Eating raw seafood is, by nature, an act of supreme trust. You are putting your faith in a complex, invisible supply chain that spans from a patch of cold seawater, through a series of temperature-controlled trucks, all the way to a shucker’s station, hoping that everyone along the line was having a really, really good day.
When it works, it is magic. There is no culinary experience quite like the “oyster tower”—that feeling of slurping down the essence of the ocean while sipping a cocktail, feeling sophisticated and primal all at once. But when that trust is broken? It’s a tragedy.
Recently, my family and I found ourselves on a quest for bivalve redemption that went sideways. We went for a “Preemptive Eulogy Tour” of a Santa Monica institution: Blue Plate Oysterette.
This popular spot on Ocean Avenue, a fixture since 2009, is slated to close its doors forever in January 2026. I wanted to pay my respects. I wanted to send it off with a glowing review, a final sunset toast, and a memory of seafood glory. I wanted to be the cool mom who introduces her kids to the finer points of “merroir.”
Spoiler alert: It got complicated. It got expensive. And, regrettably, it got a little fishy.
The Vibe: “Extremely Santa Monica”
We arrived with high hopes. The cast of characters included myself, my husband Brad, and our two daughters (ages 7 and 10).
The restaurant is split into two distinct personalities: a tiny, cramped indoor space that feels like a ship’s galley, and the “patio.” Now, in Santa Monica real estate terms, “patio” is a loose concept. In this case, it means a section of the sidewalk and a chunk of the actual street, cordoned off with a flimsy barrier that offers zero protection from reality.
We were seated, quite literally, in the street.
It was a classic, foggy Santa Monica evening. The marine layer had rolled in, turning the palm trees into grey silhouettes against a slate sky. To combat the chill, the restaurant had their industrial heat lamps blasting at full power, creating a cozy, orange glow that felt genuinely magical. I looked at Brad. I looked at the girls. I thought, This is it. This is the California dream.
Then, a massive city bus roared past us, mere inches from my elbow.
The noise was deafening. The exhaust fumes washed over our table, momentarily mixing with the scent of brine and expensive perfume. A Ducati motorcycle revved its engine at the stoplight, vibrating my water glass.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DRINK?” I yelled at Brad over the traffic. “I THINK I’LL HAVE A BEER,” he shouted back, looking slightly shell-shocked.
It was the most “Santa Monica” experience possible. We were eating luxury food while practically sitting in traffic. It was glamorous. It was gritty. It was loud. And honestly? It was the perfect setting for a meal that was about to take us on a rollercoaster of emotions.
Part 1: The Win (The Raw Bar)
Despite the traffic fumes, we started strong. I decided to lean into the vacation vibes and ordered the Passion Fizz ($17).
It arrived looking beautiful—bright orange and garnished with mint. I took a sip. It was… fine. It was a seventeen-dollar glass of “meh.” It was sweet, fruity, and tasted generically tropical, like a melted popsicle. I was whelmed. Not overwhelmed, not underwhelmed. Just whelmed.
But I was here for the bivalves. I am not a die-hard oyster fanatic—I respect them more than I crave them—but I felt it was my duty. I ordered three West Coast varieties: Minter Sweet, Phantom Creek, and the Kumamoto.
When the platter arrived, things started looking up. They were beautiful. They were shucked perfectly, sitting in their little ice thrones, glistening with liquor (the natural juice), and ice-cold.
- The Kumamoto: This was the star. If you are new to oysters, this is where you start. It was deep-cupped, crisp, creamy, and possessed that distinct cucumber-melon finish that West Coast oysters are famous for.
- The Pairing Accident: Here is where the magic happened. I took a sip of my “meh” Passion Fizz immediately after swallowing the briny oyster. The drink transformed. The salt from the oyster completely neutralized the cloying sweetness of the cocktail. Suddenly, the “generic fruit” flavor exploded into sparkling notes of citrus, passion fruit, and a hint of vanilla I hadn’t even noticed before. It was culinary alchemy. The oyster had fixed the drink.
The Mussels Surprise
Emboldened by our success with the raw bar, we moved on to the Red Curry Mussels with Coconut Rice.
I am usually skeptical of mussels. They are the “team sport” of the seafood world, but they can be risky. They can be gritty, or worse, they can have that weird “beard” texture if the kitchen is lazy. But the smell of this dish alone was enough to convince the entire table.
