There’s no easier or softer way to make a fish filet than using this pan method. Bathing in a wine and spice liquid infuses the flesh with a simply complex Euro flavor.

I think a trout or salmon filet works best for this method. Choose a hunk (with or without skin) less than an inch thick.

Serves 2

Ingredients

2 trout or salmon filets

1 C cheap-ass Chardonnay

1 C cooking Sherry

1/2 C water

8 peppercorns

2 bayleaves

2 cloves garlic, thinly sliced

1 shallot, minced

Juice of half lemon

Spoonful of capers

Combine all ingredients but fish in a deep skillet and bring to boil. Reduce heat and let simmer, uncovered to reduce about 20 minutes. Now you could immediately toss the fish in, but I like to cover at this point and let the juices just meld together for a good half hour.

When ready to rock the fish, remove the cover and again bring the mixture to a boil. Then reduce heat to simmer and drop the fish (skin side down) onto the liquid. Cover, and the fishies cook there for about 12 minutes. If, at that time, the fish isn’t falling apart with a fork, then continue the process, checking three minutes or so.

Dribble some capers on top and serve immediately with a side vege for an uber healthy, super simple meal.

Since high school ended, September has always been my favorite month of the year for a variety of reasons. Living in the San Unbearable Valley in LA, September means the diminishing of the 100-degree temps. Baseball winds down to its only purposeful month as teams race toward the finish and set up playoff matchups. Football kicks off five months of Bullshot Sunday mornings. The new Fall TV season begins. The crappy Jockbuster summertime testosteronies give way to the Oscar-worthy flicks. And the best holidays of the year are right around the corner.

September to me, more than January, represents change…and usually for the better.

Last September, I changed doctors. Not because I wanted to, but because Blue Cross forced me to.

The American health care system is certainly broken, beaten and scarred, but every now and again, completely by happenstance, the fetid system works in favor of the man.

My company was looking to cut some budgetary corners, and we asked our Blue Cross rep for some alternative plans to save a couple bucks. In so doing, I switched from a PPO to a standard HMO. In turn, I had to change doctors.

For the past several years, I had been seeing a nice Indian doctor in the kind of office that recalled the days of elementary school. Crude diagrams of open hearts and cigarette-addled lungs adorned the walls. The weight scale was one of those ancient slide-rule jobs about as precise as cutting your own hair in the mirror. Dr. Alibaba had never talked about the prostate before and when I did have blood work done, I was mostly focused on my liver’s status for reasons only Dr. Absolut Smirnoff understands.

So all was well until the company switched plans, and I was forced to find someone new. After a brief encounter with Doc Brown whose wild white hair, coffee-stained lab coat and 24-pack belly scared the fuck out of me, I opted for a new doctor.

To my surprise, Dr. Joey Brett’s office was clean and upscale. The zines in the waiting room were actually from this decade. When I finally met him – I admit with a scant amount of gender, ageist and culture bias – I was glad that he was a young, white dude.

I felt an instant connection with Dr. Brett until he slapped on a rubber glove and asked me to drop my jeans and bend over. “Dr. Brett,” I demurred, “I don’t really have to worry about the prostate until I’m like pushing 50, right?”

Wrong.

The Doc proceeded to scare me anally straight with tales of gents in their mid-30s who had been diagnosed with the big PC (that’d be prostate cancer). So quicker than you could say, “Moon River,” I bent over for a most uncomfortable booty call.

He frowned as he poked and prodded, and then cautiously said that my prostate gland had an “odd shape.” Being an LA guy, I figured that meant a little plastic surgery would correct the issue and off I would go to live my life.

Not so. He recommended I see a urologist, and I made the next appointment.

Summary: July 22, 2009 (previously reported).

PSA 1.4

Digital Rectal Exam (DRE): Slight deformity (not enlargement) of the prostate gland.

 September 15, 2009 – Means to My End

I met Dr. Robert Klein, a urologist at Northridge Hospital. Dr. Klein was very much in the Zach Braff mold with enough sense of humor about the job to keep me at ease, but enough look-you-in-the-eye seriousness to make you aware that you really weren’t in Kansas anymore. Clearly, this potential problem needed to be addressed.

So, if you’re a dude and don’t know what the prostate is or does, then you obviously failed junior high bio. The prostate is a walnut-sized gland located deep inside the anal cavity at the base of the balls. It serves to produce that fluid which produces life. Yeah, it’s a little semen factory.

The PSA test is a non-intrusive gauge of whether the prostate is healthy or out of whack. Not a public service announcement, PSA stands for prostate-specific antigen, which is a chemical the gland produces. Low levels of PSA can indicate a healthy prostate while high levels fly a red flag for trouble.

My PSA results in late summer charted at 1.4. In very broad terms (because age plays a major role in determining healthy PSA scores), anything under a level 4 isn’t considered an issue. For younger men who should have smaller prostates, however, 2.5 to 3 is sort of the cut-off level for further observation. I was a 1.4, so I felt Scott free until Dr. Klein also felt a small irregularity when he went finger surfing.

Probably nothing to worry about, he said, but he ordered a return visit and an additional PSA test in three months.

Summary: September 15, 2009.

PSA 1.4

Digital Rectal Exam (DRE): Second opinion confirmed a slight deformity (not enlargement) of the prostate gland.

 December 17, 2009 – Bloody Hell

So the PSA test is a simple procedure. A vampire takes a vile of blood from your arm. The lab analyzes the blood for whatever creates the PSA level and passes that onto the urologist.

Back for my second visit to Dr. Klein three months later, my PSA had skyrocketed in just three months to an alarming 3.7. He showed great concern and didn’t even proceed with the de rigueur digital rectal exam. Instead he ordered a biopsy. We agreed to wait until after the holidays for the ultimate chestnut roasting on an open fire.

I began researching exactly what differing levels of PSA really mean. I also discovered some interesting info that was never shared with me by my doctor. Many reports I read stressed that activities that directly affect the prostate area of a man’s body can adversely hamper the results of a PSA test. For example, riding a bike where your anus is grinding against a hard seat can cause temporary stress to the prostate gland that lies just beneath. In addition, ejaculation within 48 hours of the blood taken can also make the PSA levels rise.

Upon reflection, I had the double-whammy working against a clean test. I had tweaked a knee in the week prior to the blood test and had switched from doing standing cardio to sedentary exercise. Thus, I was peddling hard and fast on a stationary bike in the days before the blood was taken. And, I most certainly had my way with myself the night before the screening.

On a later visit, I asked my doctor how these activities might affect the PSA levels and, although he said there was no specifically empirical data proving that they did, I’m convinced those activities made my results more than double.

Summary: December 17, 2009.

PSA 3.7

DRE: Not performed. Biopsy recommended.

January 12, 2010 – The Poop Shoot

 If you’ve never had anything larger than a whisp of wind on a hot summer day skinny dipping at the pool sneak up your ass, it’s really hard for a guy to mentally prepare for a prostate biopsy.

