Ancient Greek playwright Euripedes, who wrote about the gods, the wrong side of the bed and the common folks’ fates amid both, could’ve moonlighted as a restaurant critic. His declarations on food and drink were as universal as his relationships with his characters. In either case, human happiness trumped human circumstance as the formula that paves the road to success. “When a man’s working with a full belly,” he’d assert in his fifth-century B.C. Athens, “it doesn’t matter if he’s rich or poor.”
A sign with words to that effect sits along the patio of Prepkitchen La Jolla as the eatery’s coastal-lifestyle clientele gears up for summer. Newly-minted blue bistro chairs and brawny striped beach umbrellas, newly-established hours of service (everything’s pretty much available all day now, including the sandwiches), and old-hand staff working the crowd at an original casual-concept seaside eatery mark the next chapter in the staple’s existence.
Prepkitchen has become a standard from the Whisknladle Hospitality peeps since its opening in 2009, playing off patrons’ tastes for favorites like garlic prawns, roasted cauliflower and chicken chilaquiles underneath the clearest blue skies you and your parakeet have ever seen (a fun girl brought one in the other day). And don’t forget the fish tacos, so common in San Diego that they’re almost the city’s unofficial currency. At Prepkitchen, they’re also the size of Mike Tyson’s gloves, just like every other selection here, that Euripedean full belly was moments away as I placed my order, curious as to what the sriracha (a Thai hot sauce made from chili peppers and garlic) might do to the mahi inside the shell, itself the expanse of a manhole cover.
Alone, sriracha is a lethal weapon. On my order, it morphed into the tastiest condiment this side of Bangkok. Every bite was a banquet fit for an Athenian god, who somehow managed to contain himself at the prospect of revisionist taco history. His Holiness wasn’t about to stop at the entree, dessert eventually beckoned in the form of something called malted chocolate cake, washed down with the reddest wine on the menu. Any Malbec, especially from Argentina, is pretty much a sure bet, but this cake and its 214 layers boost the experience about eight levels.
“Red wine and chocolate,” my waiter beamed, “that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Glad she said something, because the cavalcade of flavors had literally stunned me into speechlessness.
You’d expect somebody like her to work at Prepkitchen; she’s breezy and friendly, like the venue and its seaside setting. In fact, the whole experience bore absolutely no resemblance to anybody’s perception of ancient Greece, unless you count the Ripmeister’s astute observation on food and relative worth. You may spend like a pauper the other 23 hours of the day, but a meal at Prepkitchen will have you feeling like a million bucks.
After taxes.