ONE-NIGHT STAND...on a date with L.A.

SUR LOUNGE fairy tale

2011-11-07T12:18:00.000-08:00

Friday. The clock strikes 10.

A fairy tale vision as my eyes feast upon the romantic décor of the back patio. A secret garden. A gorgeous secret garden.

I walk around the trees strewn with twinkle lights and hanging bird cages filled with soft spoken candles. Pink lights turn upwards to highlight the grey stone statues of Hindu deities. Banquettes with soft pillows to lounge about on and hidden nooks in which to steal a kiss. Doesn’t matter who you come with really, just by stepping inside you’re automatically put in the mood. Any old conversation seems new and exciting with a backdrop like this. Be intimate, laugh a lot. Smile at Carson Kressley from Fab 5, he’ll smile back.

To my right, a couple enveloped in their mushiness lock eyes with each other. The girl looks like a Cinderella knock-off and her date clearly wants to hold more than her glass slipper. He more likely wants to slip her one tonight if she’ll let him. But with a shy turn away, sly smile and sip of the drink, it’s clear she isn’t ready—or is playing hard to get.

My date, Mr. Prince, gallantly dressed in all black, gently touches the small of my back. “We can sit anywhere you want. Whatever you wish,” he says, as a true gentleman should.

I wish for many things. But first, I’ll take vodka chilled with cucumber and lemon. Make it two.

I’ve come a long way in the dating world, and Mr. Prince is proof of that. He opens door, asks good questions, and doesn’t say things that make my eyebrow rise. Actually, he says just the right things and genuinely means them.

I’ve definitely come a long way. Just a few years ago I came to this very restaurant with an ex, Mr. First, who was the king of shallow promises. He loved me, he loved me not, he loved me, he...just go away.

I’ve dated everything really, every kind of man. From a ballet dancer who sewed his own costumes and thought it cool to show me his homemade leather-beaded chaps, to a basketball player who thought it would be interesting to tell me, in detail, how lucky I was to date him. I remember him giving me the list of his perfections, lifting his shirt to show me his abs, pointing to his ostentatious Mercedes outside while he somehow forgot to notice that I was paying for our meal all by my wee little ol’ self.

I also once dated a man who told me, while I was standing naked before him, that I looked like a hooker with tiny tits and another man who always felt it necessary to feel, with his hands, the energy of his food before he decided to buy it. “No don’t eat that cantaloupe! He doesn’t feel good today.”

I could keep going. All night, actually. But despite it all, no matter what, I’ve always still believed that someday my prince would come.

As a little girl, I was obsessed with the Disney movie of the fairy tale, Beauty and the Beast. Most little girls imagine themselves as Beauty. I, however, being an awkward metal-mouthed tomboy wearing my brother’s oversized Stussy Shirts with Nike sweatbands around my head, associated more with the Beast.

I remember watching the movie and playing over and over again the scene when Beauty danced with the Beast at the ball. In one single moment, no words exchanged, they looked at each other and knew. Just like that. I was convinced that was how my love life would be. One look and the rest would be history.

As an adult, I have had many of those first glance looks. Those looks have often led me exactly nowhere, especially in situations where a man would lean in within the first 15 minutes of our date and whisper in my ear where exactly he wanted to stick it. Let’s just put it this way, it wasn’t sexy or pretty and definitely had no fairy tale ending.

Hopefully, my dating history won’t repeat itself in the likes of Mr. Prince. We’ll see. But if I keep drinking, I won’t be able to see clearly for much longer, so just one more sip and home before the clock strikes 2.

But Sur Lounge is a happily ever after indeed. Because like all fairy tales, I can always press replay and come back to the dream over and over and over again….

RATING:

SUR LOUNGE

616 N. Robertson Blvd.

West Hollywood, CA 90069

(310) 855-0880

www.surlounge.com

CRAIG'S All-American Swag

2011-10-27T14:25:00.000-07:00

Sunday. 7 pm.

My 75-year-old friend, Mr. Old School, sits alone at his signature table just to the right of the entrance. He may be 75 with a bum hip, but he’s sharp as a knife and one of my favorite people. His table faces everything. That way he can see who walks in, see what is happening and, more importantly, see the good ole’ American World Series game that hangs over the bar.

Like Mr. Old School, this place screams old time New York and has tons of swag. It also has tons of comfort and just enough classy decor and good looking servers to make the high price tag reasonable. Although only a year open, you feel as though you can step back in time, and Humphrey Bogart or Rita Hayworth might walk through the door. Hunter green banquettes sit on dark green carpet, while shiny green brick tile climbs the wall. To stay with the theme, Mr. Old School is wearing a green sweater.

“I love green,” he growls in his Bronx accent with a Groucho Marx lift of the brow. “It’s a good color.”

His eyes are half on our conversation and half on the game. I pretend to be interested in the game too, as most women do but don’t really care. I’m actually caught up in the hot couple at the bar playing their own game of tag with each other.

“Do you like me?” she asks.

“Do you like me?” he replies.

“I asked you first.”

I like you both. This could go on all night, but I don’t mind. Good looking, young, well-dressed, and just enough wine in them so they have no regard for those around them. I think I saw them piggy back to the bathroom earlier. My kind of people. They seem genuinely interested in each other or they’re genuinely drunk.

“Let’s start with the shrimp cocktail. With the red sauce. Make sure you bring the red sauce. Horseradish too. But don’t forget the red sauce,” he explains to the server who gives him her winning smile and nods her head. She knows him. She gets him. This is his table.

My eyes then look to the hot sauce bartender who doesn’t pay me any mind. He probably thinks I’m with my Old School. That’s ok, I don’t really care. At 75 he’s a better date than most men I meet, and I enjoy his stories—with or without the red sauce.

The shrimp comes and, distracted by the couple, I take a large bite. Fire runs up my nose, out of my eyes, and I fiercely grab for my napkin.

“They forgot the red sauce,” he shakes his head. “All horseradish. Good job, dear.”

To make me feel better he starts quoting old American movies.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world..” He smiles with pride. He does that. He knows all the good quotes. As Audrey Hepburn believed, “Everything I learned, I learned from the movies.” Mr. Old School once gave me a book about Katherine Hepburn, whom he met in real life at a bar. You want a story? He has one. You want advice? He’ll give it you. You want a quote from “Curb Your Enthusiasm"? No problem. He’s a real life Larry David whom he actually did meet once, and he’ll tell you the story. But whatever you do, don’t get too serious and deep with him or his eyes will turn back to the World Series. As Katherine Hepburn would say, “Never complain. Never explain.”

Just then, a hot mixed couple walks in. A beautiful Beyonce type with her Billy Idol boyfriend. Man does she have swag. If I could just have one ounce of that swag, I wouldn’t care one bit about how it looks if I finish this entire, perfect 12-ounce New York steak. As far as she is concerned, the more swag - the more to love. “So eat up, girl,” I say to myself. This is probably the best steak I’ve had in a while, too. From her inspiration, I take another bite.

“You’re a good little eater there,” Mr. Old School says.

My eyes widen, terrified.

“You’re eating very well, dear,” he laughs.

Swag denied as I push my meal to the side. I claim I’m done (even though I’m not) and watch him finish his to-die-for meatloaf, jalapeno creamed corn, and mashed potatoes.

Later, I listen to him tell stories over a large bowl of cappuccino ice cream and two coffees. He shares the tale of how he met his now ex-wife 50 some odd years ago. How he whisked her away to San Francisco on their very first date. I guess chivalry isn’t dead. He is alive, sitting right next to me.

The coffee now has me wide awake, but Mr. Old School likes to be in bed by 8:30; so although the night is early, Mr. Old School is done and ready for bed. He loves his nightly routine of getting into bed and watching his favorite shows. With a kiss on the cheek and a big hug, he turns to me and says, “Well, you know what Napoleon used to say.”

“No. What?” I indulge him

“That he preferred his bed to his throne. But don’t confuse me with Napoleon.”