I’m gonna describe it here; so consider this a warning. If you’d rather not know what goes on – and in – skip to the next entry.

And here we go.

A prostate biopsy is the (not-so) simple act of collecting tissue samples from the prostate for study back at the lab. They remove 12 sets of cells, called “cores,” and label them accordingly to their geographical location. That way, if they do find an evil empire, they will know how bad it is and where it’s located to plan an appropriate attack.

There’s no big pre-biopsy prep other than a prescribed anti-infection pill to be taken the day before, day of and day after the procedure. Then there’s the enema that needs to be self admitted just before you leave the house for the appointment. You know, the usual drill: Keys…check. Wallet…check. Enema….double check. I won’t elaborate on the pure joy of this self-inflicted torture other than to say that:

a) There’s no way to not be embarrassed by the absurdity of the administration and…

b) Don’t ever buy generic brands. It’s Fleet or nada, compadres. In a point: it’s all about the lubricated tip.

I chose a morning appointment for the biopsy. No sense letting the dread build.

The actual procedure starts with a dimming off the lights. Seriously. Not sure whether he was just setting a mood or needed it to see the scope screen better. You instantly have the urge to ask, “So you gonna buy me a drink first?” but resist because you know that one’s been used before…probably that same morning.

You drop trou and lie on the exam table in an extreme fetal position like you’re about to perform a hardcore cannonball into the deep end a pool. Then, hands clenched onto a bedrail, head facing a wall and bare ass thrust into the doctor’s face, the merry-go-round begins. Seriously, who chooses this as a profession?

The Doc first slides a gloved finger slathered with a numbing lube up the chute. After a few minutes when the secret agent has taken effect, a scope the size of ping-pong paddle handle with a camera at the tip is awkwardly forced into the forbidden zone. The worst moment is the first forced entry where rejection is not only natural, but a necessity. Once past the first inch or two the scope meets the numbing agent – they shake hands – and Mr. Peepers continues easily on his merry way until he finds the promised prostate land.

The pooper prankster moves that magic wand around and observes – almost like an ultrasound – the shape of the gland on his tiny computer screen. He looks for egregious irregularities and, at the same time, slides a thin needle into the bummed out bum and fires some local anesthetic into the prostate region. This will help numb the gland and ease the pain when they take the actual samples. You feel a little prick at the base of the balls as if the needle is poking from the inside trying to get out. I sympathize with John Hurt’s character in Alien as if a monster is trying to escape through my taint. It’s a strange sensation, to say the least, which sends a tiny shock through the body, not unlike chewing tin foil.

With all this playful prodding, the penis decides it needs to speak up at this point and usually spits out whatever urine was hiding in the bladder. Your body instinctively clenches like a pissed off fist ready to strike. Sweat seeps from every pore.

Now, the Doc is ready to play Scavenger Hunt with the prostate cells, collecting several samples with the help of a Sharpie-sized stick that is now inserted, while the ping-pong paddle remains lodged inside for this entire procedure. Needless to say, more than your mouth is agape.

The trash collector is almost like a tiny air gun crossed with a small claw. Because the prostate is encased in a tiny egg-shell-like sheath, he must crack the shell to get to the cells.

So the claw goes in…the Doc counts one…two…and pop! Your eyes water. Your brow sweats. Your body instinctively jumps. And you try your best to breathe deeply and find a happy place.

The good news is that after that first one, you only have to repeat the process 11 more times!

After handing each sample one-by-one to the nurse standing by, the samples are separated by location and then encased in individual Petri dishes.

After the final sample, the scope is removed and the doctor re-inserts another finger – either because he gets a sadistic kick or he wants to make sure that he didn’t pull the lower intestine even lower with all that ruckus.

And that’s it. The whole procedure lasts about 20 minutes if the guy is on his game. And off you go in desperate need of a Cadillac Margarita on the rocks.

Summary: January 12, 2010.

PSA: No new one taken

Biopsy performed: Results in 1 week

 January 17, 2010 – Blood Will Follow Blood

Some say that in life you can’t take the good without the bad. So after my anal intrusion, I had been prepared for several days of blood accompanying all bodily excretions below the waist.

Bloody piss…fine. Bloody stools…okay if you must. Yet no amount of “heads-up” prepared me for the bloody orgasm.   

Dr. Klein had said it could be weeks before the semen became vanilla again. But the first time you take the lad out for a stroll, the pop at the finish line is like the horrific climactic scene from In the Realm of the Senses when the sadistic Japanese wife and her equally whackjob husband chooses to cut off his penis at the point of orgasm.

Those who have seen the uncut version of that often censored mid-70s film will never forget the brutal end where the camera fades amid a Roman Candle of red and white spouting from the base of the man’s severed spigot.

That was my first thought when I first took myself for a test drive…well, that and the next time I’ll use a blue towel to at least make my scene at least patriotic.

 January 21, 2010 – Biopsy 1 Results

The following is a brief summation I wrote after learning the results of that first biopsy as printed on my Facebook page to spread the word about prostate health:

This is a Precautionary Tale about a boy and his prostate. Yes, that which produces the very special sauce that creates life can also take it. In fact, nearly one of every six men will be diagnosed with prostate cancer at some point in his life. So when I was the one faced with the evil empire last week, the feeling was less, “why me?” than “why not me?”

This note is intended to let my male brothers know some things that I have only recently come to find out: namely, this shit can happen to you and it can happen a lot sooner than you think.

I had always been under the impression that screening for prostate issues was something easily put off until your mid-40s. For the past several years, I had been going to an elderly Indian HMO doctor whose idea of a thorough physical was tapping one of those little rubber hammers against your knee. He was perfect; don’t ask and he can’t tell. Dudes are like that…we don’t want to know.

Actually, you do.

My company’s insurance changed late last year, and I was forced to find a new doctor. By a stroke of luck, I selected a young guy more on the cutting edge of medicine who actually wanted to look for problems. I was 42 when he ordered a PSA test and performed my first-ever rear-view-terror. PSA is a protein produced by the cells in the prostate and measured by a blood test to decipher healthy levels. Normal levels depend on a variety of factors, including age. My level was normal, but he felt a minor enlargement of one side of the gland and sent me off to a urologist.

I laughed at his dogged precaution until he mentioned that he had discovered advanced prostate cancer in a patient several months prior who was only 38 years old. So…what’s that urologist’s name again?

Two ever-increasing PSA-level tests later, and the specialist had me ass-up with cameras, probes and god-knows-what-else poking and prodding to eradicate chunks of the gland for a microscopic third degree. “Twenty Minutes in Heaven” it was not, but at least I would be sure.

A week after the biopsy, Leslie and I visited the urologist for the results. We were so confident about what was obviously gonna be thumbs-up results that we were planning margarita destinations during the wait.

Then, the urologist walked in and said matter-of-factly, “So it turns out you have a little cancer.”

It was so nonchalantly uttered that he could have been talking about tomorrow’s weather forecast. “Slight showers with a chance of cancer; you won’t even need an umbrella.” In fact, my initial reaction was, “Cool, so I’ll just rub some dirt on it, and it’ll go away, right?”

