Imagine that the intersection of Grand and 1st was actually pristine and attractive; an exemplar of effective urban planning. It isn’t hard to do if one views that block of DTLA from a distance; say, from the 10th floor of a Gehry-designed hotel. Besides boasting a scenic advantage afforded by its location atop the Conrad, which allows customers sitting in the patio area a view of the elegant Disney Concert Hall across the street, the Spanish restaurant San Laurel also banks on its association with chef José Andrés as a key selling point. According to his Wikipedia page, Andrés is an impressive figure within the haute cuisine world, having won, among other honors, several James Beard awards. He is even credited, apparently, with introducing American diners to tapas. San Laurel’s website describes its food as an ideal marriage between that renown chef’s Spanish gastronomic heritage and California’s agricultural yield: “the flavors of Spain as seen through a California lens.” Sounds fantastic! Sure, the place is bound to be pricy, but authentic Spanish food cooked with fresh local ingredients under the direction of a culinary genius like Andrés—how could San Laurel possibly fail to live up to even the highest expectations?
On a girls’-night-out evening in May, when my friend Carla and I arrived at this jewel in Andrés’ restaurant “collection” (if the restaurant’s website is to be believed), that award-winning, Michelin-starred chef could not be found anywhere on the premises. Of course, he must be extremely busy; presumably, Andrés must divide his presence between a collection of restaurants across multiple cities on at least two continents as he oversees the meticulous preparation of tapas, and more. So, no, it would’ve been unreasonable to expect Andrés to conveniently manifest in physical form at this particular restaurant on the very evening we decided to visit it. But, was he there in spirit, at least? Had the San Laurel menu, in fact, at any point been perused by the restaurant’s ostensible head chef, and did he personally create, or at least, approve, all the dishes listed therein? Look—and this is a question of some urgency, as someone needs to alert him immediately if the answer’s “no”—Is José Andrés even aware that his name is being associated with the bizarre concoctions masquerading as gourmet dishes at San Laurel?
Opting for a cocktails-and-appetizers kind of meal for the evening, us girls started our fun night out with the “Watermelon Report” (which I don’t recommend—for a cocktail, it was surprisingly and disconcerting reminiscent of Indian curry. But my second cocktail, the “Saints G&T,” was much better) for me and a Mai Tai for Carla. For food, we ordered the oysters, crudo, grilled baby gem, “coca idiazábal,” and “vermicelli mac n’ cheese” to share. For its price tag, the oysters must’ve been fresh, plump, and naturally sweet. Only, whatever potential deliciousness they inherently possessed was hopelessly eclipsed by the overpowering flavor of the passionfruit sauce that so liberally frosted each half shell. I mean, why? Granted, the horseradish sauce with which oysters are more commonly seasoned is strong too, but the goal is usually to add just enough to complement the taste of the raw oysters, not to neutralize it completely. Like, if we didn’t like the baseline taste of oysters, we wouldn’t have ordered them, would we? The crudo arrived like a flower blooming in its saucer, but the presentation was the only good thing I can say about it. Despite its dark hue, the sauce that dressed the bite-sized chunks—not slices, chunks (Mistake # 1)—of raw fish was bland and failed to fulfill its raison d’être as seasoning. I thought it might’ve been a black sesame paste because of the color, but it didn’t taste like black sesame. It didn’t really taste like anything. I learned the term, “mouth-feel,” from the show, Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and I’m not entirely sure it’s a real thing, but to me, the mouth-feel of this dish seemed wrong and jarring; I felt vaguely as if I were eating a saucer of “baby’s first solids.” Neither this crudo nor the oysters whetted one’s appetite for any alcoholic drinks, which makes one question the business acumen of those whose job it was to plan and design the menu items at San Laurel. Ideally, a restaurant’s beverages should stimulate hunger for its food, and the food should make the eater thirsty for cocktails and wine. Passionfruit and baby food don’t exactly trigger craving for Bordeaux or tequila. If they’re going to keep serving appetizers like these, they better start passing out some free salted peanuts or something to get customers to order their drinks.
The sunk-cost fallacy is perhaps one of the easiest forms of absurdity to slip into. You keep doing something even though it’s clearly not working out because you’ve already poured so much money (or labor, time, etc.) into it. So, rather than cutting our losses and acknowledging that we were unlikely to eat anything at San Laurel that was actually enjoyable, we ordered more appetizers, foolishly hoping that the next plate to arrive will be amazing! I don’t remember much about the grilled baby gem. The coca idiazábal, on the other hand, was memorable, for all the wrong reasons. The vague description on the menu gives the impression that it will be a cheese and cracker plate; not a terribly exciting appetizer, but one that’s fairly low-risk, surely. This particular cheese-and-cracker plate, however, arrived as one whole… cookie. This monstrosity looked like confetti on a bed of saw shavings, and tasted more like dessert than hors d’oeuvre, but not good dessert; rather, it was like someone tried to bake a cookie but messed up the recipe. Out of frustration, the baker threw his failure into the trash, where saw shavings and other discarded bits of food then stuck to it. Along comes a waiter, who fishes this detritus out of the trash can and puts it on a plate.
The only dish that I kinda enjoyed (but Carla didn’t) was the vermicelli. This was a rather innovative pairing of vermicelli with cheese, baked right in the skillet. While by no means the most mind-blowingly delicious pasta dish I’ve ever had, it was the least objectionable of the items we sampled at San Laurel. Without that vermicelli, I would’ve gone home hungry (we finished the oysters, but not the other appetizers—the idiazábal cookie we left mostly untouched). Our bartender/server, Esteban, noticing our aversion to the cookie, took that item off our bill, which was an unexpected but much appreciated gesture.
As I wrap up this rather scathing review, I should add that our experience wasn’t unmitigatedly negative. As a matter of fact, Carla and I would and do intend to go back to San Laurel, just not for the food. The easy vibe, the view, the cocktails, and the nice bartenders are all elements heavily in its favor, and I wouldn’t be surprised if San Laurel became a preferred place to grab a pre-dinner cocktail or two before heading out to another restaurant nearby for the actual grub.