The historic theater
district in downtown L.A. has seen much better days; when ladies and gents
thought nothing twice about going to the drycleaners in a seersucker suit then
sauntering over to a coffee shop for a simple egg cream before a night at the
cinema amongst lavish, burgundy curtains, crystal chandeliers, baroque French
décor and 1,999 other guests dressed to the nines. Long gone are those days now
that we have the cookie cutter, personality-devoid strip mall Cineplex where the
most fancy piece of garb on a patron will be the buttoned up shirt on an usher.
But this past week, the historic Los Angeles Theater on Broadway (now closed
most of the time, sitting amongst a resurgence of old-architectural
gems-cum-hipster lofts) opened its doors to screen the classic noir Bogey and
Bacall flick The Big Sleep as part of
the Los Angeles Conservancy’s annual program Last Remaining Seats.
So the Cute Gardener
and I decided to make a proper night of it. And what would a night for us be without
the eternal hunt for new space for our perpetual foodie trysts? We wanted a
place that was intimate enough for a few glasses of wine and some bites to eat
but that could also easily double as a rendezvous joint for the likes of a real
dick and dame, such as the two we would watch later on film. After an illicit
drink at King Eddy’s Saloon down the street, (thank you Anthony Bourdain for
turning us on to that great dive bar!) we upped our ante towards a little more
class and strolled into the cobalt blue walled French wine and cheese bar
Mignon.
A little plate of 50/50 was calling our names: rich
and varied olives for him and warm, salty powdered almonds for me and a little
sharing of the two in between.
At six o’clock we
were the first ones there, which was great as we were able to put in a healthy
order of small plates before the onslaught of after work happy hour women who
quickly filled up the remaining few seats around the central, and solo,
rectangular hearty wooden bar. The CG joked about the place being so clearly a
chick joint and I retorted that the
$5 priced nice red Rhone was as carnal as his sarcastic heart. We quickly
devolved into 1950s noir speak from there as we racked up a bevy of dishes to
eat and I crossed my legs to up my coyly flirtatious, yet alluringly
mysterious, yet highly acerbic and intelligent game.
He turned into a
master gentlemen on the adjoining barstool able to swirl his swish of white
wine around like a belle around the dance floor and clever enough to remark on
the plethora of nice legs while watching the liquid ones run down his glass –
as detached and aloof as Phillip Marlowe.
“A little lubricant
for your loaf?” he asked as he passed over a nice little sliver of bread.
Two glasses down, I
welcomed the sexy, tawdriness of that remark and smiled mischievously as the
next dish arrived looking exactly like the Cheshire cat. Two beautiful eggs
baked side by side with leeks and cream and toast points.
“A little pitter for
your patter?” he continued, as a perfect plate of radishes and two rambunctious
carrots was set before us completed by a small pot of creamy French butter
flecked with fleur de sel.
“A little meat from
your mate?” I shot back, while cutting a slab of chunky pate and spreading it
onto a crispy, doughy slice to feed into his mouth.
Before leaving, and
true to form amongst our newfound surroundings, we enjoyed the Chef’s choice
dessert plate. Every real woman knows
that all things that end well do so because of the final exclamation of a
cherry on top and this escapade came with two halves on a creamy bed of goat
cheese with a leaf-wrapped sister and a honey drizzled brie, all luxuriating
like my taste buds on the final slices of warm baguette.
Leaving through the
double glass doors, I took one last sidelong glance at the cursive letters
beckoning others into the place; my seat filled quickly with a couple who had
been waiting, and as fast as Romeo could say Juliet, we were off to the theater.
He whistled while we
walked and I, beside him perfectly content, whistle wet.
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