I have just about had it with the Michelin Guide and their allocation of stars in Los Angeles. This is the final straw. I won’t travel across town for a one‑star restaurant ever again. Time and time again, I make excuses—maybe it will be different, maybe it will reflect its rating and be worth it—only to find myself stuck in this never‑ending cycle, like a gerbil running in its wheel. I want to stop and get off. To finish coming away from a night where I always say the same thing: “The meal was average. How can this have one Michelin star?” I am tired of hearing myself say it. Everyone else is too. Enough is enough.
What kind of Michelin‑starred restaurant runs out of Parker rolls at 8:30 p.m.? The night has barely begun! There was none left, so I was offered toast instead. Toast?! Are we having breakfast? At this level of restaurant, every guest must be offered bread. What started as a small inconvenience became a general annoyance, and we ended up talking about the importance of it all night. There was no gluten‑free option either. My French guest sulked throughout the entire dinner (more work for me, trying to improve his mood). Do not underestimate the power of this basic staple.
Being a steak restaurant, we went straight to it, opting for the Japanese wagyu. Overall, it felt overpriced. (And before you wonder—no, this isn’t my first wagyu.) We asked for shoestring fries, expecting something thin and crispy, like pommes allumettes, but they arrived as regular fries.
There were some positives. The sauce was well made, with a good amount of pepper—silky, with real depth. I could have eaten it on its own with a spoon. The loaded potato was also well executed: crisp skin cooked to the right point, with a soft interior. Something as humble as a jacket potato can still make anyone happy.
We brought our own wine, which ultimately came to the rescue. At the end of the meal, I offered the remaining wine to the sommelier: “You can have the rest if you’d like—we’re finished.” His face lit up with genuine delight. “Oh, thank you very much.” He took the decanter away as we prepared to leave. It felt good to give, even if our night didn’t meet expectations on a culinary level.
I travelled for Kali because it holds one Michelin star, but I simply didn’t see it. I could have been in any average steakhouse across Los Angeles; there was nothing that differentiated it. A higher price point for practically the same experience you can find elsewhere doesn’t make much sense. We had an okay night, but we’ll leave it there.
