| May 27, 2014
“Shall we do English tea?” Lisa Vanderpump purrs, her long pink nails fiddling through the tea packets like a Rolodex on a sterling silver tray. In a single graceful motion, she pours the hot water over the tea bag, dunks the tea bag back into the kettle and tops it off with a generous pour of cold milk, handing me the steaming brew. She sits back with her own mug under PUMP’s overhead foliage (century-old olive trees shipped from Northern California) and smiles at me. “There!” she states. “You have my undivided attention.”
Scribbled on my notepad are some questions, but instead I take the moment to breathe in my surroundings. PUMP is unlike anything I’ve ever seen in LA, let alone West Hollywood. Adorning the outdoor bar are nearly a dozen golden chandeliers, wreathed with the busts of stags. Stone pieces of an old French bridge decorate the walls. Hanging off the branches of the trees are suspended glass orbs, pink petals carefully placed within each. Inside, the dining room is intimate and soft, with distinctly cozy tables that invite patrons to sit closer and play footsie.
To think, last year this space was a parking lot.
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