I love this guy. And for me the night is still young. Goodnight Mr. Old School. “Tomorrow is another day.”

RATING:

CRAIG'S

8826 Melrose Ave

Los Angeles, CA 90069

(310) 276-1900

http://www.craigs.la

SALT HOUSE long distance affair

2011-10-20T09:31:00.000-07:00

Wed. 9 pm. San Francisco Downtown.

Whitewashed exposed brick walls, high ceilings, and a sculpture of individually hung light bulbs float above me. I sit down at the smooth marble bar with a large mirror hanging overhead so that I may see the crowd behind my back. The guests congregate around the dark wood communal table that holds center to the smaller two and four tops dispersed throughout the restaurant.

This is San Francisco chic at its finest. Clean cut men, fine tailored suits, mixed patterned apparel that doesn’t match but makes sense to my senses. Business women wear simple pony tails and subtle red lip gloss so as not to distract from the deal being presented on the table. But they will close the deal, their Birkin bags tell me so.

I watch lady bartender, who’s in law school, prepare my drink of gin, cucumber and orange flower water. “This is called the Always and Only,” she tells me. That sounds like a lot of commitment, but I’m flattered, thank you.

I told Los Angeles I needed to get away for a few days. Without much notice, I just packed my bags and left. We didn’t fight or anything. Nothing like that. Actually we’ve been really good. I don’t know what’s going on.

It’s not you LA, it’s me.

I need some space to think about our future, my future, where I see this relationship going. Just a few months ago, I almost moved to New York and, although I’m glad I didn’t, I feel like this is my time to explore my options. Play the field for awhile. I know you always tell me I want what I can’t have. I know, I know. I know you say San Francisco is great and all but…

Look it doesn’t matter. I need space to clear my head. If you didn’t let me go, I would resent you. If we are meant to be, then I will come back. I want you to let me miss you.

To the left of me at the bar, a handsome older man sits beside me with his daughter. I think it’s his daughter. I hope. What is it with men and women half their age? I swear…oh, wait, it’s his daughter. Never mind.

My taste buds hold hands to sample the blend of tangy, spicy and fresh olives marinated in orange, chili and mint. My teeth then sink into the tender lamb shank that falls right off the bone. It sleeps in a sauce mixed with onions, marcona almonds and pomegranate. No need for salt in this house.

Everything is perfect. Not a detail unlooked, not a sip unliked and not a bite untouched. The crowd progressively gets louder, and I sit alone at the bar watching the lives of others. For a split second, I feel lonely.

The business women hand over the papers and shake hands with their male counterparts. Success, I presume. They will have their cake and eat it too, while I scoop my last bite of coffee crème with cinnamon homemade whipped cream. I didn’t need to eat it all, but I wanted to. I don’t need that Birkin bag either, but I want it.

I wish I had someone to talk to, and lady bartender is nowhere in sight. She is now on her break, so male bartender takes her place. He refuses to look me in the eyes as he asks me what I want next. Look at me, and I’ll tell you my heart’s desire. His eyes continue to wander and his intimacy issues cause me to disengage. I’ll take whatever.

I watch him conjure up some story of bourbon, liquor, something and something.

“What’s this?” I take a sip.

“A Divorced Italian Style.”

First an “Always and Only” and now he’s divorcing me. Just like that. How quickly the tables turn.

I remember when my ex Mr. Forever held my hand, looked me smack in the eyes, asked me to move to New York and commit to him. In retrospect, I didn’t see him every day, so of course he seemed perfect. I didn’t go through the trenches with him, so of course we never got dirty. Everything always seemed exciting, ever-changing and brand new. Towards the end of our long distance affair, the tables quickly turned as he looked me smack in the eyes and broke my heart. I remember missing LA at that very moment.

I miss LA now as I sip my too strong Divorced Italian Style. But don’t get a big head, LA, okay? I’m not saying I’m fully committed to you or anyone else for that matter. I’m just saying I miss you. I don’t know much else, but I know that. For me that’s enough to come back…that is, if you’ll still have me.

