Like a dependable drinking buddy who at a moment’s notice is always available to catch a game and a couple of pints, so is O’Brien’s, an Irish pub as reliable as a Timex watch and about as stylish.

Similar to the neighboring bars, and there are many; O’Brien’s Irish Pub is seen through the prism of Santa Monica, where pints of Guinness share bar space with iPhones, sunglasses and scripts from soon-to-be-failed television pilots. But of the myriad wells that line this stretch of Wilshire, O’Brien’s is the only one to which I return.

The bartenders are fraternally friendly, if not, perhaps, in a state of extended adolescence, where conversation is still peppered with dorm room wise cracks and towel-snapping high jinx. A capable lot all, though in-depth analysis of Fantasy Football and the Xbox 360 is often about the highest level of “craic” to be heard in this pub.

Game days, both College and Professional can get rather enthusiastic, and crowded, with SRO capacity. Oddly, it has become a popular Saturday destination for many Cal Bear supporters, perhaps because they too have learned not to expect too much in the end.

The warm combination of dark wood and brick walls adorned with typical pub memorabilia helps you to momentarily forget the relatively close proximity to the Pacific Ocean, that is until one of the regulars bellies up in flip flops and baggy shorts. The long, coat hook-equipped bar and dinning areas are divided by a wooden partition with tables lining a back wall and side room, while the glow of omnipresent plasmas are within sightline of almost every seat.

As with most pubs, O’Brien’s serves food, but like most pubs, I don’t go there to eat, so I cannot comment on the fare. Nor for that matter should I comment on the unfortunate presence of Karaoke, which by definition would eliminate them from this list. While I have never witnessed it firsthand, I am aware of a karaoke night, so I recommend you call ahead. Unless of course your desire is to perform hits from the Neil Diamond catalogue. But I must believe no loyal reader of this website would possibly cop to such a desire, even if your rendition of Forever In Blue Jeans is legendary.

With all its faults, there is an undeniable charm to O’Brien’s. Perhaps it is simply I have always found it refreshing when a bar has a back door as O’Brien’s does. Its like having a friendly neighbor, who insists you let yourself in and grab a cold beer from the fridge, and sometimes we don’t need much more than that. – CSM

The Dresden Room, like a Certs mint, is really two, two, two joints in one. In 1996, Vince Vaughn and Jon Favreau demonstrated on the big screen what many of Los Angeles’ eastside hipsters had known for years, that The Dresden Room swings. But oddly, what far too few of “those in the know” have come to appreciate is that the venerable Los Feliz institution also waltzes.

Anyone who has witnessed the magical, musical stylings of the dynamic jazz duo Marty and Elayne during their 23-year lounge gig, or caught a momentary glimpse of their performance in the movie Swingers may understand why by 9PM on most nights the dark cavernous bar at The Dresden is filled with scene making revelers looking for a stiff shot of retro cool.

But what some overlook is the restaurant’s less obvious charm, as it sways in the early evening to a lovely, lonely beat of its own, long before the seasoned entertainers take to their perspective microphones.

Those who enter The Dresden Room in the late afternoon can quietly sip cocktails in the calm, coolness of the lounge while a capable staff, gliding with well rehearsed precision, prepares for the perfect storm brought on 6 nights a week by Hurricane Marty and Elayne. Far from the crescendo of chaos 3 drinkers deep create in the later swinging hours, during The Dresden’s golden time, empty stools outnumber patrons at the bar, and a soft murmur of cocktail conversation and the evening news broadcasting on two small televisions hanging above the bar set the slow and easy tempo. There is also no better opportunity throughout the day to fully soak in the mellow, mood altering, albeit kitschy, decor.

With the darker bar and lounge on one side, and the dining area, awash in white leather, bright lights and Asian themed screens on the other, the great Dresden divide is further emphasized by the restaurant’s layout. A wall decorated with art deco inspired glass and what seems to be about 40 years often separates the guests in the two rooms. Open for lunch and dinner Monday through Saturday, my guess is many of the restaurant’s older early bird diners of continental fare have no idea of the SRO Gen-XYZ happening that takes place in the lounge long after they’ve finished their Pepper Steak and Peach Melba.

