You know you’ve hit a truly cool restaurant when you walk in and immediately feel like you need a secret password, a vintage fur, and a better bank account. Massilia in Santa Monica is one of those places. It screams “Speakeasy,” but not the cheesy, password-of-the-day kind. It’s the kind of place that feels effortlessly glamorous, like it was designed by someone who understands that dimmed lighting is the universal human code for “I am having a fabulous evening and I don’t want anyone to see how much Patatas Bravas I’m eating.”
My husband, Brad, and I decided to check it out last Saturday, mainly because I had some rapidly expiring credit on the inKind app, which is basically the culinary equivalent of playing Russian Roulette with your weekend. The moment we stepped inside, I knew we were in a different league. It was sleek, a little dark (in the best way), and the air just vibrated with grown-up chatter. And then there was Madeline.
Our 10-year-old daughter, Madeline, was the designated third wheel on this fine evening, and I can say with 100% certainty that she was the only person under the age of 21 present. Did we hesitate to bring her? Maybe. Is it a “place for kids”? No. Let’s be very clear: if you’re looking for high-chairs and crayons, this is not your spot. But is it tolerant of kids? Absolutely. The Massilia team was so incredibly nice that they made our poor, bewildered 5th grader feel like a VIP—or at least, a miniature, very well-behaved guest who could potentially one day afford the whole menu.
The staff’s tolerance was a huge relief, because honestly, Madeline was having the time of her life. She was rocking an air of faux-maturity that made her seem like a very small, very judgmental European duchess. She loved seeing the atmosphere, which was far from the chaos of our usual restaurant pic for a Saturday night. The crowning glory for her, however, was in the back room: a stunning Guest DJ, draped in a magnificent red dress, spinning what I assume was chic European house music. Madeline was mesmerized. “Mom,” she whispered, her eyes wide, “She looks like she’s hosting a really important party.” I guess they have live music on Saturday nights after 6:00 PM, and judging by the number of people in suits and cocktail dresses, this wasn’t just dinner; it was an event. It made the whole experience feel like a quick jaunt to the Côte d’Azur, which is precisely the kind of escapism you need after a long week of arguing about math homework.
We were nestled inside at a high-top table, sunk into a glorious, plushy, super comfortable booth that essentially felt like a velvet hug. The seating situation alone validated the entire trip. Through the windows, the patio looked equally lovely, and, confirming my suspicions that this place was just too cool, I noticed at least three different small dogs dining al fresco with their owners. This is the ultimate Santa Monica flex: bringing your perfectly groomed, quiet canine companion to a sophisticated European-themed bistro. If Madeline couldn’t be the star, at least the French Bulldog could.
The Massilia Great Calvados Conundrum and the Liquid Vices
We started, as all responsible adults should when dining with a soon-to-be-teenager, with alcohol. Brad, my husband, opted for the Calvados Old Fashioned. I went for the Mezcalita D’Ananas.
Brad’s Old Fashioned was instantly declared “solid and great.” He is, shall we say, a discerning consumer of the Old Fashioned, treating it less like a cocktail and more like a sacred cultural artifact. But this one was smooth. Alarmingly smooth. We immediately entered into a whispered, marital debate: Did they truly know how to make a magnificent, perfectly balanced Old Fashioned, or was it just… weak?
This is the great culinary mystery of our time. It was so easy to drink, so devoid of the fiery ethanol punch you often get, that we couldn’t decide if we had found a master mixologist or someone who was simply very liberal with the sugar and stingy with the Calvados. Whatever the truth, Brad was happy, and I—a non-Old-Fashioned drinker—stole a sip and concurred: it was dangerously good. The subtle apple notes from the Calvados gave it a sophistication that the standard bourbon version often lacks. It was a Trojan horse of a cocktail, sneaking delightful flavors past your defenses.