RATING:

SALT HOUSE
545 Mission Street
San Francisco, CA 94105
(415) 543-8900
http://salthousesf.com/flash/

NARESH’S a new friend

2011-10-13T00:08:00.000-07:00

Tuesday. 7:30 pm. Main Street.

My date stands in front of the wide open movie-screen-sized window. I get a preview of the interior as Umi, the manager, greets us at the door. Come in and hang out with us. Well, don’t mind if we do.

So inviting, with its vagabond chic design. A trip for your senses. A melting pot of different styles blended so it feels comfortable, warm and friendly. Like an old dear friend who has just returned from her travels and has a great story for you. Grab some wine, sit down and tell your tales. I’m all ears.

White orchids. All white couches and ottomans with hints of orange flavor. Orange trim, hanging lanterns and upside down orange paper parasols. A collection of paintings that can hold your attention and spark conversation. Where did you get that? Who did it? Umi, casually and without inhibition, will be happy to tell you all about it. Umi will also tell you she picked that table up herself, with her very own hands, from IKEA the other day and that the large bench came straight from Bali. She is a Korean-born—so cute I want to put her in my pocket—wine enthusiast.

With a slight subtle accent, she explains and sells wine as though they’re men and she is Patty the matchmaker.

“This pinot is shy and sweet. But he might get boring after awhile as he doesn’t really have a bite. He’s nice though. He’ll get the girl someday,” she explains. “Or this one, the cab, he only comes in a large barrel and has a funky smell. So although he is a little much and needs a shower, he sticks with you, and for some reason you can’t stop thinking about him.”

Pinot it is. I’m sensitive to smell and I am into shy and sweet right now. Like my date who sits across from me. A writer who smells nice. He’s funny but not schticky. His words are deliberate, thoughtful, and just enough sarcastic. If his dialogue reads as well as he talks, I presume he is a good writer. I Googled him before I came. Google tells me he is, in fact, a writer and he actually gets paid to do it.

I always Google. I learned my lesson three years ago on this very same street at the place right next door. It was my second date with the guy, sipping wine, wearing a way too mini mini, when my date proceeded to tell me he was a registered sex offender in the state of Ohio. From that day forth it was “All hail Google.” My handy, trust worthy friend.

Umi recommends the Chicken Tikka skewers with mint, and my date wants to try the Samosas as we talk about our favorite romantic comedies. He’s a real When-Harry-Met-Sally kinda guy, and I admit I didn’t look at my phone the whole evening. Not even to Google. But I can’t tell yet if it’s just friendship or something more.

It’s a slow night for Naresh’s, so Umi continues to introduce me to more men of her liking, including Naresh himself, who shakes your hand like he knows you and looks forward to seeing you soon.

You come back now you hear? Oh, I will my friend. I will.

RATING:

NARESH’S RESTAURANT AND BAR

2420 Main Street

Santa Monica, CA 90405

(310) 396-9227

www.nareshsonmain.com

ROCKWELL deliberate intentions

2011-10-05T22:41:00.000-07:00

Friday. 10 pm. Birthday party.

Enter through a Los Feliz back alley into Big Sur serenity. Log cabin stone, candles lit, and open wood beams. No cabin fever, though, with the fresh air and artfully dispersed crowd.

Rockwell is a two-story tree house built around a magnificent tree that thrusts skyward through the center of the room. Its deliberate placement center stage evokes a sense of calm and perspective that only nature can create. Chill out, lounge about, just be yourself. No past, no future, no worries. Have a drink.

The roots of the tree anchor my feet so firmly that my eyes are drawn to the branches that frame the starless sky. Upstairs, I perch at the top and look down with a bird’s eye to scope the scene and choose a place to nest.

With one sip of my too-syrupy-sweet margarita, my aerie reverie crashes to earth, and I ask for a different drink. Maybe tequila on the rocks. But only one drink tonight. I have work in the morning and money doesn’t grow on trees you know.

