By David Minsky
By Nicole Danna
By Sara Ventiera
By Candace West
By Emily Dabau
By Doug Fairall
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By Laine Doss
Unfortunately I don't always have the luxury of leaving my little one with a sitter. Logistics require that I sometimes take her with me. And frankly my husband and I dine out five to seven nights a week and can't afford to pay someone else to do our parental duty all the time. (Nor would we want to; we like to see the br , I mean the darling, once in a while.) Lucky for me, though, I have a standing arrangement with my hubby. Tasting the food and observing the setting and service is paramount for me, and he understands that. So when the precious offspring acts up in a restaurant that I'm reviewing, he's the one to rocket out of his chair and race after her -- especially since she has recently learned not only to undress herself in public but to take off her diaper and swing it over her head while singing her ABCs.
'Course, he's not a saint either, and I hear plenty of grumbling about the privileges of sitting and eating. But things changed when we went to Estrella Del Mar, a four-month-old Spanish eatery in downtown Hollywood. This time little Zoe got itchy and went to explore the stage built into one corner of the large, square dining room, and Daddy almost eagerly got up and left me with an assortment of hot and cold tapas. On his way he tossed over his shoulder, "I don't know who has the worse job, you or me."
Indeed Estrella Del Mar is one of those eateries to puncture the illusion that I hold a dream job. The food in this establishment was so stale, spoiled, or poorly prepared -- you could take your pick of any of the criticisms on just about any of the dishes -- that I was anxious about tasting some of the items for fear of contracting a food-borne illness. It's a good thing my daughter was too tired to be hungry, because I wouldn't have allowed her to try anything we ordered. I'd be more apt to test the stuff out on a stray cat.
That's too bad, because I had high hopes for Estrella Del Mar. Owned by Hollywood resident Gail Winer and partner Sami Aziz, the eatery was hyped by the Community Redevelopment Agency, which is attempting (once again) to revitalize "historic" downtown Hollywood. According to the press release, the restaurant features a variety of Spanish wines, nightly flamenco dancers, and authentic cuisine. Estrella seemed like a neat addition to the area, since I couldn't think offhand of a good Spanish eatery in Hollywood. I wasn't even put off by the fact that we were the only customers in this dauntingly big space with its square, granite-topped bar; slate floor; red linen-topped tables; and brocaded red chair seats. We'd just strolled down Harrison Street on our way to Estrella, which is located on 20th Avenue between Hollywood Boulevard and Harrison, and none of the eateries (several of which are new) had more than one occupied table. The area had all the appeal of an urban ghost town.
I always take press releases with a healthy grain of salt, but this one needs to be taken with a whole salt mine. If Estrella Del Mar does indeed house "a selection of more than 40 Spanish wines," why are about 20 California vintages featured on the wine list, with about 10 unjustly expensive Spanish Riojas relegated to the back page? And why is the restaurant pouring only Beringer and Kendall-Jackson by the glass? And while we're asking questions here, where were the flamenco dancers? The only live entertainment we witnessed on that corner stage was our daughter, doing the toddler tango with her diaper.
To be fair about the menu, it reads authentically. It even reads deliciously. Tapas, highlighted in the press release, range from olives stuffed with anchovies to clams sautéed in sherry and olive oil. Most of the fare draws from the southern regions of Spain, where the use of almonds, cinnamon, saffron, and couscous shows the influence of the Moors. We were intrigued, briefly.
But we didn't even have to taste some of the dishes to know that we were in for a long evening. We could have just looked at the bread, thin slices hardening before our eyes, and smelled the pimiento-spiced butter, which reeked of the refrigerator. A soup of the day, made with chickpeas, was overlaid with a good quarter-inch of olive oil; we sent it back without even dipping into it. Lentil soup, seasoned with that ton of salt I should have taken with the press release, soon followed it back to the kitchen. We didn't bother to return the gazpacho, which had been mixed with so much vinegar it burned our throats like a poorly balanced salad dressing, but simply left it uneaten.