Listen to me. Los Angeles is a beautiful, sun-drenched toilet bowl of broken dreams, fake tits, and overpriced steaks. And right in the middle of it sits Gwen.
You walk into a place like this, you expect the host and hostess to look at you like you just tracked dog shit onto their pristine Persian rug. But surprisingly? Not assholes. A rare LA miracle.
However, our waiter — who looked exactly like the next Leonardo DiCaprio biding his time at a temporary day job before his big break — seemed to suffer from a rare neurological condition where he forgot about our existence every thirty seconds. It took five years to order. It took eighty-five years to get the food. I aged a full decade waiting for a fork.
Let's talk about the wine. Good. I don't need more words for it. It's fermented grape juice that gets you drunk, and it did its job admirably.
But then... the water tasting menu. Yes, you heard me right. A water tasting menu. A cry for help at best. Nice try, LA, but I'm not paying a premium to sample different variations of the shit that falls from the sky. The house bite they brought out? Also a cry for help. Just give me actual food.
Speaking of food — the appetizers. We got the tuna tartare and the scallop crudo. I would describe both as a beautiful mid. Not life-changing, not terrible. Just... aggressively fine.
But the bread. Holy mother of god, the bread. I would strip naked for money in a crowded intersection if I had to buy this bread. It is a carbohydrate masterpiece. To all my gluten-intolerant friends out there: I am so, so sorry your genetics have betrayed you, because you are missing out on the only reason to live.
For the main event, I got the filet mignon. It was $150. Not normally a cut I would order here — I really wished I could have tasted the ribeye, but I'm watching my macros shrugs and also, I'm not dropping $250 on a single piece of meat unless it comes with a happy ending. The filet was a good filet mignon. Not the best I've ever had. That title still belongs to some mysterious, unnamed restaurant I went to with my parents in Vegas when I was 22.
The beet salad was acceptable, but for the love of Christ, why put the seasoning on top?! I took a bite and inhaled a cloud of dust. I did not sign up for the cinnamon challenge: beet edition. Mix your shit, people.
My buddy Fed got the NY strip. Now, Fed loves a NY strip. It's his favorite cut of steak because it reminds him of his dad. It's a whole emotional thing. Was it good? Yeah. Great? No. But it had a better char than my filet, so I'll give it that.
Overall? I wouldn't come back. But it was a good experience. If you have time to kill, money to burn, and a fetish for bread and forgetful actors, Gwen is your spot.