Sadly, Carl Ferraro who owned The Dresden Room since 1954 pasted away on January 20, 2005. But luckily his legacy, and The Dresden’s delightful duality, will continue to provide the perfect setting for patrons no matter what side of the wall or time of day you prefer.

C.M.

The ever-impeding revitalization of Downtown Los Angeles has for years been a hot topic at Westside cocktail parties, as many Angelinos are waiting for the “All Clear” sign to travel east of Rodeo Drive after 7PM. While Disney Concert Hall and Patina Restaurant have recently given some a reason to traverse the great expanse after dark, the Gallery Bar located in the landmark Millennium Biltmore Hotel has been perfecting the art of the cocktail long before Mickey brought music to Bunker Hill.

The Millennium Biltmore is one of the last remaining examples of the grandeur of Los Angeles’ golden age. Designed in the style of the Spanish Italian Renaissance, and encompassing an entire square block, The Biltmore was the largest and grandest hotel west of Chicago when it opened in 1923. It has served as home to presidents (it was JFK’s campaign headquarters), kings and Hollywood celebrities, even hosting several Academy Award ceremonies. Today it stands as both a reminder and a glimmer of hope of what can become of Downtown.

The beautiful, somewhat narrow Gallery Bar is located just off the hotel’s awe-inspiring lobby. With its oak-paneled walls, dimly lighted chandeliers, plush armchairs and leather couches, you are instantly transported to a different time. With a glorious painted ceiling and carved angels gazing upon the imbibers sitting at the polished marble top bar, if ever there was a bar that called out Martini, this is it.

While conversation is rarely above a whisper, except when an occasional jazz trio is performing, the room lacks the stuffiness and pretension that its elegance warrants. The bartending staff maintains the right mix of friendliness and professionalism that makes it easy to enjoy a post work libation without having to jump through hoops.

As if the stunning surroundings were not enough, The Gallery Bar also has it’s own noir notoriety in Los Angeles lore, as the last place Elizabeth Short, AKA The Black Dahlia, was seen on January 15, 1947 before the eviscerated body of the 22-year-old struggling actress turned up on a vacant lot on Norton Avenue and 39th Street. The bar offers a Black Dahlia cocktail to mark the date. I’ll reserve my comment on the tastefulness of both the drink and the concept.

While a hipper set may prefer new neighbor, The Golden Gopher, a re-worked former dive on 8th at Hill Street, which is not without its own high marks, the Gallery Bar serves as a refined refuge from what can be a grim stretch of the City that is attempting to remove the shroud of dilapidated elegance and revive a glamorous past.

C.M.

Once resting in the shadow of the Warner Hollywood lot, The Formosa Cafe served as the studio’s unofficial commissary to the stars in Hollywood’s heyday, unfortunately the cafe must now play a different role. The small red cafe with black & white awnings on the corner of Santa Monica and Formosa has for years seemed out of place due to the ever increasing encroachment of the surrounding neighborhood. Were it not for the green neon “Formosa” sign on the front of the 3500 square foot building, the West Hollywood landmark may, at first glance, appear to be a construction office for the soon to open 250,000 square foot mother of all strip malls reluctantly sharing the property.  This would not be the first case of mistaken identity for The Formosa Cafe since it opened its doors in 1934.

Once inside, under the low light of Chinese lanterns and the watchful eyes of Kirk Douglas, Lee Marvin, Bozo the Clown and the hundreds of “celebrities” whose 8 X 10 glossies line the walls in a rectangle of fame framing the bar below, one can quickly forget the mall-maniacal world on the other side of the door. The Formosa Café has a history deeply rooted in Hollywood lore, and many of the legends looking down on the patrons have at one time crossed the threshold seeking champagne and chow mein. Engulfed in the darkness of the Chinatown meets Tinsletown aesthetic with black bar stools, a black Formica bar top and deep red paint on the walls, you understand how difficult it can be to properly identify your drink, let alone other patrons, as was the case in the Lana Turner scene in LA Confidential famously filmed at The Formosa.