Turns out not.

My mind started spacing as he broke down exactly what this meant today and will mean tomorrow without treatment. His voice turned into one of those teachers in a Peanuts cartoon.

Whomp-whomp…whomp-whamp, whomp whomp.

I rewound my life a good three minutes and imagined him opening the door once more. “Hi Mr. Schalin…I’m Mortality. Nice to meet you. Could you please ask your friend, Invincibility, to wait outside?”

Forty-fucking-two. Really? Fortunately, the malignant cells were caught in their infancy, giving me time to study, query and make an educated decision on what to do. In addition, prostate cancer is a very slow-moving army of divide-and-conquering cells; so catching it early is clutch.

The treatment options range from external and/or internal radiation to removal of the gland completely. Each boasts its own desirable set of side effects and physical fuckclusters, not least of which is an end to procreational desires and, at worse, dysfunction of that hobby favored by men for millions of years.

But this narrative is not intended to be a Johns Hopkins treatise on the latest advances in violating a grown man’s body. Rather it’s a friendly warning to all my friends over 35 years old. Don’t wait. Take precaution. Ask your doctor for a PSA exam (again, done with a simple blood test). Had I stuck with my last doctor, the taxi driver, I wouldn’t have asked for an exam for another three years. Who knows by then how far the disease would have advanced and what my more limited options might be.

God bless the God that built this flawed machine.

So, yes I had a “little cancer.” I won’t bore anyone with explanations about what the following numbers mean (prostate cancer guys know this shit like a second language and the laymen need not be disturbed).  Suffice it to say, I had the lowest grade of prostate cancer that a man could have.

Now come the choices: removal of the gland (prostatectomy) or radiation therapy to hopefully attack the cells before they could have a chance to spread. Dr. Klein was already advising for removal based on the biopsy results, although he gave me a radiology referral to get a different take. Either solution came with its own pros (exterminating the cancerous cells before they had a chance to move on) and many, many, did I say many, cons.

Summary: January 21, 2010.

PSA: No new one taken

Biopsy Results (from Quest Diagnostics): T2a cancer in 1 of the 12 cores. Gleason 3+3 = 6

January 22, 2010 – I’ve Got What?

I woke feeling confused and more perturbed than angry. The feeling of annoyance that I would now have to spend weeks of time researching all there was to know about a disease that should only strike old men.

I laughed at the irresistible irony of me being a part owner of an herbal supplement company whose biggest-selling product was something called Prostalex Plus, a prostate health supplement. I had been taking the supplement daily for about two years and, while it is absolutely not designed to prevent or treat the onset of cancerous cells, it is proven to promote overall prostate health. Or not.

Initially when I was told of the diagnosis, I recalled my favorite scene from Monty Python’s Meaning of Life.

It’s the scene where the Zulu warriors are fighting the British in the African tundra. Inside a tent, one of the officers (Eric Idle) sits calmly in his bed reading a book when a doctor walks in and inquires about the problem.

Idle calmly points to a bloody stump where his right leg should be and says, “Not sure, Doc, but it seems I’ve been bitten during the night. Woke up this morning…one sock too many.”

The doctor taps the grisly stump with the tip of his pipe and proceeds to “reeeeeassure” Idle that everything will be alright. “Nothing to worry about. Probably a mosquito that got through the net. Get plenty of rest and if you’re playing any futbol this weekend, try to favor the other leg.”

The patient smiles, satisfied, and as the doctor leaves, Idle muses, “So it’ll just grow back then, will it?”

At this point the doctor feels the need to “come clean” and confess that the leg thief is probably something slightly more substantial than a mosquito. Perhaps a tiger. Wherein the cast looks to camera, horrified and asks the question, “A tiger??? In Africa?!?” To which the dim doctor promptly assures everyone that it probably just, “escaped from the zoo.”

I thought of that scene because my initial reaction to my “little cancer” was as if I had the flu. That would be the denial phase and while educating myself about what was in store for me, the sudden realization hit that this was more than just a mosquito bite.

This was something serious and dangerous. Deadly at worst, debilitating at best.

I decided to name the disease something other than cancer. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with the word itself: good hard “c” followed by a slithering c made for an evil purse of the lips. My issue is that I associate the word with blue hairs drooling into paper cups while Benny Goodman records crackle from the corner of purgatory.

So I decided to call my problem Cody, in honor of screenwriter extraordinaire Cody Diablo (she of the look-at-me pop culture junk like Juno, Jennifer’s Body and the offensively lame United States of Tara). I had prostate Cody.

January 22-31, 2010 – Research & Destroy

Weeks and weeks of research followed. You really understand the beauty of the internet and how it can be used for good in these situations. I visited hundreds of sites, searching definitions of my diagnosis and where I was in the scheme of other cancer patients. I joined an array of prostate-specific groups and blogs to post a myriad of questions. I was amazed and moved by the outpouring of advice, info, guidance and sympathy that so many men I had never met before provided.

I learned that prostate cancer is one the slowest growing cancers a man can have. Because of the tiny shell encasing the gland it’s harder for the bad cells to multiple and break on through as opposed to being in an exposed node or organ. In fact, as the doctor maintained, many men  diagnosed with prostate cancer much later in their lives –  say 70 – just let it go untreated as something else is gonna probably kill them first.

But I was in a special, select group of men under 45 who have to deal with this sooner than later. Choices suddenly needed to be made. Leslie and I have no kids, and we have always been very much on the fence about the notion. In the past, there was always tomorrow to make that decision.

Now, there wasn’t.

Without a prostate, there would be no chance of procreation. Hell, there would no physical ejaculation whatsoever.

Which brought me to the other tragic realization. I’ve become rather found of my little nappy-headed friend below my waist. In many hard times, he’s been my closest, most reliable buddy. Hell, if he looked better in a suit, I’d have made him the Best Man at my wedding. So the thought of suddenly losing his companionship was beyond scary. It was impossible. It was the end of so many vital aspects of my life as I knew it.

Now understand the difference between the two primary options of treatment: A prostatectomy removes the gland completely. By so doing, especially for a person with such a low score of cancer, there was a strong chance that I would eliminate the problem at its root. A few years of subsequent blood tests would tell for sure if the varmints had escaped and spread elsewhere, but all that I read assured me that surgical elimination would be the most conclusive way of not having this cancer kill me.

Of course, removal of the gland generally leaves a very sordid trail of fucked-up side-effects which can/will include erectile dysfunction, pissing yourself when you cough, sit, stand, laugh or generally do anything that humans do, a loss of libido and the ability to procreate. (Here’s a little-known Cliff Claven factoid, unlike women, men actually have two sphincters. When you remove the prostate, you rip one of those important vise grips out, leaving the bladder more-or-less to its own comical devices.) Oh, and if you do finally get back in the game and enjoy a non-prescriptive erection again, there’s a little something called “dry orgasms” to deal with.