Henry David Thoreau wrote of going to the woods as a way to understand what it means to live life deliberately. A life so deliberate that, on his death bed, he would know he truly lived. After my ex, Mr. Forever, turned into the Big Bad Wolf, I have deliberately dated men completely different than what I typically am attracted to. With apologies to Frost, I want to take the road less travelled by, hoping that will make all the difference.

I look over at my date swaying his head in time to the soulful beats of the DJ who hides beneath the stairway to heaven. This is the first time in forever I have brought a date to a party. Although bringing him here was deliberate, I’m not quite sure about my intentions for him. I like him, I do. But I admit I’m a bit reckless right now. I don’t know how ready I am for anything serious. I kind of just want to swing freely from the branches, make no apologies, and wear killer shoes.

But I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy him or that he didn’t make me laugh. I would also be lying if I said I didn’t deliberately try to push him away at times just to see if he would come back.

With a clink of a glass and a kiss on the cheek, my date whispers his intentions for me as I breathe in the tranquility and composure that is Rockwell. With the tree poised firmly behind me, I feel the freedom to give no answer and make no decisions. Instead, I smile, relax, have a drink, and enjoy a night well-lived at a bar built around a tree.

RATING:

ROCKWELL

1714 N. Vermont Ave

Los Angeles, CA 90027

(323) 669-1550

http://rockwellvt.com/

SEVEN GRAND animal instinct

2011-09-28T14:48:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-21T01:21:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-12T21:42:00.000-07:00

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

2011-09-06T20:45:00.000-07:00

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

3TWENTY glass half full

2011-08-29T15:38:00.000-07:00

Wednesday. 10 pm. 3Twenty Wine Lounge.

Sophisticated, definitely, but by no means snarky. Dark gray walls, white modern chairs, and exposed brick. Comfortable but slick.

The room is 1/3 full, or 2/3 empty, depending on how you look at it. Not too crowded, not too barren. Sia plays in the background. Not too loud, not too quiet.

Hip couples, with toddlers at home, yearning for a quality evening without having to wait to be seated. They just want the perfect buzz. Not too much, not too little. Talk about anything but diaper rash. Drink up. Enjoy.

Edgar, the owner and sommelier, greets me at the door with a smile and a shake. He walks me over to the enomatic wine systems that sit in the center like modern sculptures, and hands me a card.

50 types of wine to sample. No commitment necessary. If I don’t like it, I try another one. With empty glass in hand, I walk around, scoping out the plethora of opportunity. I find the wine I want, or think I want, slide my card in and press the button giving me 1/3 of a glass. Just enough to know if I like it, and just enough to make me want more.

For the past week I have been hanging out with Mr. New Guy. He's funny and seemingly different than my ex, Mr. Forever. We've seen each other twice. I ask him to meet me here.

Jeans, t–shirt and ballet flats. Could wear a dress, but not necessary. I want to speak my truth and sometimes a dress distracts me from that. I get too concerned about dotting my i's and crossing my legs.

When I told my best friend that I think I like him, she made it a point to tell me to take my time and sample a few before I devote myself to an entire glass.

Perusing the different types of wine, wanting to try a different flavor than my usual Cabernet, I feel a sense of relief that it’s only 1/3 and that I don’t have to fully commit.

Mr. Forever hooked me in at hello, and I almost moved to another city to be with him. Way too much, way too fast.

He was like an expensive bottle of wine with a fancy label that, if I were truthful with myself, didn’t match my taste buds. But I had already bought the bottle and felt committed to drinking it.

I’ve been on my own now for 8 years and still have never lived with a man. 80 percent of the time I love it. But, admittedly, sometimes that 20 percent has me lying face down on my living room floor, wine in hand, bawling to Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me.”

Over my shoulder I catch Mr. New Guy at the door looking at me. Edgar shakes his hand.

It’s so interesting to start a conversation with your wine glass only 1/3 full, or 2/3 empty, depending on how you look at it. I find myself taking my time, in no rush to finish. Savoring each sip and listening more to his words. He makes me laugh. But not too much and not too little. Just enough.

