Brunch, AXE – Venice, CA

I’d landed at AXE (‘ah-shay’) distracted. Which, when coupled with the fact I’m writing six weeks or so in retrospect, means a detailed overview of certain aspects of the venue is out of the question. I never used the bathroom there, nor poked my head out to appreciate what’s meant to be some splendid outside space. But I ate and I experienced and garnered enough of an opinion to be able to say, yeah, you’ve got to go.

Strikes me, if you’re going to have pancakes for breakfast, it might as well be theirs. There’s real goodness in this cake’s 9 Grain constitution, even after you’ve drowned that shit in syrup, and matter to its consistency to reassure anyone dubious about how far its $15, berry inclusive price tag might stretch. I couldn’t finish. Not since I’d already made my stomach complacent by pouring into it a large glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice, a latte, and then ordered and eaten a side of crispy Apple Smoked Bacon aswell.

Contextually speaking, eating at AXE adds up. For breakfast for two, sixty bucks with service – while not a lot, really – probably represents proportionately more than you’d usually expect to part with. The costs, however, lie in the conscientiousness of the concept here. Produce is sourced ethically and deliberately and it shows. And the environment they’ve created is pretty cool. Vaguely Scandinavian in orientation, comfy it ain’t, but then commercially that probably aids and abets the need to turn tables over. The expedience of delivery from the kitchen is in tune with that. That from the floor, pitched today somewhere between laid-back and nonchalant, less so. It was hot outside, mind you, and not terribly well aerated inside, but then again I’d expect to notice that more than a native.

You’ll know if you clocked the Gjelina piece that I dig Venice, and in particular Abbot Kinney. Well AXE only adds to it. It could lose some attitude outwardly. I mean, don’t offer optional extras on the menu if they’re ‘out of season’. And definitely don’t inform me they are in a tone that suggests I should have known that. But it has a look and a theoretical approach to be commended and, crucially, the cooking kicks arse.

CrowsFeet. Anything to add….?

Dad’s Mad – Father’s Office, Santa Monica, CA

Father’s Office is a decent operation. Purveyors of a sensational variety of craft beers, they employ proficient, informed staff to pour them, and offer tasty, uncomplicated food at value. Problem is, they do so, at least they did on this occasion, with such self-regard, such a sense of entitlement, that I’ve been smarting about it ever since.

But then maybe that’s as much because, while there, I made a cock of myself. It’s worth saying we’d arrived having spent the previous 15 hours or so in transit from London. I was tired and in no small part, probably, disorientated. Which wasn’t the fault of our hosts. Nor, really, was the degree to which I let their not-unreasonable or uncommon open-seating policy unsettle me to such a state of high fucking anxiety. I was spooned out, perhaps, by the way the dude on the door threw down the deal as some sort of gauntlet to run. The responsibility, I’m embarrassed to say, of being live enough to acquire the four of us the first available berth proved almost too much to bear. I broke into a fit of Englishness so awkward I was asked in no uncertain terms to ‘just relax’ by the nice girl who, under peer-pressure, I’d pestered for a provisional table share. When she and her friend indeed relinquished their spot to us, it was with a politely condescending, ironic hand on my shoulder she said, ‘It’s all yours, baby’. By ‘baby’, she of course meant ‘dickhead’.

Befitting of the format, and pertinent in the context of the unfolding story, the only thing you get served at Father’s Office tables is food, which you’ve to order at the bar. Although it’s not so much served as brought.  Beers you need to get yourself. Which is totally fine. There’s a long list to look at so it’s as well you do, frankly. Less conducive to a comfortable evening is the fact you’ve to eat under the close and intensifying scrutiny of a swelling mass of folks forced to play the game we just had. Boldness and a distinct lack of social scruples wins out here. Manners will only leave you malnourished. Except if you’re two quasi attractive girls, in which case the ‘maitre-d’, presumably in the hope he might score points and subsequently get some, may well assist in procuring you a table.

When the bill landed I opted to pay with what US dollar I had on me. Which is to say with enough to cover the cost of what we’d had and, on balance of an ok evening – company notwithstanding; my friends are awesome – a conservative tip. Knowing full well that would constitute less than, as far as I’ve seen, west coast wait staff expect as a matter of fucking course, I told our server he’d been excellent as I handed over the money. To say how he appeared to accept his share of the change was ungracious is to go easy on him. He clearly felt he was better than that. He probably had been, individually. Collectively, Father’s Office, on the strength of tonight, had not. It’d been intense. Rushed and uncomfortable. And, outside of us having been politely obliged what we’d asked and now paid for, no one had really extended themselves.