On the other hand, radiation therapy, while also killing a chance to inseminate, can (operative word) preserve the nerves that allow for semi-healthy erections. 

Hundreds of pages were printed, highlighted and shoved into folders marked “Cody”.

 January 22, 2010 – Emotion in the Ocean

These things hit you in both very obvious and then very sneaky ways. By no means did I think this was death sentence, but its hindrances of life’s simple pleasures could be profoundly frustrating.

Some days, I wallowed in depression about the obviously debilitating side effects. Yet other days, I actually welcomed this as new challenge. It was something to deal with, overcome, persevere and maybe even test my meddle.

I also went through a typical rollercoaster paradox of both A) “Now it’s time to get your shit together, get super healthy and slow down on the nonsense,” and B) “Fuck it, let’s drink like we mean it and enjoy the excesses in case this is our last dance.”

Each month, B usually won by a score of three to one.

 February 2, 2010 – Radiation Calling

So now armed with files full of questions, I met with a radiologist. Going into this meeting, I was convinced that non-surgical radiation would be the best treatment for me. It was less intrusive and had a bigger upside sexually.

Dr. Ko at Northridge Med turned all my preconceived notions upside-down. She advised that radiation was mostly geared for older patients who could be in danger by invasive surgery. She said that, at my age, radiation had a good chance of merely containing the dangerous cells for a period of time. Five years; maybe ten years. But I would always be living under the specter that at any time, after any checkup, the cancer might have suddenly found its sea legs and spread.

A prostatectomy was the only way to ever be sure that I had removed the cancerous cells and that they had not come back. Plus, she added, that with my age and healthy lifestyle, I would have the greatest chance of recovering from the side effects and was best poised to re-gain normal erections without a lifelong Cialis crutch.

And then she said something that changed my life, at least at that moment. It was something so simple and so off-handed that it seemed like she was simply saying my shoe was un-tied.

“Did you get a second opinion on the pathology report from your biopsy?”

“Uh…no. Hadn’t even thought of that nor was it ever recommended by anyone else.

 “Oh, well you should,” the demure Asian doctor said. “Ask Dr. Klein to send the reports to Johns Hopkins. You never know.”

 And so I did.

 Summary: February 2, 2010.

PSA: No new one taken

DRE: Finger exam confirmed irregular shape of the prostate, but she admitted that it was so minor that had she not been briefed on my pre-disposition, she may not have noticed it.

Recommendation: Second opinion on biopsy pathology report.

February 16, 2010 – Second Opinions Are Not Like Assholes

And so Dr. Klein was more than happy to send my pathology off for a second opinion.

I had requested a phone call this time for the results. No need for me to spend another $25 co-pay and drive across town just to hear the same news. We had already done the faced-to-face cancer fest.

And so he called late in the afternoon and in his typically low-key, matter-of-fact manner said, “Well good news. Hopkins doesn’t see cancer for certain.”

Ok, what the hell does that mean?

“They see are abnormal cells classified as High-Grade PIN as opposed to cancer.”

High-Grade PIN cells are defined as a small, atypical group that are too small to be defined as either benign (good cells) or malignant (bad ones). Thus, High-Grade PIN is an Agnostic group of cells that just can’t make up their dirty little minds what they wanna be when they grow up.

The good news: that means there is a chance that they aren’t cancerous. That beats, “It turns out you got a little cancer” any day.

A second biopsy was ordered to get a new cluster of samples and see if we could get a stronger declaration one way or another.  

Suddenly a Doors song starts wafting through my head. I could hear the swirling, haunting organ and the words push their way to the frontal lobe:

 Strange days have found us,
Strange days have tracked us down,
They’re goin’ to destroy our casual joys,
We shall go on playing or find a new town…

Summary: February 16, 2010.

PSA: No new one taken

Biopsy Results (from Johns Hopkins): Focus of High Grade PIN with adjacent, small atypical glands. Findings are highly suspicious for carcinoma (cancer). While these small glands may represent an infiltrating cancer, we cannot exclude that they represent an outpouring of the adjacent PIN glands only. Repeat biopsy is recommended.

 March 5, 2010 – Train in Vein

Another day, another bloodletting. But this time, I made sure not ride a bike, ejaculate or shove small rodents up my ass for a good 72 hours prior to the test. I won’t reveal which activity was the hardest to abstain, but I was curious how this new strategy would affect the score.

 March 16, 2010 – A Second Biopsy? Butt, of Course

Dr. Klein, to his benefit, did not want to wait too long to perform the second biopsy. Even though prostate Cody is slow moving, you wanna attack the bastard before it stops its slumber and starts to lumber.

At the same time, the good doctor also wanted to let my prostate heal enough from the first biopsy so that my inner sanctum didn’t become like the slaughterhouse scene from Rocky.

So almost two months to the day, I arrived for the second biopsy. The goal was that the results from this one would (hopefully) determine which way the eagle flied.

The best news was that results from a new PSA test showed my level down from 3.7 in December to a glorious gutter low of just 1.1. We were both amazed at the positive fluctuation and the results convinced me that all I read about pre-PSA blood screening behavior was correct: abstain from anything that disturbs the prostate.

It is said that love is better the second time around, so I’d love to report that the second biop was a breeze. It was actually worse.

The brain is a funny monster. It renders bad situations better when it doesn’t have a clue what is about to happen. Sure, my brain had some expectations of the horrors the first time around, but there was no baseline, no barometer by which to measure exactly what would transpire and how bad it would be. All I knew was I was gonna have shit shoved up my ass. The blow-by-blow process, however, was unknown.

Now, heading into the second lap, I knew exactly what was coming – and what was going. I knew in what order and in how long a time sequence. I know the sights, the sounds, the smells and the painful humiliation of the experience. And thus, aggravated anxiety precipitated these 30 minutes in Heaven.

While doing my best cannonball position on the table, I pondered this principle and thought maybe that’s why you shouldn’t fear death. It’s really only the second thing in everyone’s life that can and will happen exactly once. So, who knows what it will feel like. As a fetus, I don’t recall thinking, “How the fuck am I gonna squeeze through that?”

And maybe dying is the best goddam mushroom trip of all time. Maybe it is just frozen moments of blissful reflections of a life lived and loved before the deepest, soothing sleep of all time. And – what the hell – maybe there are moments in the dying throes where you feel weightless, and you’re running naked through a poppy field with an ice-cold martini, a full plate of carnitas and the TV remote control. And all your dead pets are running around dressed in suits and ties wondering, “What’s with the naked guy?”

And then again, it could be all that but without any olives, Cholula or a flat screen TV.

The good news is – if death sucks ass, well, at least you won’t have to do it again.

Summary: March 16, 2010.

PSA: 1.1

Biopsy Results: Pending

March 17, 2010 – Leaving the Present Behind

In a very rollercoaster year, Leslie had succeeded in capping her two-year boot camp of nursing school by graduating and passing the state’s NCLEX test. She was now officially a Registered Nurse and ready to start her new life as a made woman.

Before she started applying for nursing gigs, we decided to take a trip which could be our last for some time.

