F***, Chuck, Marry: Volume Five
(The One With ABBA at the Raw Bar)
Same oath as always: I love every restaurant I’m about to mention. I’m not here to cancel; I’m here to catalog the ways dining in LA makes us act feral and, occasionally, emotionally literate. If a spot lands in “Chuck,” that’s an amicable unfollow. If it lands in “F***,” expect a text at 11:41 p.m. If it lands in “Marry,” I’m calling my mom.
LA is our smog with the occasional ocean view. Detours, flex alerts, a PCH crawl for character development. Some nights are for making a scene, some are for letting go of the postcard, and a few are for saying yes to the tiny room that gets you.
Let’s get into it.
F***: American Beauty, Venice
This list would be incomplete without your Westside hottie—and a hottie she is. The bar at American Beauty is solely responsible for reviving my dirty-martini era. Like the cute guy who puts you onto the indie-pop band of the month, AB reframes the mundane and low-key rewires your vibe.
Back in college, my friends and I coined “popcorning”—the transformation from quiet kernel to popped-off, pregame self. (Shoutout @caro_beth, architect of the language of our youth.) American Beauty does exactly that to its back patio. By day, it’s windows and picnic benches. By night, full glow-up: dim, flirtatious, a little cinematic. It’s the ’90s rom-com stairs reveal—glasses off, world stops, soundtrack swells.
And the food? Absolutely something to write home about. A menu broad enough for big groups and specific enough for a sexy date; everyone rolls out satisfied and a little tipsy. Is this husband material? Not quite. It’s the perfect fling: generous, hot, and hard to overthink. What else do you really want from a good f***-sesh?
Chuck: Nobu Malibu
Nobu Malibu is the date whose profile is verified by the Pacific. The lighting is golden hour by contract, the breeze is a paid extra, and every table feels like an audition for your own highlight reel. You came for intimacy; you get prestige TV.
Look, the hits still hit. Maybe it’s the hour of brake-light meditation on the PCH talking, but somewhere between the photo ops and the performative sipping, dinner morphs into a referendum on your desirability—excellent for the grid, anemic for the heart. You end up curating more than you’re chewing, seen more than you feel seen.
I recommend it to out-of-towners who want the postcard, waves, sunglasses, a celebrity in the distance doing laps with a watercress salad. For me, the spell’s broken. A graceful goodbye to a gorgeous mirage. Chucked, with SPF and love.
Marry: Found Oyster
If Found Oyster were just a little bigger—and had a stage for me to inevitably belt “Dancing Queen” at the top of my lungs—I would, in fact, be getting married here. The bones are perfect: exactly the vibe I want to put into the world, rendered in tile and barstool. And the insides match—the kind of hospitality and cooking that make you feel like the room is winking back.
Each bite lands exactly where you hope a hip institution will land. It’s not doing cartwheels to impress you; it’s meeting your expectations and then quietly exceeding them. Chalkboard specials that read like inside jokes. A glass of something bright that resets your entire central nervous system. Staff who show up without performing, sure-handed, not precious—shucking, tattooed, in a hat whose reference you have to Google; unfairly hot.
There’s a confidence here that doesn’t need a microphone. Still, if they built that tiny stage and let me serenade my own engagement to ABBA, I’d sign the license on the raw bar. Since they haven’t (yet), consider this my pre-nup with destiny: I’m in for the long haul, ring or no ring.
Final Thoughts
LA will spin you, shuck you, and then slide you a bite that makes you call a truce with the city. American Beauty is the late-night text I’ll happily answer—martini in hand, popcorning engaged. Nobu is the beautiful mirage I’m releasing, with gratitude for the scenery and a firm boundary for the performance. And Found Oyster? That’s the one I’d walk down an imaginary bar-top aisle for—ABBA cue ready.
Date boldly, dine with intention, and remember: some places are for making a scene, some are for learning a lesson, and some are for building a life.
