You know a restaurant hinges on closure when there is no soap present in the bathroom. At least the crème de violette from the last drop of an Aviation lingers in your mouth when the following question arises: Did the chef wash his hands before touching the pan-seared scallops? Who the hell cares.
Somewhere between potential psychological affliction and the bells of heaven lies purgatory; i.e. a twenty-five minute wait between a reserved seating and perfected Crisp Flattened Chicken served with mashed potatoes and garlic confit. Usually, I bypass poultry opting for something more rarified. But, everything other than the scallops and chicken felt too autumnal for a warm October evening. The grilled pork chops with saffron orzo and aged prime rib with flageolet beans, bitter greens with black olive tapenade seemed best served in weather under seventy degrees. Welcome to LA.
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