1044 Wall St
La Jolla, CA 92039
(858) 551-7575
http://whisknladle.com/home/

I hit this place up with a friend this past Friday night, and I've been singing its praises to anyone who'll listen -- and several who won't -- ever since. We went based on a recommendation, lured by the promises of ginger margaritas.

Sadly, they were not to be.

Our server recommended a ginger mojito, instead. Superb. Minty, cool, sweet, and refreshing, with just a touch of gingery heat. A pinky-up drink, certainly, but I guess I shouldn't be blasting my palate with hard liquor at places like this anyway.

Our seared scallop starter was a perfect balance of contrasting flavours and textures. A crisp dusting of Indian spices crackled between our teeth, and the silky scallops beneath practically melted away in our mouths. A dollop of raita on each golden scallop took the bite out of the heat, and left only a lingering warmth.

Next, mussels. They were steamed in a creamy white wine broth, which was so voluptuously pungent and rich I found myself dipping everything I could into it, short of my fingers. Near the end of the meal, my dinner companion was unapologetically sipping shellfuls of the broth straight from the dish. I offered to shield her from view if she'd grab the bowl and drink it off in one, but I was, tragically, denied that particular piece of dinner theater.

Finally, an order of (hanger) steak frites, ordered medium rare. I can't really say much about it, except that it was the best example of this dish I've ever had. I'll admit I was furtively spooning mussel broth over the steak half the time, but at least I felt a little guilty about it. Not least because I was anticipating being attacked by a caricature of a chef; a tiny man brandishing a meat cleaver bigger than him, with a little pencil moustache and one of those big poufy hats.

Again, I was to be disappointed.

The service, too, was exceptional. Our drinks were never empty, but I never got the feeling our server was hovering. He was at our elbow when we needed him, and entirely absent otherwise. My friend took a shine to the cup the frites came in, and I mentioned this to him; he looked around conspiratorially and then told us to take it. Pimp.

One of the best meals I've had in recent memory, and since their menu changes often, I'm sure I'll be back.

After my credit card recovers, anyway.

So, last weekend in a fit of gluttony and boredom, I made this:

Please excuse the burned bit on the corner, I left it under the broiler a bit too long.

That's my attempt at Gordon Ramsay's pressed belly of pork recipe, along with caramelized apples with green onions and tarragon. I gotta say, it was pretty damn tasty, even though it was a little dry (my fault for using too broad a pan). Even so, I don't think I'll ever make it again. It was just too much of a pain in the ass.

It wasn't the prep time; aside from running to the store for ingredients, it took me like 15 minutes.

The cooking time was fine too; I wasn't even bothered by pressing it in the fridge overnight. And that's saying something, considering my penchant for instant gratification.

The trouble was the goddamn pork fat. If you don't clean the pans and everything right away, it just congeals into this disgusting greasy mess. I'm kind of a lazy bastard when it comes to dishes, too, so I tend to do a good scrub every couple days. So every single dish that I dropped in the sink now has a thin coating of pork fat.

Wonderful.

I guess really, the congealed fat thing was my fault. But I like to piss and moan, so here we are.