Orange Coast- From the Editor

Weird Magic

Martin J. Smith — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 18:00:00 GMT

There’s no bigger fan of Walt Disney’s handiwork than yours truly, which helps explain this month’s exuberant cover story [“Secrets of Disneyland,” Page 78]. I’ve lived for almost 30 years within a short drive of the man’s signature theme park, and have witnessed its magic through the eyes of my own kids and others sporting the same delighted smiles.

But I’ll admit that the undiluted zeal of Disney devotees has given me pause—twice. The first time was in the late 1980s, when I was granted access to Disney’s private apartment above the Main Street firehouse. The small space was crowded with antique-y Americana, and it was easy to imagine Walt on opening day in 1955, looking down from its window at the joy he’d conjured from the Orange County dirt. But then my guide leaned in close: “You know, they left his razor on the bathroom sink for years, right where it was the day he died.”

I don’t know if it’s true. She did say it, though, and that alone verges on weird.

The second time, a friend in the park’s publicity office showed me something she thought remarkable. It was a file, labeled “Mickey Markings,” stuffed with letters from people all over the country who’d sent photographs of the familiar three-circle silhouette of Mickey Mouse’s head as it occurred randomly in nature, including a snapshot of a Mickey birthmark on a Michigan baby’s dimpled butt; Mickey plain as day in the belly fur of a Pennsylvania piglet and on the ribcage of a Texas longhorn; Mickey-shaped potato chips and tomatoes, ginger roots and barnacle clusters, cactuses and coffee stains.

“At first I had them broken down by animal, vegetable, and mineral,” she said. “But we get so many now, I have it broken down by dogs, cats, livestock, vegetable, and mineral. The baby comes under livestock, sad to say.”

While I may not understand it, I get it. There is a weird magic to the place, and nearly 60 years on, we’re proud to reveal a few more of the secrets that help keep it alive in Anaheim.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland

Trust and Hope

Martin J. Smith — Mon, 28 Jan 2013 19:00:00 GMT

Journalists—the good ones, anyway—trust no one, at least not until they’ve conducted what I call the “full proctological”—a thorough background check. When a reporter asks you to correctly spell your name, it’s not simply because they want to be accurate, but because it’s critical to spell it properly when searching civil and criminal court indexes, incorporation papers, bankruptcy filings, and other public records that might support or undercut your claims. (“So you say you love your mother? Great! Now, spell her name.”)

Which is what makes writing about Aaron Kushner so confounding. (“The Curious Quest of Aaron Quixote”) The new owner of the Orange County Register is a cipher. Likable, but as cagey as a pool hustler. What’s he done before? Hard to say. His two previous businesses—the ones from which he reportedly made millions—were privately held, so there’s no public record of finances. We’re told they were vastly successful, but we don’t really know.

Same with his purchase of our homegrown newspaper. We’re told Kushner paid “a lot,” and that his investor group has the money and the will to fulfill his ambitions to make the Register great. So far the group has invested heavily to improve quality, but in truth, we don’t really know if all that will pay off—and won’t until his unorthodox, counterintuitive plan to refloat the Titanic either works, or doesn’t.

Of course, Kushner’s not obligated to share his finances with anyone but the IRS. But for those of us who care about the Register’s fate, buying into Kushner’s vision requires overlooking many questions about his background, his business plan, and the frenzied pace of change since his arrival last July. We hope he is what he says he is. We hope his ideas work. We hope the skeptics are wrong. So we wait, not sure if what we’re seeing is real, or a mirage. That so many of us have suspended disbelief speaks not only to the desperate state of the newspaper industry, but to our fervent wish for his success.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland

Earthbound

Martin J. Smith — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 17:00:00 GMT

I was, until recently, blissfully unaware of my body’s mass. Gravity? Not really an issue. I moved through life with reliable and reassuring weightlessness. High hurdles? I glided over them in high school, despite the handicaps of being 5-foot-7 and having legs far too short for my ambitions. Soccer? Even as I played through my 40s and well into my 50s, I could accelerate, decelerate, cut, and pivot on instinct, without thought or effort. Not so long ago I still annoyed my wife by bounding into the air and clicking my heels together, just because I could.

But as we finish work on this annual “Top Doctors” issue, I find myself earthbound. I happily ignored a small meniscus tear for months, excusing the need to ice my knee after twice-weekly games as a grudging nod to Father Time. Then I managed to turn a small tear into a big one, and suddenly I’m familiar with my local orthopedist, the inside of his MRI machine, and the vague promise of relief via an arthroscope.

