What the Hell Are You Eating? has been in L.A. for a long weekend at Book Expo America (or whatever the hell B.E.A. acutally stands for). Normally, a trip to the City of Angels would have ganered numerous trips to many fine dining establishments but we were sort of tied to one location and hampered by time so we did the best we could.
On our first evening in L.A. I was lured to a rooftop party at the Downtown Standard Hotel by the promise of dinner soon afterward at some restaurant called Pinot Bistro or Cafe Pinot or the Bistro Cafe, I can’t remember. The Standard had a really upscale lobby with lots of neon signs and marble pillars. There was a shitty DJ bumping old school rap hits so I figured there was going to be a lot of white people in the house (I was right). Once bypassing the lobby and reaching the top floor we realized that the Standard would be a really nice hotel. If it were in Chechnya. The sufficiently douchey security guard told us we needed wrist bands as soon as we got to the roof so we had to all the way back down and all the way back up before we could spend twenty eight dollars on three drinks (one of which was a Corona). We met up with the rep from Parragon hoping to head to the restaurant as soon as possible. She was pretty much in the bag but was still able to convey to us the fact that we wouldn’t be going to another restaurant and would be dining there at the bar. Fine, whatever, we were so hungry it didn’t matter plus it was on their tab.
At first we were sitting on weird low couches in which no one looked or felt comfortable. The Parragon rep tapped me on the shoulder and extended a finger slathered in chocolate sauce and asked me if I wanted to try it indicating that I should put her finger in my mouth and suck it off. The process by which I said no went like this in my head: 1. It’s chocolate. 2. I’ve only met this person four minutes ago. 3. Who else at this shitty party has licked her finger? 4. Not counting other people’s mouths where else might this finger have been?
Unfortunately the food at the Standard’s bar made me almost as uncomfortable. There were mini cheeseburgers which, after eating one, I thought might have just been decoration. The kabob plates fared a little better with the chicken skewers topping the steak if only because when you bit them they didn’t come off the skewer in one piece like the steak. The vegetable kabobs were by far the worst. I picked the top of the kabob off with my teeth and started to chew. My mouth rejected the vegetable like a wrinkled dollar in a vending machine. Upon further inspection, Heather and I were unable to determine which member of the vegetable family this piece of pseudo food was actually purporting to be. Strangely the winner of the night was the peanut butter, chocolate and marshmallow sandwich which came with the aforementioned chocolate sauce. The wait staff at the Standard was nice though they are forced to dress like rejects from a White Stripes cover band. Also we were a couple of months late for A Private Affair with Tyrese featuring Nick Cannon.
I give the Standard Hotel Bar 4 Kabobs of mystery vegetables.
Here’s what people in L.A. say about the Standard while killing time at work on the internet:
“You never know who your going to meet- a porn importer from Spain, a USC student, or just some business shmo. ” – Morgan D.
“Oh, I know, to wash our hands with the shared faucet in the restrooms. With those old creepy business guys. ” – Shauna D.
“Downtown Standard was a Debbie Downer.” – Kathy K.