Why I’m Breaking Up With Hillstone

Welcome to Cooked, a brand-new column where we’ve enlisted J Lee to assess the state of dining in New York City and beyond. A longtime connoisseur of all things food and bev, Lee has worked in the industry for almost two decades, and joins Interview as our newly minted food editor. In this first installment, he reevaluates Hillstone, the much-mythologized chain of restaurants he once loved. 

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What becomes of dining as the world turns to shit? When everything feels fraught, we collapse inward. We crave comfort, nostalgia. Pathetic. What do we eat in these times of ours? Where do we go when the world is too manic—when there are too many pixies and not enough dream girls? Overwhelmingly, the answer is Hillstone. Hillstone. Hillstone. Hillstone.

Much has been said and written about Hillstone. I’d long heard love stories from friends in L.A., where it’s called Hillstone in Santa Monica, Houston’s in Pasadena, and Honor Bar in Beverly Hills. One restaurant with many names; L.A. is a weird place. When I’d visit, I was too busy eating at Sqirl to entertain the idea of dining at a weird chain restaurant that serves sushi and burgers and baby back ribs. Hillstone has been called “America’s Favorite Restaurant” and “Business Casual Applebees,” but until last year I’d never eaten at one.

I ate at Hillstone on October 16th 2024. It was a revelation. I felt like I’d discovered a part of myself that I’d long been missing. There was an immediate ease and comfort—I knew exactly where I was, and where I wanted to be. I was at Hillstone, and I didn’t want to be anywhere else. Two-and-a-half ice cold martinis, a sushi roll that tastes like candy (in the best way), a french dip sent from heaven, and a chopped salad that’s my own personal Proust’s madeleine. I was obsessed, hooked, addicted.  I called it the Best New Restaurant of 2024.

But the clock has stopped at Hillstone. It never changes. There’s no need to make America great again. At Hillstone, America is great. It always has been and always will be. Your martini is strong and cold, it always has been and always will be. This is Reagan’s America. The sun is shining and you own a brand New Buick. Someday you’ll die of lung cancer.

In moments of indecision, I crave Hillstone. When I don’t know what I want, I want Hillstone. Rather than think, negotiate, or use my brain, I choose Hillstone. Hillstone is not a choice, it’s not even a place, really—it’s a state of mind. It’s a world without anxiety. A world without hats. It’s a world without sweatpants or team sportswear, as dictated by their dress code.  There are no wrong answers here (“hat” is a wrong answer), just sweet breads (brioche, not the glands), sweet salads, and sweet sushi. Fries that hardly contain any potato at all; simply a bit of starch, some oil, and the dream of what a french fry could be. A burger as defined by Merriam Webster’s dictionary. They have everything you want and nothing more.

But I want more. I want to dream bigger. I live in New York City because I want to experience the world, I want to experience CULTURE. I want to sit up straight. I will not go softly into that good night. Don’t let me disappear into the sunken place. The perverse malaise of eating a burger and sushi at the same damn time, simply because you can. Hillstone is depression. 

I want my desires to be novel, my kinks without shame. I want to walk my cat outside on a leash. I want my palate to stay sharp and my brain to stay wrinkly. Hillstone is smooth brain food. Everytime you order a french dip on that perfectly soft and shiny roll with a cup of horseradish cream on the side, your brain loses a wrinkle. Every time you order an Asian chicken salad, a child somewhere in Asia dies. 4.8 billion people live in Asia. Think about that. I am (bl)asian. 

Hillstone represents excellence in mediocrity. I do not aspire to mediocrity. It’s America’s culture-less upper middle class personified. It feels like the kind of food they serve in prison for white collar criminals, the kind of prisons where they have tennis courts. No more. We have nothing to lose but our chains, and baby back ribs. We’ll always have Chili’s. 

There’s a darkness to Hillstone that once you notice, you can’t unsee. Why are they afraid to show us how many calories are in their off menu (or lunchtime) chicken sandwich? Why is Tillman Fertita, the owner of Hillstone, Trump’s pick for ambassador to Italy? Why did the Houston Rockets fire Daryl Morey? 

At Hillstone there’s a large self portrait by Chuck Close. Remember when he sexually harassed Julia Fox? And then he died. On the other side of the room is a painting (maybe it’s an oil pastel, I can’t remember) of a tree by Lena Dunham’s dad, most well known for painting penises and vaginas. With that knowledge the tree starts to look a bit different—it’s trunk becomes a trigger. This is what you’re forced to stare at as you eat your artichoke dip served with only five very thin tortilla chips. 

The Prophet Pizza recently proposed that there are two types of New Yorkers. Hillstone New Yorkers and Le Veau d’Or New Yorkers. And that if you think you are both, unfortunately, hate to break it to ya, you’re a Hillstone New Yorker. I’m here to say that I’m not a Hillstone New Yorker and as much as I adore Le Veau, I think I’m a different kind of New Yorker. I’m a Yi Ji Shi Mo New Yorker. I’m a Noodle Pudding New Yorker. I’m a Delancy McDonald’s New Yorker. I want the world to be a better place, I want to be a better man. To be better you must be open to change. Hillstone will never change.