![]() ![]() The stylish minimalist space strung with piazza lights is enclosed by smooth concrete walls softened by a few languid plants and bracketed by a fireplace and a small bar. We check in with the hosts and are offered a table on the patio close to the fire. We’re strolling up the long concrete ramp to the entrance lighted by flickering oil lamps. Only when they get a match will they unhook the velvet rope that gives Falcon and its ilk the illusion of exclusivity. Getting in means running the usual gantlet of security vetting would-be diners against the names on a clipboard. On one occasion, when I had the foresight to reserve a couple of weeks in advance, I achieve a table on a weekend night - at 9:30. Though there aren’t many empty tables, I suspect the crowds, like me, are here on a Wednesday because they couldn’t get in Thursday, Friday or Saturday. So every time I call for a reservation, they are fully booked - unless, of course, I want to come at 7, but how hip is that? At this sort of place, the late-night scene is the deal.Įven when I finally secure a reservation at 9 on a weeknight, the mood is still somewhat subdued. ![]() Needless to say, if Falcon is hip, it has to be hard to get in. And along the banquette-bleacher built along one side of this ballroom-sized space, blonds perch among the cushions like bright-feathered birds, studiously oblivious to the goings-on in the patio below. Guys assemble in front of the outdoor patio’s fireplace, smoking, hardly talking, occasionally take a cell phone call, real or faked. Girls with painstakingly assembled looks stand around in uneasy herds or perch on the edge of the bar’s giant shaggy ottomans nursing pretty drinks. I say “mingle” rather than “meet,” because what I observed was so far from a pickup scene it could have been a junior high dance. Like North in Hollywood or Katana on the strip, Falcon is about creating a setting where the young and hopeful can mingle. It’s the owners - Tommy Stoilkovich and Mike Garrett, whose other venues include Lounge 217, Voda and Pearl Dragon - who have the cachet in these perilously trendy rapids. It isn’t the chef, or even the architect or designer. It isn’t the fleeting reference to old Hollywood. There is, however, a DJ spinning tunes out into this dramatic loft-like space (once, if you can believe it, Fritzi’s Vienna Hofbrau) on Sunset Boulevard, a short stroll from the supermarket affectionately known as “Rock ‘n’ Roll Ralph’s.”įalcon, named after Falcon Lair, the luxurious retreat of sloe-eyed silent film star Rudolph Valentino, comes with a pedigree. I’m reporting from dinner at yet another of Hollywood’s hybrid bar-restaurants. The molten coverlet of Fontina cheese and wild mushrooms puts a contemporary spin on the pie, though. The billowy crust resembles one of those pre-baked ones from the supermarket. I’m also wondering why it took so long to arrive at our table. “It’s not about the food,” my plugged-in friend whispers soothingly, as we toy with our lamentable pizza, wondering what to do with it. ![]()
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