by Anne Gabriel
I’m familiar with you from watching Top Chef and I never would have guessed that the friendly, easy-going Aussie would create a restaurant like Gwen. The only way I can explain it to myself is either 1. You hate Los Angeles and think that the people who live here are so grossly bougie that you need to impress them with a booklet of water options created by a water sommelier OR 2. Your brother made you do it—because there is nothing like the familial obligation of lending your name to someone else’s vision that makes it all go to hell—quickly.
This was my experience with Gwen, a flagship meat-focused restaurant in the heart of Hollywood run by Curtis…and his twin brother/business partner, Luke.
Before eating at Gwen, I read a review on it by the late Jonathan Gold and could. Not. wait. To visit. Gold’s review suggested that Gwen was a “manly restaurant,” carcass-heavy, workmanlike, with strong pours on the liquor and marbled meat to make men swoon—but dolled up a bit for date night.
It might have been that in 2017 when Gold visited, but the down-to-earth yet elevated vibes that may have been present in Gwen’s early iterations—were grossly missing from what I experienced last week. This is what it is now….
Walk in with a reservation—check.
See glass case full of hanging meat—check.
Get seated—check.
First thing placed in front of me? A hard cover bound white booklet. Wine? No.
Water. About 20 pages of details about water, in fact.
What?!
This is where Gwen lost me.
I’d like to think I’m the kind of person that would never eat at a place that finds the need for a water sommelier. Typing the words “water sommelier” makes me want to throw up in my mouth just a little bit.
For I am a lowly plebeian who drinks tap.
But, according to Gwen’s hard bound book—LA tap water is rather good.
Is the most expensive water in the book, French by the way, really significantly better than LA tap?
I could tell the difference, but didn’t care.
On to the food: The steak was fine, the duck fat potatoes were nothing special, the pasta was unmemorable and the side of vegetables I fled to was unnecessarily heavy. I wanted to stop eating half-way through.
The most original dessert on the message was in the shape of an enervated log in gold leaf and flaccid beige—all presentation and little of anything else.
It was fine, like white tube socks for Christmas.
But the pretentious touches—like starting dinner by choosing from an antique box which of five quaintly thrifted steak knives you’re going to want to eat with—made it feel a bit sad and uninspired. It was as if the recipes that were on the menu eight years ago when Gold visited haven’t been updated or revisited since then and have gone from various sous-chef’s hands—none of whom seem like Curtis anymore. Whatever magic he may have created along with his brother back when they first opened—I can no longer find.
Photo: Staff