Day 1 — Silver Lake / Echo Park: coffee, vinyl, late-night heat
LA isn’t a postcard; it’s a mixtape—warm, a little warped, and perfect when you stop forcing it.
Maru Coffee (Silver Lake) — Precision espresso, clean lines, sunlight that makes you rethink your life choices in a good way. Baristas who care about extraction more than small talk.
Konbi (Echo Park) — The famed Japanese sandos still snap with quiet perfection. Egg salad like silk, katsu that crunches like a slow clap. Sit at the counter, mind your manners, savor.
Bar Flores (Echo Park) — Floral, candlelit, mezcal-tilted; the kind of room that makes strangers tell you secrets. Cocktails that hum, music that never shouts.
El Cochinito (Silver Lake) — Old-school Cuban comfort: roast pork that whispers garlic and citrus, black beans that taste like patience. Tight room, big soul.
Day 2 — Koreatown: smoky tables, neon comfort, 2am salvation
K-Town is where the night goes when it doesn’t want to end.
Park’s BBQ — Benchmark galbi. Stainless tongs, sizzling grills, banchan parade; a sermon in smoke and beef fat.
Sun Nong Dan (Wilshire) — The braised short rib stew that fixes what the day broke. Bubbling cauldrons, molten cheese option if you live dangerously.
HMS Bounty (Mid-Wilshire) — Time-warp lounge: red booths, stiff pours, old LA gossip soaked into the paneling.
Open Market (Koreatown) — Daytime sandwich/corner-store hybrid that moonlights with natural wine and snacks. A love letter to LA’s grocery-deli DNA.
Day 3 — San Gabriel Valley: the gospel of noodles and steam
If you eat in LA and skip the SGV, that’s not a mistake—it’s a tragedy.
Lunasia Dim Sum House (Alhambra) — Big, bright, classic carts reimagined: har gow that barely holds together, shu mai that swagger.
Chengdu Taste (Alhambra) — Peppercorns that buzz like neon. Mapo tofu, toothpick lamb—Sichuan turned up to eleven without losing its soul.
Bistro Na’s (Temple City) — Imperial-style polish in the suburbs: lacquered meats, delicate braises, a quiet flex of technique.
Kee Wah Bakery (Arcadia) — End with butter, sugar, and nostalgia: pineapple buns, almond cookies, and the smell of a childhood you might not even have had.
Day 4 — Westside: salt, smoke, and sunset edges
On the Westside, the ocean edits your priorities.
Gjusta (Venice) — A deli-bakery fever dream: smoked fish that tastes like coastline, salads built like sculpture, breads that crackle with intent.
Bay Cities Italian Deli (Santa Monica) — The Godmother isn’t a sandwich; it’s a ritual. Line up, be patient, get the hot peppers. Eat it in the parking lot like everyone else.
Bergamot Station (Santa Monica) — Warehouse-cluster galleries: smart, rotating shows, artists who don’t care about your feed—only your eyes.
The Brig (Abbot Kinney) — Old Venice bar bones with new-school attitude. Pool tables, locals, and just enough swagger to keep you from calling it a night too early.
And more…
Simply put, “these are a few of our favorite things”
Original Farmer’s Market & The Grove — This isn’t some curated Instagram prop. It’s a patchwork of butcher stalls, taco counters, and creaky stools that smell like fifty years of spilled coffee. After you’ve had your fill, head to the Grove for some shopping.
Manhattan Beach — Sun-bleached perfection, lifeguard towers like movie props, and a pier that pretends time stopped sometime in the ‘70s. People jog here because it feels like therapy. Grab a fish taco, let the salt stick to your skin, and forget your inbox exists.
El Cholo — LA’s old guard of Mexican-American dining—enchiladas drowning in red sauce, margaritas that will knock your schedule sideways. It’s not chasing trends; it’s feeding families who’ve been coming here since before avocado toast was a thing.
Hatchet Hall — A candlelit Southern-Gothic fever dream in Culver City. Smoke, char, bourbon, and game meats that make you think about the hunt, not just the plate. The kind of place where dinner turns into a three-hour conversation you didn’t plan to have.
Drive the Pacific Coast Highway — You don’t just drive PCH—you surrender to it. Cliffs, surf, fog rolling in like it’s on cue. Every pull-off is a postcard, every curve a reminder that maybe the journey is the point after all.
Roosevelt Hotel Pool— Hollywood vanity at its most unapologetic—sunglasses at night, cocktails that cost more than your lunch budget, and water shimmering under neon. You’re not here for authenticity; you’re here for spectacle, and there’s no shame in that.
Hollywood Blvd. — The walk of fame is sticky, loud, and full of hustlers. But if you squint past the costumed Spidermen, you’ll see it—old neon, fading glamour, and the ghosts of a thousand busted dreams. LA’s carnival of ambition, for better or worse.
Holbrook — An LA cocktail bar that does its homework—dim lighting, confident pours, and bartenders who measure by instinct, not jiggers. Drinks taste like they were built, not mixed, and the room has enough mood to make you forget what time it is.
