NOT BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S

My son, Emmett, is only pushing six, but he's quite the connoisseur of fine dining. He like to eat out for dinner -- and when we do, he often wants sushi. For breakfast, he's happy with Lego-shaped frozen waffles or cold cereal. But Carrie wanted to go out for breakfast Sunday, and we were clueless. We never go out for breakfast.

We wanted to keep it in the neighborhood, so we first cruised past a newish place called Eat on Magnolia in North Hollywood. It wasn't quite 9, but the place was dead as a doornail. A breakfast out is too precious an occasion to blow it on lousy chow. (Later, I read rave reviews on Yelp and was cursing myself for not risking it).

We pointed the car toward Ventura. Was it gonna be Jinky's or Good Neighbors? We turned left at Lankershim and headed toward the Cahuenga Pass toward Good Neighbors. I've seen it for years, since it's in the same L-shaped center as my favorite Poquito Mas location. And it's usually crowded. Truth is, the place was, at best, mediocre. Soulless menu, Ships-quality food, bad coffee, indifferent service. While were there, though, it inspired a who-has-the-best breakfast argument with Carrie. She will argue to the death for Zachary's in Santa Cruz, tossing in the fact that it was Jerry Garcia's favorite breakfast joint. As if that holds weight. This is a guy who lived on bacon cheeseburgers and milkshakes. What did he know about food? And where is he now, anyway?

I countered, as I have for the past 20 years with anyone who will listen, that the Homemade Cafe in Berkeley has the best breakfast vittles. Amazing french toast, and the homefry heaven -- to die for. We both stood our ground, but it was a painful reminder that Angelenos have no taste when it comes to breakfast. The Bay Area really has a respect and reverence for the day's first meal, and I'm rarely disappointed wherever I have breakfast up there. I'm big on well-made homefries and rich coffee, and I've yet to really find that combination in the Valley (or even in Silver Lake when I lived there -- sorry Millie's). Long Beach was the only SoCal region that seemed to have a clue about how to make a decent breakfast, but I haven't lived there since 1993, so it may have changed.

I think what summed up my Good Neighbors experience was the the star sighting I had when I was walking out the door: ex-Journey singer Steve Perry. The only good taste that guy's ever had was in avoiding a reunion with his old bandmates.

GET OUT THE SHOE POLISH

I can't say that I'm a big fan of Ann Powers' work in the L.A. Times (though she's exactly the sort of "critic" the Times deserves), but when I read her Grammy report this morning, I nearly spit my Apple Jacks across the table. While I kinda dig the fact that Amy Winehouse is a white-trashy British Jewess with soul (and substance abuse issues), Ms. Powers found it necessary to describe her via satellite performance as "off-key at times, her drawled syllables sometimes veering uncomfortably close to blackface." Blackface? I didn't see her down on one knee, blathering on about her dear old mammy. WTF? White artists have been pretending to be brothas and sistas since the beginning of time. Why the hate toward Amy? She's got enough problems. Besides, Powers' personal pinup boy, Justin Timberlake, is the biggest soul poseur on the planet, yet Annie has nary a discouraging word for the object of her personal girlcrush.

All I'm saying is that we need to call a spade a spade.