So dark is the cafe that the lack of lighting may be hurting food sales for sake of atmosphere and mood. As Confucius said: “Don’t eat what you can’t see.”  Or maybe it was ConFunkShun who said it, but whoever it was, it is sound advice.  Though you will be tempted by the smell of egg rolls hanging heavy in the air like a wrecking ball, the kind that almost leveled the Formosa before it was granted landmark status, you may want to forsake the food for another drink.  To paraphrase LA Confidential, mediocre Chinese food cut to look like haute cuisine is still mediocre Chinese food.

On the record, there is no mistaking The Formosa Cafe is a Los Angeles original, unlike the monolithic Mecca of retail therapy crowding in on the restaurant’s action.  While you may be able to find a souvenir on aisle 5 at the Target next door, I prefer sipping cocktails at a real Hollywood treasure.  – C.M.

The strikingly beautiful Grace Kelly in To Catch a Thief. The vulnerable Ingrid Bergman in Casablanca. The perky and curvaceous Barbara Stanwick in Meet John Doe. The versatility and skill of Kate Hepburn in any of her films. Alas, none of those grand dames of Hollywood are around anymore. In fact, in the land of motion pictures just one grand dame remains. And while beautiful and skilled, this is not a woman at all but a destination: The Polo Lounge at The Beverly Hills Hotel and Bungalows.

Entering the Pink Palace, built in 1912 and renovated in 1995, the place just oozes of old school Hollywood fame and fortune. Howard Hughes used to live there. So did Greta Garbo. The married Clark Gable and the single Carole Lombard used to swing there, if you know what I mean. Will Rogers supposedly named the Polo Lounge because it became a meeting place for friends after polo matches. And he never met a bar he didn’t like.

Long being a place frequented by starlets, even without a film deal one can feel like a movie star, mingle with movie stars, and spend like a movie star.

After entering the circular drive that is surrounded by huge palm trees and colorful flowers, you stop under a canopy where you are welcomed immediately by the attentive valet staff. Walk up the steps to the art deco lobby brushed in pink and green hues and you are greeted again. The Polo Lounge is on the right where another greeting awaits.

Once inside the Polo Lounge, you feel a chill. Not from a gentle breeze from the garden patio, but you realize that you have just entered the coolest place on the planet. The seats at the tiny bar are few but tables and booths are almost always available except at peak times. Once inside, you’ll find that the martinis are poured to perfection by veteran bartenders. At cocktail hour, drinks are served with warm tri-colored tortilla chips, guacamole and salsa for munching.

During lunch and dinner, the piano is skillfully played. Breakfast is also available, with the prime area for seating being the patio that takes full advantage of the usually wonderful LA climate. A seasoned staff serves a classic menu of exceptional fresh salads and entrees impeccably.

This is a grown up place and you have to pay for a rookie mistake. One day at the Polo Lounge, while lunching with my water-drinking mother, I ordered a glass of Cristal Champagne without looking at the wines by the glass menu on the table. With apologies to MasterCard, Fruit Plate: $11.95. Caesar Salad: $14.00. Glass of Cristal Champagne: $85.00. Lesson learned at the Polo Lounge: Priceless.

More expensive to stay than to play, I find the Beverly Hills Hotel to be far less pretentious than the beautiful, but a bit stuffy Hotel Bel-Air despite the contrary opinion of my brother (see Bar at Hotel Bel-Air review). The Bel-Air is black tie; the Polo Lounge in the Pink Palace is Armani and open collars. The Polo is where special occasions are often celebrated. For me, a Tuesday is good enough. And with enough cash, all endings are happy.

The Polo Lounge at The Beverly Hills Hotel remains a starlet full of charm and grace. And the lady is pretty in pink. – D.M.