My Mezcalita D’Ananas was a necessary counterpoint. It was refreshing, bright, and hit that perfect sweet-and-spicy balance you chase in a great mezcal drink. The pineapple was there, but it didn’t overpower the smoky, complex mezcal. It was the kind of drink that instantly makes you feel like your vacation has started, even if you’re just sitting a few miles from your own house. It set the stage beautifully. Meanwhile, Madeline, in her temporary elevated state of grown-up glamour, ordered a lemonade and was entirely satisfied. I appreciated that they didn’t present it in a sippy cup, which, given the atmosphere, would have been an instant expulsion from the high-top booth.
The Massilia Service: A Rare Act of Honesty
Our server was a hero. I don’t use that word lightly. In the bustling, upselling jungle of the L.A. restaurant scene, he performed an act of culinary honesty that should be enshrined in bronze.
Before we get to that, let’s address the crucial topic of the non-existent Kids Menu. When the lack of a separate menu became apparent, I braced myself for a meltdown, or at least a negotiation that involved pleading and possibly a bribe. But our server swooped in, a paragon of attentiveness, and proactively offered: “We can do buttered noodle pasta, or a basic pasta with marinara.” Standard protocol.
Madeline, however, having spent 20 minutes soaking up the ‘speakeasy’ vibe and watching a DJ in red fancy long dress, had officially transcended basic carbohydrate options. She had a full-blown culinary awakening and decided to be bougie.
“I will have the Steak Frites,” she announced to the table, without even consulting the price.
Brad and I exchanged a look that said, ‘The 10-year-old is ordering the $32 adult entree. We are apparently now paying for her culinary education.’ But I was secretly so proud of her boldness. And let me tell you, she did the dish justice. It was a nice, robust portion, and she ate the entire steak and most of the fries. Not one complaint. Not one piece of meat left for the dog-bag. She understood the assignment. This is the mark of a truly successful parent-child outing: the child cleans their plate and doesn’t utter a single, public groan.
But here is where the server cemented his legendary status.
Brad and I were placing the rest of our order, which included the shared main course and a few appetizers, and I casually tacked on a side of roasted vegetables, because, well, guilt. I need to make sure my family gets their recommended daily allowance of greens, even if it’s drowning in butter.
The server paused, pen hovering over his pad, and said, “You know what? I appreciate the order, but your main course, the Couscous Royal, is loaded with vegetables. You really don’t need that side dish.”
Wait. What?
He actively talked us out of spending more money. This is rarer than spotting a unicorn ordering a Negroni. In a world where the standard operating procedure is to upsell you on sparkling water, bread service, and a side of air, this man voluntarily reduced our check total. It was honestly wonderful. It demonstrated a genuine care for the dining experience and not just the immediate profit margin. If only every restaurant operated with this level of customer-centric honesty—a level that Adam Saper, the founder of famed New York Italian emporium Eataly, once described as the ‘fundamental trust metric’ of true hospitality, which Massilia clearly understands. I could have kissed him.
Appetizers: The Perfect Potatoes
The appetizers at Massilia were a high point, even though they presented a genuine challenge for our young gourmand.
We started with the Patatas Bravas. This was the only appetizer Madeline would consent to consuming. Of course, Massilia’s version is topped with a spicy Calabrian chili paste, which she approached like a radioactive substance. She painstakingly ate around every single speck of red, focusing purely on the beautifully crispy potatoes and the luxurious, creamy rouille mayonnaise. Her dedication to avoiding the spice was truly impressive; it was like watching a bomb disposal expert defuse a carb. They were excellent, though—crispy on the outside, fluffy within, the kind of potato that makes you question why all your home-cooked fries are sad and limp.
Next came the Shrimp and Tuna Ceviche. This was a winner. It was described as “VERY fresh,” and I can confirm that the fish practically had an ocean shimmer. It was light, zesty, and refreshing—the perfect palate cleanser and a brilliant counterpoint to the heft of the potatoes. Paired with my mezcal drink, it felt like the culinary equivalent of an acoustic guitar on a sunny day.
