Breaking Free: L.A. Wine Culture

If chefs can sometimes seem like studio engineers, technique-obsessed artists laboring for hours to create a single, dazzling effect, wine guys are like DJs, digging stuff out of the crates and rocking the party. Chefs have to spend long hours buried in carcasses to the elbow. Wine guys spend their mornings spitting and swallowing. Chefs spend their working vacations grilling quail for charity benefits in North Carolina. Wine guys fly to Paris and Verona. Chefs stagger home at two in the morning with blood on their clothing and bits of flour in their hair. Wine guys may also stagger home at two in the morning with blood on their clothing, but it is not generally part of the job description.

Sommeliers in Los Angeles operate under certain disadvantages. Angelenos don't drink as much as New Yorkers or Londoners — that second bottle of wine is incompatible with speeding home on the 405 — and we're much more likely to drink our Petrus, should we be in the mood for it, at home. When we feel like a Santa Barbara Chardonnay, it's harder to talk us into ordering a bottle of Merseault. But we are people who live in neighborhoods with Tudor castles, Spanish haciendas and modernist slabs all on the same block, and we're pretty much up for anything. Radikon Vitovska? Sure. The world is our vineyard.

Anne Fishbein

You say La Tache, I say Latour: Labels lighting the way at Bastide.

Anne Fishbein

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More About

• Pieter Verheyde
• Vincenti Valentino
• Joe Pytka
• Wine
• Seafood

RESTAURANTS FOR WINE LOVERS

A.O.C.The cheese-and-charcuterie-intensive inspiration for basically all of the new ­generation of wine bars, Suzanne Goin's A.O.C. is the kind of place you drop into for a glass of Cassis and maybe a bit of octopus, then a glass of Sancerre and a few grilled sardines, then a glass of Friulian Tocai and a plate of sliced prosciutto, then a glass of Corbieres and the tiniest plate of skewered grilled lamb with mint. Unless you were in the mood for the bacon-wrapped dates with Parmesan on the bar menu, which would go so nicely with one of those big southern Italian reds, or a ripe Crozier blue with a late-bottled port, or whatever creature comes with a bit of Goin's romesco sauce, or quite possibly the 12-hour pork belly. You could drink and eat like this all night if you remembered to make a reservation — and if A.O.C. didn't unreasonably stop serving at 11. 8022 W. Third St., L.A., (323) 653-6359. Mon.-Fri. 6-11 p.m., Sat. 5:30-11 p.m., Sun. 5:30-10 p.m. Wine bar. Valet parking. AE, MC, V. French-Mediterranean-influenced small plates.

Bastide To the small, food-obsessed population of Angelenos who know the difference between a sliver of Jabugo ham and a chunk of mere jamon serrano, Bastide is the Montrachet-slinging equivalent of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, with Space Jamauteur Joe Pytka, its mad proprietor, taking the place of the estimable Mr. Wonka. After months on hiatus, Pytka reopened the doors with Walter Manzke, an ex-Patina chef, taking over the range, and Pieter Verheyde, the former sommelier at Ducasse in New York, and Paris, assuming control of the wine list (see more in main essay). The menu is prix-fixe, $100 for seven courses; another $100 or $190, depending on how far you want to go, lets you experience Verheyde's eccentric wine pairing, which is one of the best shows in town. As in the last incarnation of Bastide, the food wobbles on the edge between familiarity and utter weirdness, things like deconstructed lobster tacos, abalone noodle soup, oyster shooters with wasabi ice and cylinders of roasted Beijing duck. Many, many cheeses. Dessert. A fifth or sixth glass of wine, probably a vintage port. And then out on the street. 8475 Melrose Place, West Hollywood, (323) 651-5950. Tues.-Sat. 6 p.m.-10 p.m. Valet parking. All major CC. American/French.

Blue VelvetWrapped around a glowing swimming pool that turns every vantage into a David Hockney painting, Blue Velvet is a hyperdesigned lounge fitted into the ground floor of a former Holiday Inn, with the cool blues of Staples Center and the financial-district skyscrapers just beyond. Some of the herbs and vegetables are harvested from an organic rooftop garden overlooking the Harbor Freeway. The well-priced wine list includes hard-to-fine things like Failla Chardonnay and Denis Alaray's delicious Cairanne. From a spot by the window, downtown is as glamorous as the view from a penthouse in a Fred Astaire picture. It is doubtful, though, that Astaire ever dined on deep-fried yogurt balls with pureed greens and raisins, or on a vaguely Malaysian squid salad with kumquats, or on a Thai-flavored roast duck accompanied by its tempura-fried liver, or on smoked tofu with black lentils and cherry tomatoes. Kris Morningstar, who did stints at Patina, A.O.C. and the late Meson G, is the chef at Blue Velvet, and his engaged if inconsistent version of the eclectic world cuisine thing ranges over more of the globe than Angelina Jolie. I especially like the squab crepinette, which involves rare slices of the breast arranged over a sort of pillowlike sausage stuffed with pureed corn bread, pureed mushrooms and bits of the bird's own liver cooked into what tastes a little like Thanksgiving dinner on a small plate. 750 S. Garland Ave., L.A., (213) 239-0061. Mon.-Fri. 11:30 a.m.-2:30 p.m., Sun.-Thurs. 5:30-10:30 p.m., Fri.-Sat. 5:30-11 p.m. Bar open daily 4 p.m.-2 a.m. Full bar. Valet parking. AE, MC, V. California contemporary.