On a recent Saturday night as I peeled a gossamer slice of house-cured guanciale off a sheet of butcher paper and let its buttery, vibrant punch melt in my mouth, I began to think of Wayne Gretzky. In 1988 when the star hockey player was traded to the LA Kings, not only did the Kings finally become relevant as a team, but the NHL itself became relevant in the southern half of the United States. It is this sort of strategy that made me think of The Churchill owners, Beau Laughlin and Brett Cranston’s recent trade, bringing in new mixologist Mia Sarazen, and now master chef Bruce Kalman. When I first heard of The Churchill back in 2011 it was the hotspot my friends rolled into at 1 am on a Tuesday night. When I heard about it again, it was the bar where my hungover coworker reached his demise, and I found myself writing it off. In other words, it was the place where you skipped dinner but overdid it on mediocre cocktails. But Laughlin and Cranston who are also behind The Hudson already have a successful bar where the food plays second fiddle to a night of drinking. Now, with their trade completed and Kalman in The Churchill kitchen, they finally have a real, relevant restaurant.
On a recent evening where he was only five nights into the launch of his menu and sans sous chef, no less, Kalman exuded a remarkable ease and affability. A technicolor mural of tattoos covered his arms—a gleaning red tomato, asparagus spears, a remarkably realistic artichoke—which would stretch out to shake the hands of guests, of which there were many. The rustic interior, a mash-up of reclaimed wood and red brick, was lit with Edison bulbs hanging from industrial lighting fixtures, and mason jars housed tiny candles on tables and along the stairwell. In recent years Kalman, who was honored with a James Beard rising chef nomination in the Midwest and most recently reworked the menu at downtown’s Urbano Pizza Bar, has become the go-to “fixer” for restaurants across town. While his contributions have always been significant, The Churchill dishes resonate with both personal touch and sophistication unparalleled in his previous endeavors.
It is the merging of devotion to homemade ingredients with technique, perhaps, that allows the menu to work on so many levels. With the current penchant for house-cured meats, Kalman’s are some of the best in the city. Deep pink slivers of homemade duck prosciutto sing with a pungent kick while folds of house-cured pancetta dotted in a pepper crust are silky as they are flavorful. It is the guanciale, though, which induces delightful groans from my table as the porky richness moves into a soft buttery finish. The cheese options have been thoughtfully selected—wedges of a hard sheep’s cheese starts off mild then gives way to a salty tingle, an elegant goat cheese is boosted by hints of truffles—and my anti-bleu-cheese guests find a gateway into potent cheeses with the Moody Blue, a subtle and smoky slice of cow’s cheese which my guests fantasize incorporating into every dish imaginable. Lucky for them, the Moody Blue makes another appearance in a pleasantly flavorful mound of mixed greens garnished with figs, cippolini onions and candied pistachios.
The menu offers an array of house-made pickles and seasonal mostarda, yet another sign that Kalman is at the forefront of today’s table zeitgeist, and I suggest you order them. They are pickled to a point teetering between tang and sweetness, acting as an enchanting palate cleanser between bites of cheese and charcuterie.
The rest of the menu is divided into snacks, wood fired pizzas, shared plates and big plates, and each component has superb options. Having had my share of gougeres at numerous high-end places, nothing has come close to the ones here, golden and airy, rich with gruyere and speckled with chopped chives. “I could eat these for every meal of the day,” one of my guests exclaims while snatching up a third. After the first bucket of duck fat popcorn, enhanced with crisped sage leaves and dusted with local producer Hepp’s chipotle salt, we signal for a second order. The shishito peppers, charred and dressed with cilantro, lime and sea salt, make for a thrilling game of Russian roulette as some hit the palate like a firecracker, exploding in fiery heat. Others are mild, allowing the citrus and salt to emerge. “Fool me once…” one of my guests mutters while cautiously reaching for the bucket, attempting to avoid another firecracker. The crispy pork cheeks, a deceivingly generous portion crowned with a tangle of Weiser Farm’s piquillo peppers and accompanied with a flair of chicharones converts me into a pepper lover as my fork continues to find its way back to the plate.
Do not be deceived by the simplicity of “beets” listed among the small plates. The dish itself becomes a canvass upon which a kaleidoscopic trio of shaved, halved and sliced beets are arranged among lightly breaded orbs of goat cheese, citrus wedges, and a shower of sunflower seeds. While the idea of beets on a shared plate may be exhausted on other tables across town, here the concept takes a new breath as the beet varieties play against one another and the crisped goat cheese adds a spectrum of texture.
It may be difficult to choose among the appealing assortment of wood fired pizzas, but you don’t want to miss the one strewn with chunks of homemade duck sausage, thyme, goat cheese, black mission figs, and infused with honey. Beheld on a crust bulging with airy pockets, the boldness of the sausage balances clouds of the smoked cheese—it immediately becomes the pie I won’t be able to resist ordering every time.
Among the big plates the delicately rich beef short rib, the color of a dark chocolate and assembled with carrots and apples, is braised for 10 hours until it falls apart at the most gentle tug of the fork. The fruity undertone against the meaty comfort reminds me of the warmth of a jacket at the first nip of an autumn breeze.
For dessert the bourbon-glazed apple and bacon upside down cake is served with the most delightful bacon brittle, slightly fiery and wildly addictive. I muse whether I can purchase a crate of them for future cravings. Stuffed my table orders zeppoles—deep-fried balls of dough—to take home, but after a quick glance as they arrive at our table, we empty the powdered treats on a dish before us, dunk them in warm caramel and consume.
Toward the end of the meal I settle into an old-fashioned, the kind that reminds me why it became my drink of choice in the first place. On this evening the meal is everything it should be, compelling and comforting. Then my table eyes the breakfast menu sketched on a hanging blackboard. “We should come back for brunch tomorrow morning,” someone says. I agree.
The Churchill, 8384 West 3rd St West Hollywood, CA 90048. (323) 655-8384.
Filed under: Los Angeles, Restaurants
