You know how when you’ve been looking forward to an event for months and months; it was something that topped your “gotta-check-it-out” list, but your first couple of attempts to experience this hoped-for event are thwarted because turns out, it’s not so easy to get into the venue, and you actually had to make reservations waaay in advance, and even after you finally secured a reservation you still weren’t sure it would happen because someone leaves you a voice message the day before asking you to confirm your reservation, with the distinct implication that if you failed to do so, your table will be given away, and so you call back, like, 20 times, but no one answers the phone, so now you’re really worried that you’d show up only to be told that you no longer had a reservation and it’s all your fault for not picking up your phone when they called (while you were at work), but the logistical barriers only heightened your excitement and the sense that this venue, when you finally gained ingress, would be so special, truly one for the books, and then after all those months of anticipation you do the thing, and it’s just… okay?
When Charlie and I first embarked on this gustatory journey back in January, we co-created a list of restaurants we most aspired to check out. Bavel (emphasis on the second syllable) was one of Charlie’s top choices and hearing the reverence in his voice as he spoke of his expectations of the place (having previously visited and been well-pleased with its sister restaurant) infected me with the same eagerness to eat there. We initially thought we would make Bavel our February restaurant, but apparently, three weeks in advance was too late to reserve a table at this popular spot. A subsequent attempt to make a reservation was similarly futile. In August, we thought we’d try again, not really expecting to be successful as we had once again left things till the “last minute” (three weeks prior). But, perhaps because we were aiming this time for a Wednesday reservation, we finally got our names on the guest list. After ascertaining from their website that the restaurant has counter seating, I added the special request for those seats along with my reservation, so that I could avoid sitting and hurting my poor tailbone.
Bavel is another of those hip restaurants located near the epicenter of DTLA squalor and decrepitude, I assume because the rent is cheaper in that zip code. The restaurant itself is pretty in a casual, not-trying-too-hard way. The hostess, who had noted my accommodation request, showed us to our seats at the bar, which was otherwise empty when we arrived at 6 pm. We chose the two seats at the end of the bar, which afforded us an unexpected perk in that it was right next to the restrooms (well, I guess that’s only a perk if you need to pee as frequently as I do). The restrooms themselves were an annoyance, however, and got increasingly more so as the evening progressed and the venue filled up, yet no attendant was around to maintain some semblance of tidiness. Moreover, too few stalls led to a small queue at one point, which places a lot of pressure on one when one is the occupant; it’s stressful to feel that one must PEE QUICKLY because others are waiting to use that stall. I also disliked that you have to wash your hands in the sinks outside the restrooms. Sometimes a girl likes to wipe away smeared mascara or check her teeth for food, etc. and it’s just nice to have a bit more privacy for stuff like that, and at a restaurant where there’s a $185 entrée on the menu, you expect that they would think of these things.