“I have such a good time with you,” Mr. New Guy says. Then he asks if he can get me another sample. I politely decline, say I prefer to get it myself.

A sense of excitement wafts over me as I look at all the wines displayed so beautifully before my eyes. Wines I would normally never dare to taste, but find myself so curious now to sample. Just a taste. Not too much, not too little. Just 1/3.

Just right, for right now.

Rating:

3Twenty Wine Lounge

320 S La Brea
Los Angeles, CA 90036
Neighborhood: Mid-City West

(323) 932-9500

www.320southwine.com

LEXINGTON too old for this sh@#

2011-08-24T13:41:00.000-07:00

Thursday. 11 pm.

Strobe lights that go with the beat of House. White couches that slightly stick to your skin due to spilled liquor. Clouds of cigarette smoke and sips of Shirley Temple cocktails.

It takes exactly 9 minutes to get through the entrance. That was only because we knew someone, who knew someone, who happened to know the overstuffed Billy Goat Gruff and his two minions guarding the front door.

I look down at my heels, and watch them turn up their noses at the Forever 21 knock-offs sauntering by. I tell them not to judge, it’s just rude.

I’m suddenly reminded of him. I was 22 years old.

He was a walk of shame that turned into two months of dating. It was purely sexual, but, like many women, I had convinced myself it was more than it was and that he was better than he was.

He only liked me when I wore high heels.

We first met one evening out during my “clubbing” phase, and it was the rare occasion I decided to show off more than my forearms. My dress was too short, my heels too high and my hair too quaffed. We quickly ended our relationship when I protested with Converse. We split, claiming irreconcilable differences. I had blisters to prove it.

I never saw him again and haven’t stepped foot in a place like this since.

I stand in the middle of the overpopulated dance floor trying not to get swept into the mosh pit of Ed Hardy and glittered minis. I have seen way too many crotch reveals, prom curls and bippity tator tots.

A strong, gentle hand touches my arm. His fingers interlace with mine. He pulls me back into him.

I like him. He is different. I think. We bonded over our love for TOMS shoes. I met him exactly four hours prior to this moment. After a few cocktails at a local bar and great conversation, we decided to “carpe diem” it and go dancing. Didn’t matter where. Whatever was close.

2 songs in, dizzy from the strobe lights, I see him mouth the words, “You ready?”

I hold his hand as he navigates us through and out of the maze. Over his shoulder, he yells, “You think we may be too old for this?” I see his face illuminate with a smile, but the music is too loud for me to hear the laugh that follows.

“Maybe!” I yell. “It is past my bedtime.”

He stops, turns and kisses me.

In the cab, I turn to look out the back window and watch the Lexington fade into the distance.

I like him. He is different. I think.

I walk through my front door and put my keys on the coffee table. I hear my phone.

“Too much fun with you tonight, call you tomorrow.”

RATING:

LEXINGTON SOCIAL HOUSE

1718 Vine St
Los Angeles, CA 90028
Neighborhood: Hollywood

(323) 461-1700

www.lexingtonsocialhouse.com/

THE LONDON when past meets present

2011-08-17T10:26:00.000-07:00

5 pm. Thursday. Happy Hour.

My fingers lightly graze the smooth, white, marble bar countertop. Dim lighting. Deep, brown, wood paneling. Gold accents distract the corner of my eye. Subtle, glamorous…my legs cross as I swivel around on the white retro counter stool to order my vodka martini. Whoa, hello bartender. The kind of cute my gay hubby would try to turn. He is the Will to my Grace.

Over my left shoulder a runway model sings standards with a Norah Jones quality to her voice.

I sip my martini.

He’s not here yet. My first date since my split with Mr. Forever.

I adjust my black jumper, and tighten my low ponytail. Glad I didn’t wear jewelry. The décor is the perfect necklace.

