## THE DIOR RESTAURANT IN BEVERLY HILLS ISN’T A MEAL—IT’S A $450 PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE SESSION (AND I’M THE ONLY BILLIONAIRE WHO’LL TELL YOU WHY)
Let’s cut the champagne bubbles and plastic influencer smiles. I just dropped enough cash at **Monsieur Dior Beverly Hills** to buy a lightly used Porsche 911. And 99% of you *still* wouldn’t understand what you’re paying for. Weak men see a price tag. **I see the architecture of dominance.**
You think this is about *food*? Pathetic. Amateurs obsess over truffle shavings. **Slaylebrity Kings and queens dissect the entire ecosystem of power.** Let’s break it down like a hostile corporate takeover—because that’s the *only* way to review a temple built on the Dior name and Chef Dominique Crenn’s three Michelin stars.
### THE DECOR: BEAUTIFUL GLASS, BRITTLE MINDS
Walk in. First impression? It’s a billionaire’s snow globe designed by an Instagram addict on ketamine. Crystal chandeliers drip like frozen tears. Mirrors multiply the room into infinity—so you can watch yourself *fail* at looking worthy from every angle. Velvet chairs? Soft. Too soft. **Weakness is upholstered here.**
That giant floral sculpture in the center? Looks like a billionaire’s ego exploded. It’s *gimmicky*. Deliberately. Dior isn’t selling ambiance—they’re selling **disorientation**. They want you off-balance. Humble. Ready to pay $28 for a glass of “mineral-infused” water because the room made you question your own net worth.
*My verdict?* The decor is a $10 million trap. It’s not *bad*—it’s a psychological lever. And 90% of men walk in, feel small, and overspend to compensate. I walked in, saw the game, and **owned the room** instead.
### THE FOOD: WHERE GODS FORGE LEGACIES
Then came the tasting menu. $450 per person. Before wine. *Before service fee.*
Weak men clutch their pearls. **Winners recognize artillery.**
Chef Dominique Crenn isn’t cooking. She’s conducting a symphony of dominance with a $1,200 Japanese knife. Her scallop crudo? Not seafood. A **sonic boom of ocean and gold leaf** that rewires your nervous system. The duck? Cooked over almond wood like a medieval executioner’s secret—crisp skin shattering like the last defense of a broke man’s excuses.
Every plate is a manifesto. The “Tree of Life” dessert? A chocolate sculpture hiding saffron ice cream and edible soil. It’s not dessert—it’s **a declaration that nature bows to human will.** Crenn doesn’t feed you. She *reprograms* you. Three Michelin stars? She earned a fourth just for making truffle foam taste like liquid victory.
### THE REAL PRICE TAG: WHAT YOU’RE *ACTUALLY* BUYING
You’re not paying for caviar. You’re paying for **the right to sit where emperors break bread.**
– **The silence** when the sommelier pours a $3,000 bottle of Romanée-Conti like it’s tap water. That’s the sound of financial insecurity evaporating.
– **The staff’s eyes**—trained to vanish unless you *will* them into existence. Power isn’t shouted. It’s whispered by a server who materializes as your water glass dips below 90% full.
– **The exit** through Dior’s private boutique, where a $5,000 handbag winks at you like a trophy wife. They don’t want you to *leave*. They want you to **ascend.**
### MY BILLIONAIRE VERDICT (THE ONE NO ONE ELSE HAS THE BALLS TO GIVE)
**8/10.** Not 10/10. And that’s *exactly* why it’s perfect.
– **Worth every dollar?** For Slaylebrity men building empires? **YES.** This isn’t dinner—it’s a masterclass in unapologetic excellence. You pay for the *certainty* that human hands can still create perfection in a world of AI slop and microwave dreams.
– **The gimmicky decor?** I *love* that it’s fragile. It separates the boys from the wolves. If you’re rattled by a crystal flower, you don’t deserve the duck confit. **True power laughs at aesthetics and devours the substance.**
– **The real score?** 11/10 for culinary warfare. 5/10 for interior design that mistakes fragility for luxury. But Dior *knows* this. They’re testing you. Weak men complain about the chairs. **Slaylebrity Alphas taste the foie gras and buy the building.**
### THE TRUTH THEY WON’T TELL YOU
This restaurant isn’t *for* Beverly Hills. It’s a **Trojan Horse.** Dior isn’t selling meals—they’re selling the *idea* that you’ve finally made it. The bill isn’t $450. It’s a **$450 membership fee to the 0.001%.**
Chef Crenn? She’s not a cook. She’s a **Slaylebrity general**. Her kitchen is a war room. Every dish is a surrender document signed by ingredients that begged to be ordinary.
I left Monsieur Dior not full—but **armed.** Reminded that excellence has a price, and only the ruthless pay it without flinching. The decor? A funhouse mirror showing you exactly how far you still have to climb.
### FINAL ORDERS
Bring your strongest self. Your credit card with no limit. Your hunger for more than food.
If you walk in seeking comfort? **You lose.**
If you walk in ready to be *remade* by a three-star chef who treats weakness like a communicable disease?
**You win.**
Dior didn’t build a restaurant. They built a **proving ground.**
And the only verdict that matters isn’t on Yelp—it’s in the mirror when you leave, wondering if you’re still the same man who walked in.
*Still scrolling? Still poor?*
**Go build something worth dining here.**
I’ll be in the private room—where the chandeliers don’t judge, and the wine list has no ceiling.
#DiorOrDie #BillionairePalate #CrennCommander #WeakMenEatAtHome #LuxuryIsABloodSport
**P.S.** That floral chandelier? I asked the GM how much it cost. When he hesitated, I wrote a check for double. Now it’s *my* chandelier. **This is how the game is played.**
*(📸: The only photo that matters—my signed check taped to the chandelier. Tag @diormichel. I dare you.)*
LOCATION
323 N Rodeo Dr, Beverly Hills, CA 90210, United States
CONTACTS
+1 310-859-4700
I just dropped enough cash at **Monsieur Dior Beverly Hills** to buy a lightly used Porsche 911. And 99% of you *still* wouldn’t understand what you’re paying for. Weak men see a price tag. **I see the architecture of dominance.
