Come on in! The studio—as well as the house—that Keith and I share is featured as a Studio Insider piece over at the wonderful blog Felt & Wire. We even let you peek inside the garage. Also today, there’s a nice interview with me over at the blog of new SVA D-Crit student Cheryl Yau. Enjoy!

This was one of those amazing only-in-Hollywood shots. A CBS prop truck rolling down Sunset near Gower, on what just happened to be a cool, crisp day sandwiched between two late summer heatwaves. The tree was, of course, fake.

More Street Walker photos.

It’s going to be 96 degrees in downtown today. Probably the hottest day of the year so far.

As I was stumbling around downtown the other day on my way to a meeting for the Moving Beyond Cars event, I walked through the Music Center plaza and its witty, wet centerpiece. It was hot—not as hot as it will be today—but hot enough that I huddled in close to catch the mist from its choreographed splashes. And there was not a single person around to enjoy it with me.

Except that guy.

In two years, this fountain will sit like a crown on a ribbon of green that reaches from here to City Hall, the white building you can see in the distance. There will be a real public park for downtown LA. And a new museum with great architecture sure to make it a worthy foil to Disney Hall. Which means—and we hope—thousands of people will be crawling these blocks at all hours of the day and night.

That means you’ve got two years to enjoy the silent canyons of Grand Avenue. Two years to experience the vacant plazas, the empty benches, the quiet sidewalks. Especially on this scorcher of an afternoon, I highly recommend paying a visit to these lonely urban geysers for one of their last private performances.

Yesterday, I received word that my fellow design writer, sidewalk devotee and Los Angeles advocate John Chase died early Friday morning. It was sudden, and shocking, and immediately obvious just how large of a hole his absence would tear in LA’s urban fabric. John was a tremendously outspoken voice in planning and politics, a larger-than-life fixture at architecture events, and honorary cheerleader for an entire generation of young writers and designers. At his day job, as West Hollywood’s urban designer, John was responsible for the design of some of Los Angeles’s most colorful and exuberant public spaces. But it was his colorful and exuberant parading through that public space—and his winking, knowing performances in the public eye—which made him an unforgettable Los Angeles presence. John, in so very many ways, was out there.

“Is West Hollywood urban designer John Chase the most flamboyant practitioner of California architecture?” I once asked breathlessly in my gossip column for The Architect’s Newspaper (a column, mind you, for which John would routinely slip me salacious tidbits, as well as links to other extremely NSFW information for my own “entertainment”). But John was also one of architecture’s most impassioned practitioners, fighting for world-class cutting-edge buildings with the same gusto that he carved out much-needed pocket parks. And he was an equal-opportunity rabble-rouser. Once he professed to me his outrage at his own city after a dismal Parking Day, when West Hollywood had ousted some activist groups converting parking spots into temporary parks. I wrote a piece on the debacle and the moment it was published John proudly sent word that he had used it as ammunition:  He copied and distributed it to his office with a flourish in the hopes it would change their policies (it did).

John, photographed by his husband Jonathan on his front porch, just before the first City Listening. John sent me this photo the day after the event.

In addition to his duties in WeHo—a job from which he was about to retire—John wrote a series of books and many articles celebrating LA’s unique brand of urbanism. But I was always amazed at the rate at which he seemed to read, comment on and forward everyone else’s work as well. As I look through the hundreds (and hundreds) of emails John sent to me over the years, it reads like one long, running urban commentary. Some are sweet notes in response to something I wrote, dashed off like little love haikus. [Update: As Tim Culvahouse just reminded me via email, "In most of the emails I received from him, the message was all in the Subject line; he tweeted before there was Twitter." So true!] Some are joyous invitations to his many (many) speaking appearances, cced to 125 of the city’s biggest architectural names. Many are ranty diatribes on city planning decisions or otherwise unfortunate events, all chunky paragraphs, often angry, ALL CAPS, lots of exclamation marks!!! and One. Word. Sentences. All of it, every word, infused with the same urgency that was John’s insistent message to the local writing community:  We can use our words to make LA a better place. And we will.

