Let me be clear, all restaurants are fantastic places with lots of food in them. It’s just that some are better than others.

At around 10:30 last Sunday I’d just finished watching my mom do some yoga from my Tempurpedic bed in the sunshine, when sudden hunger pains began creeping up on me. Breakfast was already two and a half hours in the rearview mirror and I was starving. It was the first weekend of Cochella, which meant the city was all but empty (particularly the hipster districts of Silverlake and Venice Beach). We decided to hop in the car and head toward the coast.

With no traffic on the road and ample parking everywhere, I made it to Gjusta Bakery on Sunset Ave (not Blvd guys) in just under  thirty minutes””a new record. Why can’t Cochella be every weekend? This joint is counter service, so I waded through the way-too-casual barefoot types and grabbed number 84 from the deli. When I heard the server call out “76” I knew I had time to survey my options. I liked not having to wait in line because it allowed me to sniff about and peer though the glass at the daily flatbread and various cured meats.

I decided I was definitely getting the fennel sausage and fried egg plate with  fermented cabbage & pepperonata and probably the flatbread with squash blossoms.  The “build your own” component seemed to be popular with the patrons and I thought a  smoked cod sandwich on a poppy seed bagel loaded with herbed cream cheese sounded like a nice side dish. I begged my mom to get the whole chili rub roasted chicken sitting on the countertop””it was insisting we take it home for our dinner later that day. She said yes to the chicken, but told me my eyes were bigger than my stomach (does she even know me?) and that I could only have the english muffin sandwich and the flatbread. She said that was “plenty,” which is easy for someone who ordered the porridge to say.

When we placed our order the young sparkly-eyed server asked us if we were eating inside or out. I looked to the right and noticed that “eating inside” didn’t necessarily translate into sitting. It was a standing bar without a high stools. “Outside please,” we chimed in unison. But when we went out the wooden screened-door we discovered that outside seating was an “only in Venice” situation: milk
crates. About twenty or thirty people of all ages where propped up on milk crates shoveling food into their mouths. Some had created makeshift tables using two or three stacked on top of each other, while others bravely balanced plates on their knees and sipped coffee from their cups on the dusty asphalt ground. Oh JOY! These arrangements were the perfect height for a bulldog! My mom thought otherwise and stacked five high so that I couldn’t sneak in uninvited samplings of her seven multi-grain porridge, nut milk, stewed fruit  and  side of bacon. Well played Mom, very clever.

The food was delicious. The makeshift “patio” was a perfect meeting ground for me to introduce myself to some friendly diners and  inquire as to whether I might borrow what was left on their plates. I would have done so if I hadn’t been on the tightest leash of my life. Other pups milled about attempting to do the same. Some were successful, others were given a pat and told “this egg sandwich is not for you.”  Never words you want to hear.

So while we probably won’t venture to the hippest new brunch spot in Venice until Cochella happens next year, it’s nice to know that good food, great hipsters and dirty milk crates will be waiting for us.

Stay hungry my friends”¦