I parked my car on a random street in the nearby neighborhood, and as I was walking to the Venice Room, I passed by a place matter-of-factly called BREW. I had to peep the menu, because that bold, straightforward name simply struck me — naturally, they serve beer, coffee, and tea at BREW. Additionally, they serve wine, soju cocktails, soda, milk, lemonade, and juice. Beyond beverages, they offer a variety of sandwiches, salads, and appetizers. Listen, I realize I’m not reviewing this restaurant, but to be completely honest here, I feel like the proprietors of BREW need to reconsider the name of their establishment. But alas, here we are with some stuff and some other stuff, all of which was presented to me on a list beneath a brown distressed industrial entrance sign that puts out the vibe to people: “You’ve worked hard for your money, and we work hard for you; spend your hard-earned money here.” I obviously chose not to do that; I chose to be doing that down the street instead.
As I walked towards the door of the Venice Room, a petite middle-aged woman who looked and dressed like a Macy’s employee cut me off and briskly skirted ahead towards the crew awaiting her arrival. I should note she also smelled like the perfume department at Macy’s. I was relieved to learn she was the total package.
Upon entering the perfectly lit room of my chosen establishment, I approached the bar and attempted to order my favorite cocktail — a classic Negroni. The bald and beefy bartender, nearly bursting out of his top, told me he couldn’t make that for me. I asked him why not. He said, “We’re not that fancy.” I asked, “Come again?” He said, “We don’t have Campari.” I was like, “I see. Can you make me a martini?” He told me he could. I requested a gin martini, up with a twist — something my guy, Michael Kennedy Costa, turned me onto, as I had previously been a dirty boy. He asked me if I had a preference of gin. I asked him if he had Hendrick’s. He said he did. I was like, “Well, I guess you guys are at least a little fancy then, aren’t you?” He said, “If you say so.”
Immediately upon being handed my drink, a drunk Dodgers fan singing “Total Eclipse of the Heart” by Bonnie Tyler, bumped into me. This is why I try to avoid ordering martinis at bars—I hate martini glasses, I hate wet clothes, I hate sticky hands. I promptly wished this place had Campari.
Once I got to my booth, I was reminded of all the fresco murals of Venice—it’s been a few years since I’ve been to the Venice Room and many more since I’ve been to Venice. There are images of bridges, boats, and gondolas painted on the walls throughout this restaurant. What’s more is there are framed paintings of the same hanging atop the more low-key, folksier murals in here—it’s an incredible installation, worthy of being exhibited outside the walls of this San Gabriel Valley institution. In fact, if I were in charge of who was going to be representing the United States at this year’s Venice Biennale, I would have legitimately given a long look at whoever was responsible for this restaurant’s décor. Wouldn’t that be a radical gesture?
I mean, I know Alma Allen has caught a lot of flak—some might even say too much—and perhaps his selection, as strange of a surprise as it was, will go down as a very fitting choice for these totally bizarre, bleak, oppressive, and surreal times. Allen is superbly skilled, he is tremendously talented; his work pushes few to zero boundaries, it says little to nothing about little to nothing. That is no doubt precisely what an administration that is pushing just about every boundary of society wants to represent about and for us at arguably the world’s biggest art event. And what’s a bummer is that Allen is by no means a bad artist; in fact, I would say he’s a rather good artist. Is he a terribly interesting artist? Not necessarily; well, at least not in, of, or for this moment. Is he the artist most worth celebrating and platforming on this stage at this time? Probably not. But sure, these are big questions certainly worth debating. However, most importantly: To all the people who have specifically dismissed or denigrated him over his decision to accept the invitation, it might be worth considering whether or not you would accept or already have accepted the invitation to exhibit at a museum or institution that is at least partially funded by oil barons, blood diamond billionaires, arms dealers, genocide funders, opioid pushers, sexual assaulters, pedophiles, or human traffickers, and if so, why. You can’t have it both ways, people.
When I visited Venice for the Venice Biennale back in 2015, it was when I was still actively making and exhibiting art, and it was after the opening of a solo show I had agreed to do with a gallery run by what I now know to be a couple of grifters in Milan. So many people I knew and whose opinions I trusted spoke so highly of Venice and really tried to express how much I would love it. Now, trust me: I wanted to love it, I tried to love it, but unfortunately, I did not love it. For me, Venice felt like if Walt Disney and/or those high up at his now-megacorporation decided to construct a rustic theme park in one of the most romantic regions of Europe. I felt so cramped and claustrophobic the entire time I was there; plus, the food was so underwhelming and overpriced. It was undeniably beautiful, but I could do without the hype. Hype is a contagion; it affects even the purest of experiences, so something as touristy as this one could only become more infected for someone like me.
While in Venice, I can’t remember a single meal I ate. While at the Venice Room, that likely won’t be the case for you if you ever venture there since the menu is so impressively small. Your best bet is to order either the New York steak meal special for one or the rib-eye steak meal special for one; either way, you get a baked potato, two pieces of Texas toast, and the type of salad you can expect to receive at a pretty nice hospital or school with your choice of dressing (including fan favorites such as Italian, ranch, and vinaigrette) to douse as much of as you’d like on your greens. If you order either of these options, you take the meat and the toast to the grill at the end of the side room and then you season and cook them yourself — it’s fun, it’s kitschy, it’s your fault if you fuck anything up. Nothing on this spot’s menu screams Italian, but I suppose if you plaster your place of business with enough Italian memorabilia and signifiers, it legitimately doesn’t matter.
As my night was winding down after I wrapped up dinner, I approached the bar again. A karaoke king in a tie-dye wolf t-shirt was about to sing some Neil Young when he shouted out his friend who had a heart attack at a casino the other day. Just then, I asked the beefy bartender if he had any Fernet back there. He replied, “Remember what we talked about earlier? What do you take me for? Some kind of actual bartender?” We both had a good laugh and said goodnight to each other. What sort of Italian place doesn’t have Campari or Fernet? Again, it does not matter.
When I walked out the back door to head towards my car, a woman was sitting on a bench outside, smoking a cigarette with a group of other smokers. She blurted out to nobody in particular, “It’s Good Friday!” One of the people in her party said, “Yeah, and you’re showing boobs and everything!” She responded by saying, “Everyone wants to fuck Frank!” I caught this entire exchange, out of context, while reading a sign screwed into the brick wall on the back of the building, which includes the line: “Ironically VR does not only stand for Venice Room, it also stands for Valued Regulars.” I don’t believe I’ll be returning as a valued regular, but I most definitely understand why so many other people do.