But it was not until the first City Listening event held at GOOD that I realized the power of John’s public persona. John strolled in wearing a pimp-tastic purple suit, orange shirt, and matching tie, topped off with an orange—orange!—fedora. All that was missing was a jewel-encrusted chalice—in fact, for the sake of this story, let’s say he had a jewel-encrusted chalice. A few sentences into his story “Sleeping with the Homeless”—a version of which can reportedly be read in his book Glitter Stucco and Dumpster Diving—the crowd had collapsed into the aisles, roaring with each detail of his racy (again, NSFW!) urban encounter. Like all of John’s stunts, he hooked the crowd with ribald humor, but there was a lesson here. “That’s why I love this story, it’s about public space!” He screeched over the laughter. “It’s about public space and having an interaction with people on the street!” And he was right, I thought, tears streaming down my cheeks. He was totally right.

At his double wedding celebration, with best friend Frances Anderton, John expressed his love to husband Jonathan Cowan (they called themselves The JCs) who was also dressed in a seersucker suit with matching Converse sneakers.

At an event that same year which was, I think, ostensibly about museums purchasing midcentury houses or something, I’m not even sure John was a panelist, but he delivered the night’s most rousing speech. Talking like he wrote, in those one-word sentence emails, with lots of exclamation marks!!!, John begged the crowd to produce braver LA design critics. “Where are they?” he cried. “Where are the passionate voices in architecture and design who can help make changes in this city?”  As his words washed over me I was suddenly so energized I felt like leaping out of my chair and charging out into the street, going on a Reyner Banham rampage through the darkness of Culver City’s downtown. I told him this later, and that I thought I could do it, that I could be one of those passionate voices. “But Alissa,” he said to me with that knowing grin, lately framed with those woolly sideburns. “You already are.” That one comment alone was enough to fuel my freelance career for the next six months.

John was a very unique mentor in that he encouraged me just as much in my walking as he did in my writing. He walked to work most days, and we’d often compare stories about crosswalk etiquette or commiserate about which bus route needed to fix its potholes. He instructed me to create a pen name (A. Walker) and to write about my LA walking and public transit experiences, annotating them with photos. And so I did. I remember silently passing him once while both in our preferred modes of navigating LA, me on the 2 bus high above the street, he below, walking down Sunset Boulevard. He was impeccably dressed in a sharp suit on a swelteringly sunny day—and that hat, always that hat—looking more like he was headed for the Santa Anita horsetrack. In 1952. I remember thinking that he was a walking advertisement for his most famous book. As he wrote, as in practice, The Everyday Urbanist.

This past spring, at the grand opening of the A+D Museum, where John espoused spring, summer and the entire collection of Lilly Pulitzer in a single outfit.

From the moment a group of us started co-hosting small events called de LaB to connect the design community, John was also incredibly supportive—and outrageously excited—about what we were doing, freely offering advice and contacts. Many people probably saw John for the last time a few weeks ago in one of his most triumphant performances, where in a single day he appeared on two panels at the Dwell conference and then delivered the stirring finale at our City Listening II event, with the entirety of his facial hair dyed royal blue. But what most people don’t know is that John graciously purchased VIP tickets to our event for himself and his lovely husband, Jonathan Cowan (even after we told him these tickets were comped), then went on to purchase four more tickets for friends, and donated a private tour of West Hollywood to our silent auction. He was as generous with his wit and wisdom as he was with his time.

The last time I saw John was only last Friday, just one week ago. We drank wine together on the lawn of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Hollyhock House, a place I saw him regularly these last two summers. It was, in many ways, John’s most ideal environment:  glasses of fine rosé, held by civic-minded folk, in the glow of the city’s greatest architecture, and yes, in what is probably the very best use of LA’s public space. For some reason, after he came over to our blanket to say hi, I watched him for a long time as he walked away, his summery blue button-down fluttering in a cool evening wind as he bounced into conversations and bumped into old friends, soaking up every bit of energy in one of Los Angeles’ finest moments.

Other writers and architects claim to design for public space or understand street life or see their work within a larger urban context. John simply lived it. He epitomized it. Good luck naming a bench or a park in his honor, since he was responsible for so many of them already. Might I suggest this more worthy dedication: The John Leighton Chase Memorial City of West Hollywood.

We will miss you so much, John. I’ll never be able to fill your dapper, eternally-shined shoes. But I will do my very best to follow in your footsteps.

