Before my career-de-hancing stint at The Mighty Bureaucracy U, I worked at a great academic institution in a job that allowed me to travel to lovely and interesting places, specifically to meet with lovely and interesting people. In any case, the Good University sent me to L.A., to have some meetings with a Famous Author. Even though I had a decent expense account, I was (and remain) absolutely a genius in scouting out the very best deals in travel, particularly hotels. So, when I managed to snag a non-exorbitant room at the lush-appearing Maison 140 in BH, I was eager to leave the the gloom and chill of a real winter for some la-la-land sun and glamour.
I had been to LA often enough to drop the silly east coast preconceptions, and to have an inkling that the stereotypes were just that. Open-minded ole Valentina, that's me. And at first glance, Maison 40 was just the ticket. Small, intimate, tucked away on a little side street. But as soon as I walked in the door, my ultra-sensitive cliche` antennae started vibrating. First of all, we (the X had tagged along) were invited to sit on tiny chairs to sign in at a sleek, unencumbered exotic-wood desk. I half expected the equally sleek and wooden signer-inner person to ask to see my latest bank statement or paystub. As she gave us both a quick but unmistakeable once-over, I became acutely conscious of the fact that I was not toting the latest "it" bag, and was not wearing Chanel (not even the perfume). And this is from a person who really, really, really likes to dress well, mind you.
Well, this review is for the bar, which I recently re-visited for a wine-tasting event, so I'll keep the other stuff brief. The rooms were tiny, albeit charming. Mr. X, who had tagged along on this trip, brooded darkly that he had a bad feeling about the place. I was more optimistic, and wrong. The room was not only miniscule, but noisy as hell. It appears that the tribes that like to frequent small hotel bars in BH also like to park their overpriced, tiny, cars right underneath said hotels and scream inchoerently at each other and into their cel phones in the wee hours of the morning. They like to make plans on where they'll go next, but are so intoxicated they cannot for the life of them remember which place they'd just decided upon a mere minute ago. Perhaps they need a personal assistant to remind them of this? Hey, I'll volunteer! Ever-helpful, II opened my window and shouted out: "Go to the EFFIN' Peninsula across the street already, ass-heads!"--which prompted confused stares around and finally the dim notion that others could hear their loud confabulations).
The next night, in order to pre-empt any frustrations, we decided to have some pre-sleep martinis to ease our jet-lagged souls and allow us to at least to conk out more quickly. So we groped our way into the (Surprise Surprise!) tiny bar, sat at a tiny table, and had two tiny, not-particularly-special martinis. And then two more. And then got the bill. For close to 100 bucks. Gulp. The X, who was treating, was not amused. Nor was I.
Fast forward almost a decade. Mr. C tells me about a great wine-tasting he'd heard about in a charming boite in BH. Although I don't usually think the words "charming" and "Beverly Hills" can live in the same sentence, I agree. Sooo...imagine my surprise when we pull up in front of good ole Maison 140. And when we stumble into the dim recesses of Bar Noir (so chic! so cataract-friendly!) and are seated at a thimble-table, the good times just come rushing on back to me.
The space was not overcrowded, and really couldn't have been without leading to a huge amount of intimacy with some folks I really would rather not get to know better. As more and more CAA types drifted in, though, I knew that no matter how good the wines (and they were okay, but nowhere near as tasty, unique, and generously served as the much-more-fun wine tasting at Silverlake Wine) I had to leave. Now. Because the first time I got hit full in the face by the ultra-straightnened blonde hair of The Nervous Hair Flipper Talking About Her Therapy Session into a Tiny Cel Phone was also the last time I was going to get hit by---well, you know. Mr. C understood. He knows I'm generally easygoing, but that once the crabbiness starts flowing it's unstoppable. So we hauled ass outta there, downing the dregs of our pinot, grabbing a (small) cheese wedge, and making sure to keep our voices down as we got back into the car, just in case my jet-lagged counterpart was in the same room I'd been in, trying desperately to find a place for her suitcase in the postage-stamped size (but charming) room. read more
