The corner of Griffith Park Boulevard and Sunset is easy enough to access from the north if one operates on instinct and doesn’t overthink it too much. I’m unfamiliar with this neighborhood, quite hungry, and a bit disoriented from riding child-sized trains at the Griffith Park Southern Railroad for the last hour. Naturally I outsource to Google Maps, and find myself in the position of explaining to my wife why I’ve taken an incredibly steep hill upward for half a block only to take a right into a sheer drop on a street ominously named “Edgecliff”. We eventually find parking and live to review another meal.
As we approach the facade of Pine and Crane, our “Welcome to Silverlake” moment is passing two locals at a curbside bistro table comparing their puppet design portfolios. We step inside to order then stake our claim at an adjacent table, sleeping child on shoulder, while we wait for our number to be called. A few yards away, a man with a fixed gear bike and one cuffed pant leg has paused to reflect on a lamp post flyer that reads “If there’s any time to be kind, it’s now”. I’ve reached a level of hunger where time very much feels like a construct. After what feels like an eternity, likely no more than 5 minutes, a host comes to guide us inside to a cozy window seat.
The bok choy potstickers land first. Pale alabaster along the crimped edges eases into vibrant green around the semi-translucent body. The crust on the base is presented bottom up to preserve its crunch; the rest of the dumpling skin is thick with a delicate bite. The bok choy filling is fluffy and garlicky, rice noodles and tofu firm up the body just a bit, and the dumplings finish with the delicate pop of minced wood ear mushrooms. Once the edge is taken off my appetite, my periphery starts to come into focus like a photo returned to default settings from a chintzy vignetting.
The clientele around us is a diverse mix of couples, families, and solo diners. It’s not a quiet environment, but the din is charming and organic. Engaging conversations and the clatter of tableware reverberate off concrete walls and a slatted wood ceiling. Natural light puts the room into balance, recessed pocket lights do the heavy lifting to illuminate the dimmer spots and chic pendant lamps draw my gaze down from the functional elements. Chili oil, black vinegar and soy sauce are stocked on every table. The minimalist decor contributes to a sense of timelessness, as do the very 90’s outfits and very 70’s mustaches of the patrons.
The three cup mushrooms arrive in a two-tongued stoneware-style dish with a packed cup of pearlescent peng lai rice on the side. The tender king oyster mushrooms are sliced on a bias, and the light and aromatic sauce has a tasteful amount of cling. Planks of spring onion, garlic cloves, mandolined shavings of ginger and whole red chilies ride a deep basil undercurrent. Every component is treated lovingly and presented transparently with minimal fuss. The spice is mild by default but is easily modulated higher by pushing one’s preferred amount of chili seeds from their skins. Like the potstickers this dish is soothing, balanced, and low-key to the point of being meditative.
Pine and Crane’s sensibilities may not speak to everyone – – detractors tend to bemoan a lack of boldness in their flavor profile – – yet the patrons lined up along the facade prove the demand for a contemplative meal in a noisy world. Meals that leave sensory space for active listening help contextualize and cement our most powerful dining memories. Whether we look for wisdom in the shared language of food or extremely earnest lamp post flyers, we earn a moment of mindfulness when we dial back the gain – – and if there’s any time to be introspective, it’s now.
