Anyone who lives near Beverly and Crescent Heights knows about Marvin. They might have even been once this week and are going back on Saturday. This is the Cheers of Beverly Grove with extra libido: a low-lit French-ish spot where people go to feel hot, drink Gamay while discussing Eve Babitz, and eat unfussy bistro food that’s less French and more French-adjacent. Hanging around for an hour after dessert is an inevitability. Much like a rushed postal worker, the menu at Marvin doesn’t worry about labels. It’s a pan-Euro grab bag with potato chips and jamon iberico, gougéres, a caesar salad, and a dish called Spaghetti Jean-Paul Belmondo. The steak frites come with ketchup. And guess what? No one cares. Because the food is fantastic, and exactly what you want to be eating while sipping a red you can’t pronounce and listening to a longtime crush talk about their crush. Gooey bar burgers were built for such moments. Aesthetically, Marvin falls along the lines of a college professor’s attic after a sabbatical in the Burgundy countryside. Rows of empty tin cans hang from the ceiling with twinkling Christmas lights. Old wooden tables and rickety chairs dot the dining room. It’d all be a bit twee, if it weren’t for the young, messy crowd of Raya dates and trash-talking roommates that turn this place into a West Coast Dimes Square nightly. We once saw a girl on the sidewalk put a cigarette out into her chicken parm—and still get it boxed up. Bring this energy to Marvin. And at least two pieces of hot gossip.