After much debating, we decided to avoid airlines, exchange rates and basically take a vacation that wouldn’t require a vacation afterward.

A drive, we thought. So we planned a roadie up the gut of California with Seattle as a northernmost destination. Then we’d turn around and swerve over to the coast where Oregon meets the Emerald State and slowly meander our way down the Western spine of America.

We couldn’t wait for the trip, but I also couldn’t stomach the unknown results hanging over my head for the two weeks while I was slurping oysters and gulping martinis. So I asked Dr. Klein to give me the results over the phone to save time. Neither good news nor bad was going to matter as I had already dealt with the bad, so if it’s still the Big C, at least I was now prepared for my options.

 March 24, 2010 – All Aboard!

The day before our roadie was to commence, Leslie and I were drunk-packing like giddy college kids. We happily scurrying around the house collecting everything we would never need. There’s a multitude of freedoms that a long road trip allows. First and foremost, it affords you the opportunity to pack the car with every single item in the house.  (How we got the Viking fridge in the car remains a mystery.)

We stocked the cabin with a myriad of driving snacks (large pretzels, power bars, juice pouches, gummy everythings), maps, Magellan’s, pillows, shoes and clothes for all-weather conditions. You would think we were scaling Mt. Everest with all the crap we loaded into the tiny, white Prius. 

Minds and bodies were focused on the trip. In fact, even when my cell rang around 4:00 flashing an unrecognizable 818 area code, I still had forgotten that today was the day for The Call.

“Hello.”

“Scott, this is Dr. Klein.”

Of course you know that moment at the highest apex of a rollercoaster where the cars seem to stop for an eternity and float in outer space before they ease forward and then with a rush of blood to head, heart and thighs you plummet. And six or seven seconds into the freefall your stomach literally makes its way up your torso headed straight for your throat like a drunk who’s heard the words, “Last call.”

Triple that.

That’s how I felt in an instant. Leslie knew who it was and she remained at the dining-room table as I walked into the bedroom. I needed to focus and hear the results alone.

His words were mannered as he was quite obviously reading from the report for the first time with me. “Benign prostatic tissue with focal chronic prostatitis…hmm…atypical small acinar proliferation…Oh, I see, okay. Stains for high molecular weight keratin demonstrate positive straining for basal cells in the focus in question, ruling out carcinoma.”

Time to butt in. “Dr. Klein…do I have cancer or not?”

“Nope…it appears not.”

You talk about burying the lead. “You know, Doc, you really could’ve opened with that.”

He laughed. “Yeah. So what it looks like is that you do have a few atypical cells that are classified as ASAP. This stands for Atypical Small Acinar Proliferation which means they could become cancerous more so than if you didn’t have them.”

“But I don’t have cancer now?”

“You don’t have cancer now, but we need to keep a very close eye. Since three sets of eyes have now found three different classifications of some abnormal cells, I recommend another biopsy. But it’s no rush. We’ll let your tuckus [yes, a nice Jewish boy, he used tuckus] rest and come back in the summer, and we’ll give this hopefully one more look and be convinced.”

I was speechless but managed a, “Thanks Doc.”

“Have a great time on your vacation.”

I hung up the phone and for the first time since the start of this bungee jump, I welled up as I walked into the kitchen where Leslie was waiting and watching.

“It looks like I may not have cancer.” And we hugged and wiped away a few dribbles of happiness. Or relief. Did any of that really happen?

In silence, Leslie and I just stared at each other and shook our heads, laughing now with no tears. And one of my favorite songs popped into my head, and I started humming the lyrics made famous by Nina Simone and covered brilliantly by Muse…

 Birds flyin’ high… you know how I feel
Sun in the sky… you know how I feel
Breeze driftin’ on by you know how I feel
It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me…
And I’m feelin’ good.

 March 25 thru April 7, 2010- A Long, Strange Trip

Leslie and I took a thoroughly necessary and revitalizing vacation meandering up the belly of California and Oregon en route to Seattle to see Muse at Key Arena. My girl with the joyful relief of nursing school and passing the state board behind her, and me with a fresh, seemingly healthier perspective. We hadn’t a care in the world for those two weeks (save the 24 hours I spent vomiting from an evil oyster in Seattle).

The highlights should have included the concert, but Seattle fans are dopes when it comes to getting into a show, and Key Arena is a floating turd that allows you to buy beer in the concession area but does not allow you take said beverage to your seat. Say what?

Highlights included the bacon doughnut at Voodoo Donuts in Portland, hitting every Tom Douglas restaurant in Seattle, the hand-crafted salami sandwich at Mario Battali’s father’s El Salumi sammy shop across from Safeco, driving the breathtaking cliffs overlooking the rugged Pacific in Oregon, the wine treasure hunt in Healdsburg and every single living, breathing second spent with my best friend.

When we returned home, reality hit for both of us. For Leslie, the toughest task lay ahead of finding a job (who knew the education would be the easy part). For me, it was time to hit Al Gore’s invention and find out just what the ASAP cells were inside my ass and how they differed from High-Grade PIN which was determined on second sight of Biopsy 1.

In the lamest of layman terms, you really don’t want either. Both basically infer that you have a class clown cluster of cells that will continue getting sent to detention and, most likely, grow up to be a cancerous loser.

One study from the American Society for Clinical Pathology determined that 24% of patients who had PIN in one biopsy will have cancer in a follow-up. Worse still, 41% of proud ASAP bearers will have cancer in a follow-up biopsy.

ASAP and its “cousin,” PIN (prostatic intraepithelial neoplasia) are two critical findings that are not actually prostate cancer but which seem to be highly predictive of the likelihood of current or future prostate cancer.

In other words, before patients get prostate cancer, many of them may have either PIN or ASAP or both.

It is because of this troublesome statistic that my urologist, Dr. Klein wanted me back in the summertime for yet another biopsy. He said if I was 65 or older, he wouldn’t be too alarmed to stay so tightly on top of this, but at my age, early detection is key to making sure that class clown doesn’t ditch early to go beat up other healthy cells at the bike racks.

I spent June and July in complete avoidance. I stopped obsessively searching sites and reading blogs about the goddam prostate and pretended – for a precious several weeks – that all of this had just gone away. I drank martinis, Leslie and I experimented with an array of new recipes in our test kitchen, I acquired a special new cat that acts like a dog and follows me everywhere named, Cooper. I enjoyed what I feared would be Vin Scully’s last season of painting my summer a deep and vibrant blue talking up the Dodgers. I watched the Lakers sack up and beat the Celtics in a poetic Game Seven, and I counted the days until August 24 when my next biopsy would arrive like Santa sliding down the chimney.

May 6, 2010 – Checkup Please

I went back to see my original general doctor, Joey Brett. I thanked him for his due diligence and insistence on looking at my prostate.

The PSA was 2.2, and I was feeling pretty good about my chances entering the next biopsy.

