F***, Chuck, Marry: Volume Six

By now, you know the drill: this isn’t a Yelp review, it’s not a ranking, and it’s definitely not objective. This is a feelings journal dressed up as restaurant criticism, part breakup text, part fanfiction, part unhinged wedding toast.

Writing this series has made me realize I’m basically the chaotic priest of my own culinary confessional. You show up, spill your sins (“I ghosted Marvin for Tower Bar,” “I thought Nobu Malibu meant something”), and I hand you absolution in carbs. Today, I’m leaning even further into that energy. Los Angeles isn’t just a city, it’s a mirror maze with valet. Restaurants here don’t just feed us; they reveal us.

Some are a spark you know won’t last. Some expose your blind spots. And a rare few, the ones that matter, reset your standards entirely.

Here’s mine.

F***: Jon & Vinny’s

Jon & Vinny’s is chaos in red sauce, and you already know it. Servers who look like they just rolled out of band practice and could ruin your life with one poorly timed smirk. It’s the edible equivalent of scrolling through your ex’s Instagram at 2 a.m. and somehow ending up on a plane to Rome.

The spicy fusilli doesn’t comfort you; it provokes you, hot, messy, and entirely too good at convincing you this is a good idea. The blond wood paneling pretends to be minimalism, but you know in your gut it’s mania with better lighting. Jon & Vinny’s is dopamine disguised as dinner, seductive, messy, unforgettable in the moment, unsustainable in the morning.

And here’s the kicker: it could be a Marry. The food is comforting, the vibe unpretentious yet self-aware, the kind of place you could imagine as a reliable partner. But it’s just a little too decadent, too dicey to actually bring home to mom and dad. You’d try, sure, but you’d probably end up with TMJ from clenching your jaw every time they mention being an atheist, or worse, their screenplay.

Jon & Vinny’s flirts with forever, but in the end? You don’t marry your best F. You make out with it in a Lyft while thinking about how good the gab sesh with your girls is gonna be the next morning.

Chuck: Badmaash

Here’s the thing: I wanted to marry Badmaash. I had the fantasy all queued up, us as the dazzling couple that made everyone else feel boring, the restaurant I could bring to dinner parties as proof I was cooler than my childhood zip code suggested. I pictured the vows, the shared playlists, the smug smile as I introduced them to friends who’d nod approvingly, like yes, you did good.

But then the cracks showed. Badmaash didn’t want to meet my friends. Badmaash doesn’t even believe in the institution of marriage. In fact, halfway through a cocktail, Badmaash somehow convinced me I wasn’t even a feminist, and the worst part? I almost believed them.

That’s the rub: it’s not that the food isn’t good. It’s inventive, electric, wildly creative. It’s that the more I sat there, the more I realized I might be, God help me… A purist. The kind of person who thought getting into Tame Impala a year before everyone else meant I was ahead, only to discover maybe I actually crave the comfort of the original track.

Badmaash is gorgeous, magnetic, intellectually dazzling, but also the kind of fling who makes you question your own politics in a way that leaves you slightly bummed, not enlightened. It’s not their fault. It’s not mine either. It’s just a mismatch.

And so, with respect and a lingering bruise to my ego, I’m chucking Badmaash. Not because it’s bad, but because maybe I’m not as evolved as I wanted to believe, and goddamn it, leave my chana masala alone.

Marry: Bavel

Bavel was love at first sight, but not the fleeting, candle-flare kind. More like the spark you don’t quite trust at first because it feels too good, too cinematic, too obvious. The honeymoon phase usually burns me out; I’m conditioned to believe the higher the high, the sooner the crash. But Bavel keeps rewriting that story. Every return visit feels like proof that maybe some flames do have staying power.

The dishes don’t just impress; they evolve. The hummus still lands like a revelation, the shawarma still seduces, the vegetables still remind you you’ve been underestimating vegetables your entire life, but each time, there’s some new gesture, some surprising note that keeps you from taking any of it for granted. It’s not routine; it’s renewal.

And here’s the complicated truth: My feelings are painted by the time I spent working on the line there. It should’ve soured me, turned me off, made me roll my eyes whenever someone brought it up. But it didn’t. If anything, it made my respect deeper. Because now I know how much sweat, stress, and sheer willpower goes into upholding those standards. The food deserves its flowers, but so do the people who keep the bar that high, night after night.

Do I sometimes wonder if the love will last? Sure. Even in great relationships, there are nights you fidget, question, doubt. But then a plate hits the table and the room tilts, and suddenly you remember why you said yes in the first place. That’s what makes this a marriage: not perfection, but the deep faith that giving it its flowers, for better or worse, is always the right call.

Bavel doesn’t just feed me. It raises my standards, quietly and insistently, the way real love should. Reader, this is the one I marry. Faithfully, hungrily, and without regret.

So here we are: Jon & Vinny’s, the fling who texts you at midnight and makes you kvell about it later. Badmaash, the visionary who left me questioning my own politics before I finally admitted we weren’t a fit. And Bavel, the love story, love at first sight that somehow never burned out, still teaching me to raise my standards every single time.

If nothing else, Volume Six proves that dining in LA is never just about food. It’s about projection, ego, heartbreak, and the occasional revelation tucked inside a shawarma. Some restaurants thrill, some confuse, some raise the bar so high you wonder how you ever settled before.

And that’s the whole point of this ridiculous little framework: to remind myself, and maybe you, that food, like love, isn’t about perfection. It’s about the stories we tell, the standards we set, and the faith that sometimes, even in this city of smoke and mirrors, the right flame really will last.

Until next time: kiss your flings, forgive your mismatches, and marry your standards. The city doesn’t lie. Neither does the hummus.