F***, Chuck, Marry: Volume Three

They say you can’t define a city by its restaurants, but in Los Angeles, where intimacy is currency and dinner is often more revealing than therapy, you absolutely can. Restaurants here aren’t just where we eat. They’re where we flirt, spiral, come of age, come undone. They’re our mirrors, our muses, our most toxic on-again, off-again flings.

So, in the spirit of making things uncomfortably personal and using food as a thinly veiled metaphor for emotional development, I once again return to the framework that has never let me down:

F*. Chuck. Marry.

F*: Dudley Market

Sing it with me: “someday I'll be living in a big old city, and all you're ever gonna be is mean.” Except in this version, the big city is LA, and the kid who used to spread rumors about you in high school has followed you here, grown out his hair, picked up spearfishing, and become Dudley Market.

Dudley Market is the perfect restaurant for anyone with a degradation kink and a high wine tolerance. It nails that hyper-specific Westside energy, born from a “locals only” ethos shaped by skaters and surfers, now polished and co-opted by ex-Venice tech bros who’ve monetized the very culture they once colonized. And suddenly, everyone feels like an outsider. It doesn’t just serve food; it serves humiliation. And it succeeds in making even LA’s coolest transplants feel like tourists.

Don’t even think about showing up without your full party or, God forbid, arriving on time. They'll make sure you feel like the embarrassing plus-one at someone else’s dinner. The service? Cold. The vibe? Impeccably aloof. Ask a menu question and prepare to be met with the kind of withering eye contact typically reserved for people who clap when planes land, (which now honestly makes even more sense than it used to).

And yet… the food. The wine. The fish. The kind of meal that makes you rethink your self-worth and ask if maybe, just maybe, you deserved to be negged on your way in. If you want to brush shoulders with the guy you made out with at the Waterfront last weekend and be ignored by both him and your waiter within the same 90-minute window, this is your spot. Welcome to your Roman Empire.

Dudley is the guy on Hinge holding a fish, usually an automatic swipe left, except this time he’s hot, and he’s serving you the fish he caught. With a perfect pour of natural orange, no apology, and not a single crumb of emotional availability.

Degradation kinks are kinks nonetheless, which is what lands this bad boy in this category. Sometimes we all just want to feel something, seen, judged, spiritually destroyed over a halibut collar. Dudley Market will absolutely notice you, then turn around and seat someone hotter.

And babe? You’re still tipping 25%.

Chuck: Gracias Madre

What does “dropped” mean? Glad you asked.

“Dropped” was the term we used in college for hot guys who seemed perfect on paper, magnetic, chiseled, maybe even emotionally literate at first glance, until you spent more than five minutes talking to them and realized a child had been dropped inside. Not literally, of course. But spiritually, mentally, vibe-ily. Beautiful shell, chaotic soft-boiled core.

It sounds harsh. But when you’re 21, navigating the emotional minefield of men who say things like “I’m not like the others” and “you’re safe with me” right before ghosting you during finals week, you invent language to survive. “Dropped” gave us power. It let us name the disconnect between appearance and substance, and release ourselves from taking it personally.

Which brings us to Gracias Madre.

On the surface, she’s stunning. The space is gorgeous, all warm wood and filtered sunlight and bougie patio energy that makes you want to text your ex just to tell him you’re thriving. The cocktails? Fire. The crowd? Beautiful in that curated, matte-finished, “is this a wellness brand pop-up?” kind of way.

But then the food arrives. And the illusion slips.

There’s no malice here. Just a lack of depth. The dishes are… fine. Sometimes less than. You eat the vegan empanada, nod politely, sip your drink, and pretend the meal is better than it is because you don’t want to ruin the vibe, just like you did with that one guy who had a fixed-gear bike and a sleeve of tattoos but zero opinions about the administration.

And the thing is? Gracias Madre doesn’t need your approval. Like the men we used to call “dropped,” it will continue on exactly as it is, booked, buzzed about, beloved by people who care more about the vibe than the flavor. It will find its audience. It already has.

But me? I’m out. As someone who loves plant-based food and believes vegan cuisine can be sensual, satisfying, and wildly inventive, this one just doesn’t hit. And I’ve given it more chances than I care to admit.

So yes, Gracias Madre is dropped. No hard feelings. Just vibes un-vibed.

Marry: Lasita

Lasita is him. He’s the one who never had to win you over, just made space until you realized you’d already let him in. Lasita is the slow burn that sneaks up on you, the person you didn’t expect to fall for, and then suddenly, you’re building a life together.

From the moment you walk in, you feel it. The atmosphere is magnetic without being performative. The music is curated but never overbearing. The lighting flatters everyone equally. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to text someone just to say, you’d love it here.

The details are what seal the deal: warm, intuitive service. The wine list reads like a love letter from your most cultured friend, and the vibes are so on that you feel like the whole room is in on a delicious secret. Dishes that feel thoughtful rather than trendy. The garlic rice arrives and you find yourself making long term plans. There’s no need to impress. You can just be.

Lasita doesn’t chase attention, it earns it. And keeps it.You don’t need to perform here. But somehow, you want to show up as your best self, not because you have to, but because this place makes you believe that version of you already exists. You’re not chasing a moment. You’re in one, and you kind of want to stay.

Even the vegetarian dishes, so often an afterthought, are generous and grounded. The garlic noodles? Gentle, nourishing. The crispy mushrooms? A quiet triumph. This isn’t food that’s screaming to be noticed. This is food that understands you already are.

You might hesitate to bring Lasita home to your family, not because you're unsure, but because once they meet them, they'll fall in love too. And part of you wants to keep this one just for yourself.

No, Lasita doesn’t need the spotlight. Lasita is the kind of love that hums softly in the background until one day you realize you’ve built a rhythm together. It’s the kind that deepens with time. The kind that makes room.

Reader, I married them. And I’d do it again.

Conclusion

Eating in LA is like dating in LA: curated, confusing, and you always leave wondering if it was worth the valet. We project. We romanticize. We give places too many chances. Sometimes we confuse good bread with real connection. Sometimes we get it right.

Dudley Market is the regrettable-yet-unforgettable night you still write about in your journal. Gracias Madre is the one you wanted to work out, but deep down knew never would. And Lasita? Lasita is the one you didn’t see coming, and now you’re building a spice rack together.

These restaurants, like the people we love, or try to love, or fail to love, shape us. Leave a mark. Teach us something about who we are, and what we’re hungry for.

Until next time: date boldly, dine with intention, and always trust your gut, it knows who to love, when to leave, and exactly when to order the garlic noodles.