Fake!

Cocktails in the early evening

LA is at its most authentic when it’s transparently fake. No one buys the subtle charade of “Downtown LA is just like New York on certain corners at specific times of day” and “there’s actually really good theater here!” It’s like wearing glasses to trick other people into thinking you’re smart. True sophisticates know that even dumb people wear glasses.

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But when the fake is out in the open? Well, that’s real. The fake becomes kitsch and brings us all the way back around (kind of like how libertarians and anarchists are both just loud men who suck). And there are so many fake things LA does well—meat, breasts, castles.

Of all the fine examples of kitsch to choose from in this fair city, cocktail bars have to be at the top of the list. Entering one is like riding Pirates of the Caribbean: it’s damp but also freezing, employees wear inaccurate period costumes, you’re surrounded by rocks made of styrofoam, and the dramatic darkness provides a temporary thrill that can’t be found in the mundane beauty of your actual life.

One of the great kitschy bars of Los Angeles is The Dresden in Los Feliz. It famously served as a location for Swingers, a movie I have not seen, and was home to one of the most infamous lounge acts in Los Angeles history, which I saw one time and probably didn’t fully appreciate. It’s important to be honest about these things.

The other day my sister, my husband, and I grabbed a drink there before seeing a movie down the street. After parking (nightmare, always a nightmare), we entered through the back door and were greeted by a man anywhere from 50 to 80 years old. He wore a blue linen suit with a crisp white shirt and tie. His host stand separated the restaurant, whose décor can best be described as “white leather” from the bar, whose décor can mostly be described as “rocks.” We proceeded to the bar, where we pored over predictably sticky menus, knowing deep down the amount of consideration we gave our order would not ultimately enhance its quality.

When it arrived, we were proved correct. Most noteworthy were the details that my French 75 was served in a margarita glass and our mac and cheese was in fact penne topped with a layer of rock-hard Monterey jack.

Our goth waitress was then inexplicably replaced by another waitress in a red, satin mini dress. Everything about this new woman glistened: her hair, her face, and the parts of her body not contained by said satin dress. If we were in a noir, we would be questioned the next morning about her disappearance. I say that as a huge compliment.

My sister, jetlagged, ordered an espresso so she could stay awake during the movie. The order was perfectly clear. The waitress departed, clacking off in footwear that I would say was not entirely practical given she was probably on her feet most of the night.

I joked that my sister should have ordered an espresso martini because they sound disgusting. We then talked at length about how bad espresso martinis probably are. Our new waitress, on cue, tottered back to our table and plonked down an espresso martini in front of my sister, as if this is exactly what she had ordered.

My sister looked at it and said, “Well, this is just fate.” We each took a sip (my husband declined, mostly because he’s smart but also because he had just consumed a French dip in an alarming amount of time).

Well, guess what? It was freaking delicious. If I were 22 years old I would be ordering espresso martinis every goddamn night, but unfortunately, I am not 22 and can’t drink caffeine after noon or the night belongs to my anxiety.

We then hobbled out into the sunshine-filled Los Angeles evening to face the mundane beauty of actual life. JK. We watched a movie for a few hours until darkness fell but the movie was really good and no one fell asleep.