If someone had asked me to define what “Christmas in my mouth” meant a week ago I might’ve guessed a mouthful of melting chocolate or perhaps a large bucket of popcorn during The Dark Knight.  Such pleasures wouldn’t have come close to what I now know is the true meaning of this heavenly phrase.

At French bistro La Frite in Sherman Oaks, there exists a burger unlike any gourmet burger I have ever had. Grilled with fire, open-faced and topped with a melting blanket of sweetly pungent, smokey bleu cheese, this goddamn burger saved my life.  That, my friends, is Christmas in your mouth.

I had been to La Frite once before with my boyfriend and we had dined blissfully together on the baked brie appetizer, indulging at dusk under the breezy outdoor awning.  Sadly my food-loving man and I are no longer together, and when you’re going through a breakup the last thing on earth you want to do is eat.

But when my friends offered me an unexpected chance to eat dinner at La Frite, a cheap, strong glass of red table-wine at the ready and that bleu cheese burger topped high with grilled mushrooms and lightly caramelized onions not far behind, my broken heart just may have managed a foodie beat or two amidst the rubble. Thank god for the French. They really know how to blind the pain away with all manner of aesthetic thrill.  A pile of shoe-string fries falling down from themselves in light, potato tumult made the tender-hearted consumption that much stronger.  Not to mention a dense layer of warm bleu cheese had gathered beneath the fries and I dug into that fragrant mess of beauty with grateful joy.

Our waitress was the one to summarize my dear burger with the “Christmas in my mouth” phrase, and was additionally very genuine and efficient. The atmosphere gleamed with French charm; superbly cozy and twinkling with amber lights and dark wood.

You may balk at the way they serve crepes – baked like a casserole (or “giant hot pocket” as our inventive waitress beamed) instead of made the traditional way – but give them a try too because the dough was tender, the cheese gooey and my French friend was totally into it.  So there.

Staring up at the surrounding tables I felt for a while I was in Paris, far, far away from the reality of Ventura blvd., wincing inside with every memory of having to, at some point, actually leave and face the reality of other unfortunate, long and winding roads.  But isn’t that what makes a restaurant a gem? To be transported while you eat is to recall the joy of being alive, not just for the sake of what you are eating but for the experience you are given.  So maybe it was just a burger that we all shared that night, but for me it was a quiet revelation.

That and a hot basket of fresh dinner bread will make it Christmas all year round at La Frite.

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