Chow down at Mr. Chow

Dining at Mr. Chow in Beverly Hills is the quintessential experience if you're going to be in La La Land, just once.

I remembered as a teenager in Melbourne, how I poured over magazines like Vogue and Elle, lapping up every trend and obsessively studying the fashion pages. I loved reading about celebrities and models.

The Japanese German model, Tina Chow was by far my favorite. She was one of the first Asian faces on the runways of New York, Milan, and Paris. The beauty icon married Michael Chow, the restaurateur well known for his elite A list celebrity patronage at his Chinese restaurants.

Unfortunately, Tina Chow died of Aids in 1992 and I mourned her passing like an old friend. As I became an adult, I kept a keen interest in the Chow family, watching Tina's daughter, China Chow parade herself on the pages of InStyle and Vogue as LA's 'it girl'. Los Angeles was world away but the glitz and glamour beckoned me. I fantasized about dining at Mr. Chow's one day.

Two weeks ago, that day finally came.

As we pulled up in front of the red brick façade, some paparazzi waited anxiously outside. I was hoping they would mistake me for someone famous but since we drove up in a rental car, my chances were next to none. Still, my long legged ex-model gal pal, Genevieve, garnered a quick look from one of them. It excited us to know that someone famous was dining that night. Gawking at celebrities is the number reason why people go to Mr. Chow.

"You're late. We're running behind so you'll have to wait at the bar", scowled our fashionista hostess with her hair pulled so far back, it gave her a mini face-lift.

We squeeze past the plastic crowd and their silicon augmentations and scored a spot at the bar. Once seated, we readied ourselves to take in the bustling LA scene.

It surprised us how many tables were crammed together in such a limited space. Patrons bumped each other constantly as they maneuvered around the small tables. The decor earned much praise when Mr. Chow opened in 1974 but the dominating black and white theme did not seem to stand the test of time. The checkerboard flooring was reminiscent of a roadside diner and the large kite-like objects painted in a stylized Yin and Yang pattern hung lifelessly above us. The tired decor was not what you would expect from one of Beverly Hills' top restaurants. Even the Warhol of Michael Chow failed to impress.

Was this it?

Genevieve and I lounged on our stools feigning disinterest on our faces while our eyes darted about seeking the mysterious celebrity. Holding a bubbly Perrier Jouet in one hand and our handsome dates with the other, we felt like LA locals. This soon changed when Genevieve's eyes lit up excitedly at a target behind me, "Oh my God! It's the 'Working Girl'!"

"Who? Melanie Griffith?" I swung around with the force of a cricket bat and there she was, Melanie sitting with an elderly gentleman, sans Antonio Banderas. She was tinier than I'd expected and so were her lips. After ten full minutes of spying on Mrs. Banderas, we turned our attentions hungrily at the plates of Peking duck and stir-fried lobster on the surrounding tables.

Nearly an hour of "Don't worry, you're next" from our sullen hostess passed by before we took our seats near the back of the restaurant. There, we took in the view of two Chinese chefs assembling dumplings behind a small window. Applause greeted them when they emerged to display their skills at the art of Chinese hand-pulled noodles. This involved stretching out the dough, twirling it around several times, folding it, and then refolding repeatedly. Eventually the dough is transformed into long even strands of noodles. "How novel," remarked our table, "dinner and a show."

A French waiter with fashionably tousled hair and an even trendier tuft under his chin scooted by to inform us that there is no menu and he will just bring out dishes.

No menu? Come to think of it, they didn't have a wine list either. We looked at each other apprehensively for a second but wrote it off as the 'LA experience'.

When a plate of fluorescent orange 'satays' with a creamy (not peanut) sauce arrived, we exchanged more apprehensive looks. I have only seen meat glow this brightly at all-you-can-eat buffets.

The spongy texture of the meat suggested that it was soaked in sodium bicarbonate, an artificial tenderizer often used in Chinese takeaway shops to disguise cheaper cuts. To this day, I still don't know whether it was pork or chicken. I nibbled at my mystery meat and nearly choked when I spotted a familiar figure, "Oh look, Stevie Wonder's here!"

The restaurant hushed for a moment as Stevie and his entourage joined us for dinner (on the other side of the restaurant). I'm certain he could feel all our curious eyes on him. He looked the same in real life and even swayed to the background music in Stevie-style.

A plate of lettuce cups arrived, stirring us back to our meal. Then, a quick succession of forgettable dishes followed: fried shrimp paste, more overly tenderized beef camouflaged in a sweet and spicy crimson sauce, filets of fish floundering in a tan gummy liquid, and tasteless green shrimp.

Some of the items looked remarkably like the food at Panda Express served on chic angular plates. The only dish resembling authentic Chinese were the stir-fried buttery snow pea tips tossed in a simple garlic sauce.

At least we're getting lobster and Peking duck after this or so I thought, until the server's assistant (our French waiter was clearly too busy) informed us that the meal was over.

When we finally tracked down our server, his condescending tuft of hair notified us that he was 'trying to diversify'. Diversify? We didn't come all the way here for diversity. I wanted what the other tables received!

We sent back the green prawns and a plate of pepper and garlic lobster (minus the duck) arrived to appease us. Given how unsatisfactory the meal was, we passed on dessert.

The outrageous bill for our 'LA experience' amounted to USD$360 for four including the added sting of the hefty $35 price tag for each glass of champagne. (We later saw a bottle of Perrier Jouet at a local Trader Joe's supermarket for USD$29.99).

Before the end of the meal, Genevieve and I visited the bathroom upstairs. We wrinkled our noses at the dim unventilated space. Again, the tired decor was amiss which just goes to show that money can't buy everything but it does buy you a mediocre meal at Mr. Chow.

Cheryl Ng Collett is an Australian food and travel freelancer writer based in the US. Contact her

Cheryl Collett
December 2004
Cheryl