Rose Vale

I wish I loved Cascabel. God knows I’ve tried.. and tried ..and tried.. lured back by its Spanish-bungalow charm and patio whispering margarita o’clock, I WANT to pine. But the food limps in, a late 70's Laurel Canyon hangover; ghosts of brilliance, like the taco that dreamed it was art - single. flanked. carrot stick. sliced vertical. for effect. The bartender, poor soul, looks two existential crises past caring...eye contact might send him, or send him spiraling. And yet, the place seduces. Easy parking, candlelit corners, a whiff of golden SoCal nostalgia. It’s a classic happy hour with bestie joint you want on your weekly calendar, not the weakly heartbeat you keep defibrillating for the soule´ that once lived in the mole´.. It’s beautiful, frustrating, and terminally fine.

Cosette, that charming wine garden hideaway above Rolling Greens, is almost too pleased with itself-- though who can fault ambition with such an agreeable panorama? The preface: it's impossible to feel anything but bliss here. The dirt: salad slides in like a botanical coup; leaves cascading off the plate in an abundance of comic tragedy, drown under dressing while vongole shells linger on linguini as if to suggest they double as tiny lifeboats sent for sogged croutons. The core of 'Pasta Thursdays' redeems the chaos - clams bright and briny, wine winking its quiet work of forgiveness - all very European until you’re guided to “Exit through the (Giverny-esque greenhouse-of-dreams) gift shop.” Expect a ride photo at the end as proof you survived the chic absurdity with grace.. or just buy that stunning terra cotta vase

Casa Vega isn't chasing novelty, its red-amber glow is the forever-flickering relic of Ventura Blvd that teases the corner of your eye like an old friends face you can't quite place. Heavy wood and red leather beckon..why are these archways so familiar...low lights offer anonymity from those just entering, seeking molten Encheladas and unapologetically strong margaritas. Plates land solid, predictable - comfort in Technicolor. You don’t come for surprise you come for swagger. No cash, darlings, plastic only - clean, trackable, easier to follow than the quiet handshake at the corner table sealing Hollywood’s next fever dream

Walking into UOVO feels like sneaking into a trattoria on the Amalfi without the airfare. Giant unmistakeable wooden door that’s somehow also giving Speakeasy. The tasting menu unfolds into pure gossip about the Roma of our dreams; first yellowtail crudo, then tonnarelli in sharp, creamy Cacio e Pepe - handmade pasta gem after pasta gem land, an apex incarnation of clandestine dough overnighted directly from the homeland exclusively for Uovo— the kind you’ve fantasized about making after midnight.. The servers are besties, effortlessly friendly, are we actually touring Italy right now??

Little Ground is THE Flower on Flower Street in Burbank. Come for the classics, but try the Japanese curry; quietly confident comfort incarnate. Croissant here, if they aren’t sold out, achieves that impossible crisp cloud balance. The menu is short but thoughtful, a curated little poem of flavors: steak sandos, matcha affogatos, sweet weekend specials whispered about by locals in the industry who treat this place as refuge. It’s comfort food made clever, and all the better for being slightly hidden. If you know you GO!

At O’cado the spicy vegan nachos arrive like an invitation to joy: crisp tortilla chips piled high, each one crackling under the weight of a velvety cashew “cheese” that murmurs of richness without cow-milk guilt. A lively peppery heat dances across the tongue, tempered by a cool, kind staff whose genuine warmth makes the moment linger. Food here is simple yet celebratory — the crunch, the cheese, the care all align