Now there’s an unfamiliar heaviness with everything I do. My body has weight. Dog walks are shorter. I labor to climb stairs. I fret about the distance between my airport gate and the rental car counter, uncomfortably aware that the essential me rides atop a complex conveyance system involving bones, joints, ligaments, cartilage, muscles, and nerves. And I now know, despite a lifetime of warnings from those less fortunate, that health and mobility should never be taken for granted. Ignorance is a pleasure reserved for the privileged, and I’ve been privileged until now.

All of which is to say that, this year more than most, I understand the value of good doctors, and the importance of reliable information about how to find them. My recent travails prompted me to look more closely at the criteria and methods the Orange County Medical Association uses to compile its Physicians of Excellence list, and after doing so, I’m confident it’s filled with names you can trust. I consider it a privilege that Orange Coast is able to bring you those recommendations once again.

So here’s to a healthy 2013—if only for relief from my dog’s accusing stare.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland

The Label-Makers

Martin J. Smith — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 20:00:00 GMT

Fools can be parted from their money in so many ways, but declaring oneself a vintner is right up there with top-fuel drag-racing and responding to emails with “Nigerian fund transfer” in the subject line. The wide-eyed often succumb to the same fantasy as hitting the lottery, except a lottery ticket only costs a buck.

And yet, some of Orange County’s most interesting people are plowing their hard-earned fortunes into the earth, seduced by the magic of turning dirt, water, and vines into, for example, Hundred Acre’s 2010 Cherry Pie Pinot Noir. In doing so, they confront impossible California real estate costs, stiff competition, and the vagaries of weather—just to gamble on the agricultural equivalent of roulette. We applaud them not only for their derring-do, but because the results are sometimes thrilling.

This month, we tell their stories [“The Coppola Effect,” by Anne Valdespino] and celebrate their accomplishments. Honestly, when we set out to report this story, we expected to find a bunch of late-life dilettantes making wine as a hobby. Instead, we found local vintners from a surprisingly wide swath of life, including doctors, restaurateurs, real estate and healthcare entrepreneurs, even a former NFL quarterback. We simply followed our noses, and were happy to learn their wines already were among our favorites.

Of course, we think this story is a perfect complement to our “Ultimate Seafood Guide” cover feature, and it’s timed to coincide with the Feast of the Seven Fishes, an Italian Christmas Eve tradition. But this is Orange County, not Italy, so why stop at seven? We asked restaurant critic Gretchen Kurz to identify the county’s 10 best seafood dishes, as well as the finest examples of other classic seafood entrees from local chefs. Overachiever that she is, Kurz also found the best seafood markets and raw bars, sat down with the man who built a fishy local empire, and delved into the enduring mystery that is Chilean sea bass.

Think of this issue as our holiday gift to you. It comes with our sincere wish for a delicious 2013.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland

The White Lie

Martin J. Smith — Mon, 22 Oct 2012 19:00:00 GMT

About 30 years ago, I decided to try a new barber. Forgive me; they were called hair stylists by then. As I recall, she was kind of a babe. I remember this because the story I’m about to tell you happened in one of those places where everyone was more beautiful and infinitely hipper than I could ever hope to be.

At the time, I was 29 and fully follicled. But there’s a kink in my genetic code. My mom’s hair was completely white by the time she reached her mid-30s. Perhaps sympathetically, my father’s hair, four years older, got chalky about the same time. I don’t remember either of them without hair the color of Rocky Mountain snow. Already I’d noticed a few stray grays of my own.

“So,” I asked as my new stylist prepped me, “how gray is it up there?”

She spun me around, stalling while she thought of a diplomatic answer that wouldn’t risk her tip. Finally: “I think gray hair looks great on a man of 40.”

She stopped the spin so that my chair faced the mirror. We stared at ourselves for a moment.

“Um,” I said, “what about on a man of 29?”

She studied me again. Then, without hesitation, in soul-crushing words I remember to this day, she said: “Oh, if you were 29, I’d tell you to dye it.”

If we humans wear our hearts on our sleeves, then we wear our vanity on our heads. And that’s why we decided to plunge into the wide, wonderful world of Orange County’s hair scene. A few months ago, we asked style writer Erin Stafford to tour the salons of Orange County. Ask around, we said. Identify the most talented and trusted stylists, and ask them to tell us who they think are the best among their peers. Talk to local style leaders for their input. If you see someone with amazing hair, ask them who cuts and colors it.

This month we present a list of 30 stylists whose work we can reliably recommend. The list isn’t comprehensive; there no doubt are great stylists in many salons not mentioned here. But if you’re looking, we’re confident you’ll find a great match among the names we list.

