The Ivy still reeks of celebrity, even if Bennifer has moved on

On a given afternoon at the Ivy, Richard Irving and Lynn von Kersting’s Robertson Boulevard restaurant, you might see three young women in identical black tops and workout pants taking selfies on the sidewalk, or someone from an old NBC sitcom whose name you can’t quite access before you catch yourself staring. There likely will be a stream of big, fancy cars pulling up to the valet, each bigger and fancier than the next, out of which might step a well-dressed family with some extremely bored kids on their phones, or an older couple where the woman is dressed in a red blouse, fuchsia power pants and black heels, or a guy rocking the Adam Sandler look: dressed for a pickup game at the Y but with an unerring confidence that only piles of hidden money can imbue.

This is the Ivy, after all, and there’s definitely some money in the room, both real and aspirational. It makes sense, given the restaurant’s prices. If you’re there for lunch, and lunch is the time to go, it’ll probably be busy. There might be a line to check in, to the annoyance of some more impatient patrons. Ask for a patio table, and hold your ground among the Burberry, leopard prints and some guy trying to vape inconspicuously from a device the size of a brick. There could be a wait, but it’s worth it to be where the action is.

The spicy fresh corn chowder is a house favorite.

(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)

The Ivy is the grande dame of scene-y dining in cute structures that feel like converted homes — think Alcove in Los Feliz, Aroma in Studio City, the old Larchmont Bungalow or the now-closed Off Vine in Hollywood. With its famous, flower-bestrewn, sizable front patio, the restaurant may have mellowed a bit in its middle age; no longer swarming with Hollywood muckety-mucks and paparazzi quite like the old days, when Paris Hilton, Bennifer and Ashton Kutcher were seen gracing the patio on the regular.

But the restaurant, which came into its own during the rise of growing celebrity obsession in the ’80s and ’90s, remains a rite of passage for a certain set of Angelenos, and an essential part of the evolution of dining in the city.

It still has an electric energy about it and an ineffable sense of “Let them eat cake” — I had more fun people-watching here than anywhere in recent memory. As for the menu, well, it’s unfocused enough that it kind of works in the restaurant’s favor. There are a decent number of hits, as well as misses. But did you really come for the food?

A blood orange margarita, left, and the wait staff’s colorful floral neckties, right.

(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)

The menu is so utterly all over the place, all at the same time, you’d think it was a rejected screenplay from the Daniels. Branzino. Turkey chili. Crab salad. Baby back ribs. Pumpkin ravioli. Enchiladas. My advice is to pretend like you’re DJing a wedding and stick to the hits.

That starts with the spicy fresh corn chowder. The problem with many chowders you’ll run across in this lifetime is that they’re overly thick or gloppy, more suitable to a Dickensian orphanage than a fine-dining experience. The Ivy’s chowder sits on the opposite side of that spectrum, to its absolute benefit: The savory broth is so comparatively thin, it’s like roof runoff during a storm. The sweet kernels of corn, of which there are plenty, sit nearly obscured at the bottom of the bowl; it may sound counterintuitive, but the contrast works wonderfully. The chowder tastes almost purely of fresh corn and diced pepper and the level of spice is manageable — think the beginning of a “Hot Ones” episode as opposed to the end — but it’s enough to get your attention.

Clockwise from top left: crab cakes, grilled vegetable salad with asparagus, zucchini, corn, avocado, tomatoes, baby lettuce and scallions, spicy fresh corn chowder, fresh Eastern lobster with homemade tagliatelle and the Ivy’s pink sauce, and smoked salmon and creme fraiche pizza.

(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)

A “startling number of framed American flags” decorate the main dining room, Peterson writes.

(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)

Generally, you should lean toward seafood and simplicity. It doesn’t get much simpler than the grilled vegetable salad, which a server said has been on the restaurant’s menu from its beginnings. It arrives at your table as a plate of chopped greens and vegetables — asparagus, zucchini, avocado, corn, tomato, scallion — unfussily prepared. It’s fresh, clear and direct. Crab cakes are small but ample: meaty fried pucks without too much filler. A soft shell crab appetizer with butter and lemon is uncomplicated and satisfying.

Wolfgang Puck is, of course, known for creating the smoked salmon pizza. But I submit that the Ivy’s version gives Puck’s a decent run for its money, with a well-executed crust that balances crunch and chew supporting the tangy crème fraîche and slightly warm, barely perspiring salmon. The Ivy’s pizza comes sans roe, which I scarcely missed.

If the menu is all over the place, it’s in line with the general feel of the establishment, which is somewhere between eclectic college-town coffeehouse and a Midwest antiquing trip gone awry. Outside, it’s Christmas lights, lush, leafy Von Kersting-designed dinnerware and enough fresh flowers and flowered cushions to spin Laura Ashley out into a jealous rage. Indoors, there are bowls of fruit, dozens of Delft blue-like plates lining the walls, hanging wicker baskets and, in one room, a startling number of framed American flags. A back dining room takes on a sudden Francophone vibe, with a large Eiffel Tower painting and placards displaying “RF” (République Française) in big block letters.

Smoked salmon and creme fraiche pizza. But is it better than Wolfgang Puck’s?

(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)

Food runner Daniel Mesa passes through the lounge with customers orders, left, and Andrea Smith, an international chef also known as Chef Cookie, prepares to drink fresh squeezed pineapple juice, right.

(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)

I noticed the music on a couple of occasions, which featured a singer and covers from bands like Steely Dan, the Doobie Brothers and Toto. I inquired about the soundtrack and an employee told me that the singer was none other than Von Kersting herself. (Von Kersting recently released an album called “Loverboy” featuring musicians who work at the Ivy.)

A quick but necessary sidebar on celeb spotting: This is what the Ivy is known for and, at the risk of seeming gauche, I’m not above playing tourist in my own town and saying I was excited at the prospect of seeing someone I recognized. (Have you ever done one of those hokey Hollywood bus tours? They’re pretty fun.) And I’m pleased to announce that, without naming names, on at least one visit, this was a successful mission.

The best people-watching at the restaurant, though, comes in the form of catching snippets of other conversations, which is pretty easy to do given that tables are packed together fairly tightly. During one meal, my dining partner and I spent a chunk of the evening eavesdropping on surrounding tables like we were characters in “The Conversation.” The gems came quickly: “He was making $5,000 a set. Like, money money.” From a different table, I heard, “I mean, I’m a psychologist. I’m a woman of science. But how do we discount the spiritual world?” Someone behind me was showing the table photos of Lady Gaga when she used to be a go-go dancer. “Wow, she’s got a great body,” someone said. “Did she ever get those dogs back?”

Customers dine on the patio. Seated at the table on the right is Basthian the Bomb, a Pomeranian, from Puebla, Mexico.

(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)

It’s all almost entertaining enough — almost — to distract from the misses on the menu. When I was disappointed at the Ivy, it was often for lack of seasoning, not necessarily lack of technique. This is a frustrating way for dishes to come up short, as they’re about 80% there but require a final push over the finish line. A Cobb salad, which wants an assertive dressing to balance the strong flavors of blue cheese and bacon, needed exactly that. A piece of sea bass was beautifully cooked but an accompanying curry sauce resembled something that might come in a frozen dinner. The Ivy pink sauce, which comes on some of the pasta dishes, tasted like an underseasoned standard vodka sauce. Onion rings were temptingly prepared with a thin, simple dredging like you might see on a blooming onion, but the coating was completely flavorless.

Fried chicken had a similar problem — the meat had been well taken care of, as it was hot and juicy, but there was little taste to the exterior. There was also no skin on the chicken, or at least none that I or my dining partner could discern, which left the dish feeling like a plate of big chicken tenders. A plate of Wagyu carne asada arrived with some fantastic tortillas but the meat came across as a fairly boilerplate piece of skirt steak.

The Myer’s Jamaican rum mojito.

(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)

Drinks are pretty good — a blood orange margarita was tangy and strong, and an amusing virgin strawberry mojito, in keeping with the excess of the place, arrived with a huge, leafy sprig of basil nearly gone to seed, lime, an entire strawberry and a piece of sugar cane. As for desserts, the best I tried was a hot, gooey pecan square that resembled a piece of pie straight from the oven. A coconut cake I sampled was unexceptional, and a slice of Key lime pie’s filling had an unfortunate curdled texture. Chocolate chip cookies, at $1 each, are an extraordinary bargain given that a cup of berries costs $17. Service is friendly and efficient, but you may have to ask for things more than once.

One lunch, I was eating near a larger party, a number of whom had eaten the fillings out of their sandwiches and were now sitting in front of plates of unadorned bread. I noticed someone was celebrating a birthday — there was a collection of tissue-stuffed gift bags surrounding one of the women, and a cake had just been brought out with a Roman candle-like firework spewing sparks vertically into the air.

A hot pecan square topped with praline gelato and hot fudge sauce.

(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)

I leaned over to the table to wish the celebrant a happy birthday. She thanked me and we chatted for a moment. She then paused and said, “Well, it’s my half-birthday.”

Sure, why not? It was the end of March, so I counted forward six months in my head. “September…?” I offered.

“August, actually,” she said, and began organizing her gift bags. I gave a slightly confused look, as August wouldn’t make sense for a half-birthday. She shrugged and said, “We can’t even count right!” and we all laughed.

It didn’t matter. At the Ivy you can have your cake, and your lobster club, and eat it too.