By The Secret Diner –
In the last issue of The Breeze, Mrs. Secret Diner and I reviewed Andria’s Seafood, 1449 Spinnaker Drive. Please check them out. Tell them The Secret Diner sent you! Read below and guess where we are off to next.
The sun pushing up over the Santa Monica mountains would take most of the morning to burn through a thick marine layer. Clouds clung low to the beach like cigarette smoke in an after-hours club, breath of misfits and ne’er-do-wells backlit by neon beer signs. The brightening day sent wharf rats and riff raff scurrying for cover, someplace to sleep off another night of e-cigarettes and regret.
I blew hot coffee cold on the balcony, wondered how I might avoid the day. Inside, I heard the phone ring. “We’ll be right there.”
“We’ll be right where?” I asked.
“We caught a case” she said, rolling shear hose up over her knee. She held out one cherry red heel, the color matching lipstick that had survived the night. “Have you seen my other shoe?”
We pulled car doors shut with a thud, the belt of my trench coat hanging out, dragging through a gutter of oily run-off as we pulled out of the alley and into a town that had been up for hours. I realized we live in a place of at least two identities – a city of moms and influencers meeting at trailheads and state parks to jog with baby strollers and labradoodles, and one where square-pegs haunt the shadows, active at dawn and dusk – boat painters, drifters, food critics.
“Where we headed, dame?”
“Just drive. Left onto Telegraph,” Mrs. Diner answered. I cracked my window and exhaled a plume of left-handed cigarette smoke.
Mrs. Diner led us east and up out of the fog. By the time we made our destination, the sun was bright, warm.
“We’ve been here before,” Mrs. Diner reminded me. “It was called something different then, Barrel and Bordeaux or something.” She was right. We’d come here in 2019 for a Christmas party. The place was dark, still. Jazz music clashed with framed images of waves, piers, and surfers. In mere months, a global pandemic would shut down Barrel and Bordeaux. Somehow the restaurant, hell all of us, emerged from those days, transformed in ways we are still trying to understand. Mrs. Diner and I pushed open a glass door looking for clues.
To start, the inside has had a brilliant makeover. The creamy decor expresses itself through macrame wall hangings, geometric art and fixtures. Patrons can sit booths, tables, or at the bar.
The dining room was already filling when Mrs. Diner and I arrived. We were happy that two stools, bright white and wicker, were available at the bar.
The bar wraps itself around an island of tap beer choices. Wine racks line the walls balancing a large collection. I jotted notes and read through paper menus. Mrs. Diner knows no strangers and had struck up a conversation with our bartender. “I love your tattoos!”
My attention was split three ways: their conversation, the incredible menu choices, and that man across the bar. I swear I know him.
“Oh my god. These cocktails are named for Taylor Swift songs!” Mrs. Diner exclaimed. She ordered Florida!!!, an espresso martini that came with coconut on the rim. Black coffee for me.
Our order from the brunch bar leaned breakfast, but side two has choices we will certainly be back for: hot honey feta fries, a Cuban sandwich with a Cali spin, burgers. Mrs. Diner asked for the brown butter peach French toast. It’s unusual for her to go sweet for breakfast, but we are both glad she did. I chose from a list of “signature toasts,” one named for the restaurant: a thick slice of sourdough topped with avocado slices, soft scrambled eggs, bacon, chili oil and hot honey drizzle. I’m a sucker for biscuits and gravy, so I also asked for a side portion of their bourbon biscuits and sage sausage gravy.
“Did you hear me?” Mrs. Diner was poking my ribs.
“What?”
“I’m surprised you didn’t get the chorizo.”
“I think that guy is an actor. On the other side of the bar.”
“No way.”
And then our food came. If that were Brad Pitt at the bar, these plates of food would have won our attention. The biscuit was served in a skillet, piping hot and garnished with a sage leaf. My first bite of toast is among the best bites of food I’ve ever had – sweet, savory, a little heat. The eggs were soft and perfect. I’ll have a hard time persuading Mrs. Diner to try something new on our next visit. Her French toast may have been the star of the morning.
We left with promises to return.
“I swear that was Mike Hammer at the bar.”
“You’re crazy.”
Think you can solve the mystery of “Breakfast Noir?” Go check out our next review to see if you’re right, and to join us on our next adventure.
