Dinah's Is Not a Winding Ocean Highway

After returning from the west coast and being immediately engulfed in midwestern humidity, a family birthday (Happy Birthday, little sis), and a wedding (more on this shortly), I've finally started that task of answering e-mail, finding my apartment's floor beneath tumbleweeds of cat hair and junk mail, and getting back to posting things about all important topics like... well, like Dinah's Fried Chicken. I wanted to post something about driving up the coast, along Highway 1, but Dinah's doesn't fit in that story. Which is what I liked about the place anyway. It doesn't really fit in, at least in any preconception of Los Angeles that I had. It's a little spookily familiar, a little cramped, a little over-decorated, and completely perfect. The macaroni and cheese was mouth watering. I expected my late grandmother to come out of the back, still with a million rings on each hand, a glass of 7-UP sizzling with freshly plunked ice.

If you find yourself lost in Glendale (or driving around needing to eat with no idea where to go, as was our case), stop by Dinah's. It's the one with the two story high bucket of chicken lording over the parking lot: hard to miss.

And stop by the bakery next door. English didn't seem to be spoken there at all, but I've never let language stand in the way of dessert. Point and smile, eventually you'll get a cookie.