Me? I’m still looking for someone who’s not afraid to look me in the eye … and lie.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland

12-Step Hiking

Martin J. Smith — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 22:00:00 GMT

The troubling phrase “nature deficit disorder” entered the American vernacular in 2005 with the publication of journalist Richard Louv’s book “Last Child in the Woods,” a bestseller that argued direct exposure to nature is essential to a child’s healthy physical and emotional development.

The book came out about the time we started noticing that supersized meals lead to supersized children, too many of whom have the body fat and cardiovascular efficiency of a bulldog. Louv starts his argument with a memorable quote from a San Diego fourth-grader (“I like to play indoors better ’cause that’s where all the electrical outlets are”) and in the years since, the author has been stumping for a national back-to-nature youth movement that rallies around the phrase “no child left inside.”

But for those of us who spend the majority of our time in the asphalt-and-electronica quicksand of modern Orange County, what Louv says about children is equally true of adults: “It takes time—loose, unstructured dreamtime—to experience nature in a meaningful way.”

Think of this month’s cover story about great local hikes [“Natural Treasures,” by Karin Klein] as a recovery guide for nature deficit disorder. We’re urging you to ditch the commuter mug for a Nalgene bottle, trade the Christian Louboutins for some Asolo hiking boots, and hit one of the local trails. We suspect the experience will lead you directly out of your rut.

Some of our featured treks, including the seaside Crystal Cove hike pictured on our cover, are accessible to just about everyone; others take you into the wild, beating heart of Orange County’s still-vast wilderness. We even include nearby places to get your carb or caffeine fix before you start walking.

But any one of our hikes can put soothing distance between you and your daily life as a freeway warrior, email mainliner, and iPhone addict. All you need are a few basic supplies, decent footwear, maybe a walking stick. You’ll feel better. You’ll look better. And at work on Monday morning, you can talk about something other than traffic and Twitter.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland

The Culinary GPS

Martin J. Smith — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 17:00:00 GMT

My first dining adventure in Little Saigon was the culinary equivalent of the Hindenburg disaster. No one at the noodle house spoke English. The menu was an indecipherable hieroglyphic of unfamiliar words, accents, double accents, and diacritical markings. This mystified me in 1985, as it does now.

Somehow, we ordered. We had no idea what. Plates arrived. Some bore raw meat, others shrimp. Still others were heaped with onions, hot peppers, bean sprouts, and lush stems of fresh mint and basil. And what were those things layered like a plate of tortillas but stretched like Ace bandages? Our server wedged a bubbling hot pot into the middle of it all, and then left us amid the tempting aromas of beef broth and fresh herbs without further instruction. Oh, the humanity!

We stared, looking like Amish tourists at the Consumer Electronics Show. And it occurred to me then that, without a little direction, I was likely to miss a lot of great culinary adventures here.

This month’s cover story, which begins here, is a delayed reaction to that long-ago sense of helpless befuddlement. Since then, Orange County has evolved into one of the great dining crossroads of the world. The critical mass of Pacific Rim cuisines that have found their way here during the past few decades has brought some of the best food on the planet to our doorstep.

Much of it has become as ubiquitous as burgers and pizza, including Japanese sushi, Vietnamese pho, and Thailand’s pad thai. But a lot—Filipino sisig, Indonesian gado gado, and Korea’s dolsot bibimbap—is out there, just waiting to be discovered. Our intention with this issue is to explain, demystify, deconstruct, and generally whet the appetites of Orange Coast readers for the wonders that await, probably within a few minutes’ drive of wherever they live. So think of our guide as a culinary GPS that you can use, whenever you want, to taste the best of Asia.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland

O.C.’s Biggest Export

Martin J. Smith — Mon, 23 Jul 2012 18:00:00 GMT

In the winter of 1985, I had dinner in a tiny Balboa Peninsula restaurant with Steve Hawk, with whom I was sharing an apartment, and a group of his lifelong surfer friends. Freshly arrived from Pittsburgh—and with the Beach Boys and Jeff Spicoli as my only points of cultural reference—I was sure I was in for a vapid conversation about hot babes and tasty waves.

At some point—right around the time I had to ask someone to explain Erwin Schrödinger’s 1926 equation about the behavior of particle waves—I realized surf culture in Orange County was perhaps a bit more complicated than I thought. These guys weren’t just talking about surfing. They were talking about wave mechanics; the speed of energy pulses moving through water; corollary issues of pollution, weather, and nipple chaffing. This wasn’t a hobby or a lifestyle for them; it was an avocation. For Hawk, a fellow newspaper reporter who went on to become editor of Surfer magazine, it became a career.