 Summary: May 6, 2010

PSA: 2.2

DRE: No new rectal exam performed

August 24, 2010 – Third Time’s No Charm

Reality doesn’t bite so much as it pinches. If I had forgotten about the love and glory of a prostate biopsy, waiting 50 anxious minutes in Dr. Klein’s waiting room brought the memories very much alive and unwell in my mind.

Once inside the chamber of horrors, I assumed the cannonball position with ass in the face of my good doctor and – crash, bang, wallop! – we did the dance for yet a third time in just eight months.

As always, I tried to find a happy place while the dirty deed unfolded. This time, I couldn’t seem to shake the vivid story of a childhood friend, Robbie Cormack, who was riding his Mongoose bike along a bumpy dirt road when he was 13 years old. Rob was the elementary-school stud, the tough kid destined to be a high-school quarterback in years to come.

This day, as he demonstrated dope tricks and jumps, he did so without a seat attached to his bike. I’m still not sure why, and I’m sure he would have rather re-thought that omission when his bike hit a series of bumps we called whoop-te-dos and his bike whooped, but his butt te-doed and came down hard on the exposed post where the seat would have sat.

That little bit of Evil Knievelry forced the kid into emergency anal reconstructive surgery. True to form, and as legend has it, tough guy Robbie was so intrigued by the procedure that he requested a local anesthesia and a strategically placed mirror, so he could watch his shit shute sewn back together.

Yeah, my “happy places” tend to be a bit fucked up.

I had blood taken a week prior to this visit and – good news – is that my PSA has stayed low and well under acceptable levels at a 1.9. My doctor and I were encouraged by that sign, but then no urologist can seem to agree on the true importance of the PSA test. In many cases people with high PSAs never develop cancer and people with low scores do. So while I’d much rather be low than high on the scale, I can never be over-confident that a low PSA means I’m out of the woods.

Summary:  August 24,2010

PSA: 1.9

DRE: Not done.

Biopsy: Performed and waiting results.

 August 27, 2010 – Pins and Anals

As I sit here studying more about ASAP and PIN cells, a line on a urology site really hits home: There is no known cure for ASAP cells.

I have been deluding myself into thinking that I don’t have cancer, but I have not been taking the ASAP diagnosis seriously enough. The fact remains, that I do have some kind of fucked up cells in there that are far more likely to become cancerous at some point than if I didn’t. And they ain’t going away. Which means, I’m now a slave to my inner arse. Even if this latest biopsy comes back with no cells, they are certainly gonna report the abnormal cells as either PIN or ASAP.

So it hits me that my ass is now like Buckingham Palace where I must have watchful guards constantly on duty. I’m certainly doomed to multiple PSA tests every year (no biggie, cause I’ve always got the blood) and, worse, probably an annual biopsy just to make those ASAPs haven’t matured into something deadly.

A week later, I’m still sitting in wait. Fuck Tom Petty, but the waiting reallly is the hardest part.

September 3, 2010 – And Waiting…

If patience is truly a virture, then still not having results now what will be two weeks later come Tuesday is more than taxing my virtue.

I had a brief conversation with Dr. Klein earlier in the week, and he said he would call the moment they came in. You would think a lab, in this case Quest Diagnostics, would put a little giddy-up  in their gait when they knew the potential seriousness of the outcome. And isn’t everyone in the medical profession always preaching about “early detection and treatment.”

Two weeks seems unreasonable, at best, and downright insulting, at worst, when a man’s life is on the line – particularly when that man is me.

Sunday morning Dim Sum in downtown LA has become something of an irregular pilgrimage, having tried nearly every dumpling station from Alhambra through the heart of Chinatown.

Although the tiny dim sum fare can be hit or miss, there is one order from the squeaky stainless carts that remains a consistently delicious constant: the Chinese broccoli. So crisp, so tender, so alive with flavor; it’s no wonder Chinese children gladly eat their vegetables.

What makes Chinese vegies so delicious is the oyster sauce. Thick, rich, salty, yet also tantalizingly sweet, we really order the broccoli for the sauce. We’ve been trying to master the essence of that sauce and this trial-and-error recipe is as close as we’ve come to nailing Mama-son’s homemade version. Drizzle over Chinese (or even American) broccoli or, our favorite, baby bok choi.

Serves 2

Ingredients:
4 heads baby bok choi
1-inch fresh gingerroot, cut into thin slices
2 T oyster sauce
3 T chicken broth
1 T dry sherry
1 t cornstarch
2 t water
¼ C water
Drizzle of peanut or olive oil
1 T soy sauce

Prep:
Cut the baby boks in half down the middle and wash the hell out of them while making sure they remain intact and the leaves don’t separate.

Combine the oyster sauce, broth and sherry in a small bowl. In a separate small bowl, combine the cornstarch and 2 t water. Stir the ingredients in each tiny bowl and set aside.

Cook:
Heat the oil in a large skillet over medium heat. Swirl the oil so the surface is covered then drop in the ginger slices. Let those cook for about 1 minute until the ginger starts giving off a fragrance.

Toss in the bok choi halves and let pan fry for about 1 minute. Now dump in the ¼ C water and the soy. Cover and cook on medium low until the veges start to wilt, about 5 minutes.

Remove the cover and remove the bok choi to a plate. Add the oyster sauce combination to the pan and stir in the cornstarch mixture. Stir constantly over medium-low heat until the sauce thickens, about 3 minutes.

When thick enough to stick to the spoon, pour the sauce over the bok choi and serve immediately. Close your eyes…it’s Sunday morning and the flavor of the day has just begun.

LA has forever been a city reliant on wheels, so it’s no wonder that we’ve recently become a city of meals on wheels.

The phenomenon that is the food-truck industry already is starting to feel a little flat. Call it the glut of competition or the yawn of the city’s fickle ways of perpetually living in the now, the food truck adventure may have already peaked amid a flurry of pedestrian offerings and copy-cat competition.

Don’t get me wrong, I like the lively cultural pairings of Korean kimchee quesadillas and Asian marinated meatballs as much as the next food degenerate, I just prefer them in a place where I can wash my hands before I sit on something other than a cement parking block.

Once the luster of finding the secret location wears off, the grubbers and stoners will soon realize that hunting and gathering amid LA’s traffic only to kick it to the curb and awkwardly munch a Phillly cheese steak while cars hiss by your open can of Dr. Pepper is really a drag. And now in the throes of summer, who dares triple digits for a diesel-fueled grilled-cheese sammy?

So it’s time to take it off the streets and return to the air-conditioned melting pots that move only when the health inspectors shut them down.

Xoia (pronounced Zoy-ya) is allegedly a rare blend of Vietnamese staple fare with subtle strokes of Mexican flavors. Located in Echo Park off Alvarado just as you turn right onto Sunset to head for Dodger Stadium, the place has a handful of casual dining tables and a slow, but smiling staff. The short menu has but three categories: starters, soups (pho) and sandwiches (banh mi).

The traditional staple of Vietnamese cooking starts and ends with their gothically rich bowls of beef soup. Pho (pronounced fuh, as in “what the fuh?”) is the essence of classic Vietnamese comfort food as indelible to their culture as Matzo ball soup is to every Jewish kitchen…and just as soothing.