If you’ve written a story about John, please post the link in the comments or drop me an email (alissa AT gelatobaby.com).  Update: Thanks to everyone for your comments and links. I’ve posted many stories about John over at the DnA website, where Frances Anderton devoted most of today’s show to honoring his legacy. A memorial is scheduled for Tuesday, August 24 from 4pm to 7pm at Fiesta Hall in Plummer Park, 7377 Santa Monica Boulevard, West Hollywood. The invitation suggests to “dress as if John picked out your outfit.” Hope I gave you at least a few tips!

Thanks to a tip from my writing guru David Hochman, I read a sweet little article by Catherine Price in O Magazine this morning about when she jetted off for a week in Tokyo and let the itinerary of her entire trip—from where to eat raw fish to a spa where fish nibbled the dead skin off her feet—be determined by the advice of strangers. I’ve been thinking about it all day, mostly because since I’m out there walking and riding the bus, just like many tourists do, I find that I’m often that person doling out advice about LA. (Or maybe they think I’m a tourist, too, since I most likely am wearing my Leica around my neck.) I love telling people where to go. I feel like it’s my civic duty.

But I also was struck by what some people might find novel about her trip—the fact that she traveled with no plans and little to no knowledge about where she was going. I thought back to the summer I scrambled all over Europe (you know, the trip where Gelatobaby was born) and how I not only relied on the advice of strangers for restaurants and museums—I’d go to entire towns and cities based on the recommendations of the people I met. I loved traveling like this, no plans, no itinerary, barely looking at a guidebook, sizing a town up in two minutes with a decision based solely on the design of its train station and leaping off into the blissful unknown. I’d choose restaurants only after a long, discriminating survey of the area on foot, rating them on a three-point system of menu typography, the availability of outdoor seating, and overall perceived happiness of diners. Of course it resulted in a few nights of eating bad linguine al pesto Genovese (I know, as if there was such a thing!) in a charmless restaurant, my face screwed into that what-am-I-doing-here smirk. But when I think back on it, those moments are just as vivid. And I don’t remember the pasta being that bad. And besides, even after bad pasta you can usually find decent gelato (see photo, top).

I thought about that trip many times during our recent vacation, when we also traveled with no guidebook and no reservations (check out my series from the trip: Summer Places). The world has changed a lot since then, and as Keith and I rolled into the first town we’d stop at for the night, we did something that I’ve certainly never done before: We checked out the Yelp app on his iPhone. Mostly, I will admit, because of the novelty—it’s kind of amazing that you can go pretty much anywhere in the world now and someone has already given it three stars and left some snippy comment—but also to try and discover some interesting place that only locals would patronize; Yelp is great for that. But as we aimed it around us (using the “Restaurants Nearby” feature), the app consistently delivered lousy advice. As we investigated the picks in-person, everything was too touristy, or too expensive, or was closed by 8:30pm. I realized that if I saw Yelp on the street, I don’t think I’d stop to ask them for recommendations.

Finally, we gave up and did it the old-fashioned way. We walked the street, read menus, compared prices, got a good look at who was dining inside. We finally chose a place in a historic building that had a long mahogany bar and served local wine.

No, the meal wasn’t very good at all. It was expensive. And kinda touristy. But we had discovered it, and chose it, and stuck with it until the end. And that somehow made it much better than it actually was.

Part two of the Summer Places series. You can see all my photos from our road trip here.

So! Borrow a bike! Try taking the bus for the first time! Race a friend on horseback from across town! Just get to the event in a way that shows LA is moving beyond cars. Besides the fun of everyone reporting how they got there, we’ll also have a few special activities. We’ll have James Rojas leading his interactive city planning workshops (which I’ve written about for GOOD before), and the folks from CicLAvia will be on-hand to tell us about their plan to create car-free streets one day this fall (10/10/10!). Plus! Prizes will be awarded to whoever arrives in the most unique, “beyond car” way.

All information here, and you can RSVP and share the information over at Facebook. Hope to see you there!

Was I silly enough to claim another salad to be the salad of summer, and so early in the season? Well, that was before August arrived, and with it, the slurpy crunch of watermelon that makes up what I believe to be my favorite summer salad. Mostly because the key to this salad is to choose and prepare the three main ingredients carefully so that the salad looks as good as it tastes.

