The Whims of Bicoastal Dining

By Martha Duffy

In New York City, they favor classic cuisine. In Los Angeles, it's strictly salad and pasta. They still knock 'em back in Manhattan, but a little wine will do just fine on the West Coast. Perhaps some dessert tonight? New Yorkers are roughly 35% more likely than Angelenos to go for goo. They are also more likely to arrive at a restaurant straight from the office, eat, then run to a show or to the suburbs -- or back to the office. Such behavior is considered uncivilized in Show-Biz Land, where tight schedules are spurned. "How can you eat in the same shirt you have worn all day?" sniffs an urbane Los Angeles diner.

The two metropolises fascinate each other, and none chart the differences more minutely than the hardy group of a dozen or so restaurateurs who operate establishments in both Los Angeles and New York City. "Menus are different, taste buds are different on the two coasts," observes Adam Tihany, a proprietor of the Italian bistro Remi, which serves in midtown Manhattan and Santa Monica. Almost any other method of expansion would be simpler. But some people bitten by the restaurant bug just cannot resist trying to conquer the two towns.

Scratch one of these split-city operatives, and you find a compendium of social customs and byways of manners, as well as menus. Take the matter of health and fitness consciousness. New Yorkers are increasingly aware of sound nutrition, but Angelenos are far more enlightened -- and insistent. Not only must the food be healthy, the plate must look healthy too. "Here it does not matter what you order; what you get is a salad with something in it," says Jivan Tabibian, a partner in the L.A. Remi. "New Yorkers like substance. In Santa Monica, they like fluff -- and the fluff is roughage."

New Yorkers have not yet given up on meat. "On the East Coast, we do a lot of barbecue," says Sandi Tang, a partner with her husband in Tommy Tang's, N.Y. and L.A., which serves Thai cuisine. "But on Melrose Avenue, it's rice and noodle dishes, all prepared with olive oil." And the waiter had better be , on top of that information. Warns Paul Guzzardo, who runs Bice, a Milanese restaurant that has branches in both cities: "In our Beverly Hills place, people really question and challenge. Is the vinegar balsamic? What is the exact pedigree of the house wine? Is the lettuce organically grown?"

Ever watching calories, Angelenos love to share, a practice considered cheap in New York. A typical L.A. lunch features the inevitable salad, followed by a split portion of pasta (most likely angel hair, a mere filament of carbohydrate that is a California obsession and a chef's nightmare because it overcooks so readily). Orso, a Manhattan theater-district hangout, was determined to follow its pattern of one menu of trattoria-style Italian fare throughout the day and evening when it opened in Beverly Hills two years ago. The plan failed. Too many customers wanted a feather-light lunch.

The dynamics of dining vary widely too. Bicoastal restaurateurs tend to describe cultural differences in terms of power vs. status. A New Yorker is happy when he's dining with his best contacts, making deals or rehashing them. If there's a commotion at the next table, he may not even notice. In Los Angeles, says Guzzardo, "when the door opens, every head in the room turns to see who is entering."

Steve Martin caught this yearning for the right table in the right spot in his smart, affectionate movie L.A. Story. At one point, his harassed hero has a nightmare in which he is first interrogated about his finances by a restaurant proprietor, then told what entree he is eligible to order when he finally gets a table at a new mecca called L'Idiot (pronounced French-style, Leed-yo). The film also pinions Michael's, a Santa Monica success that has opened to SRO business in New York, especially at lunch, when the place is packed with TV-network, record-industry and publishing groups. Michael McCarty was one of the first popularizers of so-called California cuisine: light fare, fancily decorated with greens, greens, greens. On celluloid, as in life, guests can scarcely see one another through the jungle-like foliage.

Once the Californian has checked out his dining strategies, he is far better at relaxing than a Manhattanite. He wants to chum up to his waiter, who must reciprocate if he hopes to prosper. An invitation to come by for a swim is not unusual. A New York waiter is likely to be quieter, sterner and, some say, more professional.

Italian cooking appears to make the bicoastal journey well, as do various Asian cuisines. People watching is great in both towns, but Sandi Tang has a hot tip for the celeb seeker: "Come between 3 and 5 in the afternoon if you want to see rock stars. They probably just got up, and they aren't hassled."