**LA MONIQUE ISN’T JUST A RESTAURANT—IT’S A BILLIONAIRE’S LOVE LETTER TO POWER, PLEASURE, AND UNAPOLOGETIC GLAMOUR**
*And if you haven’t been, you’re still eating like a peasant.*
Let’s cut through the noise.
Los Angeles is drowning in “vibes.”
Fake luxury. Instagrammable trash. Overpriced avocado toast served on reclaimed wood by a guy named River who thinks “fine dining” means lighting a candle.
But then—**La Monique** drops like a diamond-plated grenade in the middle of Santa Monica.
This isn’t just another spot to flex your credit card.
This is where **real Slaylebrity wealth** comes to breathe, sip, and savor—without apology.
Designed by **Martin Brudnizki**—the same visionary who turned London and New York into velvet-draped playgrounds for the elite—La Monique doesn’t *ask* for your attention.
It **commands** it.
Step inside, and you’re not in LA anymore.
You’re in a **Hollywood Regency dream**—where mirrors gleam like liquid gold, banquettes whisper secrets, and every corner is lit like a scene from a film where the lead character owns three private islands and never checks a price tag.
This is **billionaire glamor**, not billionaire cosplay.
And the food?
Forget “food.” This is **edible art**—crafted by **Chef David Frichaud**, a man who treats flavor like a weapon and presentation like a crown.
I ordered the **escargot**.
Not because I needed to.
Because **Slaylebrity winners test the foundation**.
And let me tell you—this wasn’t your grandfather’s garlic-butter snail bath.
This was **escargot reborn**: glistening, precise, decadent without being loud. Served in a dish so elegant it looked like it belonged in a Versailles side chamber… if Versailles had a private jet hangar.
Every bite was a **statement**:
*“I don’t chase trends. I set them.”*
The cocktails?
They don’t just mix spirits—they **orchestrate moods**.
One sip, and you’re not just drinking—you’re **curating your aura**.
Dessert?
Imagine if Marie Antoinette had a secret lovechild with a Michelin-starred pastry chef who moonlights as a Bond villain.
That’s the energy.
La Monique isn’t trying to be “cool.”
It doesn’t need TikTok virality or influencer table-hopping.
It exists **above** that noise—quiet, confident, devastatingly refined.
This is the kind of place where **power couples** lean in over candlelight and close billion-dollar deals between bites of duck confit.
Where women who own boardrooms—and private art collections—sip Bordeaux like it’s oxygen.
And that’s the real flex:
**La Monique doesn’t perform luxury. It *is* luxury.**
Most people will scroll past this post and keep booking their “rooftop sunset views” with plastic chairs and $28 margaritas.
But the **top 0.1%**?
They’ll already have their reservation locked in—under a name you’ll never see on OpenTable.
Because real exclusivity isn’t shouted.
It’s **whispered behind velvet curtains**, over truffle-laced risotto, while the Pacific hums in the distance like a loyal servant.
So ask yourself:
Are you dining…
or are you **declaring**?
If you’re still eating anywhere else in LA, you’re not living—you’re **rehearsing**.
**La Monique isn’t a restaurant.**
**It’s the standard.**
And standards?
They’re not for everyone.
—
*#LaMoniqueLA #BillionaireGlamour #EatLikeYouOwnTheCity #HollywoodRegencyReborn #EscargotAsPowerMove #LosAngelesElite #DineBeyondTheFeed*
P.S. If your date night doesn’t feel like a scene from a life you’ve already won… you’re doing it wrong.
LOCATION
Restaurant Inside Oceana, 849 Ocean Ave, Santa Monica, CA 90403, United States
CONTACTS
+1 310-656-6000
But then—**La Monique** drops like a diamond-plated grenade in the middle of Santa Monica.
This isn’t just another spot to flex your credit card. This is where **real Slaylebrity wealth** comes to breathe, sip, and savor—without apology.
Designed by **Martin Brudnizki**—the same visionary who turned London and New York into velvet-draped playgrounds for the elite—La Monique doesn’t *ask* for your attention. It **commands** it.
Step inside, and you’re not in LA anymore. You’re in a **Hollywood Regency dream**—where mirrors gleam like liquid gold, banquettes whisper secrets, and every corner is lit like a scene from a film where the lead character owns three private islands and never checks a price tag.
This is **billionaire glamor**, not billionaire cosplay. And the food? Forget food. This is **edible art**—crafted by **Chef David Frichaud**, a man who treats flavor like a weapon and presentation like a crown.
P.S. If your date night doesn’t feel like a scene from a life you’ve already won… you’re doing it wrong.
