If La Poubelle were a cool French girl you were hanging out with, it’d be Melanie Laurent—pretty sexy in
an unfussy kind of way.
Still, you wouldn’t turn down a chance to meet her wilder sister...
Introducing La Petite Poubelle, an illicit new retreat attached to La Poubelle, now discreetly open for private parties.
Hit the bistro tonight for martinis and moules frites, and you won’t notice anything amiss. It’ll be dark. It’ll be bustling. Somebody might whisper, “Mon amour.”
But if someone were to lead you through the shutter doors behind the bar and through some office space, you’d soon find yourself in a discreet, windowless little crimson cove littered with large mirrors and, in the corner, a baby grand.
For now, this is a private-party spot, and they won’t book just anybody—so maybe buy the owner a drink at dinner to woo her.
Once that’s settled, call your go-to piano guy—this is where to host a hush-hush feast of coq au vin and Son of a Guns (with mushroom-infused bourbon and artichoke liqueur) for Westside expats and besuited agent-types who don’t like to be seen east of La Brea.
And, who knows, you might find yourself invited to an unadvertised salon some night soon.
You’re well regarded in secret-red-room circles.
Still, you wouldn’t turn down a chance to meet her wilder sister...
Introducing La Petite Poubelle, an illicit new retreat attached to La Poubelle, now discreetly open for private parties.
Hit the bistro tonight for martinis and moules frites, and you won’t notice anything amiss. It’ll be dark. It’ll be bustling. Somebody might whisper, “Mon amour.”
But if someone were to lead you through the shutter doors behind the bar and through some office space, you’d soon find yourself in a discreet, windowless little crimson cove littered with large mirrors and, in the corner, a baby grand.
For now, this is a private-party spot, and they won’t book just anybody—so maybe buy the owner a drink at dinner to woo her.
Once that’s settled, call your go-to piano guy—this is where to host a hush-hush feast of coq au vin and Son of a Guns (with mushroom-infused bourbon and artichoke liqueur) for Westside expats and besuited agent-types who don’t like to be seen east of La Brea.
And, who knows, you might find yourself invited to an unadvertised salon some night soon.
You’re well regarded in secret-red-room circles.
