FOOD DRINK REVIEW

BY BRAD A. JOHNSON PHOTOGRAPHY BY EDUARD DUARTE

ANGELINO MAGAZINE, July 2007

RUSTIC CANYON

Josh Loeb's wine-centric, Mediterranean gastropub is the toughest reservation in Santa Monica

The "pizzeta" at Rustic Canyon is every bit as delicious as the pizza at Mozza. (There, I've said it!) It is a wispy-thin flatbread, about the same size as Mozza's – a small, individual-sized pie of four little slices. And it is topped with M&M-sized crumbles of superb goat cheese and slices of chorizo-like sausage the size of Scrabble pieces. There's a little salad propped on top: a handful of wild baby arugula tossed in a simple vinaigrette, which I push to the side and eat separately. (Pizza and salad are two completely different food groups in my book.) Rustic Canyon's pizzeta probably won't win any Italian pizza contests. But neither would Mozza's. It's a fancy chef's version of a very unfancy food. And it is utterly delicious.

Rustic Canyon first caught my eye a few months ago when I was driving down Wilshire Boulevard. I couldn't help but notice. The lights glowed beautifully (but not too brightly), framed by large picture windows. A sign atop the storefront spoke to me: "Rustic Canyon," it announced. And then, subliminally, it said, "Look at those people inside. They're having a great time in there!" From the street, this looked like a warm and cozy gastropub. People were congregating in a small lounge off to one side. And waiters in brown T-shirts darted around the room carrying what looked like fancy wine glasses and mounds of french fries (french fries and good wine--a combination I can hardly resist). I could almost read the oversized chalkboard menus from the street, but then a blue Prius started honking frantically because I had inadverantly veered into his lane. I turned my eyes back to the road. My stomach growled, and I felt an urge to park the car and go in, but I soldiered on. I knew I'd be back before long. Besides, that Prius had just pulled into the valet in front of the restaurant.

The next time I drove through the neighborhood, it was because I had reserved a table at Rustic Canyon, yet I sped right past those great big windows without even noticing. “Where'd it go? It was right here, I swear!" I turned the car around and drove past it once again, spotting it only after I'd driven by. The windows were now covered with gangsta tint-you know, that dark, impenetrable film that celebrities glue onto their car windows to avoid being recognized by crazed fans and paparazzi. And it had the very same effect-Rustic Canyon had suddenly gone incognito. Invisible. The windows had been tinted, I was told, because the restaurant is now open for lunch, and without the privacy shade, the dining room gets way too hot. I can sympathize with that, I guess. But, design-wise, I think it was a huge mistake. If I hadn't noticed the restaurant previously, I never would have noticed it afterwards. Oh, well–such is the price of fame in this town.

What I had seen through the windows while I had had the chance turned out to be exactly what I thought I'd seen: french fries and good wine. The chalkboard lists more than two dozen choices by the glass, every one of them immensely drinkable. The roster changes regularly (supposedly), although it always looked the same on my visits. Even if it never changed, I wouldn't complain. I might moan about the prices by the glass, though. For example, Duckhorn Decoy, a deliciously peppery Cabernet blend, sells in the store for $28 per bottle. Here, it goes for $16 a glass, which seems a wee bit high (considering that a bottle on the wine list here sells for $55). Orin Swift The Prisoner, a deliciously scruffy Zinfandel/Cabernet blend, retails for $32 per bottle, and it, too, goes for $16 a glass here (versus a very easy-to-swallow $50 by the bottle). Odd glass prices aside, owner Josh Loeb (trained as a chef) has assembled a terrific list of really interesting discoveries from America and Europe. There is the odd Rothschild for upwards of $600, but I seriously doubt anyone has ever ordered those here.

Not that a Rothschild wouldn't go nicely with french fries-because, certainly, it would. It's just that I'd rather have a new pair of Gucci shoes to wear while I'm drinking the Decoy. (Is that so wrong?)

More importantly, the fries are real. Finally, here's a chef who buys real potatoes, cuts them in-house and cooks them properly. I wish they were thicker, instead of matchsticks (which must be eaten, very indelicately, handfuls at a time), but I'll stop while I'm ahead. Better thin than fake.

The chef is Samir Mohajer, and I don't remember ever eating fries like this at the Little Door when he was the chef there. The menu is really very basic, and everything is basically very good. Familiar neighborhood stuff. Those fries come with a side of burger. It was incredibly juicy, too, with what tasted like high-quality beef, cooked medium-rare, so that little puddles of blood formed on the plate beneath a very nice brioche bun. The bacon was from Niman Ranch, where the pigs are always fat and happy (Loeb and Mohajer buy from farms that practice sustainable agriculture, as every chef should). Another night, those fries came with a side of flat-iron steak, perfectly cooked.

I ordered the Moroccan salad plate once and fell head-over-heals in love with the grilled f1atbread served as an accompaniment. Essentially, the salad was nothing more than several neat piles of pickled vegetables. Tasty. But the f1atbread completely stole the show. I couldn't put it down, and whenever anyone else reached for a piece, I found myself forcing a smile as I said, "Yes, by all means, help yourself." But I didn't mean it. I hated them, briefly. Their hands would reach, and my heart would leap.

A bowl of steamed mussels was perfectly executed and proved to be the perfect size for one person as a starter. Snapper ceviche with tortilla chips was fine, too, but felt out of place as the odd Mexican sombrero in a crowd of Mediterranean classics. Seared ahi was very good. But again, the side dish was even better: fantastic mashed potatoes dripping wet with green salsa. Rack of lamb was beautiful and satisfying. And chocolate bread pudding with marshmallow cream is worth a trip on its own.

I was very surprised to discover how difficult it is to reserve a table here. It is almost as difficult as Mozza (for a Tuesday night, with a week's notice, I was forced to choose between 5:30PM or 8:45PM). I'm extremely thankful that, over the course of three visits, I never ended up at one of the communal tables, which occupy the majority of the room. I simply loathe communal dining. Sure, I understand the business reason for having a bunch of shared tables. And, yes, I've read on the restaurant's website that this place was inspired by various dinner parties at the owner's house, where there was always a new face at the table. But, presumably, the newbie was prescreened by another guest. That's never the case when we're talking about the wildly divergent possibilities of guests at a very public restaurant. It's not always free love and camaraderie. This isn't Chez Panisse in the '60s. Sit with a bunch of strangers? At the airport, maybe. But here? No thanks.

One night I went to stick my gum underneath the table (just kidding) and noticed that the undersides were lined with foam padding (not kidding), which is probably what keeps this restaurant from being intolerably loud. I won't lie-this place does get rockin'. But it's not nearly as loud as Mozza.