In pho, beef bones and their rich marrow slowly seep through the simmering stew for hours until the unctuous beef fat gives way to a slick beefy broth that the owners of BP might admire. A hint of lime, a whiff of fish sauce and even a delicate waft of cinnamon or star anise gives the bowl a wealthy complexity of notes. Now dump in a heaping of thin noodles, an assortment of leafy veggies like Thai basil, bean sprouts and then your pick of beef – from thin ribbons of rare steak all the way down to spongy tripe.

Classic pho at most Vietnamese closets throughout the city fill you up right for under $5. At Xoia the four pho selections check in at a whopping $8.25. Granted the bowl is big enough to fill two, but sharing the slurping and drooling sensation that is Vietnamese soup tests the limits of friendship. Pho is a meal best flown solo. Additionally, Xoia’s bowls are standard non-variations on the classic Vietnamese dish. So where’s the Mexican influence?

Xoia has garnered quite the hype in local food blathers of late for its cross-cultural pollination (the husband/wife owners are of Mexican and Vietnamese descent respectively), yet there are precious few items that mix in a little south of the border flair. The starters include the standard shrimp and pork spring rolls found in every Far Eastern diner.

Only the pho beef tacos attempt something different. In this case, however, the “pho infused beef” is simply super salty chopped asada plopped onto a corn tortilla with cilantro and onions. No better and probably worse than most street tacos. And $5.75 for three tiny two-biters hardly seems worth the trek.

The other notable Mexi influence appears in one of the three banh mi sandwiches. Banh mi are crusty baguettes the size of small teenager’s forearm, sliced down the middle and filled almost always with pickled carrots, daikon, cilantro sprigs, cucumber spears and finely sliced jalapenos. Only the protein changes and, in Xoia’s case the choices are unique: chicken curry, tofu and mushrooms and, our choice for the afternoon, lemongrass pork carnitas.

Here is where the true meeting of east and west should really shine. Instead, the pork is stringy and dry as if it had been basking under a heat lamp most of the morning. The garlic aioli spread is really just salty mayo and the bread is a little too crispy, scratching the roof of your mouth with every bite.

The only true revelation is a chef’s secret “house made red salsa” where the multi-cultural flavors truly butt heads in the most pleasant way. According to our server, a tomato base binds two minced chilies — one Mexican (presumably arbol) and one Japanese to make a smoky, subtle and satisfying neuvo version of the fiery sambal chili paste found in most Asian restaurants. Unique and delightful.

Xoia has the kernel of a cool concept. But when a condiment garners the highest praise, the kitchen needs to re-group.

Xoia
1801 W. Sunset Blvd.
LA, CA 90026
213-413-3232
Note: Cash only

Serves 2

1 lb ground chicken (use boneless, skinless thighs if you want to grind yourself)

Olive oil

4 cloves garlic, smashed

1 stalk lemongrass (the rough outer husks removed and then the innards cut into thin rounds)

1 shallot, finely chopped

2 green onions, chopped

1/2 C chopped fresh mint

½ T galangal or ginger

2 dried Thai chilies, pan roasted then chopped fine

4 T Asian fish sauce

3 limes, juiced

2 T toasted rice (optional)

3-4 Bibb lettuce leaves per person

Cook the ground chicken in a wok laced with smidge of oil until it’s cooked through, about 8 minutes. Place the cooked chicken on newspapers lined with paper towels. Press the chicken with a spatch or your hands to soak up some of the grease.

Mix the garlic, lemongrass, shallot, green onions, mint, galangal, chilies, fish sauce and limes in a bowl.  Toast the rice in a pan until it starts turning brown, about 5 minutes. Then place the toasted rice into a food processor and crush to a powder.

If serving the chicken as a hot meal, mix all ingredients together and serve immediately. If serving as a salad, then mix the chicken with the ingredient mixture and let sit at room temp for as long as you desire.  A good hour really helps the flavors meld.

Scoop the room temp mixture into a lettuce cup and top with a dollop of Sambal or Sirracha Asian hot sauces. Feel the cool burn and have a Tsing-Tao beer handy.

Vietnamese sandwiches are a unique creation usually involves mystery meat, a smear of liver pate and a compendium of pickled veges, cilantro and fresh jalapenos served on a bastard version of the French baguette. Putting the same basic theory (sans pate) into a grilled burger provides a new take on an old friend.

Serve with Tsing-Tao beer and dollops of Sirracha for the full Far Eastern bastardization off the American classic.

Serves 2

Pickled Daikon and Carrot:
• 1 daikon, julienned
• 1 carrot, julienned
• 1/2 cup distilled white vinegar
• 1/4 cup sugar

Patties:
• 1 pounds ground pork
• 3 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 jalapeno chilies, seeded and diced
• 1 T minced ginger
• 2 T Vietnamese fish sauce
• 2 T soy sauce
• 1 t ground Szechuan peppercorns
• 1 T sugar
• 1 lime, zested and juiced
• 2 hamburger buns
• 1 cucumber, peeled and thinly sliced
• 1 jalapeno chile, thinly sliced
• fresh cilantro sprigs

Directions
To make the pickled Daikon and Carrot, combine the daikon, carrot, vinegar, and sugar in a bowl, tossing well to coat. Set aside to marinate for a good hour.

Combine the pork, garlic, diced chilies, ginger, fish sauce, soy sauce, peppercorns, sugar, and lime zest and juice in a bowl, mixing well to incorporate. Divide the mixture into 2 burger-sized patties.

Set the BBQ to medium. Spray the grill with non-stick oil. Place the patties on the rack and grill for 6 to 7 minutes per side, until cooked through.

Place the burgers on the buns, top with cucumber slices, chilies, pickled veges and cilantro sprigs. A grilled ear of corn provides a nice side.

Cochinita Pibil

A tangy, tart delicious way to make pork that flakes apart like paper mache. The translation of the dish means “baby pig roasted underground,” but you can easily prepare this above ground on an outdoor grill or in the oven (the better to permeate the house with the stinking goodness of juicy pig).

The key is “low and slow” and the wrapping of the banana leaves – although not tragically essential – it does infuse the meat with a tropical earthiness and is really fun to unwrap. Makes you feel like you’re having a luau. Banana leaves can be purchased from most Mexican markets.

Serves 4

1 4-lb pork butt roast
3 oranges, juiced (The more sour, the better. Yields about ¾ C)
1-2 limes, juiced
2 cloves garlic, crushed
1 T achiote powder or paste emullsified
1 t oregano flakes or powder
1 t cumin
Pepper
2-4 large banana leaves

Prepare the marinade 24 hours before cooking. Combine juices, garlic, oregano, achiote, cumin and pepper in a small cuisinart. Cut the pork into golf ball-sized chunks. Pour over the pork and refrigerate.

