Bootleg Dogmatic
(May 2022) I leave their kitchen wanting to cry, licking my fingers, faithful in the future
(I wrote and posted this a while ago on my other site, but thought it best to add it here as well. I don’t really use that site anymore. It’s interesting reading this again. I feel I’ve changed a lot since writing Bootleg Dogmatic. Re-reading it is like spending time with a past self. She was very sweet. Commas were her favorite form of punctuation.)
He hands the kid a cowboy boot shot glass of $70 tequila and tells him it isn’t for shooting. We’re just kids. Breath out. Yes, that’s exactly how you do it.
We are just kids. I am barely 21, she is 20. He is 20. In our 20s. Bootleg, a “not-restaurant” springing from the Westwood apartment of 4 UCLA juniors, spoons sophistication to the young. They challenge the pallets of the naive and broke, gifting all of us on the cusp a glimpse of our future. Eat their french omelet topped with Uni, suck down oysters off silver platters. Bootleg is an investment and act of faith in our evolution: a set dining price (tip encouraged), free labor fed on belief and scraps, an article written anticipating greatness. Bootleg is patient, they are kind, they feed you ice cream and wine. We may not know what we are doing, but they do. Away from the watchful protection of our parents, these boy chefs undertake the task of maturing their budding guests.
The thing is, I don’t know how to write a piece about Bootleg. I went there for my 21st birthday and left the biggest tip I have ever left at any restaurant. Living room? My heart pours over with love for this project. At their table, I eat ice cream and drain my glass. I laughed long and felt pretty.
Picture this: 3 college boys create a dining experience comparable to a Michelin star. Yes the food is good, yes they self-proclaim their dishes “better than sex,” yes the décor tucks you away somewhere foreign and intimate, but it’s more than any of that. This is someone’s dream you’re occupying.
Meet the Bootleg boys:
Brandon acts as head chef, “yes chef.” He is the kitchen’s brains and figurehead of the project. Quiet , calm, a math major. During a stressful moment in the meal, I watched him withdraw inward. Brandon won’t yell, he corrects his kitchen without ego. “I’m not a tyrannical chef,” he said later laughing. I would say get to know him more at a party, but I’ve only ever seen him at Bootleg events. There, girls surround him, trapping him in tight, perfumed rings as he fixes them carajilos. When asked about his love life, Brandon avoids eye contact and mumbles something about his career being his love. He wears 70’s jeans. I heard he was seeing a girl studying in Spain.
Emmanuel gives Bootleg heart and smoke. He handles the meat, and it’s with him you’ll have interesting conversation. “Salt, butter, and fire.” I’m pretty vegetarian, but when he offered me a piece of bloody, dripping steak, I ate meat for the first time in 4 years. Emmanuel doesn’t know what to do with his birthday. His family lives in Egypt, and since he usually spends that month there with his grandparents, he has never celebrated himself among friends. His favorite food is steak, and he has a girlfriend. “I think I love her, yeah I really do.”
Albert is everywhere and nowhere all at once and doesn’t have time for chit-chat. Bootleg has him to thank for its curated aesthetic and smooth dining experience, but you wouldn’t know it. Albert operates without theatrics; he floats and flitters with earrings glinting. He’s probably the most extroverted of the bunch, but at Bootleg, he means business. Eyes wide and chaotic, Albert spreads mischievous energy. His parents grew up in rural Mexico, but he loves the city, and calls himself a “city boy.” Several times in the night I caught him smirking and wondered what was so funny. His face flooded with relief to see Victoria taking videos of the meal. “I try man, but I don’t have time. I’m like serving dishes or clearing plates, I hardly remember to record it.”