Finally, the Baba Ganoush. We had to try this. I am a staunch critic of whipped eggplant dishes, especially after a disappointing (and frankly, fluffy) encounter with the “whipped eggplant” at Casaléna in the Valley. Massilia’s Baba Ganoush was solid and good. It definitely won the battle against its Valley counterpart, proving that eggplant should retain some texture. That said, as a lifelong pursuer of the ultimate Baba Ganoush, I can attest that it still wasn’t the best I’ve ever had—the standard set by the legendary Lebanese spot in London, whose eggplant is consistently smoky and textural enough to satisfy even the most discerning palate, remains untouchable. But the warm, fresh pita bread they served alongside it was phenomenal. What’s more, they kept bringing more—without us even asking! A restaurant that proactively refills your pita basket is a restaurant that understands the subtle needs of carb-addicted humans. This little gesture of generosity went a very long way in my book.
The Massilia Main Event: The Royal Couscous (and Grandma’s Kitchen)
Brad and I decided to split the Moroccan Couscous Royal. It sounded majestic, deserving of the “Royal” moniker. We were imagining a dish fit for, well, the peasant king that Madeline had inadvertently turned into by ordering the Steak Frites.
The reality? It was just okay.
It was one of those dishes that makes you stop and think, ‘I’ve eaten this before… at my grandmother’s house.’ It had a very wholesome, homemade feel to it, which is lovely, but when you are paying for a high-quality, ‘speakeasy’ vibe meal in Santa Monica, you expect less “lovingly prepared family potluck” and more “culinary magic.”
Don’t get me wrong, it was a very nice portion—so large that even with both of us attacking it with gusto, we still had leftovers to take home. The lamb within the dish, I must confess, was incredibly well-cooked and flavorful. This is the detail that gave me pause.
Massilia is renowned for its 8-Hour Lamb Shank. I should have known better. When you are at a restaurant known for a specific, slow-cooked, show-stopping item, you order the slow-cooked, show-stopping item. This is the first law of dining, often cited by food critics, including Los Angeles Times critic Bill Addison, who routinely emphasizes that the signature dish is the true test of a kitchen’s mettle. I strayed from the path. Given how tender and delicious the lamb in our Couscous Royal was, I am now 100% confident that their legendary 8-Hour Lamb Shank can stand up to its hype.
If—or, let’s be honest, when—I go back, I will also be ordering the Seared Yellowfin Tuna. The ceviche was so incredibly fresh and beautifully executed that I have complete faith their hot preparation of the yellowfin will be equally stellar.
A Sweet Ending and the Final Verdict
For dessert, we split the Mousse Au Chocolat. It was solid and good. It was chocolate mousse. I can’t complain about it, but I also won’t write sonnets about it. It was a perfectly competent, comforting finish to the meal, serving its purpose without trying to steal the spotlight from Madeline’s steak-eating triumph or the great Old Fashioned debate.
Ultimately, Massilia was a great experience. As mentioned, we only went because of the inKind app, which serves as a powerful reminder that sometimes you need a little financial nudging to discover something genuinely cool that’s slightly off your beaten path.
The atmosphere successfully transported me. It gave off that wonderful, slightly mysterious European feel—the kind of place where you could spend three hours talking, drinking, and watching the sophisticated crowd. The service was impeccable, proving that high-end hospitality doesn’t require pretension. And honestly, the lesson I took away—the need to order the Lamb Shank next time and the universal truth that a server who saves you from over-ordering is worth his weight in gold—makes the whole trip a success.
Will I rush back next weekend? Probably not. It wasn’t a “life-changing, must-return-immediately” level of amazing. But was it a delightful, stylish, and genuinely good night out that made my 10-year-old feel like she was dining in Cannes? Absolutely. Massilia does a very good job, and sometimes, “very good” is exactly what you need.
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About the Author
Ginger Graham is the chief culinary instigator behind Culinary Passages, where she chronicles her family’s adventures one high-top table at a time. She believes all cocktails should be debated, all bread baskets should be bottomless, and that the true measure of a restaurant is not its Michelin stars, but its willingness to tolerate a child who insists on ordering the most expensive item on the menu. She lives in a state of perpetual shock that her husband, Brad, actually enjoys Calvados.
