Everything You Thought You Knew About Beverly Hills Was Wrong
Look, I’m willing to admit it here: I misjudged Beverly Hills. But as someone who grew up in Southern California — and consumed plenty of the popular media from the ‘80s, ‘90s, and early 2000s — Beverly Hills was, to me, always its image: a symbol of flaunted opulence and hollow substance. A city famous for its palm trees (a non-native species) and mega-mansions done in Georgian Revival and Chateau design (non-native styles). Any time I spent in Beverly Hills was a mix of outward ridicule and inward aspiration: “Look at these people revving their Ferraris along Rodeo Drive! Who needs a 30,000 square-foot pied-à-terre! How many plastic surgeons can one town hold!”
In recent years, as my job as a food writer led me to consider the dining scene of Greater Los Angeles more seriously, I continued to hold on to my assumption that Beverly Hills couldn’t possibly have an innovative, interesting, or downright enjoyable restaurant culture. This place? This cartoon playground?
Sure, there was Nate ‘n Al’s — a classic, old-school deli for some of the New York transplants who’d moved out west for Hollywood. And then there was Spago — Wolfgang Puck’s fine dining institution over on Canon. But these were the exceptions that proved the rule. Everything else just seemed flashy, overpriced, or both. I couldn’t take it seriously.
And then Dante Beverly Hills opened.
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I had been a fan of Dante in Greenwich Village for years, frequently dropping in to enjoy their perfectly-made Negronis and hearty pastas whenever I was in town. But how could such a cozy, sophisticated New York bar replicate itself in Beverly Hills, of all places? (And on a hotel rooftop, no less?) I decided to go find out.
I dropped in alone on a late afternoon with a book in hand. My plan was to sip a Negroni, read, maybe have or a small plate or two, and take in the scene. What I was met with was an airy rooftop space with truly breathtaking views of the Los Angeles hills, Hollywood, and Downtown. I inhaled a plate of fresh-cut tomatoes and peaches bursting with flavor almost as instantly as it arrived at my table. By the end of my first drink, the sun was setting and a delicate purple light was washing over the hills (the alcohol was also getting to my head). I was overcome by the magic of the moment. Maybe there was something here.
I returned to Dante several times over the next few weeks. I’d even start arriving earlier in the day to Beverly Hills, grab coffee at Maru, and sit in the park plaza next to the Maybourne Hotel. Or, I’d wander the streets of the Golden Triangle — the unofficial nexus of Beverly Hills, bordered by Wilshire Boulevard, Santa Monica Boulevard, and Rexford Drive.
The city was growing on me. If I was expecting sidewalks crowded with tourists, what I found was vibrant streets bustling with every kind of person. Office workers grabbing lunch. Families running errands. The city was more diverse and complex than I’d given it credit for. The walkability and street life I so craved here was not in Downtown L.A., or Silver Lake, but in … Beverly Hills?
What else had I gotten wrong about this place? And how quickly could I redeem myself?
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We would like to amend the idiom “don’t judge a book by its cover” to include “or a city by…
Now that Dante had won me over, I decided to branch out and try Funke, chef Evan Funke’s eponymous new venture, following Felix in Venice and Mother Wolf in Hollywood, both of which I was already a fan of.
I sat at the second floor bar and ordered a plate of rigatoni all’amatriciana (made with guanciale and rich pomodoro sauce) along with a shot pour of Cynar (served neat) to drink. On the bartender’s recommendation, I added the focaccia as a starter. The simple loaf, as fluffy as a pillow and spiked with rosemary and flakes of sea salt, was the star of the meal — no small feat considering that Funke is something of a pasta savante.
On a return visit, I struck up a conversation with the bartenders, and then the diners around me. We were all locals. One man, a finance lawyer, learned that I was a writer and we talked for nearly an hour about the novel he had been working on, and the struggles of writing itself.
I have returned several times since. The hostesses know me by name now. Some of the waitstaff, too. In other words, for all its glitz and glam, Funke is becoming a sort of community hub.
I found the same at La Dolce Vita down the street. Most of the guests who walked in the door seemed to be regulars. The general manager greeted each by name and a “welcome back.” At the bar, the man to my left was such a fixture that when the bartender asked him “Martini?” the question was more an acknowledgement of their relationship than a service inquiry.
But Funke and La Dolce Vita were easy points for Beverly Hills. What about a place like Avra?
I had seen the supercars parked in front of the restaurant on Beverly Drive, the paparazzi camped by the curbside patio, the clothes and jewelry of the diners walking in. This was a place that stood for everything I ridiculed Beverly Hills for. It was time to lean in and test my theory.
I snagged a table at the bar on a Tuesday (this restaurant never seems to have a slow night). No doubt, it was a scene. The crowd was a bit more TikTok-y and DeuxMoi-adjacent than my vibe, yet there was more to it. These people were here not only because was the food incredible (just ask the Michelin inspectors who gave it a nod this year), it’s also accessible. A bite of the tuna sashimi is like a taste of the Southern California sun itself: rich fish, fresh olive oil, a hit of citrus. The menu is a celebration of flavor, presented without frill or pretension. By focusing on the more superficial qualities of the restaurant, I had missed what truly makes it shine. And wasn’t that what I had done with the whole city?
For all these years, I had seen Beverly Hills as a one-dimensional, cartoonish place. But maturing is the process of embracing ambivalence and becoming comfortable with complexity — even contradiction. I could find a cheap slice of pizza in Beverly Hills down the street from a $200-a-person sushi counter. I could find world-famous, celebrity-heavy dining rooms next to cozy mom-and-pop spots packed with regulars.
In Beverly Hills, I found a version of city life that I thought no longer existed.
Beverly Hills is all of it, even if the movies don’t show the whole picture. In fact, I was beginning to see Beverly Hills as one of the main arteries of public life in Los Angeles. A place where you can find a warm, welcoming table just as easily as you can buy a $10,000 Loewe bag. In Beverly Hills, I found a version of city life that I thought no longer existed. All I had to do was grab a seat at the bar.