It was intoxicating. The scent of lemongrass, ginger, and chilies wafted up, momentarily drowning out the smell of the Ocean Avenue traffic.
I dug in. These were immaculate. The sauce was rich and creamy, with just enough heat to tickle the back of the throat. The mussels were tender pillows of savory goodness. And the rice? The coconut rice was the perfect fluffy, sweet counterpart to the spicy broth. I found myself spooning the sauce over the rice, ignoring the mussels entirely for a moment, just lost in the carbohydrates.
At this point, Blue Plate was batting a thousand. We were happy. We were full of hope. I was already mentally writing the headline: The King of Santa Monica Goes Out on Top.
Part 2: The Economics of the Kid’s Menu
Before the main course arrived, we hit a snag that every parent knows well: The Kid’s Menu Pricing Logic.
Blue Plate Oysterette, like many upscale casual spots, offers a menu for children. However, the pricing is a masterclass in financial absurdity. They wanted nearly $15 for buttered noodles.
I’m sorry, what?
I love my children. I want them to be nourished. But I possess a deep, spiritual inability to pay fifteen American dollars for boiled dried pasta and processed cow-fat solids. I just can’t do it. It goes against my moral code. It feels like a tax on exhaustion.
So, we pivoted. We encouraged them to order off the adult menu or share with us. My 7-year-old, Charlotte, opted to share a Clam Chowder.
Her review? “Weird.” She poked it twice with her spoon, determined it had a texture she didn’t vibe with, and resigned from the meal entirely. So, we were already one diner down before the entrees even hit the table.
Part 3: The Loss (The Scampi Incident)
And then, the main courses arrived. This is where the music stops. This is where the horror movie soundtrack begins.
Brad and my 10-year-old daughter, Madeline, had both ordered the Shrimp Scampi Pasta. It’s a classic dish. It’s hard to mess up. Pasta, garlic, butter, white wine, shrimp. It is the comfort food of the sea.
The plates hit the table. Visually, they looked fine. The pasta was glossy. The shrimp were pink. There was parsley scattered on top.
But before anyone picked up a fork, the smell hit us.
It wasn’t the warm, inviting scent of garlic butter. It wasn’t the bright aroma of white wine. It was a smell that triggered a very deep, very ancient part of my lizard brain. It was the smell of a tide pool that had been baking in the sun for three days too long. It was sharp. It was acrid.
Brad picked up his fork, swirled some pasta, stabbed a shrimp, and brought it to his mouth. He hesitated. He took a bite. He chewed slowly. He stopped chewing.
He looked at me. His eyes were wide, conveying a message that no spouse wants to receive across a dinner table: I have made a terrible mistake.
“It’s… fishy,” he whispered. He pushed the plate away, creating a safety perimeter. “These are not fresh.”
Madeline, who has the palate of a 40-year-old food critic and will eat almost anything, took one bite of hers and immediately made a face that looked like she’d just licked a battery.
“My shrimp tastes weird,” she declared, dropping her fork. “I don’t want it.”
I leaned in for a journalistic sniff. Oh, yeah. That wasn’t the smell of fresh, sweet shrimp. That was the unmistakable funk of a crustacean’s ghost screaming, I should not be here! I should have been retired days ago!
Here is the dilemma. We were at a nice restaurant. We were paying $32 per plate for this pasta. The oysters had been amazing. The mussels had been perfect. My brain tried to rationalize it. Maybe I’m wrong? Maybe this is just how ‘ocean-forward’ shrimp taste?
But for an “oysterette”—a place whose entire identity is built on fresh, high-quality seafood—serving shrimp that smells like a low-tide tragedy is an unforgivable sin. It’s like a steakhouse serving you a grey, boiled ribeye. It’s the one thing—the only thing—you absolutely cannot get wrong.
Both of them left their $32 plates of pasta almost untouched.
Part 4: The Aftermath & The Verdict
We skipped the argument with the waiter. Why? Because the vibe was broken. Once that smell hits the table, the appetite is gone. Even if they brought out a fresh bowl, the trust is shattered. You can’t un-smell the ghost shrimp.
