F***, Chuck, Marry: Round Two

(The Sequel Nobody Asked For, But Everyone Needed)

Before we dive in, let’s set the record straight: I love all the restaurants mentioned below. I’m not here to bash, cancel, or plate-shame anything. Each of these spots has fed me, comforted me, maybe even seen me cry in a booth post-Hinge date. Even the places I “chuck” are like that one boy who wore suede loafers and read Murakami, we had our moment. I learned a lot. But we're not texting anymore.

This isn’t about canceling; it’s about cataloging our culinary relationships, LA-style. This is a city where restaurants come and go faster than a situationship with a Silver Lake DJ. So consider this a moment of gratitude, a heart-shaped tattoo to the places that thrilled me, confused me, ghosted me, or grew with me. Life’s too short not to rank our emotional entanglements with oysters, mole, and dirty martinis.

Let’s get into it.

F***: The Tower Bar

I am going to smash The Tower Bar and make my boyfriend watch. There’s an irresistibly sexy allure to this LA institution, the kind that doesn’t ask permission, just takes your hand and leads you into dim lighting and darker thoughts. Tower Bar is that man in a perfectly tailored jacket who once whispered something wildly inappropriate to you, and you’ve been obsessed ever since.

The moment you make that godawful left off Sunset, you already know: something strange, maybe a little scandalous, is about to unfold. The air is thick with old Hollywood secrets. The vibe? Immaculate. It’s dark, sexy, expensive, and just mean enough, the kind of place that doesn’t care about your rising sign or want to meet your friends. It wants to press you against an elevator wall at 11:47 p.m. and ruin you in the best way.

And the food? Sensual. The deviled eggs? Iconic The shrimp cocktail? Snappy. This isn’t about being coddled, it’s about being undone. Nothing gets the nips harder than a restaurant that could only exist in this city, at this exact, unhinged moment in time. The Tower Bar is pure one-night-stand energy: wrapped in moody lighting, and again in your dry-clean-only coat. You leave full, feral, and vaguely broken, but God, you’ll text them again.

Chuck: Elephante

I’m not trying to punch down here, but someone’s gotta say it: Elephante is the guy who’s hot on paper, gives great first date, and then tells you he’s “in a place of expansion” when you ask what he’s looking for.

Yes, it’s pretty. Yes, the whipped eggplant slaps. But it's giving Tulum cosplay with a side of “Do you know your Human Design type?” The aesthetic screams intention, but the menu reads like every other Westside softboi trying to convince you that arugula, burrata and Burning Man are a personality.

You bring your out-of-town friend here, she loves it, of course she does. You nod, sip your sweet espresso martini, and pretend the sunset offsets the fact that you’ve had this exact pasta six times in the last year. You tell yourself it’s fine. That he’s fine. But somewhere between the fifth “Have you booked Elephante yet?” text and the moment your burrata arrives with a side of caviar, you know the truth.

Elephante isn’t bad. In fact, he’s good… in that “says-he’s-grateful-for-you-on-Instagram-but-never-asks-how-you-are” kind of way. But I’m evolving, and he’s still doing cacao ceremonies. Consider this my soft-launch exit. We had our moment, and now I want more.

Marry: Marvin

Marvin is the boy-next-door you forgot about, until one day, he walks into the room with better posture, a French wine list, and the kind of quiet confidence that makes you reconsider every man you've ever dated.

It’s not flashy. It's not trying to impress your friends or prove it knows more about skin contact wine than you do. Marvin just shows up, clean, confident, grounded. It’s French bistro energy without the superiority complex. The lighting is flirty, the staff is sweet like a 2 a.m. text you actually want to answer, and the food? Consistent. Dependable. Sexy in a buttoned-down kind of way.

This is where you go when you’re ready to stop chasing red flags and start investing in something real. The kind of place that still feels exciting after the third date, the sixth month, or the one-year mark. It doesn’t get old, it gets better. Like rediscovering your childhood best friend and realizing he's hot now, but somehow still remembers your birthday and how you like your eggs.

Marvin isn’t here to play games. He’s here to pour you a glass of wine, serve a perfect steak frites, and hold your hand when the check comes. And baby, that’s husband material.

Final Thoughts

Look, love is complicated. So is dining in Los Angeles.

We’re constantly evolving, spiritually, romantically, gastrointestinally, and our restaurant roster reflects that. Some spots leave you breathless. Some leave you bloated. Some just... leave. But they all mark a chapter: the late-night mistake, the gorgeous ghoster, the one who got away, the one who grew with you. And occasionally, the one you bring home to mom.

So if you’ve ever cried in valet, ghosted a reservation, or caught feelings over deviled eggs, this one’s for you.

Marvin might be the one I marry, but Tower Bar will always be the mistake I’d make twice. And Elephante? Well, he still looks great on Instagram.

We’ll see who I’m texting next year.