summer sucks
and other lovely observations!
Lately, I’ve been wishing I had named this newsletter something else.
Is it too late to pivot from The Move? If I could have a do-over, I’d release the newsletter on Sundays and call it Have a Sunday or I Crush Sundays. That’s because—to put it humbly—I fucking crush Sundays, dude. It’s the one day a week where everything is perfect and I can’t die. Farmers’ markets, softball games, a couple day drinks, dinner with friends, maybe an edible in the evening. Hell, even selling pasta on Sundays—which is technically work—makes me unreasonably happy. Point is, I live for Sundays. It’s the one day that’s not wasted, the one day where I’m consistently wringing every last drop from the dirty dish towel that is life.
In regard to Pasta Sundays—my little pasta pick-up pop-up I’ve been doing in Los Angeles since 2021—in a month or two I’m going to be moving it to Tabula Rasa, which is a cool-yet-unpretentious shotgun-style wine bar here in Thai Town. They don’t have a full kitchen, so I’m working on procuring the set-up for outdoor pasta service, talking to pasta homies like Diego Argoti and Francesco Lucatorto. I’m going to need propane. And four burners. And some help. But, it’s going to happen.
Speaking of help, James Austin Johnson and I are trying to figure out what to name our travel show, which we filmed in San Francisco last month. Originally, we (James mostly) wanted to call the series, What’s The Move? But, I’m getting really burnt out on the phrase. It’s just not that creatively inspired. Plus, Hilton started saying it. Time to move on, I’m afraid. Anyway, I’m soliciting ideas here because the last time I was in charge of naming something for James and I, I called it The Macaroni Zone. Not my best work. Let me know in the comments if you have any idea about what we should name our travel and food series.
Alright, on to the newsletter, which is just a bunch of grabby, disjointed ideas. Does that seem lazy? It’s not. I’m just….mildly depressed right now. And the reason for my depression? Summer.
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Summer sucks, right?
Summer 2026 has me feeling incredibly aimless, and I’m not the only one! Mary H.K. Choi has similar sentiments, and I can’t help but feel like I’m in good (mildly depressed) company.
And why, Danny? Why have we been so down this past week? Is it the pressure to enjoy oneself? The constant Instagram blast of vacations and tomfoolery? The oppression of LA’s blazing heat and sunlight? Eh, probably all of the above. But, perhaps most notably, I’ve noticed that summer has thrown my routine way off.
As soon as the heat rolled in, my day-to-day got fucked upside down (trying to get fucked upside down going, instead of flipped). The sun is annoyingly bright at 7am. It’s far too hot to cook in the afternoon. My windows remain shut, and the hum of my AC unit drowns out the pleasant sound of birds chirping outdoors. Not to mention that due to the recent humidity, mosquitoes have descended upon Los Angeles to ravage our ankles, arms, and thighs.
I miss the days when I could leisurely leave the front door open, go in and out when I please. Write outside, or go on a walk when I need a break. Summer has me feeling cagey. I’ll be looking forward to Winter and Spring (Fall is Summer here).
Also, yes, I know that seasons are common nouns and not supposed to be capitalized. I don’t give a shit. You mean to tell me that the seasons, which are caused by our yearly orbit around the giant ball of plasma in the sky, aren’t good enough to be addressed as proper nouns? Nah, dude, NAH. I love Spring like I love Mother, Chicago, Weird Al Yankovic, and Fat Burger. If Summer is impactful and personal enough that it can literally depress me, then I’m capitalizing that sumbitch. Rigid, AP-style rules can get fucked upside down, and not the good kind.
stop peddling “East Coast” authority in Los Angeles
I don’t quite understand our obsession with East Coast-style Italian sandwiches in LA. Get something on thin and crispy focaccia. A few ribbons of prosciutto. Arugula. Sun-dried tomatoes. Hell, order something beautiful and vegetarian. We do that better than anyone. Bottom line: it’s lovely here and the sun is shining. Cold cuts crammed into bread that’s shaped like a tactile ballistic missile—while delicious—are meant to sustain dockworkers in Red Hook, not our delicate ass(es).
