Over in the land of Silver Lake on LA’s east side, my sister, girlfriend and family friend converged upon a restaurant called Home. The place looked nothing like my home and the menu items barely had some items I’ve ever seen at home, so I assumed the name was derived from some sort of Silver Lake hipster irony. We sat outside on a relatively cold Saturday for LA and I watched as the workers fumbled helplessly to try to keep the heat lamps lit while the women tried desperately to keep warm. It was unintentionally entertaining, to say the least, and I hoped the food would at least be half as good as said entertainment.
