Mr. Chow has been a Beverly Hills favorite since 1974, when it was the first American outpost of this very glamorous version of Chinese food. I went with my then-boyfriend and his mother in the years before I married Tom. (It was a neighborhood restaurant for them.) What I remember most about the visit was her concern about a hat she was wearing. The hat was quite stylish and she looked great, but hat-wearing is usually a vexatious proposition. I also seem to remember that I might have eaten squab at that dinner, which perplexes me. Maybe I needed to make up for exclaiming to them that corned beef comes in a can, which caused everyone in the room to collectively stop admiring some gorgeous thinly-sliced corned beef from Junior’s Deli to stare at me.
Who knows? I remember a pleasant evening in an arresting space full of rich people picking up checks that shocked the sensibilities of a girl from Kenna.
The second time I went to Mr. Chow was in 2007 when three of us went to Los Angeles with Jude to look at colleges. I remember that visit much better because it was at the beginning of our current ridiculous culture driven by social media. Instagram hadn’t taken over yet but Facebook was able to follow celebrities better than ever before, and the paparazzi had an encampment outside the restaurant by the valet. It was on this visit that I understood how Mr. Chow worked. The room with the bar is the “real” room, the one to the left is for “watchers.” The whole scene was utterly fascinating. And I remember wishing someone else had to get the check like on that first visit so many years ago.
On this most recent trip, I arrived in Los Angeles the first night too late to do anything but impede the nighttime routine for my son. I called Mr. Chow with the intention of dropping in for dinner on the way to the hotel. But renting a car in L.A. is such a heinously time-consuming and expensive proposition I aborted the thought when my GPS told me 80 minutes to the hotel.
But the next night I tore myself away from Pasadena and headed into Beverly Hills. I was too embarrassed with my no-show to call Mr. Chow again. I would just show up. I would arrive shortly after they opened, far too unhip for this crowd.
Even though it wasn’t yet Thanksgiving, Beverly Hills was in holiday mode. All the decorations were up in the Rodeo Drive corridor, and when I tried to put money in the meter it flashed “Merry Christmas from Beverly Hills. No charge.”
That made me smile and put me in a good mood. Unlike my first two visits to Mr. Chow, there was now a substantial outdoor seating space since COVID. The area was literally the former sidewalk in front of the restaurant, but what they did to this boring sidewalk made it seem like it was always there. There were walls of greenery and an Instagrammable pink neon sign scripted with the words Mr. Chow. But it was the signature massive bouquets of flowers that really set a mood.
I arrived at the hostess stand which is outside and I spoke to the same lovely hostess who last night assured me it would be just fine if I came in without a reservation. I confessed that I had called the previous night, and instead of being annoyed at my lack of manners with my no-show, she told me someone else came in after the call and she said, “Mary Ann?” and they told her no. We shared a laugh about it, and she seated me at what Tom would consider a terrible table that was just perfect for me. It was right next to the hostess stand in what amounted to a plexiglass box. I could see everything, and even though I was totally in the way, my plexiglass house was a shield. Not from COVID, which doesn’t frighten me, but I can do without the usual annoyances that make al fresco dining in Los Angeles far less pleasurable than it used to be. From this vantage point, I could see and hear that I was hardly the only one to do what I did, and the poor girl at the hostess stand spent half the night guessing incorrectly about all kinds of things, and we kept laughing together.
Mr. Chow is and has always been part restaurant, part theater. It is the ultimate L.A. statement. I loved watching what people wore, how they arrived, who I clearly should have known but didn’t, and mostly, the waiters. One of these guests had a dress on that was so fab, when our eyes met I mouthed my approval. She smiled and came to my plexiglass house, filling it with the divine smell of her perfume. I asked what she was wearing and she told me. She also told me where to get her dress. I don’t think I could pull off the dress or the smell like she did, but we had a lovely chat.
The wait staff at Mr. Chow wears all white, with matching masks. Food arrives at the table aerially, each waiter holding a large tray above the head, arm extended to the sky. Good palm control is required for this exercise, and that is exactly what it is. I was riveted by the simple act of food delivery to tables.
With such pretension everywhere, it would seem that the staff would be arrogant and unfriendly. Quite the opposite. Chatty and solicitous, I felt like a welcome guest in a friendly home. No one could do enough for me. This is as it should be, of course, in any place where the check comes with sticker shock.
Mine was $120. For one. No drinks.
The meal started with shrimp toast, which came over a bed of dried seaweed, (they call it gambei) with a lot of toasted walnuts nestled between the pieces. This was very good shrimp toast and a filling portion. I could have stopped there. I took my time eating it. Walnuts are almost omnipresent at Mr. Chow, and I was glad I got them with something. They were toasted to the sweet spot and made for a nice natural amuse-bouche. The shrimp toast itself was meaty and pretty much perfect. I even tried the seaweed and it was totally harmless. Salty was the big takeaway. I asked a waiter if it was seaweed, and he paused for a minute and said, “Well, we’re not supposed to say that, but yes.”
Next, I got some potsticker dumplings, which came with the lacy connecting batter which reminds me of a doily. Even though they serve a delicious chili paste when you sit down, I asked for some soy sauce for these potstickers. The simple presentation was so elegant it made me smile. Again, at these prices, it should be. These, too, were fine, but I should have gotten something more exotic.
I ordered the crispy duck for an entree. It came with thin scallion strips, and scallion pancakes, as well as plum sauce.
They deboned it and pulled it apart at the table, and I assembled the pancakes with the required fillings. This was a great flavor combination, and exactly what I wanted and expected from this dish.
There was no need to get anything else, but I remembered the fried rice from the 2007 visit here with the kids. The silver pot it was served in, the plump peas, and the overall mild but delicious flavor of this rice made me want to revisit this memory tonight. It was just as buttery and filled with ingredients, and overall just as satisfying as that night years ago.
Some people have trouble dining alone, but I like the company of myself just fine, and people-watching is a favorite pastime. But there are not many times when I could say that I wanted to linger way past the dining part. I could have sat there all evening. The balmy weather, delicious food, people-watching, and the friendly performance of the servers made for an exceedingly pleasant experience. Just gazing at the vases bursting over with flowers made me smile.
Was it worth the price of admission? $144 after tip? Yes. Indeed it was.
