Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
On a relatively quiet corner of Ocean Avenue, tucked inside the Sonder hotel, Santa Monica’s Layla evokes the scents and sights of a souk. The restaurant, named for chef Chris Sayegh’s grandmother— the anchor from which many of these recipes draw inspiration— centers Jordanian fare on their extensive (yet concise) menu. The Jordanian roots in Sayegh’s dish allow for a complex melding of varied cultures and a globally influenced cuisine, much like the populace of the country itself. Though, don’t dare refer to the menu as fusion— Sayegh’s creation is uniquely, devoutly Jordanian. Dishes are deeply rooted in tradition, true to the style of Sayegh’s jiddeh (Arabic for grandmother), and nuanced by the head chef’s own gastronomic exploration (think: an aerated hummus featured in the shareable mezze, capturing a lightness that renders its weight hardly perceptible on the pita, while packing a flavor-punch to the palate that is unmistakably the rich, creamy dip— and the best you’ve ever had at that). Dishes are served family-style, prepared using French techniques meticulously honed through Sayegh’s fine dining education. The Wagyu and mushroom kebabs nod to the Middle Eastern staple with a (beef) cheeky wink to the gourmet.
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- Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
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- Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
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- Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
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- Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
Splendor surpasses the kitchen, as the rich beverage program seamlessly sews a journey to the deserts of Jordan. We imbibe the Mata Hari Milk Punch, pitched by our server as “exactly what I’d want to be wearing as I slipped between silk sheets in a feathered robe”. Much like the decor and the offerings, Layla’s staff makes you feel more welcome than if you were sitting at your own dining room table. They needn’t say more and I could not have put it more eloquently. If you’re having trouble assigning a taste to this sumptuous sensation, sidle up to the bar once you finish reading and discover for yourself. Nevermind the opulent presentation of each concoction (though, do mind it. The Layla cocktail program is specifically stunning in both flavor and form). Our second refreshment comes as a surprise and delight, a bubbling cherubic aperitif on the verge of glittering that appears as something I would have envisioned as a hyper-femme seven year old. To make matters more intriguing, the elegant flute is topped with an edible, sugared butterfly. This treasure is dubbed the French 95, a butterfly pea gin riff on the classic 75, topped with a balancing and zingy passion fruit foam. I’d be remiss to avoid mentioning the dessert, of which we inhaled two and could have taken down the entire menu. These particular standouts, though, included the sundae and the baklava, the former more tantalizing than any scoop I’d before encountered. Some magical mixture of cardamom, rose, and pistachio mingled on my tongue to create a sensation nearly indescribable within my vocabulary, but can best be described as the most intoxicating perfume, in the most complimentary way. Delicacies of the region converge in one tulip shaped, soda-fountain-style glass to envelop customers in the essence of the east.
A secret supper club is often what Layla’s dining room can feel like— like you’re privy to this irreplaceable, word-of-mouth experience in a prime seat of hospitality, in which someone has opened their home, their kitchen, and their heart to you. So, it’s no coincidence that Layla was conceptualized as a result of a chance encounter at one of Sayegh’s own Secret Supper Club pop-ups, attended by Spencer Kushner of Boulevard Hospitality, the group behind Yamashiro. One spoonful of Sayegh’s cooking in collaboration with his grandmother, and Kushner knew the
duo had birthed another icon in the making.
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- Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
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- Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
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- Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
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- Photographed by Joseph Duarte/ Courtesy Layla
Another tale entirely is the care that has been taken in curating the interiors and serving-ware of the space. Ceramic, adorned hands gently caress rounds of bread atop a golden platter, littered with every accoutrement available, offered in pastel, multicolored mini-bowls. Nearly every seat in the house is a window seat, and if it’s not, it’s a mirror seat allowing you to gaze through the looking glass at the ocean lapping over your shoulder. We watch the new spring sun set over the Santa Monica Pier on a peculiarly windy evening. As the last whisper of pale daylight slips beneath the horizon, no sooner is a candlestick flanked by a golden reflective plate lit tableside, commencing a fanciful light show of ancient proportions, refractions of flame dancing across the recessed clay walls. The entire room is alight with romantic buzz, emanating from the love pouring from the kitchen.
Tonight, as I write this, my couch is a far cry from the sumptuous settees of Layla’s hallowed halls, and I find myself dreaming of Sayegh’s local-sourced Wurrung Dawali to the point of distraction. I open Doordash, order the Walmart version (hardly farm fresh, definitely lacking the flair of a native Jordanian spice blend, and no one will be theatrically turning the leaves table-side for me prior to serving) of these inimitable grape leaves, if just to satisfy my craving enough to finish writing. Before I can dot the final ‘i’ of my piece, I have booked the next available table at Layla.