Bootleg carries a similar feeling to what I imagine Steve Jobs’ garage felt like. Thrumming with energy and good faith that this is worth it, it is all worth it. The boys insist Bootleg doesn’t really make a profit, but the little it does goes back into the unofficial bistro. This isn’t about money, and that’s how you know they’ll be rich and successful. If you’re willing to do your passion for free, that passion will repay you. The thing I’m learning as I stumble and trip through this college thing is that what you study doesn’t fucking matter. It’s what you do when you’re not studying or working, that becomes your life. Bootleg’s boys major in econ, math, and cognitive science. In their spare time, they run to the farmers market at 8 AM, hand draw menus, and cook 6-course meals for friends. Their reservation list goes for months, yet they let Victoria and I spend the night in their kitchen as “Press.” Which plate is best, when should I start to grill, how much should I pour? These boys are babies these boys are men these boys are more than you and me, they are all of us. Call me devout, Bootleg Dogmatic, but I see God in what they do.
Brandon and Emmanuel met about a year ago at a party and immediately hit it off. Food-talk from the get-go. Albert and Brandon became friends freshman year at UCLA, but their lives connected long before that: Albert’s childhood best friend is cousins with Brandon’s childhood best friend. Life isn’t random, the cards were already laid on the table when we got here.
I explore the dining room before dinner. Musky, floral scents fill the air, and a long, impeccable table awaits guests, handwritten menus and candles litter its surface. I notice a vase with wildflowers and a coat rack thoughtfully placed by the door. Wine bottles picked especially for the occasion line a side table. Bootleg’s wooden floors are spotless. Returning to the kitchen, I remember 4 boys live here. 4 college boys live here.
Tonight’s guest is a birthday boy; his parents are footing his Bootleg birthday bill. “He’s a huge fan of Nobu”, Brandon says, “so I’m giving him a lot of seafood.” The menu is protein-heavy, featuring uni, oysters, miso cod, and grilled rib-eye. The guests are frat boys. They drain bottle after bottle, they moan “fire” and “dump it” as they polish off their plates. They barely know how to sit still for this meal, but they manage. Between courses, they take cigarette breaks.
Su is our waitress for the night, but a philosophy student by day. She hails from Turkey and plans to return in the fall, where she’ll throw her own dinner parties. She says she knows a lot of artists and musicians back home. Su works Bootleg for the food, and Bootleg is lucky to have her. She infuses the kitchen with class, brings a mother-like spirit to its hectic energy of preparation, and, with her watchful manner, makes you feel like you are somewhere more significant than a college apartment. 2 years older than us, she laughs when I ask if she is dating one of the chefs. Su makes a mean cocktail but can’t find good bartending work in America. She smokes Marlboro Golds, wears nude lipliner, and is okay with not being the center of attention. I watch her close her eyes as she bites into steak tartare. Each bite a payday. She smokes her cigarette and sips wine silently. Emmanuel hands Su a plate, and she’s gone.
Albert talks minimalism and maximalism as he does the dishes. He wants to get into flowers, and says he plans to design his own vase. When I ask the boys about Albert’s source of inspiration, they joke he pulls from Stussy. Albert doesn’t know how to answer the question, and claims he just goes on Facebook Marketplace. “We needed a table and I was like: there’s one.” Brandon readies a shot of mezcal for the boys out front, and almost drops the bottle when Albert runs out the door with a yell: the cowboy shot glasses he ordered arrived, just in time. Lately, I’m noticing how when you’re on the right path, things come easily. Life begins to feel right. Watching these boys in William Sonoma aprons crowd together, I see they are on their path. Careers spring from joy, life flows from fun.
Brandon: This tastes better than Nobu because it’s made with love. I put so much love into this food.
