Saturday Night in Los Angeles
Saturday nights. . . well, they always beckon!
Since I moved to Los Angeles when I was 21 years old, I’ve loved the nightlife. At that age, and for the following four years, I couldn’t wait until the clock neared midnight and the clubs came alive. Back then, it was Beacher’s Madhouse at the Roosevelt Hotel on Wednesdays (before it relocated to Vegas) for the wildest scene on the West Coast and Greystone on Sundays (which is now known as Nightingale Plaza) no descriptors needed, you’ve heard the rap lyrics. Play House stayed open ‘til 4am even though they couldn’t sell liquor past two, and Hollywood Hookah pulled in a late-night crowd. “The let out” flocked to Berrie’s for Lobster Pizza or Bossa Nova for the novel-length menu.
I may not be club-bound of late, but I still love to venue hop and Saturday nights. . . well, they always beckon. These days, a Saturday night goes something like . . .
A table along the glass railing so we can watch the sunset off the coast of Santa Monica and the sky dissolve into purple and pinks as night crawls in.
A Casita De Campo – a mezcal cocktail, of course – which goes down like juice because of the Guave and St. Germaine mix, sweet notes before the smoke sets in.
We try to resist the Crab Nachos since we’re heading to dinner next, but we order them anyways, pour the liquid queso over the whole plate and pick it clean.
A table on the outdoor patio, the greenery makes us feel like we’re in Tulum. The crowd, like usual, is filled with good-looking, well-dressed people. There are couples, but there are friend groups too. We get excited about mingling after dinner.
Gypsy Fevers and Potato Taquitos to start, both so good we order seconds. Who knew potatoes could be made so spicy? That’s the kind of pain you come back for.
The Baja Fish Tacos blow my mind – which means a lot to a girl from San Diego – I squeal with delight. The tortillas taste like they’ve been pressed only minutes before. I understand why it’s so hard to get a reservation.
The last hour before close. The city sparkles all around us, we ogle the panoramic views.
Chairs in primary colors, painted tables, and striped benches breathe life into the atmosphere.
Smoke On The Watermelon calls my name from the cocktail list. I’ve never mixed mezcal and prosecco in one drink before. The bubbles are delightful, I feel energized and ready to dance.
Here, old Hollywood meets old Palm Springs, and yet there’s something vaguely western about it, too – the décor, that is. The crowd is young and vibrant. We stand by the bar.
Mezcal on the rocks this time, though the Petit Paloma does sound refreshing.
There’s an influencer or two in the crowd. We drink until we don’t feel too old to dance. . . 12:30, then 1:00am. We call our Ubers before the lights come on.
The city streaks by on the ride back to Brentwood. I watch heel-clad women cling to the arms of enthusiastic men, wondering if they’ll hit late-night venues like I once did.
Six hours and four bars, I call that success for a Saturday night.