As I wait for my date to arrive, I listen to the conversation of the mid 30’s suits to my right talking shop. I don’t even see their faces. I watch their hands gesticulate over the marble. My eyes zone in on their left hands, ring finger. Curious that’s all. These men remind me of my ex. This would be his spot if he lived in LA. These would be his colleagues. I was his girlfriend.

I’m a little nervous. Blind dating feels so forced. I know I need to stay open. I’m just not really in the mood to ask about his past, future goals and what his favorite color is. I kind of just want to introduce myself, get him in the sack, see if he snores too loud and figure out if we’re a match over bacon and eggs. There I go again, mentioning bacon.

I’m already a little tipsy. I should have eaten more. But between the interior design, the hottie behind the bar, the jazz singing clothes hanger, and good ol’ vodka…my taste buds are pretty satisfied.

This is the kind of place you can come alone and just get lost in the ambiance. It’s a tease to the senses: modern style perfectly blending with all that was right with retro. Contemporary wouldn't be contemporary without its past foundation and this bar pays homage to that. It's like all relationships really. You take pieces of your past with you so that you create a better future.

I take another sip and a deep breath.

“Kit?”

I look up.

“Sorry I’m late. I got stuck in a meeting. It’s so nice to meet you.”

I shake his hand, smile and allow the memories of my ex boyfriend to blend with my present to help create my new aesthetic.

Rating:

Gordon Ramsay Restaurant

The London West Hollywood
1020 N San Vicente Blvd
West Hollywood, CA 90069
Neighborhood: West Hollywood

(310) 358-7788

www.thelondonwesthollywood.com

LOU you little devil

2011-08-10T10:56:00.000-07:00

Wednesday. 9 pm.

I have a terrible habit of falling for men at first glance. I lust and call it love. If I don’t “feel” something right away, immediately I think it’s forced and I’m not interested. Most men I date have a shelf life of a month. Eventually the buzz dissipates and there is nothing left in the bottle.

My mother has always said the man I am going to marry will be the one that sneaks up on me. A friend that one day leans in to kiss me, or, it’s someone I have known for a while but has never been on my radar. That is, until one day…

I’ve noticed LOU out of the corner of my eye for a long time. I’ve driven by him for years. He is not flashy. Actually, he is very unassuming. On Vine Street, close to the corner of Melrose, the sign only reads LOU and the windows are completely covered in drapery. Parked somewhere between a laundromat and an Irish pawn shop, I have secretly always thought it was a brothel.

Never, in a million years, did I think LOU was a potential date. That was until a local on Larchmont asked if I had ever met LOU. My eyes widened, ears perked. You mean the LOU?

Not my typical date. Nothing about his exterior appealed to me. Actually it gave me a bit of an eerie feeling. But my track record with dating told me I needed to be a bit more open- minded so I went through the doors and pulled the curtains back.

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it. On the inside, LOU was so unbelievably sexy. LOU is like the short guy with tiny hands who has discovered a cure for cancer and has his own plane.

The place was the size of my foot, but so visually engaging. Everything from the modern light fixtures, to the wallpaper, to the patterned communal table that sits smack in the center. The food is organic, local and the menu changes constantly. Hmmm, environmentally conscious and constantly wanting to try new things. LOU where have you been my whole life?

I sat at the tiny bar with my friend, M, for appetizers and wine. The wines are divided into sections that read “Slutty Sweet” and “Luscious whites.” Oh LOU, stop! You’re turning me on!

You won’t find your typical chicken dish here. Expect wild boar sausage or grilled antelope chop. I devoured my farmers market green salad and pig candy appetizer. You should know, I come from a family that believes all problems can be solved with bacon.

The crowd read intelligent and tasteful. Minimal makeup and wardrobes that spoke vintage Vogue. I imagined they were all writers and filmmakers that wanted to talk about raising the debt ceiling.

The intimate setting called for honest conversation where my friend M and I talked about career and all the nonsense in between. M is about to be a doctor and has been in a relationship for 4 years. She now lives with the guy and couldn't picture her life without him. When she first met him, she was hesitant to go out with him, and it took some convincing to go on a second date. He is quiet, understated but his words are deliberate. He means and does what he says. He is solid, adoring and kind. As I listened to her stories, I felt a subtle pang in my heart. She had her very own LOU.

