26th Street is the dividing line between Santa Monica (where I lived for four years) and Brentwood (where I hope I never live). The strip has a bunch of food, mostly the kind where I would bring my babies, but it has tried and failed to open restaurants that anyone would want to remember.

Amici seems to be that kind of place, according to Charlie, my lunch companion and media company CEO. "They remember your name and give you the same table." They also have a wine list, but this tea totaller couldn't tell you one thing about it.

The veal chop I had served it's purpose, but it didn't make me want to rush to drive the one hour it took me to get there. The room was a pleasantly, wide open, California type room, with big windows and a high ceiling, and I wouldn't hestitate to go again if I was in the neighborhood.