Michael Lippman

It's Monday night, and I'm trolling around wondering what to eat.  M Cafe for macrobiotic food?  Wolfgang's Steakhouse in Beverly Hills?  Clementine for a citrus arugula salad?  Uh oh.  I could be driving around for a long time, fantasizing about all the possibilities.  My phone rings, it's David, the cook at Mozza, my new friend.  He has a pitch.  Gordon Ramsay at the London.  Genius.

I was in love with Gordon Ramsay for the first season of Hell's Kitchen.  At first, I had no idea he was a 3 star Michelin chef – I would have loved his show even more had I known.  But what’s going on now? – his chef-contestants seem to be getting weaker and weaker each season.  Could any of the remaining contestants on this year's show be an executive chef anywhere, let alone at a restaurant with serious aspirations?  Meanwhile, look at Top Chef – every season the contestants have gotten better and better.   Is it possible that no sane person would want to work for Gordo?  Is it possible that his contestants ARE talented, but in the face of Ramsay’s constant abuse their talents are diminished?

In any case, that's TV, this is real life, this is dinner.  And as I pull into the almost hidden driveway of the London in West Hollywood, I’m feeling palpably excited.  I walk into the hotel.  It’s impressively elegant.  Then I walk back to the restaurant and my initial reaction is … pure shock.  This is Gordon Ramsay's restaurant?  3 star Michelin chef?  It reminds me of the Howard Johnson's in Seekonk, Massachusetts where we used to eat every night, stoned, at 2 AM.  There’s gold everywhere, with loungey, couchy, lobby-like seating.  Gold spotlights, gold chandeliers, and my favorite, gold faux window shades.  It's like an airport VIP lounge in Brussels or something.  I have no idea what it is, it’s just tackier than anything I could have imagined.

Which is cool.  I feel comfortable.  It's not intimidating in the least.  I feel "above it”.  The design is trying to be upscale, but I know it’s tacky, and that makes me feel safe.  Is it possible they were going for that?  A tacky, unintimidating vibe? – that would be so mind-bogglingly awesome.

Turns out David knows a sommelier here, a guy who moved here from Mozza.  Nice guy.  He pours us an exquisite, gorgeous, beautiful, pretty as anything rose Champagne from Schramsburg.  20 bucks by the glass and worth coming here just for that.

We order nine courses between us so we can taste many things.  There are highs and lows.  The service is pretty poor, but they've been open only a week or so, so I don't hold that against them at all.  It's the food I'm curious about.

The first big disappointment/red flag is the English pea soup with smoked salmon and caviar.  The smoked salmon and caviar are nice, but it's the pea soup that's way below where it should be.  It tastes like peas I could find at my local Ralph's.  A small portion of pea soup in a restaurant like this needs to resonate with the essence of pea!  Later, the asparagus served with the veal dish is equally uninspired.  No one here is sourcing incredible local veggies!  We're not used to that weird oversight in Los Angeles.  It strikes us as unforgivable, unimaginable.

Also in the first round of dishes:  the much-touted (by early visitors here) duck breast with crispy tongue and foie gras, which was nice but unexceptional.  The “breast” is flattened out at the bottom of the plate, gossamer thin, and I kind of feel like I’m an astronaut in 2001 as I eat it.   Also:  Pacific yellow fin tuna with pickled daikon, crab beignets, in a sesame soy dressing.  Good quality tuna, but the beignet was so small it was almost microscopic, and when eaten with the tuna it had the effect of an inarticulate annoyance.  David was appalled by the beignet.

The second round of courses was much better.  Shellfish cassoulet with prawn tortellini was good.  Monkfish with chicken skin was really good, and I loved the idea – monkfish turned into a chicken by putting chicken skin on it.   (Unfortunately, again, the accompanying veggies did not sing).   And: the pork belly with diced apple was worth the price of admission.  Stunning.  Like the best roadside pork rib ever in the world.  There was a  miniature spring roll on the plate with a bit of the pork and a bit of the apple, and it was brilliant.

Next round of dishes:  The veal with crispy sweet breads was tender, juicy and yummy, particularly when the veal and the crispy sweetbreads were eaten in the same bite.  Had the asparagus been excellent, the dish might have been really nice.  Also:  Filet of beef with Kobe short rib.  Short rib tasted bland and cardboardy, the filet was perfect.

Another early word on the restaurant has been:  get the pig's head.  We ordered it.  It never came.  We kept thinking they were holding back till the end.   We fantasized that after all these tiny, refined dishes, they would carry out a whole pig’s head, on a spit, apple in its mouth, as a finale.  Didn’t happen.  And by the end we were full, and instead of bringing a pig's head, they asked us if we wanted dessert.

For dessert we had a chocolate sticky pudding, which was decent; a crème fraîche panna cotta with strawberry gelée, acacia honey and thyme crumble, which was awesome; and a tapioca pudding, which was phenomenal.  I’m not a dessert guy, but the dessert course may have been the best.

In short, I will be back, or at least I say I will.  Why?  To sit in that strange, tacky, lounge-like space, sip Schramsberg rose, and eat pork belly and dessert.  And maybe they’ll remember my pig’s head.