It’s called The Hobbit. It may seem strange that a place serving world-class Continental cuisine is named after an imaginary character known for being short and having large, hairy feet, but the name fits. Michael was a fan of the Tolkien books long before the epic Lord of the Rings films as he explained to me the inspiration behind his restaurant’s name. “Hobbits loved to have a good time, enjoy good food and drink with company,” Philippi said. True enough. In Tolkien’s words, Hobbits “laugh deep fruity laughs, especially after dinner, which they have twice a day when they can get it.”
like those of my childhood, it’s an unadorned space filled with warmth and imagination.
With more than a thousand bottles in its cellar, The Hobbit has won Wine Spectator’s Best of Excellence award and received top honors from the Zagat Guide Survey the past six years. In addition to being the place where you savor tasty appetizers, the cellar plays an important role in the Hobbit experience. It’s where you choose your wine.
Tolkien described hobbit holes as rustic yet enchanting. “In a hole lived a hobbit,” he wrote. “Not a nasty, dirty wet hole filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down or to eat: it was a hobbit-
I took the easy route and let Cox, the Hobbit’s skilled sommelier, handle it. We were given the sommelier pairing, selections from Pacific Northwest chardonnays to Rhone varietals and California Cabs. Cox’s pairing matched perfectly with every extraordinary bite.
Plus, of course, Hobbits live in holes. An evening at The Hobbit is more than just dinner. Rather than simply sitting down to eat, guests can mingle with Michael, Debra and sommelier Tiffany Cox then explore the truly unique setting for a fine-dining affair. The entire decadent journey through gastronomical bliss takes three hours and seven courses to complete. I wasted no time getting straight to the heart of my mission. After a quick cocktail on the patio, we went to the cellar. Down the stairs, into the cool, underground air. Tiffany handed us each a flute of champagne. Hors d’oeuvres were laid out on a blocky wood table, and racked bottles of wine lined every wall, ceiling to floor. A few simple light bulbs cast a warm glow on dark beams and exposed metal pipes. The scene brought back memories. Where I’m from, kids grew up in spaces like this. During long Midwest winters, we hardly ever left the cellar. Parents sent us down there to play hockey, race Hot Wheels, keeping the damage to a minimum. The walls were indestructible cinder block, the floors were covered with cheap indoor/outdoor carpeting.
The Hobbit’s elegant wine cellar is no mundane basement, but,
The door opens, and you smell charred meat.
It’s dark. The dim yellow light from an iron chandelier reveals plush blood-red booths, brick arches and dark wood tables.
Dinner was divine: seared diver scallop, salad with three different pears, smoked duck breast, rack of lamb, dessert, all spread out over just enough time, with a nice intermission to step out onto the patio and return to a palettecleansing sorbet. Further description of the meal wouldn’t do it justice. The Hobbit isn’t a restaurant—it is an experience in fine food and, yes, fantasy. Forty years after its inception, Mike’s original vision of capturing the spirit of a hobbit— of creating a warm environment to eat, drink and be merry—is alive and well. Near the corner of Irvine and
hole, and that means comfort.” A wealthy family from the East Coast, where cellars are common, built the Hobbit house. Since basements are rare in Southern California, the Phillippi’s knew they had found a treasure in this old farmhouse. At the time it was one of the only structures around, surrounded by nothing but orange groves and dirt roads. “Even when we moved here in the early 70s, there wasn’t much else around,” Debra said. “It was originally a farmhouse and for a while it was a Ukranian restaurant.”
The Cellar Fine Dining
17th Street in Costa Mesa sits a dull concrete office structure. On one side of the building resides a Blockbuster Video store. On the other, office spaces. Here’s what you do: Walk into the office lobby elevator and press the down button. It feels like
you’re visiting the dentist in an Eastern Bloc country, but trust me. This is no ordinary elevator. Down you go, into t h e
underground. The door opens, and you smell charred meat. It’s dark. The dim yellow light from an iron chandelier reveals plush blood-red booths, brick arches and dark wood tables. In front of you, at an arm’s length, is a sizzling grill manned by men holding tongs and wearing tall white chef hats. Welcome to La Cave. Its elevator is a time machine. When its doors open and you step out, you’re stepping back a halfcentury, to Valentine’s Day 1962, the day this unique steakhouse/ bar opened. “It was built by the family that owned Hi-Time Wine Cellar,” explained La Cave general manager Leilani Huebner. “HiTime used to be upstairs, where the Blockbuster is now.” Up above, in the light of day, times have changed over the last 50 years. Hi-Time moved to a bigger space; countless momand-pop stores got squeezed out; Taco Bells and Starbucks propagated like rabbits. Entirely new ideas were born, thrived and, in many cases, were left to die slowly. (See: Blockbuster.) Down here, in the cool underground, things stayed the same. Romance bloomed. Stiff cocktails were poured. Fine meats were served. I went on a Tuesday night and was seated in a booth. With tables placed close together, diners’ conversations all blended together. Some of the guests seemed old enough to have been here opening day. Some were much younger. Couples sat at the bar. Later, after 9, people would arrive for the entertainment. It was Indie Rock night. How many places do you know that serve fine steak and wine at 7, then crank live Indie Rock bands at 9?
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