SOCIAL FEB

LosAngeles magazine’s Top 10 Best New Restaurants Celebration

Thursday, February 2 7 p.m. – 9:30 p.m.

Halo, Downtown LA

Join Los Angeles magazine at our 10th annual Best New Restaurants event honoring the city’s most appetizing openings over the past year. The evening brings together our picks for the top 10 Best New Restaurants, past and present, to toast the chefs, taste signature dishes, and sip craft brews and creative cocktails. Must be age 21+ to attend.

For details and tickets visit lamag.com/bestnewrestaurants

Rhône WarriorsGrenache vs Syrah vs Mourvèdre

Wednesday, February 8, 7 p.m.

Tesse Restaurant, West Hollywood

Join LearnAboutWine for a true battle of Rhône wines. This evening will feature a compelling combination of fantastic producers; where you will decide which wines via our 501(c)(3) partner.

For tickets and more information visit learnaboutwine.com

Desert WineFest

Saturday, February 25, 1 – 5 p.m.

Sunday, February 26, 12 – 4 p.m.

Civic Center Park, Palm Desert

Choose from over 200 wines and craft brews to taste. Shop artisan and lifestyle exhibitors and delectable food purveyors while enjoying a sunny day outdoors with live music. Guests also have the option of purchasing tickets to include the VIP Garden featuring limited production and higher end wines, and tasty bites.

For tickets and more information visit desertwinefest.com/tickets

Los Angeles Builders Ball ®

Wednesday, March 8

The Beverly Hilton Habitat for Humanity of Greater Los Angeles (Habitat LA) is proud to host the 2023 Los Angeles Builders Ball®, presented by City National Bank! Join us as we honor The Whiting-Turner Contracting Company, Mattel and Property Brothers Drew and Jonathan Scott during this year’s gala. For tickets and more information visit aesbid.co/ELP/LABB23/Tickets had been stolen. I felt like a failure for letting him down. Still, I hoped the rest of the night would make up for this setback.

With the movie about to start, I hustled the couple to their seats, fetched popcorn, and arranged to meet up afterward to escort them to the party. Two hours later, I waited on my charges outside the theater. Shelley emerged, his forehead lined with creases and the color drained from his skin. “They cut most of my scenes! I’m barely in the movie.” He fixed me with a deliberate glare. “You lied to me!”

Now, Babs wasn’t the only doublecrosser on his list—I was, too. A classic people-pleaser, hell-bent on spreading happiness, I was gutted to know that Shelley thought I’d lied to him. I was verklempt.

“I swear, in the cut I saw, you were fantastic,” I pleaded.

He squinted his eyes and pressed his lips together, as if the sound of my voice hurt his ears. My credibility had taken a nosedive. All I could do was try to make sure he had fun at the party.

“Once you eat something, you’ll feel better,” Sarah said, ever the supportive wife.

Alas, at the party, everything descended 20,000 leagues further under the sea. An area had been set up with cocktail bars and several heated dinner buffets emanating gassy blasts of Sterno. Guests milled around heat lamps, enjoying the festivities, replete with holiday music, wreaths, ribbons, blinking lights, and giant gift boxes on display.

Shelley surveyed the scene and immediately zeroed in on a special roped-off VIP section for the film’s stars, flanked by security guards to keep away fawning fans. He wasn’t considered A-list and didn’t have access to this elite enclave. I’d hoped to elide this omission earlier in the night by “reserving” a table close by—tossing my coat on top of it and crossing my fingers that nobody would move it.

“Have a seat, and I’ll grab you some food from the buffet,” I offered.

“Can we go in there?” Shelley pointed at his costars whooping it up behind the velvet ropes.

I wanted to chomp on a cyanide capsule and collapse, mouth frothing instead of admitting, “It’s, um, a special-access area.”

For Shelley, this was the final blow. He sighed and flashed a crestfallen look at Sarah. In that moment, all the reasons I’d fallen out of love with the job snapped into focus. I loathed “the business” for its shallowness and lack of compassion. And while I enjoyed the creative challenge from time to time, in a world plagued with struggle and inequity, it all seemed so unimportant and meaningless. Rather than celebrate the old guard who lit the path for today’s young stars, Hollywood ditched its pioneers on the cutting room floor. Legendary actresses with faded beauty died penniless. Silly movies broke box office records, and beautiful art-house films disappeared from theaters overnight.

“I want to say hello to Dustin,” Shelley said sternly, as if he suddenly remembered he was a “somebody” and I existed only to serve his needs.

This was my last shot at redemption. I had to make it happen, or else I’d end up (presumably along with Barbra Streisand) as a needleriddled voodoo doll on Shelley Berman’s dresser.

“OK, let me see what I can do.” I sped over to the VIP area, armpits soaked with sweat and several frizzy curls flying free from my poorly assembled chignon. I’m sure I had a crazed look in my eye as I ducked under the red rope and squeezed through the crowd, searching desperately for a familiar face. I spotted the talent handler for Dustin Hoffman and waved her over.

“Shelley Berman wants to say hello; can we please let him in?” I held my hands together in prayer.

Dustin Hoffman overheard, spotted his friend, and shouted, “Shelley! Come here!”

I unclipped the velvet rope for Shelley to slide in. He squared his shoulders and stood up straighter. The two men hugged, and Shelley glowed with joy. Ben Stiller came over and gave Shelley a hug, too.

From my perch outside the red ropes, in the plebian zone with Sarah, I observed this sweet scene, and I swear I saw light radiating off that man. Tears welled in my eyes as I watched how this small gesture made Shelley’s year. Suddenly, I had an epiphany: It was time to move on. No more fraught nights on the red carpet for me. Instead, I would follow in the footsteps of my geriatric heroes and pursue my passions. Sure, I was in my thirties, but why wait until my knees had to be replaced and my feet were covered in corns to fulfill my dream of being a writer? And so, the following Monday, I walked into Kevin’s office and gave my notice. He assumed I’d landed a better job at another studio. I explained that I’d had it with drudgery, and if he needed to get in touch, he could find me at the discount movie theater or the YMCA. He laughed at the absurdity of the idea, but I could tell, deep down, he wished he were going with me.