So you can use red watermelon, some green zebra tomatoes and white corn. Or you can use yellow watermelon, a brandywine tomato and yellow corn. If you have a handful of tiny cherry tomatoes, still warm from the garden, you can ball the melon so it matches. And if you’re feeling adventurous, you can roast the corn first. Then add a sprinkle of feta, some basil, olive oil and a splash of apple cider vinegar. And be sure to take a photo.

One of the newest installments in the George Abou-Daoud Hollywood empire is the The Mercantile, holding court in a historic Spanish-style building on Sunset with its big sister, District, right next door. I admit I first visited The Mercantile with the hopes that it would mesh with my earliest connotation of the word:  Little House on the Prairie—remember, Oleson’s Mercantile? But the place does actually live up to its old-timey name: There are dry goods stacked along a wall, exposed weathered wood planks like what Pa might have cut down at the mill, and some prim Victorian-esque parlor chairs that look like they were stuffed to cradle a corset.

On a recent night we went to The Mercantile to drink rosé and IPA and eat some gloriously gooey cheese that, frankly, they never would have gotten in Walnut Grove. And when it was time for dessert, how could I not indulge my inner Laura and choose from one of the six house-made ice cream flavors (which are also available for to-go scoops)?

True, we only tasted one flavor but it was truly memorable: Vanilla bourbon malt. The bourbon was sweet and slightly smoky with the tiny vanilla seeds exploding like Flavor Crystals™ on the tongue. But the malt, the malt, is what really made it, lingering in the background during the vanilla-bourbon interlude, only popping up there at the end for a hearty, beer-esque bow. I suggest donning a bonnet and heading over there for a cone as soon as you’re done with your chores.

Where to find this? How to get there on public transportation? Find out on Gelatobaby’s GeLAtomap!

If you’re driving the road from Gunnison, Colorado to Crested Butte, you can’t miss Garlic Mike’s, a low-slung cabin draped in signature red-and-white-checked fabric that looks like it was snatched from the streets of Hoboken. But you won’t get to see this side of the Italian restaurant unless it’s summer, when they tent the back porch and serve a patio lunch in those glorious few hours before the afternoon thunderstorms slip through.

Chef Mike Busse spins out paper-thin pizzas, salads spiked with fluorescent green pesto, fizzy red lambrusco that tickles your tongue, and crispy fries heaped with what else but tiny, tangy cubes of fried garlic (as demonstrated here by my sister, Beth). Which would all be reason enough to visit—I mean, seriously, who else can locate spicy coppa like this in the High Rockies?—but the very specific location that Garlic Mike’s occupies on this stretch of road makes it even more of a dining adventure.

Because this is Garlic Mike’s back door. Yes, you can dock your raft or kayak on the banks of the Gunnison River and stroll across that wide lawn to a well-deserved Italian meal, fly rod in-hand. Garlic Mike’s embraces their unique situation:  They even offer “culinary rafting” packages and happy hour specials on food and drink to reward those who arrive by boat or bike. I would think that if you timed it right, you could even place a “to-row” order for “float-through” pickup. But then, of course, you’d miss out on the cocktails.

Icing your paddle-weary arms with Coronas, you and your crew can enjoy a sunny beer-splashed lunch while you’re still soaked from navigating rapids. And the warm lawn is the perfect place to splay your wet clothes and gear while you dive into Sunshine Wheats and thick meat-stacked sandwiches named things like The Godfather. And you’ll lounge for at least an hour in mozzarella-slathered bliss wishing that more restaurants had the sense to orient themselves around such magical alternative transportation routes.

And wishing, of course, that more restaurants had the sense to orient themselves around the magic of garlic.

Part one of the Summer Places series. You can see all my photos from our road trip here.

For the last two weeks I traded sidewalks for rivers, a two-bedroom house for a two-person tent, and public transit for a rental car (yes, which I drove hundreds of miles without incident, thank you very much). Along the way I discovered some pretty amazing places I’d love to tell you all about, just as soon as I summit this mountain of laundry. And do something about these bug bites that have turned my skin into a lovely pattern of pink polka-dots. And get some proper gelato.