![]() ![]() Before we could ask, he said that Herman was a contractor who would request this pasta - baked shells in a spicy pink vodka sauce and sausage - for family meal. By way of introduction, our waiter told us that there were no specials but there was a secret dish called Herman’s Pasta. We had the option to sit in the back - the room the host called “the speakeasy” - and the breeze of an insider experience wafted in with us. On a Sunday night, my friend Aja and I did a wellness check on Horses. That updated nostalgia is telegraphed as soon as you arrive: people languidly smoking in front of the façade painted in a jolting Yves Klein blue indicating a portal away from the gaudiness of Sunset Boulevard. The old Ye Coach & Horses space has good bones - sturdy wooden beams converge into a pointed tavern ceiling, a front room with a long bar, and rows of straight-backed booths. Honestly, I thought the food was fine, but the vibes were immaculate: cool, sexy, like I was ready to do crime. I had gone last year - before the public scandal. restaurant), but the thought exercise tickled my transplant friends, because we all knew the feeling of a New York restaurant - Estela, Bernie’s, Claud - and how the very lack of space could create warm nooks and the possibility of wild, cascading nights.Įveryone had the same initial thought: Horses. So I pitched an idea: What are the most New York restaurants in L.A.? This was an idiot’s proposal (any restaurant in L.A. The restaurant felt like an impersonation of New York - like the Friends apartment. We sat on the sidewalk next to a heater with a view of a Subway sign and ate an unimpressive hot dog. When I arrived, we got dinner at Coucou, a French spot in Venice. I was visiting a friend who had just had a baby and was missing New York. Meanwhile, New York was trapped under a dome of wildfire smoke. earlier this month, the weather was topsy-turvy: The city was like Portland - cold and gray with sporadic bouts of sunshine. Yet, inevitably, even after weeks of unceasingly placid weather and superior agriculture, I crave home: the density and bother of New York and, within it, the theater of a New York restaurant. Even in the flat, barren cityscape, people can make magic with a wok and a gas burner. has the loose, vibrant feeling of serendipity that often happens in trucks and strip malls: a dozen potato tacos at Atacor to be enjoyed with a beer at Footsie’s, cheesy marlin at Coni’Seafood, a breakfast bowl of knife-cut noodles at Hangari, crab curry at Luv2eat Thai. When I visit, I go native Eastsider: Life Force shots at Erewhon, pilates at Morph followed by big salads at All Time, Sundays gay drinking at El Cid, nights in with delivery chicken with extra garlic whip from Zankou’s - or Kismet when I’m flush. Capri Club is in California, but it may as well be Bushwick.Įvery New Yorker has heard the siren call of L.A.: Think of the weather, the laid-back attitude, the produce, the tacos, the space, they say.
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