Musso & Frank, At Long Last

I first read about Musso & Frank Grill in Roadfood, the 1992 edition, and, on my imaginary United States map, there has been a red pushpin on 6667 Hollywood Boulevard ever since. Last October the mighty fine boyfriend and I  stayed for a couple nights at a schwanky LA hotel, the Roosevelt, whose main draw was proximity to Musso & Frank Grill.
We made it. Not a moment too soon. Jonesin’ for a tongue sandwich will leech the stuffin’ out of ya, sooner or later.

Cordial Mr. Manuel seated me in a booth offering “visual command of the room,” and said, “I want to keep my eye on you.”He had my ego’s most basic desires nailed before my eyes had adjusted to the room’s languid dimness.

You don’t see enough Appetizer Franks or Chiffonade Salads on menus these days. And if you did, you might be leery about ordering them. Not here. Everything old is new again. Or new still, perhaps. Even spumoni. I was thrilled to rest my eyes on Smoked Tongue Sandwich 16.50. Yowza. Did not notice the price at the time, all blurry from tears of joy, was I.

I remember Consommé, Welsh Rarebit and the Side Car. I remember my mother in a sheath, spike heels and a brunette Barbie bubble-cut do, too.

A glorious tongue sandwich, as it should be, on toasted rye. No surprises, thankfully. Yes, I ate the pickle. And the parsley.
I recommend that you slide into a cool Musso & Frank booth during one of your day’s cocktail hours. We did not. The waitstaff makes no secret of the pride they take in their spirit service.

Mr. Manuel asked TMFBF to send him a copy of the snapshots.

“Do you have email?”

“No, but my dad does.”


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