They’re all inspired. Famous culinary figures liter the Bootleg Instagram. Albert modeled Bootleg’s logo after Horses, an It LA eatery boasting an impossible waitlist. Brandon starts working there next month, having somehow charmed his way one evening from the dining room into their kitchen. When he tells me this, I can’t stop congratulating him, but he only smiles. He handles success nimbly and is mostly focused on placing a baguette in the oven. Culinary stars guiding Brandon are Bertrand Grébaut and Anthony Bourdain. Emmanuel finds God in Lennox Hastie. “He likes fire, he is a caveman” says a passing Brandon as Emmanuel tells me this. We are all on a cig break, grouped on the porch outside Bootleg’s tiny, well-supplied kitchen. The frat boys share steak while we take a moment to sit still. It’s a warm night. Brandon’s red beanie catches the light from the grill below, and Emmanuel takes off his glasses when he speaks. He says you can be really delicate and careful with food, be very refined or you can be very simple. “Simple, like I’m talking cup of noodles. But you can eat that with just as much care.”
A frat boy I know from somewhere admits he nearly cried the first time he dined at Bootleg. His red hair and face yank at a ribbon in the back of my mind. On a visit to the kitchen between courses, he tells the boys they are “killing it” before being ushered out. Bootleg keeps social arrangements professional. Brandon instructed Victoria and I to come through the back door when we planned our visit. The Bootleg boys greet dinner guests with a red carpet, and offer to take coats and purses. It is rare for a guest to cross the kitchen door boundary. Mostly diners must request to see Brandon or Emmanuel, and often ask them to join for a drink. During my birthday dinner at Bootleg, I remember how my roommates longed to spend time with their friends in the kitchen. “I want to hang out with them too.” We joked around with Albert as he replenished our wine glasses, but his cool and collected demeanor hardly cracked. If he smiled, his face startled back into its professional mask after. This isn’t a time to hang for the Bootleg boys, they are serving their futures on spotless plates, pouring their deepest desires into your glass.
Frat boys around a table saying this is better than sex. “Do you see how clean the kitchen is?!” Birthday Boy shouts, “If I were to make freakin Mac and cheese, it would look like a bomb went off.” I keep thinking this can’t be real, that I’ve entered a time warp where everything you hope to be true about life and people is. I text Victoria after we peek in on the guests enjoying their meal: Who needs fans when u have friends like these.
Birthday Boy insists Bootleg is doing something different. His eyes widen with every course, and by the end, he’s near tears when Albert places coconut ice cream sprinkled with lime crystals before him. 7 empty bottles of wine litter their table. The frat boys clasp their hands in reverence around their candlelit dinner and cannot express their gratitude enough. I feel like I’m in a church devoted to good living, a spiritual retreat for the young and hungry.
Homemade ice cream on chilled, vintage plates is key to the Bootleg experience. A meal without desert is life without pleasure. @brandonravila Instagram post from January 30 2022: “yeah, we’re in the pleasure business.” Brandon leans back against the counter and looks at us. “I just think people look happiest when they’re eating ice cream.”
I say “this is a slice of heaven.”
Emmanuel answers, “I know.”
The night winds down. Coming out of the bathroom (a pink tiled room offering candles and somehow a bottle of Chanel perfume, a Bootleg logo hanging above the toilet), I see Brandon without his apron. He stands near the front door, catching up with friends. Emmanuel left already, off to see his girl. The night is so young. Brandon looks unassuming in all black, he himself off to a Bergheim-themed party down the street. You would never know all those hands created that evening as he stands with them shoved in his pockets. Albert sits on the couch with the boys, once guests, now bros, and I see him finally relax. Unable to find Victoria, knowing she’s probably videotaping someone outside, I take one last look at the kitchen. It stands spotless with glimmering white countertops and organized spice racks. No leftovers in sight, pots and pans dried and tucked away in their hiding places. My heart fills with the feeling of Christmas. I stand in the doorway like a little kid again, the magic over for the day, and wonder how long till I am this full of good food and inspiration again. Victoria emerges from the backdoor and we know: it’s time to go. Hugging Brandon goodbye I tell him everyone loves him, I hope he understands the power of his passion. I hug Albert tightly too, a feeble attempt to capture, just for a moment, this flinting ball of potential, and then we are off.
On the walk back to my place, Victoria shakes her head wordlessly. She is happy climbing into her taxi cab, and I am smiling as I unlock my front door.