I glanced around the room, admiring the intricacies of the décor while savoring every last drop of my “gnarly red” cabernet.

LOU, this is the beginning of a beautiful love affair.

Rating:

LOU

724 Vine St
Los Angeles, CA 90038
Neighborhood: Mid Wilshire

(323) 962-6369

www.louonvine.com

THE OTHER BLUE WHALE

2011-08-07T16:11:00.000-07:00

Saturday. 8 pm.

Tonight we wanted to be “cultured” and “sophisticated.” Tonight we wanted to listen to live jazz and sip fancy cocktails in stiletto heels. Very different from last weekends pow wow of debauchery.

We wanted: underground, hard to find, chic. It is understood that good jazz, real jazz, is only found through hearsay. But our 30-something friends still beat hip-hop out of subwoofers, so we Googled.

The final decision: BlueWhale. It’s on a hidden side street we never knew existed, Astronaut Onizuka, and reviews say it’s “to the moon.” How could we go wrong?

Walking through Little Tokyo, we enter a barren strip mall that is head-to-toe Ramen and Hello Kitty. Muffled elevator music permeating throughout.There, tucked in the corner, on the top floor, we see our landing spot. We begin our ascension up the stairs. One small step for man…

The door guy, the one and only, a big burly man with a beard that should have its own agenda, will let you know before entering that there is no talking when the jazz begins. He means business. The point is to listen, to feel the rhythm and feel the vibe…go on in, it’s BlueWhale time

It’s dark, sexy, and quiet with a Rumi quote painted on the ceiling. So far, check and check. We dig it.

Our stilettos parked at the bar where the bartender, a kind, hippy fella, asked if he could make us a special cocktail.

J takes a sip and her stilettos beeline to the ladies room. It’s orange flavored, the only thing she can’t stomach. 5 minutes later, after christening the bathroom, she returns and I have already starting talking with the only available man at the bar. The drummer in the band. A New Yorker, edgy, lanky with unkempt curly brown hair. I act interested while he eats sliders and talks about how he travels the world playing jazz. He will do. I’m in the mood. I kind of, sort of really, want one of his burgers. I finish the fake orange concoction and J sticks to her regular vodka/tonic

8:25 pm, 5 minutes before show. As we make our way to the room, the blocks of blue velvet cubicles for seats are scattered like chess pieces throughout the room. The 15, or so, wallflowers line the walls and our Aries souls sit smack in the center.

And a one and a two…piano. Three and a four…drums. Five and a six…bass. Six and a seven…sax.

8:55 pm, only two songs later, with no back to the chair, our posture turns geriatric.

Our eyes watch the drummer’s face. He is so enraptured by his beat that every hit of the drum sends his face into tic convulsions. No wonder he’s available

Our hands hold up our chins and we hunch over listening intently to music that is the mothership of all music. J and I don’t look at each other once

Jazz will do that. It’s very personal.

Let it touch your soul, let it flow through you, let it…

Put you to sleep. Feeling my head falling towards my knees, I catapult myself upright and join in on the faint clapping. I even throw in a little snapping of my fingers to overcompensate. Clearly inappropriate and not a poetry reading

J finally turns to me. We stare at each other like scared birds. Afraid to speak for fear that Wolfman at the front door might pull us out by his teeth

J whispers, “Cool huh?”

“Yeah, cool.” I reply.

“It’s nice.”

“Yeah.”

“The sax player is good.”

“Yeah.”

“You ready to go?”

“Absolutely.”

9 pm…out the door.

In the car, we turn the volume up to NEO and PITBULL singing “Give Me Everything.”

Sophisticated to death. Glad we went, glad we left.

Rating:

BLUEWHALE Live Jazz and Art Space
Little Tokyo
123 Astronaut E S Onizuka Street, Suite 301
Los Angeles, CA 90012
Telephone: 213-620-0908

http://bluewhalemusic.com/