Nestled in a beautiful tree-lined and estate-filled canyon of posh Bel-Air, the glorious Bar at Hotel Bel-Air is superbly appointed with a roaring fireplace, soothing piano, and attentive staff in a most serene setting. So majestic are the surroundings, if there is a watering hole in heaven, it must closely resemble the Bar at Hotel Bel-Air.

On your way to the Bar, walking across the arching, flower covered stone bridge over a small lake filled with graceful white swans, you pass the Hotel’s lobby, housed in a beautiful mission-style building, formerly the real estate planning and sales office for Alphonso Bell, who created Bel-Air Estates in 1922. Mr. Bell later sold the 12 acres that make up the Hotel’s lush property to Joseph Drown, a hotel entrepreneur from Texas in 1946.

Only a mile or two from The Beverly Hills Hotel, another location worthy of the great acclaim and prestige, the Bar at Hotel Bel-Air may not possess the iconic grandeur of the “Pink Palace’s” Polo Lounge, but certainly maintains a sophisticated, if understated elegance. More aptly suited for power canoodling than power lunching, the Bar is a place the “seen” go not to be seen. Even on its most crowded weekend nights, one gets the sensation that you are alone, due in part to the professionalism and discretion of the staff.

While the Bar is definitely not a boys night out destination in the raucous suds commercial sense, if you’re looking for delicious burgers and beers those can be obtained in the Bar, as can menu selections of the highly regarded restaurant situated across the hallway from the oak-paneled room. The Bar’s dark tones, plush couches and high backed leather chairs may be reminiscent of a private club, and while there are no membership dues, like any club, rules apply; gentlemen are expected to wear jackets, and loud, blustery behavior is not tolerated.

It should also be noted that all the refinement and otherworldliness awaiting to transport the Bar’s patrons requires one additional element perhaps not needed when sipping cocktails with St. Peter; the ethereal glow from the champagne comes with a very real world bill that is expected to be paid during this lifetime. – C.M.

Musso and Frank is not a new Disney animated feature about the misadventures of two lovable talking animals. It is, in fact, “the oldest restaurant in Hollywood”, and in a city where most people fib about their age, Musso & Frank Grill is justifiably proud of its 85 years.

Now I’ll admit, this is not breaking news; Musso & Frank’s has long been a hangout for screenwriters and assorted celebrities. When The Writer’s Guild was located nearby on Cherokee; the Hollywood Boulevard eatery became a favorite watering hole of F. Scott Fitzgerald, William Faulkner and Raymond Chandler.

After a few sips of a carefully stirred Martini at the bar, located in the main dinning room, you almost sense Chandler in one of the worn red leather booths writing the line, “From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away.” The same can be said for Musso & Frank, which in the light of day shows signs of wear around the edges, but that only adds to the character and charm of the place.

Established in 1919, originally owned by John Musso and Frank Toulet, the dark and modestly clubby atmosphere of this Hollywood landmark moves along at its own pace like the best film noir of the 40’s. It is no coincidence that at times, the room feels more like a movie set than an actual restaurant. Although the red-jacketed bartenders are not actors, they are skilled craftsmen who prepare classic cocktails with as much ease as Philip Marlowe rolls a cigarette or handles a leggy brunette with a wicked jaw.

Musso & Frank maintains many of the qualities from Tinseltown’s past including wood-paneled walls, high-sided mahogany booths, Martinis pored with sidecars (a personal favorite touch) and a menu of meat-and-potato staples like steaks, chops and chicken potpie. But don’t be fooled by the yesteryear surroundings, the prices are very current, and with an a la carte menu, the bill can sneak up on you faster than that second Manhattan. It is often difficult to get a seat at the bar but well worth the attempt. In the ever-changing and reinvigorated Hollywood, it is nice that some places are gracefully acting their age. – C.M.

