JE
Jessica Everett
Jun 27, 2026
Okay so we’ve been coming here for a very long time and usually love it. Now, the past few times, the food has been mediocre at best and the service horrible. This time, the food was fine, nothing amazing. The service was impeccable. The issue I have, and the reason I’m leaving a review in the first place, is the fact that leaving the restaurant after paying over $300, we walk in to the parking garage that is flooded with sewage. You could smell it before leaving the restaurant. Walking into the parking garage, I was not expecting to see actual sewage coming up from the pipes in the ground. The staff was audibly gagging as they were trying to sweep it away. The issue is, we all had to step in SEWAGE, which then would be traced into our cars. Even worse, my father is in a wheelchair, so now the sewage is not only in the car, but will be traced throughout their house. They should have handled this better. There must be certain protocols in place when stuff like this happens, and it seemed like they had no idea what to do. What I find extremely disturbing and disgusting, is that the staff that were sweeping up the sewage in the garage, were then walking back into the restaurant and what looked like the kitchen!!! A health code violation? Surely. What was once a local favorite, is now a place I don’t think I will be able to return to, which is incredibly unfortunate.
RF
Robert Freeman
Jun 14, 2026
Where does one begin?
With Abby? The Harbor Master of this magnificent vessel — whose grace and warmth make every guest feel not merely welcomed but genuinely arrived. She possesses a quiet authority that cannot be taught, only earned — like the confidence of one who has long since learned to trust the tide.
With Horatio? Bartender extraordinaire, keeper of forgotten arts, one of the last of a noble and vanishing breed who can conjure a proper Rusty Nail as though the recipe were written in his very bones. He tends his bar like an ancient soul who has seen every port and remembers every pour — with mastery, with pride, and always, always with a story.
With Eric? Who reads the room the way an experienced navigator reads the stars — quietly, confidently, and always true. His eye misses nothing. His guests want for nothing. In his hands, a meal becomes a voyage.
With Laurie? Whose poise is the kind that stills a room without demanding it, whose attentiveness wraps around a table like a calm harbor on a restless night. She moves with the quiet grace of still water — unhurried, purposeful, and deeper than it first appears.
Or with Kristina? Effervescent as sea foam, gracious as the morning light on open water, whose smile arrives before she does and lingers long after she has gone. She is the kind of soul every great ship needs — a beacon, steady and warm, in any weather, on any sea.
Together, they do not merely staff the Chart House. They inhabit her. They are her crew, her compass, her light in the harbor — and any captain worth his salt would be proud to sail with them.
I grew up in Palos Verdes. My family has been sailing to this shore since she first opened her doors, and in all the years that have followed — through tides and seasons and the relentless passage of time. The world outside may have changed beyond recognition, but here, mercifully, gloriously, she has not.
There are places that are built, and there are places that simply are. There are restaurants, and then there are institutions. The Chart House is both — and neither.
She is of the sea. Her dark wood and nautical bones worn smooth by decades of salt air and candlelight, of anniversaries and first dates, and the particular alchemy that only the sea, at dusk, can bestow. Like the finest ships ever launched upon these waters, she simply is — magnificent, unapologetic, and entirely her own.
Within her walls she holds the echo of every meal ever shared beneath her roof, every birthday candle extinguished, every glass raised in joy, every glass raised to fallen comrades and lost loves. The sea understands every longing that words dare not speak. She holds all of it — deep in her bones, below the waterline, where the truest most precious cargo is always kept.
For us, that place has always been Table 10 — our family's own fixed star, our private corner of this magnificent vessel, where the horizon opens like a promise and the Pacific stretches away toward forever, and for a few precious hours, the world feels not merely bearable but beautiful.
If you are seeking not just a dining experience but a moment in time — an experience to savor slowly, to carry home carefully, to return to in memory on ordinary days when the world feels small and lonely and the horizon feels far — then simply let your compass guide you here.
Drop anchor. Step aboard. Raise a glass. Let the evening unfurl.
The Chart House awaits.