So, having gesticulated something to the effect of ‘mean, motherfucking son of a bitch’, our man turned back from the register to find me still there, proffering him plastic. ‘Couldn’t help but notice you didn’t seem too happy about what I’d left. If that wasn’t good enough, mate, take more off that…’. ‘What?’. He was irritated. Self-conscious, hopefully. He should have been. I’d explained my position; I’d just landed in the country. Not only was that all I had, it was all I was inclined to give. Which is why I paid him the compliment. ‘I appreciate you sayin’ that’, he said, ‘but, just so you know, that’s a lot less than we’d expect on top of a $120 bill…’.

Different culture, different pay structure; I don’t care. Unless there’s a hint of appreciation on the part of the person looking after us that the all round experience needs to have been good, and a sense that it’s been, in part, a pleasure to deliver it, you might as well be giving alms as leaving a tip. You expected more, did you? So did I. I wanted to make a point to this guy. Like, it’s not about money, it’s about attitude. So, after we left, I walked to a cash point, withdrew some more wedge and, leaving the guys at the car, went right back. ‘I want all of this to go in your pocket’, I said, handing over way more than our evening had been worth. ‘And for the record, when I leave a tip it’s a reflection on the whole thing’.

I don’t enjoy thinking about it. It makes me anxious and I’m coy about getting cross. And, far from getting my point over, he probably just saw it as him getting his deserts. But it remains the only time I’ve ever been chased out of a bar by staff and have gratitude hurled after me down the street; ‘Hey, Pal! Pal…! Thankyou!’. Whatever, boss. I didn’t do it for you.

Nice burgers, though…

Photos courtesy of those with the presence of mind to take them. And careless enough to post them without thinking about who might use them to their own end. Cheers.

Ruination IPA Day – Gjelina, Venice, CA.

Abbot Kinney Blvd. is a thoroughfare, man. Even accounting for the extent to which I’m inordinately impressed by almost everything out here, one could comfortably spend a whole day walking up and down it, inhaling its relaxed, retail/residential vibe, trying and failing to put into words precisely what it is that makes it feel so fucking cool to me. It represents a lifestyle, I guess. One to which there appears very little urgency but that, at the same time, inspires you to get busy living. Creating. And realising some goals. I’d love to feel as passionately about my high street.

Gjelina is at the corner with Milwood Avenue. Anthracite and angular on the outside, inside it’s utilitarian but with texture, functional but with lots of flourishes. It’s Monday and it’s humming. I’d been told to expect indifference from the hostesses but they were fine. Brisk but cordial, they advised us a wait of up to 30 minutes was likely before space would become available, and that it’d be at one of two communal tables that splay from the room’s island bar. As it turned out we were seated in barely 10, and at our own, but not before being furnished with drinks – a Bordeaux blend from Washington State’s Gilbert Cellars, and a Stone Brewing Co. Ruination IPA.

The menu’s a knockout. An object lesson in sourcing, there was loads about the largely vegetarian card to distract even the most rapacious carnivore. I’m an open-minded mutha, but the irregularity with which I eat out these days ( in the UK, anyway…) means that, given the option, I’ll more often than not regress to red meat. Such an obviously considered, cosmopolitan card as this though, is a real credit to the farmer’s market sensibilities of its creators. I could have pinned the tail on the donkey and been as unreservedly pleased with whatever I wound up with. Our approach was more measured than that of course, and the fact that what I ultimately wound up with was Meatballs, and then pizza with salami, is entirely incidental. K and I also shared a Tuscan Kale salad with shaved fennel, radish and ricotta, and the Squash Blossom pizza; a Cherry Tomato, Zucchini, Burrata and Parmesan number. I left thinking if only there were more high-end, accessibly priced places that could so effortlessly make green stuff look good, the healthier, more balanced diet I’d have, and the happier I’d be about the apparent need to pour pint after pint of IPA down after it.

This being LA, and Venice’s most boutique boulevard, the crowd at Gjelina was young and typically hip but with mature, well-to-do glimpses that continued to speak volumes as to its far-reaching appeal. And we met a vampire there. A charming Frenchman called Sebastien who played one on a TV show, anyway. Far from raving about a blue Niman Ranch, Flat Iron steak he’d just savaged, however, he was more batty about the Butterscotch Pot de Creme with salted caramel. Proof (in the pudding, of all places) that even bloodsuckers can bite down on something besides flesh and still feel the benefits.

