- I’m gonna try to write like a real life, grown up food blog post-
I don’t go out to eat nearly as much as I should. It’s kind of like this culture set within me after years of working in kitchens: if I have time to lounge in another restaurant, then that’s time I should be spending in my own.
That doesn’t mean I don’t explore, it just means I get to things late sometimes.
Wurstkuche. Hardly a newcomer on the scene. I remember they came out around the time I was on the streets going through the whole metamorphosis that is, Kogi.
We were parked right up the street in Little Tokyo or at the LA River and I heard all the stories of alligators or rattlesnakes and that they don’t even make the sausages there.
I was a big meat eater at this time and could put away bratwurst like Joey Chestnut. But alas, it was never to be. I never found the time.
Fast forward four years later and I was walking Lincoln Blvd on a cold winter’s day with a friend. I just poked my head in not knowing anything. I thought they might have something I could eat but wasn’t really expecting it. Really, I was just gonna take a piss in the bathroom then scope then bounce.
But there it was.
The vegan Italian sausage.
And then there was a smile from the person at the counter.
And a hello.
A genuine warmth.
They were happy and glad to be of assistance.
They were full of love.
The place was spotless and beautiful.
I asked questions.
They happily answered.
I smudged the glass case when I pointed and said sorry and they said “aww don’t worry about it”.
I felt like I should spark a joint and pass it.
It felt like kicking it after a surf set, calm brotherhood.
So I ordered.
Vegan Italian sausage with some fries and a colored soda.
I got my red, trapezoid metal number and did the- tip toe where do I go?-around the corner, through the maze then Ta-Da out to the back eating area.
It’s really beautiful in there.
A chamber of good vibes and beer.
I sat at the benches, which were covered in long butcher paper.
It was just about five or six pm so it was slow but semi filled with young fathers and their kids, a few groups of Venice heads, a group of four very dashing tattooed youngsters, a couple skaters, and some singles on their laptops.
Mustards were lined up in big squeeze bottles.
Cute girl behind the bar.
Cute girl running the food.
Cute girl clearing the tables.
I could get used to this.
Then my food came out and she was as nice as could be.
I said thank you.
I could get used to this.
The food looked simple enough.
I had my two choices in the bun: sauerkraut and peppers.
A bun and a nicely grilled sausage.
I filled my bun with mustard and ketchup, took a swig of soda and decided to go in.
Honestly, I wasn’t expecting that much.
Then I took a bite and it was delicious.
The fries came and they were porous and crunchy. Bits of dark brown almost black on the corners but light golden brown throughout.
Perfectly salted and crunchy in surround sound.
Before I knew it, my sausage was gone.
My fries were gone.
My soda was empty.
And I was rocking out to probably Phoenix or Weezer or something.
The cute girl came and cleared and thanked me for coming. (Not in that way, silly)
I walked out and thought about how you can never make assumptions about a place.
Wurstkuche Venice blew me away with it’s kindness and humility and simplicity.
I never took that piss, though.