Playing Pretend at Rae's
Baby's First Resteraunt Review
Rae’s Restaurant on Pico, in the part of Santa Monica that Santa Monica doesn’t want you to know is Santa Monica, has all the makings of an eatery that makes me wary. Any restaurant that encourages a game of dress up should be approached with caution. There are the contemporary dress up spots in LA that promise access - or at least the facade of access, AKA let’s go to Craig’s and pretend we’re all Magic Johnson’s kid on The Rich Kids of Beverly Hills. Remember that show? Gone too soon. Then, there are the more classic LA dress up spots - sold, not with access, but instead nostalgia. The Musso and Frank types that stick out like a romantic sore thumb on the now activation filled streets of Hollywood. I tend to buy into their game of pretend a little more, as that Golden Age romance adds a dash more filth to the dirty martini I order. But in general - any restaurant sold on the premise of pretending - whether you’re cosplaying as Magic Johnson Jr. or Cliff Booth - has you over a barrel and looking out at the 50. Food is secondary to the space you occupy. You’re not there for the best. You’re there to fucking be there. And the yet to be mentioned diner is LA’s most fraudulent cosplay culprit. Because absolutely nobody really needs a scene for breakfast. Nor should they want to feel like anyone is watching them wolf down a stack of pancakes. Therefore, while the supposedly classic diners share the same let’s play dress up sales pitch as a Craig’s or Musso’s - they lack the ability to booz their customers into submission both with the promise of the night as well as…well…stirred gin and vermouth. In fact, a dirty martini is the last thing a diner-goer wants to think about on a far too common ugly Sunday. Nor would they like to discover that the nostalgia is served in far heavier portions than the eggs.
Most of these joints date back to the 50s and 60s. And they aren’t exactly hard-nosed around the clock, East Coast Greek establishments. They’re far sexier in a modernist California Dreamin’ style. The type of spots you can picture if you close your eyes and think about Route 66 or summer lovin’ that happens so goddamn fast. The type of spots that were eventually corporatized, commodified, and capitalized into a Johnny Rockets at whatever depressing mall stubbornly hogs real estate in your hometown.
And that’s not even the nostalgia these diners sell me on. It’s just a tad more complicated. Here’s how I see it: The good ol’ Eisenhower days were remembered quite fondly in the tumultuous 70s, resulting in a certain pop-culture revivalism of the decade. Grease, Happy Days, and the trend’s eventual apex, 1985’s Back to the Future, seemingly cemented a certain romance for the 50s LA diner in the minds of those who grew up in the 80s and went on to make my favorite movies in the 90s. Swingers, Reservoir Dogs, or Heat - to name just a few examples, as I’m a card carrying member of the stereotypical film bro circle jerk brought to you by The Ringer Podcast Network.
I’m fond of the LA diner’s far more dingier days. When Mr. Pink, Neil McCauly, and Double Down Trent mainlined black coffee before gooning out about the town. So even though I want to look like a Tarantino-style motherfucker at breakfast, it’s real hard to feel such a way after Apple Paying 22 bucks for a kids portion of watery eggs and dry bacon. The Swingers Diner in Mid-City, the now-shuttered Dinah’s in Culver, and the multiple Mel’s are all well maintained enough to feel true to their cigarette smoking, black coffee sipping hang out days - whether it be Pink, Double Down, or McCauley picking up the check (in cash of course). But they fail to walk the walk. Dingy without substance. Overpriced food museums overly reliant on multiple bygone eras of significance.
So like I said, I was skeptical of Rae’s - the diner you forgot this review was about. Convinced it was just another 50s spot, revived in the 80s and cemented in the 90s movies I love, on its last gasps, waiting for the takeout avocado toast (sacrilegious) and the ethically sourced Ethiopian cold brew to deal it its final blows.
Still, I was curious. After all, it was just 5 minutes away from my dojo (forget I just said dojo), and my most trusted source (@marcsweekendeats) among others swore by it. So, I stopped by Rae’s for a solo Saturday morning power breakfast a few weeks back. The signage out front was well-preserved and unmistakable. The interior was similarly stuck in time. Its teal green walls and faded crimson booths couldn’t possibly be the work of an interior decorator, no matter how hard one could try. And I expected this. The overpriced food museums I speak of all look similar.
But then, upon scanning the space for a solo power breakfast station, I noticed some interesting signage on the wall. It instructed anyone solo power breakfasting to sit at the bar. Booths are reserved for parties of two and up. Now I always planned to power breakfast at the bar, but this rule (which was also flagged to me by (@marcsweekendeats) felt significant nonetheless. The first sign that Rae’s held its customers to a level of decency it might expect of itself - instead of catering to the AirPod-in world we all trip through without regard for rules or decorum. So I took a seat at the bar and then almost immediately noticed a second positive pre-food omen. It came in the form of a yellow-tinted framed movie poster with Christian Slater and Patricia Arquette sprawled across it. Holy shit, I thought…this is the bar from the Tarantino penned and Tony Scott lensed flick, True Romance. A movie I’ve somehow never seen. I know. Shameful for a card carrying member of the aforementioned circle-jerk like myself.
So I’m at the bar from True Romance, and somehow, without noticing, I already have a thick mug of piping hot black coffee in front of me. A tiny metal jug somehow spawned up next to it, as well. I had no idea whether this jug held skim, whole, almond, or tit, but I assumed it was milk nonetheless. I peppered some in my cup and prepared to pug jav until my heart felt like it was being drummed by The Blue Man Group.
After putting down a quick first cup, I was ready to order. I could smell the exact greasy aromas you’re imagining. It was quite easy to do so as there’s not much of a kitchen at Rae’s. Most of the food is cooked on what must be a 15 foot griddle that extends across the back wall. Industrial fans swallow smoke from literal mountains of eggs and hash browns, constantly being diced, divided, and plated in portions fit for the Navy. The menu to make sense of it all, was not withheld by a waiter, but instead already stationed in metal stands along the bar. Such as the booth minimum, independently removing but more importantly, returning that menu back to its stand, felt like another standard to maintain. Another encouragement for human decency that might not be checked but will surely be remembered. I didn’t need to look at it for long. It’s a diner, after all. I was more than ready to test the limits of Rae’s and their mountain range of breakfast food on the griddle in front of me. Three eggs, hash browns, bacon, rye toast, and a glass of fresh squeezed OJ to wash it down. It was all for under 20 bucks and served quite impressively in sub 7 minutes. For anyone keeping score, that’s another two points for Rae’s. They were up big going into the tunnel at the half, to the pleasant surprise of yours truly.
And now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for. That is if you’re still reading baby’s first restaurant review. And if nobody is, then this might be baby's last. Fuck, I keep getting off track. Anyway, now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Did the taste match the portion, price, and 90s cool guy environment?
Yes. Yes, it did.
Turns out, Rae’s is a rarity. It’s no food museum or movie set. It’s a real diner that, against all odds, has kept its head down through all the cultural peaks and valleys, continuing to serve a serviceable and robust breakfast for market price rather than trimming down and taxing a premium for nostalgia. Its essential purpose to the neighborhood is apparent, as well. Bustling each weekend with a crowded griddle and floor, and serving its hefty portions to customers of all ages and pant inseams. It’s why, after what I’m sure was my 7th cup of joe, I no longer felt that I was playing dress up. There was just no need to cosplay as a cool guy anymore. How could you play pretend at a place like Rae’s? It’s a diner that, unlike its hollow corner-cutting counterparts, refuses to play pretend itself.
