Dunsmoor, located in Eagle Rock—a neighborhood that sits just far enough outside the glitz and glam of Hollywood to feel like a deliberate choice rather than an accident—is the kind of place that makes you wonder why anyone bothers with glitz and glam in the first place. It’s a hidden gem, though “hidden” feels like the wrong word, because gems, by definition, are supposed to sparkle, and Dunsmoor doesn’t sparkle so much as it smolders. Literally. Their claim to fame is their wood-fired oven and stove, a hulking, primal thing that seems less like kitchen equipment and more like a character in the story of your meal. Every dish is cooked using this method, which imbues the food with a kind of smoky, elemental flavor that feels both ancient and entirely new.
The vibe here is Southern hospitality meets California casual, though that description doesn’t quite capture the warmth that seems to emanate from every corner of the place—from the wood fire itself, yes, but also from the communal tables that line the restaurant, the kind of tables that make you feel like you’re part of something bigger, even if that something is just a group of strangers eating really good food. You can see the chefs, experts in the art of fire-tending, moving with the kind of precision that suggests they’ve spent years learning how to coax the perfect flavor out of a lump of coal. The wait staff, meanwhile, are attentive without being overbearing, the kind of people who can recommend the best bottle of wine off an extensive list without making you feel like a philistine for not knowing the difference between a Syrah and a Shiraz.
The menu—or “bill of fare,” as they call it, a phrase that feels both quaint and oddly fitting—changes daily based on what’s seasonal, which is the kind of thing that sounds pretentious until you taste the food and realize it’s just common sense. There are staples, of course, dishes that don’t change, but even these feel alive in a way that makes you wonder if “staple” is just another word for “perfect.”
Menu and wine list
The best starter on the list—and by “best,” I mean the kind of dish that haunts you, the kind you find yourself thinking about at 2 a.m. while staring at the ceiling, wondering if it’s socially acceptable to drive across town just for a bite—is the baby albacore. This isn’t hyperbole; this fish is so good it feels like a personal affront to every other piece of seafood you’ve ever eaten. The albacore, tender and almost buttery, is kissed by the hot coals just long enough to char the outside the slightest amount, a process that imbues it with a subtle smokiness without sacrificing its delicate texture. On top of this already perfect canvas are crispy shallots, which provide a contrast of texture so satisfying it feels like a revelation, the kind of thing that makes you wonder why all food isn’t topped with crispy shallots.
Then there’s the arugula and watercress salad, the greens are light and fresh, the anchovy vinaigrette is lightly acidic, with just enough umami to make you forget that you’re eating something that’s technically good for you. It’s the kind of salad that makes you want to order another salad, which is a sentence I never thought I’d write.
The mains. Let’s start with the mushroom-crusted pork chop, because honestly, where else could we start? This isn’t just a dish; it’s an event, a culinary mic drop that might very well be the most delectable thing I’ve ever eaten. The mushroom crust is pure umami, a savory depth that feels like it’s been distilled from some higher plane of existence. A squeeze of fresh lemon brightens it up, cutting through the richness in a way that feels both necessary and miraculous. I had to physically restrain myself from ordering another one to go, not because I was still hungry, but because the idea of not having access to this pork chop at midnight felt like a personal failure. Served with a candle because what's a better way to celebrate than with a pork chop?
Then there’s Aunt Emmy’s Port & Green Chili Stew. I don’t know who Aunt Emmy is, but after tasting this, I wish I did. I want to be invited to her house on weekends, where I imagine she serves this stew in a big, steaming pot while dispensing life advice in a way that feels both comforting and vaguely intimidating. The stew itself is a masterpiece: chunky, tender pork swimming in a spicy broth, topped with melted cheddar and served with fresh handmade flour tortillas. It’s the ultimate comfort food.
Finally, the Pennsylvania Dutch Slippery Dumplings, which is a funny name for what is essentially chicken and dumplings, but also so much more. Served with beets and pickled eggs, it’s the kind of dish that gives you pause when you see it on the menu. You might think twice before ordering it, but let me stop you right there: don’t. Just don’t. It’s incredible. The dumplings are soft and pillowy, the chicken tender, and the beets and pickled eggs add a tangy, earthy complexity that ties the whole thing together.
Dunsmoor isn’t just a meal; it’s an experience, one that feels both deeply familiar and utterly revelatory. The restaurant, with its wood-fired heart and communal soul, exists in a space that feels timeless, as if it’s always been there, quietly smoldering in the background of Eagle Rock. he menu, ever-shifting yet anchored by a few steadfast staples, reflects a philosophy that’s both deeply rooted and wildly inventive. It’s food that feels honest, unpretentious, and yet somehow transcendent, as if each dish is trying to tell you something about where it came from and where it’s going. Dining here isn’t just about eating; it’s about connection—to the food, to the people around you, and to something bigger, something you can’t quite name but can feel in the crackle of the fire and the glow of the room.
And here’s a tip worth noting: stop by the speakeasy next door, The Grant, for a pre- or post-prandial drink. With its craft cocktails, beer and wine on tap, and a relaxed, intimate vibe, it’s the perfect way to either set the mood for your meal or cap off the night. Think of it as the unofficial second act to the Dunsmoor experience—a place where the evening can linger just a little longer.