Nearly three decades later, that long-ago conversation echoed as the Orange Coast staff first discussed the idea of a special issue to celebrate the central role O.C. plays in the surf world. My appreciation for surf culture has only deepened since that night. Each time I order a fish taco at Wahoo’s or slip on my Rainbow sandals, I’m reminded how deeply woven into the fabric of Orange County it is. Each time I see people in far-flung places wearing Quiksilver, Hurley, or Volcom, I’m reminded how far our influence has rippled. Forget microchips and Botox. Surf culture—not just the sport but the style, technology, innovations, legends, literature, media, and heroes it has spawned—is our primary export.

The four feature stories in this issue—an audacious claim that O.C. is the center of the surf universe, a profile of the iconoclastic first family of surfing, a conversation with world-champion longboarder Lindsay Steinriede-Engle, and an homage to open-ocean swimmer Lynne Cox—hardly reflect the breadth or depth of our beach culture. They are, at best, a sampling.

But taken together, I hope this month’s stories reinforce for our readers what I learned in 1985: Orange County is a far more complicated and interesting place than I ever imagined.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland

Personal Bests

Martin J. Smith — Mon, 18 Jun 2012 19:11:00 GMT

Perhaps, like me, you keep a list. Maybe not a written list, but at least a mental catalog of stuff you consider life’s best things.

Some I don’t talk about much—the antique oak bed my wife and I have shared for 30 years; the framed photograph of our now-grown daughter as a teen dancer, leading a parade of twinkle-toed toddler fairies across a stage; the special trophy our son’s high school soccer coaches awarded him even though he missed his entire senior season with a broken collarbone. While these represent some of the best things in my life, they don’t mean anything to you.

But some of my favorite things I talk about incessantly because they’re just flat-out wonderful, and I make it my holy quest to convince others of their wonderfulness. Those include my well-designed and impossibly durable mountain bike, Adele’s voice, my tireless and faithful Hyundai, the trumpet solo on Bruce Springsteen’s “Meeting Across the River,” Toni Morrison’s novel “Beloved,” and Stanley Kubrick’s “Dr. Strangelove,” whole scenes of which I can recite from memory despite having last seen it in 1985. These things never disappoint and constantly reaffirm my faith in humanity.

“If our civilization is capable of producing that,” my thinking goes, “we can do anything.”

Orange Coast has been chronicling eclectic Orange County for nearly four decades now, and we’re convinced this place offers the best of everything, from fine dining to Vietnamese dumplings; from tiki bars to preconcert Champagne; from luxe retail to bikini-body workouts. We consider our annual “Best of” cover story an authoritative guide to local excellence, and a chance to honor the hard work of the county’s visionaries, vendors, and those who simply do what they do better than anyone else.

“Best of 2012,” gives us the chance to spotlight some long-standing greats and many recent discoveries. But as always, we invite you to quibble. Think your favorite onion rings are better than our chosen ones? Just let us know about it here.

Why? Because we’ve already started research for next year.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland

The Earl’s Pearls

Martin J. Smith — Mon, 18 Jun 2012 18:30:00 GMT

Planning this month’s cover story about Orange County’s best sandwiches took an interesting turn a few months ago. The staff gathered to discuss some of our local favorites, and how to best present the results of dining writer Gretchen Kurz’s research to our Orange Coast readers.

A good many of us ended up talking about ourselves. Sandwiches, it turns out, are as reliable a taproot into memory as music or the smell of mom’s perfume.

One by one, staffers recalled the favorites of their childhoods. Senior editor Chris Christensen got misty about the bologna-and-mustard-on-white-bread concoction her grandmother made for fishing trips. Editorial assistant Astgik Khatchatryan lovingly described her Armenian mother’s pita stuffed with feta, scallions, and parsley. And production director Glenda Espinoza added later that she didn’t have a favorite, then spent 15 minutes making “mmm” sounds about a watercress-and-beet sandwich from her native El Salvador.

Like managing editor Jim Walters, I have a special place for what I called sugar sandwiches—white bread, sugar, and butter (to keep the sugar on the bread), which include in one handful pretty much everything modern parents are told not to feed their kids. But I also realized how I can link almost any phase of my life to a sandwich. The chopped barbecue pork symphonies of my Alabama childhood. My Philadelphia cheesesteak obsession while a student at a Pennsylvania university. The hot pepper-covered sub that opened my mind to the wider world like a psychotropic drug, and did wonders for my sinuses as well.

Kurz’s list is much more refined, including choices such as an albacore tuna Reuben at Sapphire Laguna and a Media Noche Cubano at Eat Chow in Costa Mesa. We hope you enjoy her ode to the Earl of Sandwich as much as we have—and create some great memories along the way.

Martin J. Smith
Editor-in-Chief

Illustration by John Ueland