The host has kept us waiting for an hour already. Who does this guy think he is? Didn’t he catch my breakout role as Student No. 2 in the A&E movie of the week The Brooke Ellison Story? Doesn’t he know that Krysten is a regular on Veronica Mars and just scored the lead in a pilot that’s sure to get picked up? Can’t he tell that we’ve all but traded in our (gasp) boot-cut jeans for the pencil-thin Kate Moss variety .?.?. and that we’ve come here to the Ivy on Robertson not to spot stars but to be spotted?
Finally, this ignoramus seats us and we order a pair of vodka gimlets to celebrate Krysten’s first official day as an official, soon-to-be-famous actress.
The balcony is a sea of bug-eyed sunglasses and padlocked Chloe bags. A few paparazzi pace in front of the picket fence that surrounds the restaurant. Luckily, they don’t bother us.
We peruse the menu (and the prices) and decide to split a cobb salad. Maybe when Krysten’s pilot actually gets picked up, we’ll each get to order our salads. After an eternity, this one comes overly chopped and sans blue cheese. The bill comes with extras, though: a charge for splitting our dish and another for not spending enough money. We leave tipsy, crabby and a hundred bucks poorer. A Ryan Seacrest sighting on the way out does little to cheer us.
Next stop: Kitson, home of the J Brand jeans I’ve had my eye on all month. Giddy with anticipation, I squeeze into them and waddle out to the mirror. As it turns out, stretch denim with a 10-inch ankle is not as forgiving as one might think. I look like I’m wearing leggings with belt loops. Even Krysten has to admit, “They’re not ideal.” I put my boot-cuts back on.
We decide to regroup with an afternoon chick-flick rental. Rumor Has It turns out to be about as inspiring as seeing Ryan Seacrest. Our sense of fabulousness is fading fast.
By now, it’s 6-ish and we’re hungry again. We consider another stab at making the world take notice — the Standard? — but we’re still drained from the indifference of the Ivy. Instead, we decide to head over to Hugo’s, the famous West Hollywood greasy spoon where I used to work.
Stepping through the double glass doors is like coming home. I don’t even know the new host, but he still whisks us to a window seat the moment we walk in. At the table beside us, a black-clad musician type inhales a burger and fries while his dreadlocked buddy munches a Very Green Casserole with soy cheese and veggie bacon. Krysten lights up at the mention of breakfast served all day and orders the chipotle scramble.
“Yum city, population you,” exclaims our server as he jots down ?her order.
“Dude, this place is great. It’s like eating at gay Cheers,” Krysten whispers as he dances away.
We are both ridiculously happy with our meals. “I never want it to end,” says Krysten, as she lifts another forkful of her scramble to her smiling lips. When Krysten spots Jake Gyllenhaal bent over a paperback by the window, it’s official: As far as we’re concerned, Hugo’s kicks the Ivy’s ass.
After refilling our coffee mugs so many times that I’m twitching, our server finally surrenders the bill. $25.95! I leave him a massive tip, and we strut out feeling like stars, even in our boot-cut jeans.
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