Chateauing the Line
I'm sorry for this title, I don't sleep anymore
It doesn’t get more Hollywood than the Chateau Marmont, a hotel that has seen its fair share of deals, dramas, and deaths. This past weekend marked another historic event in its fabled history: my birthday brunch.
If you’ve never been to the Chateau (as I hadn’t, a mere week ago), it was built into the side of a hill that rises out of the Sunset Strip, like a medieval castle, but rather than overlooking a verdant valley it looms over a Mexican restaurant called Pink Taco. Blink and you’ll miss the entrance, where an apologetic valet will probably tell you the parking lot is full.
The building itself is French Gothic by way of the 1920s—the best of California deco. Tiles and dark wood beams make you feel like you’re ascending into the country home of an aristocrat who long ago lost their money but refuses to surrender their quiet (some might say misguided) dignity.
We ate lunch in the famed garden, thanks to my father-in-law who connected me to the concierge (a connection from his days as a powerful television writer when the perks of being a powerful television writer meant the studio put you up for months at the Chateau Marmont—now you’re lucky to get your Sweetgreen comped, amirite?!).
We were graciously situated at a table surrounded by hanging pothos, potted palms, and power brokers. It was in the corner by the bar which provided a fantastic view of the restaurant and its temporary inhabitants.
The table next to us was filled with beautiful young women who appeared to already be undergoing precautionary plastic surgery. An empty bottle of champagne chilled nearby—it had served the party better than their barely nibbled food. Despite the gentle “no photographs” policy typed at the bottom of the menu, you better believe they were snapping away, and who can blame them? I wish I’d documented my collagen before it started to flee the building. If you dine in The Garden and didn’t document it, were you ever really there?
Suddenly, a hush fell over the garden. The air changed, like in The Sixth Sense when the ghosts make the temperature drop (an image that still haunts my nights!). I felt a presence moving toward us, to my right. It was Brian Cox, of the television show Succession, barreling toward a corner table.
I can’t really describe the thrill of seeing an actor on an incredibly popular television show in real life while that show is currently airing. Having a child comes close, but isn’t quite the same high. To add to my delight, Brian Cox was dressed as his character Logan Roy—tie, button up shirt, sensible sneakers. He had a Bluetooth in his ear and sat alone at a table for six.
The drinks were good, the company lovely, the food delicious, but Cox-watching was the delight of the day. Later, someone noticed Chris Rock taking calls in a corner, but comparatively it was hardly worth a mention. Perhaps the week of The Slap (TM) it might have held a similar thrill, but we were past that as a society. We only had eyes for Logan Roy on a Bluetooth.
Eventually he left, the afternoon wore on, and our luncheon ended as all memorable Chateau Marmont luncheons do—with a member of our party defecating at the table. The perpetrator was my baby, high on milk. My husband ferried her out covered in a receiving blanket, like many a celebrity smuggled out those fabled walls in the cover of darkness to avoid scandal. We wrapped up and paid our bill, descending the tiled steps feeling blessed by Hollywood’s golden light that shone on The Garden that day.