Just the best night, this. I heart LA, and this one’s for you, Malibu xxxxx

Boardwalk Empire – Venice Ale House, Venice, CA

This could have been the worst consumer experience of all time and I wouldn’t have noticed. Actually, I did notice, and from a service aspect, while it wasn’t all bad, it wasn’t the best. Just as at San Francisco’s Show Dogs a couple of nights previous, there was a discernible lack of attention to detail here, a degree of disorganisation that tested your faith as to whether, had they been much busier, the whole thing mightn’t have fallen apart. The point is that I really couldn’t give a shit. I’m in California.

She was just a bit green, our girl, and not terribly smart. And that’s ok. I felt sorry for her, as it goes, particularly when the stress of dealing with two enquiries at once caused her to drop her notepad. It doesn’t look good though when, shortly after having your order taken, someone else comes back to ask not only if, but what, you’ve ordered. What we’d ordered were two Medium/Rare Grass Fed & Finished Beef Burgers, each with Aged Raw Cheddar and Caramelized Onions ($12 inc. the extras), and one Free Range Chicken, Goat’s Cheese and Avocado sourdough sandwich($11). What we initially got were two burgers with Cheese, Onions and Mushrooms, and a small complimentary glass of Malbec to account for K’s course having been farmed out to another table. Alarm bells should have been ringing after the initial but ultimately fruitless approach to re-confirm what it was we wanted. Still, we were way too ‘in it’ to be unduly distracted/disappointed and none of us left much. What was distracting was the guy across the street dressed as a tree, dodging the shirtless show-offs who would intermittently skate by, and in particular the manoeuvre that saw him contort himself and his stilts into the back of a waiting VW.

I’m not sure, you know, going by the extent to which these service standards paled in comparison to those experienced on the east coast recently, that the situation in regard to tipping here shouldn’t be subject to a minor review. It ain’t enough just to turn up, fuck up, smile, and expect to cream off at least 20%. The industry pay structure, presumably, is designed so as to encourage the best out of its players from the point of view, metaphorically at least, that they’ve to sing for their supper.  And by that I mean to say to be fun AND competent. The system already in place will ensure they are rewarded accordingly. Anything short of that, such as at Show Dogs, which we left without knowing for sure each of us hadn’t taken delivery of the other’s sandwich, should be acknowledged precisely in terms of what it is; a relative shambles. In the UK you’d leave nothing. Here, anything less than 15% to a waiter/waitress is like being kicked in the crotch. But it might wake them up.

The beer, around which Venice Ale House bases its offer, is sourced entirely from western states. As an amber man, I began with a Fat Tire from Fort Collins, Colorado. K had a porter, a Black Butte from Deschutes brewery in Oregon which I also tried, but not before going with one of  the same brewery’s Green Lakes. I tend to prefer the darker US brews. I find the sweeter varieties more palatable at the temperature at which they’re served, and also, quite predictably, the hops in an amber ale tend to be better balanced. I’m also bored with being twatted across the tongue with IPA’s so dry and bitter it’s almost worth them coming accompanied by a water chaser. For the record, Fuchs, who’d been dancing to the atmosphere this whole time, enjoyed a jam jar of juice and a protractedly produced Hot Chocolate.

A feature of the VAH offer, true to where they are, is a four or six glass sampler or ‘Skate’ of beer, a skateboard deck customized to hold a selection of randomly or handpicked 40z pours as a means to introduce you to the range available. I’d probably have gone for this but for the fact we were well into pints by now. Another is how sociable their patrons would appear. I shared a visit to the bathroom with Mark from Georgia, which isn’t to imply anything untoward went down in there, rather that, for future reference, ’are you just going in there to pee?’ is all that needs to be asked to hurry matters along when there’s a queue forming and there’s only one John.

As I say, I’m in California. Which isn’t to say all objectivity should go out the window. However the Hymnal’s founded on principles that dictate even the most miserable treatment, where there’s entertainment to be had, can warrant a return visit. From a professional angle there was plenty for Venice Ale House to improve on. From that of a consumer, given the outlook, and that the company was, in the most perfect sense, handpicked, it could have been so much worse.

Kaela. You’re the shit. Thanks for having us. x

Photos courtesy of Venice Ale House and One’s steady hand.