PlumpJack Cafe and Bar

Let’s get one thing straight, Squaw / Palisades Village isn’t where you go to find grit. It’s where dogs wear shoes and everyone’s name sounds like a skincare line. So when someone tells you there’s a place here with soul, you assume it’s just a well-branded kombucha pop-up. But then you find PlumpJack. A diamond in the organic, overpriced rough. A place that somehow escaped the Pinterestification of everything. The first thing you notice? Metal décor that wraps around the place like a hug from a cold but well dressed robot. There’s this suspended fireplace, just hovering there, Jetsons-style. It doesn’t warm you with flames as much as with hope. Hope that someone, somewhere, still cares about ambiance and the future at the same time. I sat at the bar, which felt less like a restaurant and more like a friend’s living room, if your friend was a retired rockstar who now only drinks mezcal and reads Murakami. I was handed a complimentary shot, not for any occasion, but just because the staff clearly looked at me and said, “Yeah, this guy’s been through something.” I had. Traffic mostly. But still. Then came the charcuterie board, which wasn’t just good, it was religious. Meats, cheeses, and accoutrements laid out like a spread at a Roman emperor’s hangover brunch. It whispered, “Forget your past. This is your life now.” And then that homemade sourdough. My god. It had trauma. The kind of chew that tells a story. You bite it and suddenly you're seven years old again, standing in a kitchen you’ve never been in, but somehow remember. Bread like that should be illegal in three states. The main dish? Some kind of sea bass, I think. But at this point, names didn’t matter. It was buttery, flaky, perfectly crisped on the outside, and spiritual on the inside. Like it had once been to therapy and came back better for it. It sat on a pile of couscous so buttery, I considered calling my ex just to say I’ve moved on. And then the Banan Moretto Sour. I don’t know who invented this drink, but I owe them money. I took one sip and my mouth went on vacation. It was like sipping dessert in a tropical country where shoes are optional and regrets are taxed. The outdoor patio? Gorgeous. Shaded, serene, and suspiciously free of leaf blowers. Inside looked like a Nordic design showroom decided to retire in wine country. Tasteful, soft light, and not a single Edison bulb in sight. Miracles happen. The staff? Angels. Not the fake-smile kind. The kind that genuinely care if you’re having a good time, but would also know how to hide a body if it came to that. PlumpJack doesn’t belong in Palisades and that’s why it’s perfect. It’s not just a restaurant. It’s a reminder that you can still be surprised. That somewhere in the algorithmic, influencer choked chaos of L.A., someone is still quietly making art.