Let me be clear, all restaurants are fantastic places with lots of food in them. It’s just that some are better than others.

I’m a pizza guy, always have been and always will. My idea of the perfect pie starts with a medium-sized crust (crunchy on the outside but fluffy once your teeth sink in), extra cheese with a “meat lovers” variety of the good stuff on top, a side of peanut butter dipping sauce and, lastly, more cheese. Now THAT is what I’m talking about.

Ever since I was a puppy, my parents have taken me to Stella Barra, on Main St. in Santa Monica, for a weekly dinner. I know these might be fightin’ words, but, in my expert opinion, Stella has the best pizza in Los Angeles. There, I said it. But it’s more than the wood-burning oven and endless topping possibilities that make this place my home away from home.

A few weeks back, on a Sunday afternoon, I decided I needed a post-lunch snack. We hit the road and headed west. Stella is just blocks from the southern California coastline. The weather was perfect (what else is new?) so we grabbed one of the high top round tables outside. A bowl of water was brought over while my parents chatted with Britt””our absolute most favorite server in the whole world ever. I generally leave the ordering to my mom because she knows exactly what I like and what I don’t (i.e. green vegetables and chocolate). I overheard her saying, “and Bogie will have a pizza with pancetta, sausage, coppa and pepperoni. Extra cheese please, but no red sauce”¦” Attagirl mom! I’ve trained you oh so well.

My dad has some strange eating habits and they really shine when it comes to ordering pizza. He always gets the same thing: sausage pizza, no sauce, no cheese, burned beyond all recognition with black olives. Now who am I to judge, I’ll take a slice if offered, but really dad?? My mom enjoys the white fennel (fennel bianco) pizza or the pizza of the day. She’s well rounded and open-minded. To curb her guilt she usually orders the arugula salad, which changes seasonally.

I should note that, when we come for dinner, we always sit at the bar. Jen and Jess take excellent care of us and they know mom
drinks the red Zinfandel or whiskey and that my dad always has silver tequila, neat, no lime. The bar gets cranking around 7 p.m. and it’s first come, first serve. If you get caught waiting, there are two giant TVs that have the games on”¦or you can just come over and give me a pat. I won’t bite.

Stella shares a bakery with M Street Kitchen, another Lettuce Entertain You restaurant in the same structure, so there are after-dinner options. There’s only one dessert on the menu””a butterscotch pot de crème meets pudding with sea salt on top””and it’s worth it. But why stop there when you can order a cookie the size of your head with caramelized bacon bits on top? Or a scoop of house-made ice cream that’s almost equal in size?  We usually order all of the above, lick our plates clean and drive home with the worst stomach ache imaginable. And you know what? I’d do it all over again tomorrow!

On that particular Sunday, we were just getting ready to leave when I heard a shout from across Main Street that sounded like someone calling my name. I looked over and a dude was coming straight for me yelling, “That’s Bogie the Bulldog!!!”  I thought, geez, why so formal? Who is this dude? Should I call the police? Dad! Do something.

A moment later he was at our table going on and on about living in New York, visiting LA for the week, wanting to move here, following me on Instagram””the whole nine. I thought, well if he’s into ear rubs, I’m down. He was. My dad was beside himself with the irony of it all and my mom snapped a zillion photos while I got to know (and love) one of my fans.

It was a great meal, with great people on a great day.

Stay hungry my friends”¦