Ok, so I’m gonna start some shit right now.

Despite the fact that I live right over the hill from it, I rarely if ever venture into the vast wasteland known as the Valley.

And when I do make the trek, it is always with a very specific goal in mind. I don’t just go to the Valley to “hang out.” I mean I don’t really go anywhere to “hang out,” as I don’t really “hang out.” But even if I did “hang out,” I wouldn’t do it in the Valley.

Why is that you may ask? Well let me tell you…

I’m an L.A. native. There aren’t that many of us, but we’re around. I grew up in Venice, which is as far as you can possibly get from the East Side without living on a damned boat. I think I was a teenager the first time I set foot in Hollywood, and wasn’t until I was well into my 20s that I even considered moving there.

But my whole life, I’ve always seen the Valley as a giant suburban sprawl, plagued with smog and blondes. Every time I go there, I’m shocked by how fucking wide everything is (yes, I realize how retarded that sounds), and how surreal it all is. I feel like I’ve walked into a scene from “LA Story”.

I guess my biggest gripe with the place is it’s complete and total lack of any personality whatsoever. Yes, I realize I’m probably missing a bunch of stuff, but as an outsider venturing into the Valley, I haven’t found anything that screams out “OUR NEIGHBORHOOD IS SO UNIQUE! IT HAS IT’S OWN _________”.

Case in point: Take my recent experience in lovely Burbank. I had the unfortunate need to go to IKEA today, a special form of torture all its own, but compounded by the fact that the closest one is located at the Burbank Town Center Mall. As I really didn’t feel like driving all the fucking way to Carson, I summoned my courage and made my way towards the 5.

Now, having this big ole’ chip on my shoulder, I decided today would be a good time to give the Valley a second chance. So I hopped onto the interwebs and googled “ikea burbank restaurants.”
No amount of drinking could prepare me for the drivel I was about to be subjected to, but I should be used to it: I’m a professional interweber.

Sifting through the crap (”Anything on that strip mall area is fantastic from Islands, to Elephant Bar, Pasta Pomedora to Kabuki.” Fuck yeah! Islands!), I made my way to something that almost possibly could have been construed as seeming to be a little bit promising… maybe.

Tokyo Yakitori. 6 reviews, all overwhelmingly positive. Hmmmm…

• “Food was hot and delicious and my girl liked her fish - bonus. Serving-size is outstanding and did I mention the food was fresh? The menu was more expansive than I expected so I can’t wait to sample more of it. Do i smell a new weekly spot…?“

• “Oh my words cannot express my love for this place…but I’ll try! Their teriyaki sauce is soooooooo good…i can eat it by the gallon. Yummy yum yum.“

• “BEST chicken teriyaki in the LA area. This place is heaven. It’s super clean, super fast, super cheap, and friendly. The chicken teriyaki is always perfect. The teriyaki sauce is the best I’ve ever had. The chicken is cooked just perfect. The side of vegetables is very delightful.”

Well hell, it’s just a few blocks away, why the hell not, right? It sounded so similar to a little local joint on Vermont, Mako. Not amazing, but cheap, quick and satisfying.

I should have known when I saw a big “DRIVE-THRU” window. Actually, no. I should have known when I entered THE VALLEY.

I’ve never had anyone crap in my mouth. But I think I can now safely say I know what it’s like. It’s like eating at “Tokyo Teriyaki.”

The chicken had probably been sitting in a broiler (or under a heat lamp) since breakfast. The teriyaki sauce was essentially high fructose corn syrup and food coloring (the color of poop, as a matter of fact, and just as thick!). The vegetables were so overcooked I had a hard time picking them up because they fell to fucking pieces whenever I tried.

And please do note, it’s not like I went at like 4 PM. I was there no later than 1PM, well into what is normally considered lunch in this godforsaken place, on a Monday.

So what is it that bothers me so much about this? It’s not that there’s a shitty restaurant in Burbank. There are shitty restaurants everywhere.

It’s the fact that this place had glowing reviews. GLOWING. “BEST chicken teriyaki in the LA area.” Best! The only way this could be considered the best teriyaki chicken is if you compared it to a sneaker that washed up on the shore in San Pedro. Yes. Compared to an oil-slick and pungent sneaker, this is some fucking incredible chicken. Compared to what most of the rest of the world calls chicken, this hardly even qualifies as food.

People go out of their way for this in the Valley! People plan their days around it! Oh sweet, there’s a Chevy’s! Let’s go to Islands! No way, I wanna go to PF Changs and get me some Chinese. Ok, in the interest of full disclosure, I actually kind of like PF Changs - but that’s not the point. The point is your choices in the Valley are limited to whatever major corporate chain happens to be near your subdivision, or you can eat a plate of reheated feces.

Yum! Feces!

Who are these people? How can there be such a high concentration of mouth-breathers in one area? Are they that way because they grew up there, or do they sort of gravitate there because of some sort of commonality?

So, Valley, I challenge thee: justify your existence.

P.S. I’d just like to add that there is one (and only) redeeming thing in the Valley: Sushi Nozawa. That place can stay. The rest of the Valley, however… Epic fail.

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