It was the boastful green shamrock declaring “The House of Irish Coffee” standing tall above Tom Bergin’s Tavern that immediately raised my level of skepticism to a fever pitch during my first few days in Los Angeles. How dare this bar in the middle of a less than remarkable block along Fairfax Avenue have the nerve to not only reference Irish Coffee in its sign, but actually manifest what I felt was a sacrilegious claim. What could LA possibly know about Irish Coffee? It is Sunny and 78 degrees everyday, and you can’t make an Irish Coffee with soymilk.

Having spent the previous 5 years in New York, Manhattan has a trademark on large and boastful; I was quickly learning that over-the-top proclamations in Los Angeles were also derigueur. This is a city where publicists have publicists, and bold, sweeping statements and glowing outward appearances are given more leeway than a Hummer barreling down Rodeo Drive, and usually carry as much validity and weight as a starlet on the WB. It is home, after all, to another sign that sends a romanticized message to the world. But one need only stand on the corner of Hollywood and Vine to discern the glamour and allure conjured up by those 9 white letters atop the hill has little to do with the harsh reality of the surrounding streets.

I grew up in the Bay Area, and for a time lived within striking distance of the Buena Vista in San Francisco, the Mecca of Irish Coffee. I had been schooled in the subtle art and science of this cocktail, by observing the systematic creation of rounds of the hot drink by waist-coated bartenders during post-Thanksgiving dinner visits. So the claim Tom Bergin’s made had to be investigated, debunked if necessary, for I was on a crusade, and while the proximity of the bar to my home would actually make it an ideal neighborhood haunt, I was willing to forego convenience for the sake of conscience.

Entering Tom Bergin’s I was immediately stuck by how dark it is inside. This can be a welcome change from the glaring Southern California sun, or a little off-putting, when walking into unfamiliar territory. Once my eyes adjusted, and bearings were set, I pulled up one of the small, high, wooden benches, that surround the beautifully worn wooden horseshoe bar and ordered an Irish Coffee. I quickly noted the slight differences in the concoction compared to the BV, but was relived when the drink was topped with real cream whipped into a foamy, thick consistency and not tainted by the canned variety. Taking the first sip, I was pleasantly surprised by its similarity to those drinks from my past, which relaxed me enough to soak in the surroundings.

The ceiling and walls of Tom Bergin’s Tavern, founded in 1936, Mr. Bergin sold the bar in 1973, are covered with hundreds of green paper shamrocks, bearing the names of loyal customers, along with a few pictures and other memorabilia of the Los Angeles Rams and USC Trojans. The entire visible surface is a deep, rich, and warm dark wood that has a certain transporting effect removing you from the highly polished, nipped and tucked Beverly Hills only a few blocks to the west. There are several televisions above the bar with accessible views from all angles, but this is not what I would call a sports bar, nor is it a soccer and suds pub, but it is a nice place to catch a game. Although you often have to compete with the better than average juke box in the corner, and the Rube Goldberg configuration of the cable system that can delay your viewing.

Lunch and Dinner are served most days, and the food, traditional Irish fare to Burgers and Fries is respectable, if not satisfying. There is a slightly more upscale dinning room in the rear of the tavern styled in a horse racing motif, although eating at the bar is perfectly acceptable, and for me, preferable, particularly on Saturday afternoons during college football season. The bartenders range in age and attitude, but all have been agreeable, and appropriately dressed in starched white shirts and ties. Although they may not always know your name, they usually remember what teams you like, and what beer you drink. The full bar has a nice selection of spirits, and the standard taps you would expect from an Irish establishment namely, Bass, Harp, and Guinness.

Many consider Tom Bergin’s their local pub; in fact, I have heard on more than one occasion that it is like Cheers. Well, here the pints are $5, and I have yet to be treated to one on the house, but there certainly is a familiar atmosphere to the bar. I will caution against most weekend nights, as Tom Bergin’s can get very crowded, and you’ll wish you had Norm’s prime position at the oak. As for the self-anointed title of “The House of Irish Coffee” I can only say that with the Mecca of Irish Coffee 400 miles to the north, “The House” serves as a nice home away from home. – C.M.