokes another General

I’ve seen a number of people use the word “fearless” to describe Hastings. The word has different meanings to different people. To some, it might be how well someone held up in the second battle of Fallujah.

I have no idea how Hasting was in the trenches. But I watched him in action on Piers Morgan’s CNN show last November against retired General David Kimmit, an admirer of General David Petraeus.  At one point, Kimmit told Hastings that his impressions about Iraq after Petraeus were wrong. Kimmit added that he knew this because he has been back to Iraq, working in the private sector.

Exasperated, Hasting threw up his hands, gave his unique smirk and proclaimed, “I’ve spent more time in Iraq than you have, man.”

Hastings went on to chide Kimmit for profiting off the war in the private sector. “I’m glad the general was able to make money off his services,” he said.

In that TV vignette, I could see why a guy like Hastings would piss off the military brass and would be so admired by fellow journalists.

I hope that someone will be able to explain why Hastings’s Mercedes was speeding like a silver bullet. Maybe the answer will show up in the toxicology results.  I know this much: American journalism has lost a pit bull of an investigative reporter.