That's the Who. Where: a kind of reassuringly crappy strip mall diagonally across the street from Mozza and down the street from Street (to orient you, food-wise); no sign other than the defunct Raffallo's Pizza; no valet; opaque windows; locked door till they want you in there. When: began last week, ongoing. Why: maybe ask the chef (Ludo), who will be chatting you up, if you're agreeable and he's in a good mood, as he and his stellar crew serve you very beautiful dishes (on very beautiful actual dishes, some from local ceramicists, some from Ludo's French grandmother, or so he says), which brings us to the ...What: asparagus, brioche, egg yolk and green alder; barbecued carrots with watercress, orange, yogurt and avocado; riced (in front of you!) Weiser potato with brown butter and bonito; a kind of glorious rib cap with black walnuts, a giant spelt crouton (La Brea's rather than made in-house, because the place is absurdly tiny) and a carafe of shallot broth that your server or Ludo himself will pour over the whole thing while you watch (ta-da!); and a bowl of almond ice cream with bright Barbie-pink rosewater ice, rhubarb, strawberries and olive oil cake. Or at least that's what it was on Monday, when we managed to score tickets and sit at the bar (thanks, Jonathan!).
How: Yes, you have to buy tickets. Yes, it's weird and maybe a pain in the ass and maybe a bit twee, but so what. This is L.A., which seems to be better suited ideologically for this kind of thing than, oh, Chicago (see: Next). Just pretend it's The Stones or Skrillex or Bieber, depending on your demographic. As for the issues that people reportedly had registering and making reservations last time, likely the system will work more efficiently this week. As somebody once said, Keep calm and carry on. (Or the French equivalent of that. See: Charles de Gaulle, or maybe one of the French rappers that Ludo has on the playlist.)
And in related news: