One Surprisingly Fine Swine

I'll be honest. When you walk into a place with a name like the Pig 'N Whistle, you have certain expectations. Don't get me wrong, one should really never judge a book by its cover, but being cautious isn't a bad philosophy either.

I'd never been to the Pig 'N Whistle before; certainly I'd noticed it many times on my way into the Egyptian theater. With the bright neon lettering gleaming overhead and the dark, mildly daunting entrance (there's a heavy black curtain draped over the open doorway you have to duck past,) the casual passers-by would probably assume this almost grungy-looking building to be a bar with substandard food and dirty chairs, filled to the brim with bachelors and football fiends watching the evening game on the television over the bar.

What a surprise, then, when I walked inside and found myself in a tastefully decorated dining room with warm lighting, a shining mahogany bar, and a style of interior design that screamed '1930s Hollywood.' My companions were as pleasantly shocked.

My mother, an ardent fan of the art Deco design style, was drawn immediately to the engraved ceiling, composed of intricate loops and whorls. It was beautiful to behold, a style so indicative of Hollywood's early architecture that I was almost grateful to see it. Once upon a time the buildings of Hollywood were beautiful in and of themselves. This is echoed a bit more audibly here and there in the older buildings, and notably in the ceiling of the El Capitan theater.

We were escorted to a raised platform along one side of the wall. This was split down the middle, the wall lined by large, elegantly curved booths, and the opposite edge with simple dark wooden tables and plain but serviceable chairs.

The booths were mildly cramped (from where I sat, which was at the apex of the curve,) but comfortable, and we were promptly given menus to peruse by the cordial waitstaff.

[And while it may seem picky of me to mention it, I was constantly distracted by the platform thudding beneath us every time someone walked by. It had the feeling of a stage set - sturdy, but caution is prudent.]

While the venue would sound like your classic English pub, there were only three items of 'pub food' included on the menu - chicken pot pie, fish 'n chips, and shepherd's pie. The rest was what one might call standard American fare - salads, sandwiches, pastas, pizzas, and just to give it that Californian flair: nachos and tacos.

We ordered our drinks and sat watching the Golden Globes on the many televisions placed around the restaurant. It wasn't long before a pair of tall glasses - one empty, chilled, (for my father's Corona) and one bearing my sweet Shirley Temple - and an old fashioned glass rimmed with salt sat on the table. One sip of her margarita and my mother nearly dropped the glass. "Margaritaville," she muttered. Catching my eye, she added, "Well, they're generous with their alcohol, at least."

It soon turned out that the Pig 'N Whistle is generous with quite a bit more than their alcohol. Unfortunately, they're not always as generous with flavor. While the customary basket of bread was filled with warm, slightly sweet bread good enough to enjoy with unsalted butter, not everything was as en pointe.

My margarita pizza was of the dime-a-dozen type; I've had it a million times in a million restaurants. They opted to go without sauce, instead placing sliced tomato on the crust and sprinkling mozzarella cheese over it. The cheese bore a heavy dosing of minced basil, and the crust was evenly burnt all around the rim of the pizza. The cheese had little to no flavor, instead tasting (and feeling) entirely of grease.

The crust beneath tomato and cheese was so thin as to be

nonexistent, and when a slice was picked up, the toppings w ould simply slide right off onto the plate. The only thing I can honestly say I enjoyed was the puffed crust of the edges. While thin and burnt, the dough must have been similar to the one they used for their bread, as it was slightly sweet and nutty, with an excellent chewy texture and a pleasant crisp from the burn that was not overwhelmingly charred. It was, alas, one of those pizzas you cut the crust off of - because the crust is the only thing worth eating.

My mother's chicken marsala was a daunting piece of meat, but was left floundering in a pool of sauce that encompassed the entire plate. It was served with mushrooms, spinach, and garlic mashed potatoes. The potatoes had chunks in them, but this only served to enhance the texture contrast, and the flavor was pleasant. The spinach was also touched with garlic; the mushrooms were tender.

The marsala sauce was more of a mushroom sauce, she said, and it was too salty. I didn't need her to tell me there was too much - I could see for myself the flattened breast of the chicken was maybe an eighth of an inch deep in sauce.

Finally, I asked my father what he thought of his fish n' chips. They had certainly caught my eye when they were brought to the table, as the chips (a mixture of potato chips, shoestring, and crinkly fries) were served in a small brown paper bag, which I found charming. Personally, I thought that the bag dwarfed the three or four small fish sticks next to it, making it the focus of the plate and distracting from the main item. Next to the bag, the small cup of butter peas and tartar sauce were hidden, too.


My father was more intrigued by the bottle the waiter handed him as he set down the plate - labeled Heinz Malt Vinegar, he was uncertain as to what effect it would have on his meal, but decided to try it anyway.

The halibut was good, he s aid - not overly fishy, and the beer batter crust was thin, but crunchy. It didn't overpower the halibut and clung like a second skin. The sticks cut cleanly, without any audible cracks, and the coating did not seem soggy. The malt vinegar, he reported, gave the fish a tangy edge, which was balanced nicely by the tartar sauce. He didn't think the peas were fresh - he suspected they were canned - but he enjoyed them nonetheless. The motto of the evening seemed to be 'When going to a pub, order pub food.'

A little disappointed that the splendor of my surroundings didn't quite match the quality of the food, I'd totally forgotten about the idea of dessert. But that didn't mean I wasn't game for it. (To my surprise, my mother appeared equally ready.) A quick scan of the desserts menu revealed standard items - cheesecake, apple pie, chocolate cake, ice cream. I opted for the molten cake, my mother for the ice cream, my father for coffee ('Bring an extra spoon,' my mother advised the waitress,) and we settled back to wait. I was pleased, because the waitress had informed me the molten cake would take ten minutes - which meant it would be freshly made, and not something they yanked out of a freezer and stuck in the microwave.

When the desserts settled onto our table I was, quite honestly, shocked. The food had been presented to us til then in a classic, agreeable way. It seemed the chefs were taking quite a bit more care with their desserts.

Where was I to begin with this monster of a plate? The first few minutes I took to examine it, impressed by the fact that they'd managed to get the strawberries to stand up like that - and then drizzle chocolate sauce over them. As I moved the obstructing mint leaves - pretty, but what does one do with them? Does anyone ever really eat the mint leaves on a dessert plate? - out of the way, I noted with irritation that the vanilla ice cream could hardly be called a scoop, while the whipped cream (which had not been mentioned on the menu, and neither had the strawberries, for that matter,) was a massive portion.

Beneath the mint leaves lurked the tiny raspberry holding them up so perfectly, and I broke into the cake underneath it. It oozed agreeably, and was not scorching hot when I took my first bite, which was nice. The ice cream was a bit icy, but had a fairly decent flavor. The strawberries were good, for January. There were blueberries hidden beneath both whipped cream and ice cream, which I hadn't noticed and which also had not been mentioned on the menu. As I continued to try the cake, I realized that while it was cooling rapidly (as molten cakes are wont to do), it was not setting. I'd been distracted by the first bite, and hadn't noticed that in their desire to make the cake's center remain liquid as long as possible, the chefs had severely undercooked it. Only a thin bit of actual cake rested between plate and undercooked batter.


The sundae? While I didn't try it, I'm sure it tasted like ice cream. Looking at it, I can say that there was too much whipped cream, and the ever-superfluous mint leaves reared their elegant little heads again. I don't know what size scoop they were using back there in the kitchen, but it was too small.


Overall, the Pig 'N Whistle holds a lot of surprises. Personally I have to say it's a good place for a Superbowl party, but don't hold your breath for that anniversary dinner. You might have to wait until pigs fly.

Pig 'N Whistle Restaurant
6714 Hollywood Blvd.
Hollywood, CA 90028
(323) 463-0000

Valet parking is available on McCadden (side street off Hollywood Blvd). Self-parking is also easily accessible, on either McCadden or Las Palmas.