It is a testament to the efficacy of social conditioning that every October brings with it a renewed thirst in the sheep-like populace for thrills and chills. Swept up in the spirit of Halloween, our clique of gourmands from East LA—Charlie, Martin, Toni, and I (yes, it’s a table for four this time)—were in search of a season-appropriate venue for our restaurant-of-the-month. As it turns out, however, Halloween-themed restaurants are quite rare (to any enterprising restaurateurs reading this: the horror-themed restaurant appears to be a spacious niche currently). Charlie and I had gone to Beetle House last October, and while I have no objections to going back, it seemed incredible that it is the ONLY Halloween-themed restaurant a big city like LA had to offer. But the month was winding down, and it seemed we were out of options. The closest thing we could find to a horror-themed restaurant wasn’t even a restaurant. It was The Wolves in DTLA, a “1900’s Parisian salon-style bar,” and it would have to do. I mean, wolves are kinda scary, although not as scary as coyotes (I should know. I was nearly ambushed by a coyote recently. It was just after sunset, and I was walking along Huntington Drive, about 10 minutes from home, when I espied, to my shock, the foul creature lurking a few yards away on a residential street off the main thoroughfare. At first, I thought it must be someone’s dog because the area, while residential, wasn’t exactly secluded. But no. It was a coyote, bold as you please). Since this was a bar only, we decided to transition to a different location after drinks for our dinner, so expect this review to be a two-parter.
The décor at The Wolves is Art Deco-inspired, while its moody ambiance is more reminiscent of Romanticism. We got there just as it opened on a Sunday evening (5 pm), and, with the last rays of the sun fading fast outside, one can easily imagine Lord Byron himself contemplating a snifter of brandy at the bar. More historically accurate, however, The Wolves was once frequented by Jazz Age celebrities like Mary Pickford and Charlie Chaplin. I don’t know how scary the place was back then, but today, it’s terrifying. Not that there was anything in the wooden benches, Tiffany-style lamps, or cast-iron staircase to cause particular alarm. Nor even was the fact that they had apparently run out of the ingredients to make the most popular drink on their menu too worrisome, though it was rather disappointing. I had studied their menu online beforehand and had been looking forward to that specialty cocktail. Eh bien, c’est la vie. The “El Diablo” that I ordered as an alternative was subtly sweet and refreshing, so no complaints there. No, what frightened me so was the inability to wash my hands properly at this venue. After using the facilities at The Wolves, one would need to wash one’s hands at the two sinks outside the actual ladies’ and gentlemen’s rooms. One would need to do this in the dark (well, in very feeble light at any rate). And, one would need to pray that the tiny trickle of water, which was all that the faucets would allow to escape, was enough to clean one’s hands of any Staph and E. Coli adhering to them. These unsanitary conditions were especially concerning given that The Wolves serves hors d’oeuvres of the finger food variety, and they are good—too tasty to pass up despite one’s misgivings over the cleanliness of one’s fingers. Though listed as “flatbread” on their menu, the generous cheeses and toppings on this appetizer made it as substantial as a pizza. Highly recommend, although I must temper my recommendation would a cautionary, “Eat at your own risk.” NOTE: This review is not responsible for any bubonic plague, typhoid, and/or malaria that may be contracted from the unsanitary consumption of any foods recommended herein.
Whereas The Wolves is all dim lighting and dark wooden furniture, Settecento on nearby 5th street is all bright lights and white, faux-marble finishes. This Italian restaurant is the kind of high-end sanctuary that makes patrons forget, just for a moment, what a shithole DTLA is. Miraculously, the whole block it sits on appears uncontaminated by trash, tags, and homeless encampments. Settecento exudes elegance and sophistication and would be a nice place to relax over a meal, regardless of how that meal actually tastes.
Perhaps unwisely, since I had already drunk two “El Diablos” at The Wolves, I ordered another cocktail at Settecento, an unnervingly orange-hued drink with an unexpectedly thick consistency. I wish I remembered the name of the drink, if only so I could avoid it in the future. Dinner was an appetizer, the Tagliere di Salumi e Formaggi (assorted charcuterie and cheese), and a pasta, the Spaghetti alla Chitarra alle Vongole (spaghetti with clams). I enjoyed the cheese selection well enough (as a pescatarian, I didn’t partake of the charcuterie, obviously), but no one cheese stood out. The pasta was similarly nondescript; unobjectionable, to be sure, but neither was it especially noteworthy. Kudos to the clams, though, for being plump and fresh. Ultimately, the Settecento experience is one made memorable not so much due to the food and drinks, but more so from the pleasant surroundings. Not to mention, the even pleasanter company.
