Concierge-ing

I had to complete a bit of homework for the hotel this evening, and in the middle of it I realized I was totally geeking out and actually enjoying the assignment. This week, each of us had to visit a neighborhood restaurant and share what we learned with the rest of our team.

And I enjoyed writing it so much I thought, why not share it with y'all too? So here's a little taste of what I do on a weekly basis:

As a concierge, we (ideally) try all the notable spots in LA. This helps us guide our guests in the right direction when they're looking for dining options, nightlife, what have you. This week, I was thrilled to visit Crossroads, the new vegan restaurant in West Hollywood. Without further ado, please enjoy my book report/review:

I visited the delightful Crossroads twice this week, first with the LACA board and again on a veggie dinner date.  Apparently I’m a fan.

Crossroads is located on Melrose at Sweetzer, in the building which most recently housed the dearly departed Philippe Chow.  As a mainly pescetarian (but sometimes Pikey-burger fiend) I don’t have the discipline to go full veggie.  Crossroads just might be the push I need.

They bill it as “Mediterranean” cuisine, and it is the only vegan restaurant in the city boasting a full bar.  The space is lovely: décor in dove grey and white, with soft lighting courtesy of several handcrafted chandeliers.  The private dining room off of the front remains, as does the indoor/outdoor dining space that will soon offer a coffee bar and treats for takeaway (think vegan-ified Larder at Tavern). 

Celeb vegan chef Tal Ronnen was present both times I was dining, and gave us a little insight into the menu.  Some items were inspired by dishes he can no longer enjoy as a vegan (artichoke “oysters” were a favorite of mine) The menu is comprised of small plates, a nice little wine list (we enjoyed champagne from Oregon; quite lovely) and seasonal cocktails.

Crossroads would appeal to our guests hoping to enjoy a healthful, yet elegant, dinner.  I can imagine it would suit vegetarians and curious meat-eaters alike, as the cuisine is inventive enough you don’t feel like you’re missing out by foregoing your steak or poultry.

If y’all want to get your veggie on in an atmosphere a little more sparkly than RFD, Crossroads is a promising new destination.  Let me know if you stop by; I’ll meet you for a negroni.

So there you have it. A day in the life of a concierge.

Actually, here's a little sound clip from this evening, so you can really get a feel for what we do:

(Helpful background info: our lobby features a plastic Philippe Starck-designed pig and horse.)

• Drunk Guest 1: You talked about wanting to ride that bull! There ya are; go for it girl!
• Drunk Guest 2: This thing better have stirrups! *It does not* She mounts the pig, and begins wildly air-lassoing with her right arm.

And scene.

Flowers

The significance is not lost on her, as she arranges flowers in the kitchen.

It gives her great satisfaction, and (dare she admit?) joy, to do so.

Outside, her neighbor is gardening.

Tending to what he loves, constantly shifting things to make life beautiful. If it doesn't work, no matter, he uproots and replants and begins anew.

It is not lost on her that they are doing the same thing.

But.

He is caring for living, breathing things.

She is artfully arranging something that is already gone.

Little Talk

I blame it on the dancing.

What? 

The need to control, to constantly remain composed. To hide any hurt or pain and to be beautiful, always. 

You know what I've found to be a suitable, perhaps superior replacement?

What?

Yoga. 

I'm teacher's pet in class. Which is bad for those other issues. But I feel safe as our eyes lock in the mirror and I recognize approval. I can look as shitty as I feel. I can breathe and realize what those feelings truly are. And I can be ugly ugly ugly. Because it doesn't matter. The inside is becoming beautiful. 

The Parfum

It was always a favorite question of hers, the sense question.

The neighbor boy demanding, "Which would you rather lose? Sight or sound?"

It was a given, at least around the neighborhood, that it would totally suck to be blind.

She agreed, having found a particular affinity for the dappled light on the trail floor, the impossible perfection of the Queen Anne's Lace petals, the watery aqua of her grandmother's eyes.

She longed to be an artist, and to interpret, visually, what so stirred within her heart.

A few years later, she found her sense of hearing to be just as moving.

Now beginning middle school, she visited a childhood friend. Having been given a tiny bit extra for the purchase of an appropriate souvenir, she was instead taken with a Wal-Mart music box. It featured a carousel pony, a mirrored base, and played 'Ode to Joy'. She knew better than to spend the money on that. Yet she could not resist.

What sense would you rather lose?

Later, her sense of smell pushed its way up there on the list.

Bobbing in the river, having thrown the rope, legs exhausted from skiing. That was a very specific, very comforting, sun-baked life jacket smell. The Chanel perfume her father gave that felt so grown-up: it was spicy, mysterious, woodsy, and dried down to honey and peach velvet. It was opulence for the soon to be lady. Comes on bold, only to discover she's just a kitten underneath it all.

She still found the musicality of words to be a treat, a meal, a tonic. If as a child she wanted to paint the truth, as an adult she wanted to say it. She became an actor, and then by necessity, a writer.

What sense would you most like to embrace?

This week, she found herself doing something new.

She was pondering perfumes, her usual signature scents, and how differently each one made her feel. She'd begun to look online, thinking she'd purchase something she'd worn before, something comforting.

"A french cloud of roses, spices, and vanilla" depicted a fragrance she had never heard of. She investigated further. All were extolling the virtues of this perfume, penning virtual odes to it through the years. She wanted to join them, to feel as lovely and special as they described. To wrap herself in the scent that would tell this chapter of her story.  

She hopes it will be the perfect marriage of her favorite senses. She will soon be in possession of a bottle of perfume she's never tested. The sound of the smell was enough for her to take a tiny risk and venture into the unknown. 

Perhaps she'll let her senses lead the way for a bit.

Dream A Little Dream of Me

My apologies that I've been so silent as of late. Mama Cass might've preferred we keep it that way once this video is viewed (sorry Mama) but here goes nothin'. Hope y'all have the sweetest of dreams.

Me

She thinks of her "me-ness".

How it is often appropriated and replicated, or refused outright by others.

She thinks if she could create and put useful things back into the world, rather than tap tap tapping on a touch-screen or keyboard, that she'd feel a little less upset about that.

She'd say, "Here, there's plenty of Me to go around; here's some for you and some for the birds and some for the babies and some for the wind and some for the sun. What luck, there's some left for me, too."

Five AM

I often think of your mother's white cat.

How, at the end, her hair was matted and her movement slow. No one wanted physical contact with her but that was all she craved.

The only place you dared touch was the little triangle between her eyes down to her nose. That was enough for her. Enough to go through the night and wake the next day.

Until, at last, she trudged under the bushes and disappeared.

My cat has curled up beside me. He hums at my nearness, loves to have his back or some part of him touching me. It was not always thus.

He is getting old and I wonder at his change in behavior. How he no longer snaps at me out of fear, how he seems to truly sense when I am unwell. I wonder how many more years we have together.

I used to hate the white spot on his little triangle, the one that mars the otherwise symmetrical markings on his face. Used to think that, besides that spot, he was quite a handsome cat, for trailer trash.

It is now my favorite thing about him. I pet it, as if it gives him power. As if it prolongs the time we have together.

He owns me as much as I own him.