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

3TWENTY glass half full

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@#

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

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

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

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/