RESTAURANT REVIEW : Some Reservations About Trinity on Melrose Avenue
The first time I called Trinity for reservations, the hostess said if we came immediately, we could eat, but we had to promise to leave our table by 9, when another party had it reserved. That would give us 45 minutes for dinner. No thanks.
The second time, I called on a Tuesday for a Thursday reservation.
The hostess said, “Uh, I can put you down, but the maitre d’ is going to have to call you back and tell you when we can fit you in.”
Sometime on Wednesday, the maitre d’ called and told me I had an 8 o’clock reservation.
Trinity is where Fellini’s used to be, a few blocks east of La Brea on Melrose Avenue. There is no sign. You have to know about this hip young, clubby place--and have reservations--to eat there.
My friend Kate and I arrived right at 8. A thin hostess in a tiny black dress scanned one sheet and found our name. Then she scanned another sheet and frowned. “Uh, uh, uh . . . ,” she said. “Your table isn’t ready yet. Please sit in the bar and check back with me in five minutes.” We peeked into the restaurant that seemed virtually empty.
The bar was dark, with high, elaborately painted recessed ceilings and a wall of mirrors. We sat on big, beat-up red sofas for about 10 minutes. When I checked with the hostess, she was on the phone and didn’t look up. After 10 more minutes, Kate went to see about our table. “Still not ready.”
A few young men in torn jeans and sport coats came in and were seated. Three men and a blond woman in knee-high black boots came in and were seated. Others were sent into the bar. Eventually, the hostess appeared and went up to three men in the bar. “Your table’s been ready for half an hour,” she said peevishly.
After 8:30, we were given a tiny table against the banquette. Although only a few of tables and booths were occupied, we were seated inches from the three men from the bar. The busperson had to pull the table clear out of the line of tables so that we could sit down. Once seated, I could read my neighbor’s watch and hear his breathing, not to mention everything he said.
It took us a while to adjust to such sudden intimacy with strangers. We fiddled with the remarkably cheap, light flatware. We looked around. The room had pink rubbed walls and big arches that looked through rows of liquor bottles into the bar. At the end of the room, we could see another room with a green pool table in it. Prince played at a moderate volume. We might have conversed but the man sitting next to Kate was restless and talky and we couldn’t think over his patter.
“This is a lousy table, man,” he said. “You know, I feel like cattle in here.” He twisted in his seat and looked at the women behind him. “Hi there,” he said, and twisted back. “You know, I deserve to be with the best people, man. The very best . . . Let’s move to a booth, man.”
His friend took out a big bill and passed it to the third man and said, “Get us a booth.”
Meanwhile, another pair of men were seated on our other side; they were lawyers, talking business. I concentrated on keeping my arms close to my sides lest I literally rub someone’s elbows.
The room was filling up rapidly. Almost everyone was under 40. There were a lot of torn jeans. A lot of leather jackets. A lot of expensive hair cuts.
Although eating may be one of the last things one thinks of in such confined, self-conscious circumstances, at least the service was prompt and cheerful. The menu is an exercise in minimalism--no descriptions, just items and prices: Meatloaf-12; Roasted Chicken-14; Lamb-17; Veal-18. There is a $12 per person food minimum.
The food itself is typical of the nouvelle bar ‘n’ grill fare that evolved a few years ago in such other such hip clublike enclaves as DC3 and the West Beach Cafe. Given the low comfort level of the restaurant, I was surprised the food was as good as it was.
The beef carpaccio special, according to the waitress was Angus beef, and although it was perfectly edible, I found it difficult to appreciate such subtleties as meat lineage in such a nerve-racking environment. Another special appetizer was stuffed zucchini blossoms in pepper sauce; they were bland, and a little doughy. The grilled swordfish was a beautiful, well-cooked chunk of fish served with some barely cooked infant vegetables. The roasted half chicken was huge and unusually succulent.
That first night, we didn’t stay for dessert, much to the relief of our neighbors. The fellow who had gone off with the big bill to procure a booth had been unsuccessful; our early departure allowed him and his friends to stretch out a little bit.
Given this first experience, I was startled to make reservations for 7 on a weeknight and find that we were greeted warmly and seated immediately in one of the commodious booths.
We liked the festival roll, a crunchy spring roll served with a delicious sweet, hot chutney. And my lamb chops were tender and tasty. But the arugula and duck salad contained very little arugula and very tough duck. My friend’s Capellini Salmon was an enormous portion but the tender salmon was dominated by the anise-flavored edge of fresh tarragon.
This time, we stayed for pie--decent apple and banana cream pie. As we lingered, parties began to stray in and the Trinity we knew from our earlier encounter began to take shape. It was well after 8 when the hostess brought two handsome men in suits to the booth behind us. “You can have this table,” she said, “but it’s reserved for a party at 9. Now, I’ll do my best to put the people off as long as possible in the bar, but you have to promise me you’ll do your part . . . .”
We got up and went home before the real action began.
Trinity, 6810 Melrose Ave., Los Angeles, (213) 857-1417. Open Monday through Saturday for dinner. Full bar. Visa, MasterCard and American Express accepted. Valet parking. Dinner for t wo, food only, $36 to $68.