SEVEN GRAND animal instinct

Blind date. Saturday. 9:30. Upstairs.

Dimly lit gentlemen’s hunting lodge with a deep-rooted Irish bloodline. Masculine energy softened only by a scattering of feminine presence. Rich wood married with exposed brick and smoky faded wallpaper. Squint to see the pattern through the fog of cigar filled air. Dark banquettes line the walls to watch the vintage pool tables at center stage.

Antique aged cocktails with your choice of whiskey or whiskey. How about some whiskey. You don’t like whiskey? No problem. How about some bourbon?  Try the Kentucky River Fish Kill Punch. Or, how about the Irish Vandal?  I take the Keihi Cocktail: Single malt, grapefruit and grated cinnamon. Heaven’s heaven.

Fedora hats, cuffed jeans, bow ties, and Converse. Women sipping neat.  A gentle tap on the shoulder to compliment my Tory Burch.

My heels dig into the thru-line of Irish plaid carpet. I slowly circle, slits for eyes, searching for my prey.  I know he’s here somewhere. The assembled deer heads mounted on the walls catalogue my every move, waiting for me to strike.

My head turns as the crack of the pool stick sinks the ball into the right corner pocket. My eyes zone in on him.

They say lions aren’t the fastest of hunting animals. Although powerful hunters, they are actually slow and steady in approach. They are known for their patience and instinct. So trusting of their instinct, when they know, they know.  And they attack.

When it comes to dating, only through experience can instinct become a finely tuned instrument. In dating, patience is a virtue. Only through years of trial and error do you learn to tell the difference between ripe and rotten.

I watch him from afar. I sense warmth in his smile. Simplicity in his style. He’s by no means naughty.  Maybe a touch of too nice.  My friends tell me there is no such thing, but experience has taught me otherwise.  I have bitten the heads off of too nice men who let me have my way with them, but I have also been ravaged by the bad boy only to be thrown away as scrap.

I once asked my married friend how she knew her husband was the one. She replied, “Simple. You know when you know.” When an ex cheated on me, I claimed I didn’t know till I knew.  But in retrospect, instinct told me he was not right for me. I knew I could do different. I knew the day we met. Experience has taught me to pay attention.

I slowly move towards him. Leaning over the pool table, he catches my gaze and promptly stands.

A shy touch, he shakes my hand. “You must be Kit.”

His delicate hand leads me to the side patio for downtown air and fresh conversation. With not enough whiskey in my glass to dilute the awkward pauses, my instinct tells me this is just friendship.  But the experience of Seven Grand holds my attention, and I am forever held prey in its seductive gaze.

RATING:

SEVEN GRAND

515 W 7^th Street

 2^nd floor

Los Angeles, CA 90014

(213) 614-0737

www.sevengrand.la

4100 keep it simple

Wed. 9 pm. Girls night.

At the corner of Sunset and side street. No hassle parking and walk right in entrance. Simple.

So dark, I have to watch my footing. Damn the heels and those who rode in on them. They say bars keep the lights low so women feel sexier and men get the cojones to say hello. Don’t turn the lights up, all reality will break loose.

A jukebox screaming bloody murder. But, thankfully, one coin controls the vibe and I’m on my Holiday to Billie.

Everything dripping in dirty, dark red. Design infused with spiritual nuance. Indian Saris draped above my head.

Two years ago, I went to India. My friends and I stumbled upon an adobe house where 20 women dressed in Saris, preparing for a wedding, welcomed us in with open arms. So many lessons learned that day. Love, simply put, is complicated. But their connection to God isn’t. To them, the simplicity and goodness of God is found in life’s complications and chaos.

I’m reminded of this as I sit down at the bar. Behind me, a life size statue of a Hindu Goddess winks at me and tells me to leave my worries and love woes at the door. All is well at 4100.

My fate is now in the hands of the bartender who is the cutest straight/ gay/ straight? man I’ve ever laid eyes on. It’s still a toss up. Regardless, my friends think he’s hot.  He sure is sweet but I don’t care really. I’d almost prefer him to be gay.

I need a break from dating.

Men’s simplicity can get complicated. I’m exhausted from it.

I just want a night of estrogen brewed conversation served straight up in a rocks glass. No fancy martini glasses please.  They’re just too fussy and everything spills. Want to drink the drink; that’s why I ordered it.

To my left and right, Pabst Blue Ribbon is the main event with a shot of Tequila to dilute the taste. No frills, no fluff and definitely no fad Skinny cocktails. They like their drinks thick, low maintenance and down to earth here. 

Tattooed sleeves keep my mind’s eye occupied while my friends make friendly with the others.  I turn around and squint my eyes long enough to see the cave dwellers tucked away in the corners. First dates and long time mates all with a pint in hand. Every walk of life can enter these doors but only with a prerequisite of skinny jeans and a simple T.

As the crowd builds, the jukebox becomes a faint chant and the gay/straight/ gay? bartender pours my friend another round. He then asks for her number.

 Straight, definitely.

As I watch their exchange take place, my friend’s complicated love life is suddenly made so simple with a pen and paper napkin.  I mean, who knows? He could be the one. Anything is possible right? Straight can be gay and gay can be straight. But one thing is for sure. Love will always remain, simply complicated. 

Rating:

4100 Bar

1087 Manzanita Street 

Los Angeles, CA 90029

(323) 666-4460

WATERLOO AND CITY love the accent

I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you. Can you say that again? Waterwho and what?  

Thursday. 10 pm. Late night Happy Hour.

Classic style British gastropub meets modern tea room meets school cafeteria.