The next day, preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Before cooking, hold the banana leaves flat over low gas heat for just a few second to make the leaves more pliable and less brittle. Lay out two sheets of tin foil in a criss—cross fashion inside an over-ready pan. The foil must be large enough to cover the pork and be sealed. Now lay the warm leaves inside the foil in the same manner.

Place the marinated pork in the center of the leaves and pour excess marinade over the top. The key is making sure the leaves are large enough to cover and encase the meat. If need be, use multiple leaves and place overlapping one another. Now fold the leaves over on both sides and turn the package so the seam is now on the bottom so that the leaves won’t pop open.

Now fold over the tin foil in a similar manner only seal the foil package by bending in the ends where they meet.

Bake for two hours. An internal therm should read about 180 and then you’re great to go. Let the meat rest for about ten minutes to cool a bit and let the flavors coalesce.

Then shred the meat with forks and eat inside a warm tortilla with pickled red onions (see recipe at my website www.butidigest.com) and diced avocado. A cold beer and a thick napkin is all you need on the side. Hyperbole aside, it doesn’t get much better than this.

Mint chutney, the intoxicating, elusive splash of earthiness, truly uncovers the greener pastures of flavors for tandoori, curries or just plain naan.

Every place seems to have its own take on the condiment – from creamy (blecch) to horsey (a-choo). I prefer mine with top notes of fresh mint and underpinings of garlic, fresh chili and lime. This recipe, however, totally reinvents the Indian side staple with biting Thai notes.

1 bunch fresh mint leaves

2 serrano chilis, chopped

2 cloves garlic, chopped

1-inch piece of peeled ginger, chopped

2 t sugar

1/4 C white wine vinegar

2 T fish sauce (found in Asian markets)

1 fresh lime

salt

Place all ingredients, except lime juice, in a mini-Cuise and pulse until mashed into a fine paste. Slowly add a teaspoon or two of the lime juice until the mixture has a mostly smooth consistency. There should be some texture left from the mint, but overall resemble a green, creamy paste.

Adjust salt and serve with just about any Thai or Indian dish. Hell, truth be told, I’d put it on Corn Flakes too!

2027 Sawtelle Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90025
(310) 479-2231

4 stars out of 5

Soup for weekend breakfast has become an almost spiritual pilgrimage in our house. It began many years ago when after a night of heavy alcohol lifting, I practically woke up at a Jerry’s deli. While my tablemates forked up the grease of an egg and hash or bacon dish, I opted for a cleanliness and stomach settling bowl of matzo ball soup.

What a joy to not rent a greasy morning meal and actually perk up with the grandma-approved nutrients of a silky broth.

Over time, morning soup rituals have expanded to include a variety of steaming bowls, most often defaulting to the “Number 19” – rare beef in a bowl of Vietnamese pho – from the Pho 99 restaurant on Sepulveda in Sherman Oaks. Nothing picks one up from a Friday night of martinis like the noodle-y, beefy goodness drizzled with lime and spicy Sambal chili sauce.

I’ve also always had a secret b-fast fetish for ramen in all permeations – in a cup, a bowl or out of the cellophane packet. (I’ve even been known to munch the uncooked noodles like mini starchy crackers. But that’s more a personal problem.)

There are ramen shops dotted all over the city from, of course, Little Tokyo downtown to various hideaways in the Valley. But for those looking for the rich, sultry peasant soup in city parts in between, there are a several haunts draped along Sawtelle Boulevard between Olympic and Santa Monica.

My favorite at the moment is Asahi Ramen on Sawtelle. The nook of noodles allows for maybe only 40 patrons at a time (and takes only cash), so the prospects aren’t easy if you’re there at 11:30am when they open to beat the first rush.

Now judging a bowl of ramen is maybe more subjective than most meals. Did you grow up in a culture that experimented with different ramen recipes or do you just know the $0.29 packs with a single “flavor packet”? Are you a die-hard – literally for MSG – or prefer the broth a bit more on the subtle side? And, of course what you drank last night and in what volume might affect your ramen favorites.

So many factors…so many noodles.

And that’s the point of Asahi that offers one of the largest ramen servings in LA with a variety of table-caddy condiments from rich, ruby red Sambal to Japanese rice vinegar to unctuous chili oil to make the bowl of richness spring to life.

There are three basic soup stocks – the salty soy (with presumably a pinch or four of MSG), the miso and the “clear broth” which is as warm and welcoming as a turtleneck sweater on a cold, rainy day. Of the 10 or so bowls offered, the protein choices include pork – ground or sliced – chicken chunks, tofu and/or the lip-smacking, fermented kimchee cabbages and assorted veges.

I prefer the plainness of the clean, sliced pork to soak up the saltiness of the soup with its crispy sprouts and gummy shrooms confusing the hell out of your mouth with every bite. The perfect balance.

But the real star of any ramen shop is, of course, the noodle itself. Asahi offers long, silky ribbons of the carby starch whose natural curves bring with every spoonful an array of secret flavors lurking on the bowl’s bottom like a Loch Ness monster of flavor.

The miso bowl with ground pork has the dense consistency of egg-drop soup which makes the lack of noodles just fine. There are also a handful of non-soup options including a tower of shredded chicken with cucumber, a pile of steaming chicken fried rice and a succulent platter of seared tofu in a rich, brown sauce.

 The soup remains the star and runs between $7-$9 per bowl depending on ingredients and additions. (A hard-boiled half egg runs an extra buck…hardly necessary and hard to justify when you can buy a dozen for about that on the right week. Here’s a cheap trick – bring your own cooked egg in a zip lock and surreptitiously drop in after serving. Hey, times are tough.)

 There’s no booze and parking can be a challenge on weekdays when the meter gives you 30 minutes to get in and out. So here’s the trick…park in the Nijiya Market Plaza about a block down and after your ramen fest, feast on one of the amazing “filled while you wait” crunchy cream puffs at Beard Papa’s which can both re-instill your faith in a higher being or, after the bottomless bowl you also just consumed, send you into apoplectic shock.

 Either way, that’s a pretty good day.

Serves 2

2 stalks lemongrass

2 T olive oil

1 C chopped onion

1 T fresh ginger, minced

2 red Thai chilies or red jalapenos, sliced into ultra thin rings

1 can chicken broth (2 cups)

1/2 C sake (optional)

1 C unsweetened coconut milk (2 cups)

4 kaffir lime leaves (or zest of 1 lime)

2 T fish sauce

2 T fresh lime juice

3 T cilantro leaves, chopped

1 t sugar

2 skinless, boneless chicken breasts, cut into thin bite-sized strips or nuggets

Peel off the tough outer layers of the lemongrass and roughly mince the softer inners.

Heat oil in a large soup pot and add onion and ginger. Cook a couple minutes until the onion softens. Add chilis and lemongrass; stir a minute. Add broth and sake; simmer 5 minutes. Add cocnut milk, lime leaves (or zest) fish sauce, cilantro, lime juice and sugar; simmer 30 minutes.

Add chicken and simmer until cooked through, about 10-12 minutes.

Now serve alongside an Asian-inspired salad on Summer nights or with lemongrass beef satay.