Los Angeles and New York have one thing in common — kitchens that don’t work. And that’s work in a verb sense — as in earning their keep — their right to occupy tens or hundreds of square feet of living space.

I still keep up with my almost daily obsession of looking at houses for sale. In L.A. it’s an interesting mix of houses people actually live in, houses people have abandoned for a time to shoot a movie in an odd local, and houses that are as new as the builder’s money, or are have just been rehabbed by an investor speculating in the real estate market. All of these houses have something in common — kitchens that get bigger and bigger, and newer and newer.

And people don’t cook in them. I go from house to house and these kitchens look like pristine museums - homages to the idea of home, hearth, family, and American consumerism. So, it shouldn’t be surprising to me that it’s damn near impossible to find any remotely ‘exotic’ food ingredients in L.A.

Looking for chorizo from Spain, order it online. Guacaniale? We search hither an yon, still, order online. Quail eggs — maybe at the Japanese market, if you can find them Smoked paprika, leaf lard, fresh grits — I could go on forever. In this, the era of Food Network and the ubiquitous cooking show — it’s impossible to find unusual or quality ingredients in L.A. Viking ranges? No, we got those coming out of our ears — pots and pans to cook on them — that’s a far more difficult purchase.

The fact that L.A. is a city without a center doesn’t really bother me. That it’s a city with out a soul for food — that bothers me a LOT more. Sure we have Surfas, but it’s not Zabars. We have a Chinatown, but the true Chinese diaspora is scattered across the San Gabriel Valley. No Little Italy awaits with little stores of cheese and cured meat. So we limp along as best we can. It’s a shame though, that those gourmet kitchens have nothing to keep them working.