We ordered dessert in a desperate attempt to salvage the night. We got the Key Lime Pie and the Chocolate Tres Leches Cake. They were… fine. Good, but small. Like, “kid-size” portions for $12. They were an expensive, anticlimactic whisper of “sweet” at the end of a very loud, very confusing meal.
We paid the bill. It was staggering.
Thankfully—and this is the only reason I didn’t cry—Blue Plate Oysterette is on inKind. If you don’t know it, it’s a dining app that gives you credit bonuses for prepaid dining. Because I had pre-paid credit, we saved a significant chunk of money. I looked at the final total and thought, Thank God for technology, because if I had paid full price for that shrimp on my credit card, I might have flipped the table into the path of an oncoming bus.
We got in the car. The drive home was quiet. My stomach was making noises that sounded like a distant thunderstorm. We walked into our house at 8:45 PM.
“Mom,” Madeline said, tossing her purse on the counter. “I’m starving.” “Me too,” Brad said, heading for the pantry.
And so, the night ended not with a glorious seafood memory, but with me standing over the stove, boiling a pot of water for a box of Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, while Brad made toast.
That, my friends, is the ultimate sign of a failed restaurant meal. When you spend $200+ on dinner and still end up eating powdered cheese at home an hour later, something has gone wrong in the universe.
Final Thoughts: The Lesson
I hate to see small businesses close. I really do. I love the history of Santa Monica dining. But sitting there, watching my kids eat second-dinner at the kitchen island, I understood why Blue Plate Oysterette might be closing its doors.
The competition in Los Angeles is ruthless. Just down the street, you have places like Crudo e Nudo or Broad Street Oyster Co. doing incredible, consistent work. You cannot charge premium prices for a wildly inconsistent experience. You can’t serve “excellent” oysters next to “offensively tired” shrimp.
Should you go before they close? Yes, you should. But you need to be strategic. The raw bar is still producing magic. The mussels are still a delight.
But my advice to you—my hard-earned wisdom—is this: Trust your nose. It is millions of years of evolution trying to save you $32. If the shrimp smells like a mistake, it is a mistake. Send it back. Order the fries.
The Rating:
- Atmosphere: 3/5 (Cozy lighting vs. Bus fumes)
- Service: 4/5 (Fast, attentive, but missed the “uneaten food” signal)
- Raw Bar: 5/5 (The Kumamoto remains King)
- Cooked Entrees: 1/5 (The Scampi Incident)
- Value: 2/5 (Overpriced for the inconsistency, saved only by the inKind app)
Farewell, Blue Plate. We’ll miss the patio, but we won’t miss the gamble.
Continue Your Culinary Passage
Look, our dinner at Blue Plate was loud. We were practically eating in the street. If you want to experience Santa Monica without getting run over or inhaling a bus muffler, I highly suggest you check out my guide on how you will absolutely love Santa Monica more without a car (here’s the proven 3-day plan). It’s proven to be at least 90% less noisy.
And seriously, that shrimp scampi was a crime against pasta. If you’re going to pay Santa Monica prices, you deserve food that doesn’t taste like a forgotten bait bucket. For a genuinely fantastic and unique restaurant in Santa Monica, check out The Chelsea. Or, if you want authentic Italian pasta that’s perfect for date nights (and won’t make you sad), I’ve got just the spot.
I’ve also got to say, my younger daughter’s two-word review (“It’s weird”) was the most accurate critique of the night. She’s got a future. If you want to see what happens when a 10-year-old culinary blogger takes on the LA scene (with slightly more words), she’s got you covered. She’s way tougher than I am.
And finally, I’m not kidding about that dinner bill. The only reason I’m not still weeping into my wallet is because we used inKind. If you have no idea what I’m talking about but you love saving money on food (who doesn’t?), you need to read my deep dive on the inKind app and how it saves you money. It’s the only thing that made this fishy meal feel like less of a financial tragedy.
About the Author
The author of this post (Ginger Graham) is a mysterious culinary operative who sometimes wishes to remain anonymous, possibly because they are now in hiding from a shadowy cabal of un-fresh shrimp. She is a known enthusiast of good food, a fierce defender of paying reasonable prices for buttered noodles, and a firm believer that “fishy” is a smell, not a flavor. When not forcing herfamily on culinary adventures, she can be found meticulously sniffing seafood at local markets, muttering “I just want to trust.”