I question the purported authority that “East Coast” has over Italian food, and I think any East Coast-inspired sandwich should first pass through a California immigration process. We just eat different here! The Nicky’s Special from DeFonte’s (pictured above) is too heavy for Southern California. Meatball subs don’t make a lick of sense when it’s 95 degrees and sunny. Chicken parm sandos are for rainy winters in the same way that gamjatang (pork neck, potato, and perilla seed stew eaten in Seoul) hits best in January. This concept applies to sandwiches, pizza, pasta, and whatever else the East Coast purportedly specializes in. New Yorkers might turn their nose up at our pizza, but ugh, I love fermented dough and squares loaded with vegetables. It makes more sense here.
Guys like Delco Rose Hoagies assimilate well with their sandwiches, using Bub & Grandma’s baguette to make their cold cut sando feel somewhat restrained, with a healthy ratio of vegetables rolled into the meat and bread. It’s a Philadelphia hoagie in spirit, yes, but I’d argue there’s something really Californian about the whole delivery, too. There’s a loveliness to his hoagies.
The best Italian sandwiches I’ve had this year? They’re Californian, baby. Molinari, Ceci’s, and Lorenzo. Sandwich shops can tout their “East Coast” roots for clout, but a good Californian-Italian sandwich is what guys like me actually crave. I guess I’ve become an Angeleno.
I went to the Santa Monica Farmers’ Market, and now there are 17 pluots in my fridge
Right now I’ve got 17 pluots in my fridge. Seventeen. You, pluot poor, can’t even fathom how juicy my life has become. Inconceivable for the pluotless. I’m on three pluots a day. If success were measured in pluot ownership, I’d be doing interviews on TV right now. So what’s the secret to your wild success, Danny? That’s a great question, Janine. It’s pluots.
We’re in the thick of stone fruit season and the farmers’ markets are stocked. If you don’t know, pluots are a cross between plums and apricots. Sometimes they’re called plumcots, but you never see the word “plumcots.” They’re different hybrids, too. Both pluots and plumcots are plum-apricot hybrids, but the word plumcot came first and generally is more apricot in structure. Pluot, though, refers to something more plum-like. By definition, pluots are more plum than apricot, a hybrid that’s typically 75% plum. Juicy and fresh, but firm, and with a floral finish.
If you have the summer blues and need to pull yourself out, I recommend getting some fresh fruit.
The other day I experienced brief euphoria when I got high as a rocket ship and ate some fresh fruit. Fruit is a wondrous sensory experience for the substance abused. Whenever I render my brain simple, I like to stare deep into a citrus’ juicy, translucent segments, then ponder nature’s gifts like a moron. Fruit is a grounding technique: One of the most pleasant flights I’ve taken, I sat next to an older couple as they lovingly shared an orange, tore its leathery skin, and released the intoxicating, calming oils into the air for all to enjoy. Always have fresh fruit on hand, but especially if you take edibles.
Speaking of Santa Monica, Petit Boulangerie is mighty good
Somebody said in passing to me once that LA doesn’t have good croissants. I think they went to France one time? Anyway, no.
Petit Boulangerie in Santa Monica has croissants that are a textural phenomenon. Crispy on the outside, dark in color and flavor, but with a gooey brown butter center. I was surprised at how much this pistachio-lemon croissant didn’t make a mess. You know when you eat a croissant you have to usually do it over a trash can? Not here. This thing held its form.
Also, the chefs, Clémence de Lutz and Tony Hernandez, met on Hinge. This is the best case scenario for a dating app—you fall in love and open a bakery and then make thousands of other people happy with your love. One of my favorite things to do, and perhaps and excellent move, is to spend $40 at a bakery at 11am and just devour the entire collection of goods in one day. A croissant on the back of my truck, a jambon beurre on the drive back to LA, and then a creamy egg quiche later that evening, the first thing I ate after I awoke from a mid-afternoon nap.
Here’s to beating the summer blues however you see fit. Me? I’m eating.
That’s it! Thanks for reading The Move (or Have a Monday or whatever). If you haven’t yet, subscribe! Tell your friends. Tell me to go FUCK MYSELF (if it pleases you). Just engage. It helps.
Ciao!!!
- Danny
Kind of a funny silly but I just quit my Big Corporate Job if you need some help at Tabula Rasa,
You could name it... Pasta Sundays?