That's if you're a local, of course. Not that non-Highlandites aren't welcome, but even the owner will look perplexed if you admit you've come from afar. The York is determined to be Highland Parks' new Cheers, a place where everybody knows your name (because the bartenders slyly enter it into the computer system).
It's easy to walk past The York without noticing it…and maybe that's the point. On a street where a bike shop and discount party center seem to be competing for the messiest window display, the plain white lettering announces, "We're different." The simplicity continues within. The owners, former bartenders from Edendale Grill, have restored the high ceilings, creating a clean open space that's simultaneously elegant and industrial. The bar is a rectangle island in the center, bordered by strips of naked light bulbs, tinted a pretty peach. For once in L.A., you can appreciate the padding on your rear—the "clever" burlap sack-upholstery tends to take an abrasive toll.
Locals have been hungrily awaiting the Hare's replacement, and on a recent Monday night it was impressively full. A group of sporty twenty-somethings scoped out a pair of gals with flat-ironed black hair and I-could-kill-you-with-these heels. Pixies gave way to Johnny Cash.
A friendly bartender guided us through the extensive beer list, allowing us to taste our way to the perfect choice. Then on to gastro—that toxic-sounding-prefix that's generating a buzz these days when paired with the word "pub." One of the owners offered up a profound comment on the phrase: "It's a bar where the food doesn't come out of the freezer."
The menu, scrawled on a chalkboard, contains fancy variations of pub-basics: fish n' chips that are actually fresh, wings with lime and honey, a pulled pork sandwich with Gruyere. It's pricy for Highland Park, but still reasonable compared to Westside gastro-pubs like Father's Office and Ford's Filling Station. Our dishes arrived quickly. The fried goat cheese and beets were tasty, but there weren't enough of them. The blackened catfish was excellent, tender, coated in poignant spice atop of a mound of buttery corn. The artichoke hearts were fresh … and over-crunchy; but an attentive server excused them away with the fact that they just joined the menu that day.
At midnight, people continued to wander in—one of the joys of a neighborhood hangout, in a city without a center.
Food: Classy interpretations of the pub basics.
Scene: A casual gathering place, where just about anyone should feel comfortable as long as they're wearing cool shoes.
Insider Tip: The peaches in the cobbler come from the tree out back. Really, truly, we saw them with our own eyes.
