If you haven’t been to Felix yet, let me just say: run, don’t walk—but first, grab your calendar because this hotspot is booked out way in advance. Yes, friends, you’ll need to plan your pasta carb-load like a military operation. But trust me, it’s worth every bite (and every week of anticipation).

Let’s start with the service. Our server, deserves her own Michelin star. Knowledgeable, warm, and the type of person who makes you feel like you’re not just eating dinner—you’re being personally guided through a Roman holiday. White-glove service in LA can sometimes feel like white-knuckle pretension, but not here. Our server nailed it.

Now, onto Felix itself. The name means “happy” or “lucky” in Latin, and frankly, you’ll be both when you’re sitting in this temple of pasta. Chef Evan Funke is a straight-up pasta wizard (20+ years of hand-rolling magic), and owner Janet Zuccarini knows how to curate restaurants that slap—in the best way.

Cocktails? They’re cheeky little works of art. I had the Bicycle Thief (gin + grapefruit + aperitivo = hello, gorgeous), and just the names alone—“Hey Nineteen” and “Haitian Divorce”—make you want to order one of everything just for the drama.

Food-wise, let’s just say I practically wept into the focaccia. The Sfincione came out fluffy, salty, olive-oily perfection, and I could have eaten a whole tray. Squash blossoms stuffed with ricotta? Gone in sixty seconds. The artichokes were so crispy and tangy they should come with a warning label. And the Insalata Primavera? That was basically spring on a plate—fresh, crunchy, cheesy, herby bliss.

But the pasta. Ohhh, the pasta. This is where Felix flexes hard. The Tonnarelli Cacio e Pepe was silky, peppery, cheesy heaven—like a hug from a Roman nonna. The Carbonara? A velvety, guanciale-studded dream that made me briefly consider ordering another round and skipping everything else. (Yes, it was that good.)

And then—because clearly we hadn’t reached peak gluttony—the American Wagyu rib eye cap arrived. Perfectly cooked, paired with fried potatoes that tasted like they’d been blessed by the potato gods themselves. Every bite was a victory lap.

By the end, we were so blissfully full we probably should’ve been rolled out on a dolly. Felix isn’t just dinner—it’s a full-on event. If there’s one place in LA that you should absolutely hustle to get a reservation for, this is it. Happy and lucky? More like deliriously stuffed and plotting your next visit.