The Senator and Duchess went to Rose, oh, about a month ago, a couple of days after its "soft opening." Though it was a warm and tactile summer night, no dining on the patio! Oops, haven't gotten our license for that yet it seems. Never mind, we were in a generous mood and wiggled our way into a corner banquette, nestled intimately between a hostess stand and some other diners. Not that the conversation about their marriage wasn't interesting, mind you.
Rose bills itself as a South France-ian-type bistro, but it doesn't do bistro food well. The steak frites were a mess. Soggy frites, tiny steak. The garcon brought the Duchess some gazpacho, which he described as "chunky" ("I want it like salsa. Is it like salsa?" "Yes, Duchess."), that was two drops of water away from being tepid tea. Yuck.
The worst part is that Rose only carries its own bottles of rose that start at appx. $47 per bottle. Say what? The Duchess knows she is the only diner not rolling up in a white Merc with tinted windows, but come on--that's still a little spendy, even for this nabe.
For those of you concerned that the Duchess airs her nasty grievances only to you, dear readers, never fear--the maitre'd got an earful on the Duchess's way out. (Too bad he got a pocketful too.)
Readers, please, if you must:
861 N. La Cienega
Los Angeles, CA 90069