Best Of :: Food & Drink
This year, L.A. has been the beneficiary of a falafel explosion of sorts, and it shows no sign of slowing. Bestia's Ori Menashe has a falafel project in the works, and ex–Brooklyn chefs Sara Kramer and Sarah Hymanson have won hearts and mouths at Grand Central Market with their falafel stand Madcapra. But the biggest revolution in the falafel world to date is Dune in Atwater Village, a tiny shop run by Scott Zwiezen, who also operates Elf Cafe in Echo Park. At Dune, there are only a handful of menu items, and while we love the lamb sandwich almost as much, it's the falafel that dreams are made of. The falafel itself is made without any flour, which makes it less bready and spongy than some falafel. Fat, soft falafel balls with a hearty but delicately herbed flavor sit inside pliant pita bread that's been grilled to order, atop a smear of hummus, a handful of fresh herbs, pickles and a smattering of thin, fried potato spears. Is there a downside? This is a teeny operation, with people making bread and frying falafel to order, and food can take a while. We've waited as long as 40 minutes for food to arrive, and that's after a wait in line to get to the counter in the first place. It was worth it. That's damn good falafel.
It seems almost sacrilegious to name such a newcomer as Best Restaurant in Los Angeles when there are so many long-standing amazing eateries to choose from. And yet, over the last year, no place has walked the line between thrilling creativity and technical brilliance as well as Curtis Stone's Maude. It seems the chef, who has spent much of the last 20 years dabbling more in reality television and lucrative spokesman deals than in the actual kitchen, was just saving up all his energy and talent to funnel into this tiny labor of love. The menu, built monthly around a seasonal ingredient, exudes playfulness and is perfectly executed. Meals turn into symphonic musings on a season and an ingredient, and it's pure joy to watch Stone's train of thought meander through the courses. Impeccable service and a wonderful wine list only add to the charm, as does the set price (around $100 per person, more for months when luxury ingredients such as truffles take center stage), which would be three times as much in New York or London.
Chefs have long been playing in the fun space between California cooking and the grand French brasserie, but with Terrine it feels as though Kris Morningstar has finally hit on something solid, something more than playtime. His take on the French classics is stunning: The French onion soup is as deep and rich and laden with cheese as any you could find in Paris, and his grand charcuterie plate is a thing of wonder. But he's also inventing classics of his own. The crispy pig ears served in strips with aioli on the side are like frites from piggy heaven. The garbure, a stew of duck confit and white beans, expresses the very quintessence of duck, its deep brawny soul, its particular gamey perfume. The room, with its burnished mirrors and heavy silverware, feels exactly classy enough (without ever veering toward stuffy), and the back patio with its glorious Javanese bishopwood tree is one of L.A.'s loveliest outdoor dining options. The cocktails are great, the wine list is fantastic, and service has just the hint of formality you'd expect from the charming Frenchmen, Stephane Bombet and François Renaud, who oversee it.
Here's the thing about Ludovic Lefebvre: On the one hand, he's capable of turning out some of the city's most impressive avant-garde food at Trois Mec, and on the other, he gives us French food so classic at Petit Trois that it's better than the subject material it draws from. (Seriously — try finding a croque monsieur or a plate of escargot in Paris as good as Ludo's versions. I've tried. They don't exist.) The guy can turn around and teach your 7-year-old how to make clafoutis at one of his kids' classes. And then, he nonchalantly decides to put a burger on the Petit Trois menu, and — voila! — it's the best burger in the city. His fried chicken is great. His cookbooks are great. One of these days the guy will do something that's not 100 percent fantastic, but that day hasn't come yet.
Here's a confession: The last three times I've been to Providence, my credit card has been declined. Once, the card had expired three days earlier; on another occasion, the waiter swept up my husband's card before he had time to furiously transfer funds on his phone's banking app. A third time I just didn't have enough money in the bank. Providence is expensive. I paid in cash. But the point is, despite my faux pas — which have become comical in frequency at this particular establishment — the staff never once made me feel a fool. In fact, they've been just as gracious in dealing with my banking mishaps as they've been when recommending a wine, or preparing Santa Barbara spot prawns tableside, or wheeling out that glorious German-engineered cheese cart and deftly creating the perfect cheese plate. For a restaurant so formal, the service staff at Providence manage the exact right amount of warmth, a welcome that feels so genuine you might return even after embarrassing yourself twice. And then do it again.
When République opened, you could often see Taylor Parsons ducking in and out of the cellar room, tasting and swirling wines, then rushing out to tables to exclaim upon what he had found in the glass. No one was more enthusiastic, more excited to share his love for wine than Parsons. This is still the case, though now that he’s taken over duties as general manager as well as being wine director, he’s less likely to be tasting wine on the floor and more likely to be in some managerial meeting. If you’re lucky enough to catch him, though, he’s a font of friendly knowledge and is likely to have some bottle open in back that he just can’t wait for you to try. His list is still one of the most approachable and exciting wine documents in town, ranging from bargain bottles he’s sought out to true special-occasion treats. And he’s done a very good job of hiring wine folks to be on the floor in his stead when he’s stuck in those pesky meetings.