I’m a little late. Heels pound the pavement, straight back to the bar where my first date with Mr. Accent waits with a beer. Was drawn to his foreign-sounding speech and thirst for adventure.

Like most foreign men I know, Mr. Accent lives on the edge of his seat, or in this case, his bar stool. Right away, he leans in to kiss me as his elbows hang on the bar ornamented in rose-colored copper.

His lips meet my cheek as my eyes take in the British accents of Waterloo— brightly painted recycled church pews, black high-back wooden chairs, and hanging antiques. Design speaks clean, comfortable and chic, but the large dining hall, vast cement floor and all the space between leaves me with too much breathing room and loud echoes. Must have been a Sizzler in its former life.  Tucked in the corner I do see a touch of patterned blue and white wallpaper that just tickles my fancy.

The lady bartender greets and pours behind the bar. A Dark and Stormy to sip on a hot summer night. Rum, ginger beer and candied ginger.  

The bartender is probably from somewhere like Ohio or Indiana. But with a long lash blink of an eye, hands to curves, slight shoulder shrug and corner smile, her laissez- faire attitude seems foreign territory for an American gal. I thought only European women and Jolie had that je ne sais quoi. She has her way with men I am sure, and tonight, with me. Whatever she says… I do.

Chalk board specials written on the wall. I defer to her. Rabbit and pistachio brioche? Or how about braised short rib pizza with stilton? She swears by the chicken liver and foie gras mousse and double swears that this is an unusually slow and sad happy hour.

Persistent Mr. Accent leans in and tries to kiss me again.

Like most women, I am drawn to accents. Monotone suddenly turns melodic with a single voice inflection and grand hand gesture. I’m a world traveler when it comes to dating.  Greece, Australia, New Zealand, Japan, you name it. My boyfriend of two years in college had me at “where’s the loo?” and I’ve been into foreign drawl ever since. Everything just sounds more interesting, like I’m always on vacation. But, admittedly, after awhile it just gets me into trouble. I insist on finding his accent so adorable even when he’s being a complete shit. The sex can be great, but at the end of the day, sometimes the culture is just too exotic. Exotic is great for fruit, not for communication.

This time Mr. Accent’s lips meet mine. A simple peck. Nothing more, nothing less, and nothing more tonight. But another drink, yes. The night is young, the hour is happy, and the lady behind the bar says we can’t possibly leave yet…so we don’t.

Rating:

WATERLOO AND CITY

12517 West Washington Blvd Culver City CA 90066

(323) 391-4222

www.waterlooandcity.com

MANDRAKE neither here nor there

Friday. 10 pm.

Park on La Cienega. Plenty of room. Way south from the familiar restaurants and bars. South of all things “La Cienega” really, and on the curb of Culver City.  Neither here nor there.

The sign only reads BAR. A flashing neon sign in the shape of a martini glass hangs above my head.

I’m reminded of my mother who is convinced there is one mysterious business chap who goes by the name of “Neon Man.”  She believes he is the sole provider of neon advertising, and he might possibly be the richest man in Los Angeles.

I am a little hesitant to go in. I wasn’t so excited about this Man named Drake. I heard about him last week from some reliable, and not so reliable, sources. Apparently he is a go-to spot for locals. Curious to know what kind of locals live between neither here nor there.

I was told he may not be my style but someone interesting to meet, and I need to stay open. He is layered, multifaceted, I was told. And who knows? We might hit it off.

Besides, Mr. New Guy is no longer here nor there. I was right, he was different. Religious differences to be exact. He is, and I am not, and for him it was the deciding factor.

So I am here, he is there and God is everywhere.

Open the door.

Room #1.  Small. Intimate. Low ceilings, air is heavy. Dimmed down dark. Concrete and overgrown plywood fight for my attention. Tree stumps on peg legs to place my drink on. Hipsters who wear frames sans lenses. Shapes of social circles closing themselves off to potential meet and greets.  

Okay, fine. One cocktail. But that’s it.

Rose’s Garden: vodka, cucumber, mint, shaken. Heavy on the vodka and easy on the pocketbook.

Over the sea of lazy, unkempt curls and flannel, a hole in the wall reveals the DJ and another room to explore.

More than meets the eye. Maybe worth two cocktails.

I walk past the cluster of male pigeons staring at the floor. If this one looks up, he might catch the pretty bird in the corner giving him the mating call. But alas, he’s too shy and keeps himself busy looking for scraps.

Enter Room #2.

DJ spins so loud, I can’t hear my thoughts. The taste in music doesn’t match my neoSoul, but I can definitely appreciate. Awkward 8th grade dance party. No one can dance and no one is really dancing.  Reminds me of the bars I went to freshmen year in college when digits were exchanged only after slobbered tongues were.

Maybe just one cocktail.

Ready to finish my drink and leave, a couple brushes past me to a back door. Another room?

He is layered, he is multifaceted I was told.  We might hit it off. Be open.

Enter Room #3.

 Intimate, enclosed outdoor patio. Wood picnic tables, greenery, subtle romantic. A secret hideaway. Men. Eye contact.

How about one more drink? Don’t mind if I do. How about a Moscow Mule? Sure. You want a cigarette?  I don’t smoke but thank you for asking.  Just stay awhile, let’s chat. Sounds good.

3 drinks in, I receive a text from a friend in NY. She just ran into my ex, Mr. Forever, on the street. The first time I’ve heard of him since that fateful day. 

But as good fortune would have it, I am here. He is there and Mr. New New Guy could be anywhere. 

Rating:

The Mandrake Bar

2692 S. La Cienega Blvd

Los Angeles, CA 90034

(310) 837-3297

www.mandrakebar.com