By Greg
It was my first day in Los Angeles, and things had already gone off-script. It was raining. Hard. My friend Justin, his sister Aliya, and I had spent the morning hunting for umbrellas—a sad scavenger hunt through a city that swears by the sun. I finally fished a half-broken magenta number out of a cardboard bin at the Culver City CVS. Locals swore this kind of weather only happened three times a year. At least we were part of something rare, something sacred, something wet.
By afternoon, we were wandering through a nearly deserted West Hollywood. We took shelter at The Abbey, the iconic gay bar, where I marveled at the design: a fusion of a chapel and a gay bordello. After settling at a high-top, we flirted with the idea of ordering lunch—until our New York instincts kicked in. Surely something better was just around the corner.
Instead, we shamefully guzzled watery cocktails at 2 p.m. The place was almost empty, save for a cozy group of bears warming themselves by the fireplace. We snapped a few photos with the Pink Pony Club horse, then sauntered down the block in hopes of ordering sliders at TomTom—the restaurant owned by the toxic bromance kings of the Bravosphere, Tom Sandoval and Tom Schwartz.
Aliya was the only one among us who actually watched Vanderpump Rules (VPR), but Justin and I had a working knowledge of the VPR multiverse. I listen to a podcast that recaps the antics of SURvers, Housewives, and beyond, spoon-feeding me gossip strong enough to pass a Bravo SAT. And honestly, it seems like everyone—from Lady Gaga to my therapist—knows what these people are up to. Sometimes it just feels good to be in on the chaos.
There’s something hypnotic about VPR: a sprawling soap opera where loyalty, betrayal, and restaurant openings are treated with the same Shakespearean gravity. Even without tuning in, there’s comfort in knowing the major beats—a scandal, a falling-out, a soft-launch doomed from the jump.
When we arrived at TomTom, a server with muscles straining against his shirt and a razor-trimmed mustache told us, “Sorry, dude—we open at five-thirty.” The devastating news, compounded by the two hours we’d already paid for street parking, sent us on a desperate quest down Melrose Avenue in search of food. Every place we passed had just closed or was only serving sad brown rice bowls from a mini fridge. Nothing inspired.
On our way back to the car, Justin sheepishly said, “Should we try... Something About Her?”
It was closing soon, but it felt like our best option. For those blissfully unaware, Something About Her is the sandwich shop from Vanderpump Rules cast members and besties Katie Maloney and Ariana Madix. We hauled ass through the drizzle to try and secure a sandwich.
Inside, an employee—her pout perfectly plumped, lined, and glossed—informed us that they were out of nearly everything and were only taking orders to go. It was almost 4 p.m., and in the interest of not spoiling dinner, Justin and I agreed to split something. As we scanned the menu—sandwiches named after actresses best known for kissing someone in the rain between 1990 and 2004—I noticed the shop’s mission statement. They weren’t just slinging $16 signature creations. Katie and Ariana wanted Something About Her to be a sanctuary, “where every corner exudes inspiration and every bite speaks of possibility.”
With our options limited, we selected THE KATE: burrata, tomato, red onion, balsamic onion marmalade, fresh basil, oregano, balsamic glaze, pesto aioli, salt, and pepper on a rustic ciabatta roll.
When it was Aliya’s turn, she looked at the menu like it had wronged her in a past life. She folded it up, handed it back, and said, “I’m good.”
While we waited, I looked around.
The space felt like a middle school PTA’s best attempt at recreating a “Parisian café” on a theater set—hastily thrown together the night before opening. French blue latticework ended abruptly at random intervals. Framed portraits looked like they’d been printed at Kinko’s and slapped into frames found in someone’s nana’s attic. Accent pillows seemed salvaged from a HomeGoods liquidation sale. It was shockingly small and overstuffed—for a space that claimed to be a sanctuary. I felt like I was inside an elevated BravoCon meet-and-greet booth or worse, a Nancy Meyers–themed escape room.
The only other patrons were a pair of women with tiny dogs in huge bags. They looked finished—only a few bites taken from their “romanticized sandwiches,” now pushed aside. Their long acrylic nails fluttered as they sipped from tall, canned beverages. Their mouths were moving, but I couldn’t hear a word, even with the Muzak turned off for closing. It felt like they were mouthing watermelon, watermelon, watermelon—silent extras on a set where no one had remembered to cast the leads. They seemed strategically placed: the perfect advertisement for a tinseltown establishment...but also a warning.
Something About Her felt like a tiny stage set for a fantasy that couldn’t hold its shape: a space designed, according to the menu, to project ambition, empowerment, and nostalgia, but already sagging under the weight of its artifice. Even though it was my first time in L.A., I could already see the city’s talent for entangling dreams with disappointment.
The questionable decor and limp energy made my heart sink like a half-assed soufflé. There was no way this sandwich was going to deliver, especially since it was the last order of the day. Resigned, I’d at least hoped for some scrap of the VPR world, a sighting of Katie’s mom bagging up day-old scones destined for the dumpster.
THE KATE was tossed from the back onto the counter, and we were sent on our way. With fifteen minutes left on the parking meter, we popped open the box and ate our sandwich in the car while the marine layer rain pounded the windshield.
To my surprise, the sandwich was fucking delicious. The onion marmalade sang. The glazes and aiolis were thoughtfully balanced. bread held its own. THE KATE was thick and stuffed with so much burrata that it squirted out the sides. I felt bad for ever doubting the girls. As we drove off, I turned toward SAH and gave them a salute.
Hours later, while getting ready for dinner at Aliya’s apartment, Justin turned to me, wincing.
“My stomach feels…icky.”
I froze. The denial I’d been quietly stifling bubbled to the surface. I’d been feeling it too—ominous pangs, strange churns, seismic groans—for the past 45 minutes.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, gripping his abdomen.
“I think... I think SAH fucked us,” I admitted.
Our brief romance with Bravo’s sandwich shop was unraveling the way most Bravo relationships do—glamorous at first, messy by the second act, humiliating by the end. Breaking up with THE KATE was going to be rough. Like everything in the Vanderpump realm, it only appeared amazing until it turned on you.
We took turns sprinting to Aliya’s guest bathroom—a space that quickly took on the intimacy and terror of a reunion couch. What followed was worthy of a season finale: doors slamming, expletives echoing off tile, and a bottle of Tums hurled across the room.
Something About Her had promised inspiration and possibility. What it delivered—like every Bravo saga, eventually—was betrayal.
At least now I finally knew what the something about her was:
Diarrhea.
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Wenjing Yang1. You can see more of her work here.
Wenjing Yang is a creative person based in Jersey City. She holds a bachelor’s degree from the School of Visual Arts and a master’s degree from the Maryland Institute College of Art. After her studies in Baltimore, she chose to return to the New York area, where she balances her time among drawing, reading, and hangin out with friends.
Her illustrations have received recognition in various mediums, including global advertising campaigns and influential media platforms. Notable clients include the New York Times, Meta, YouTube, Washington Post, Kiehl’s, Meow Wolf, Spotify, Wired UK, and Refinery 29.