I've been talking about it since I first moved to L.A., but I finally got to experience the Madonna Inn for myself. Checking in felt similar to how I envision entering the gates of heaven. The upper echelon of rich white trash with so many elements to drink in—I'd reached nirvana.
I love matching in any form. I packed my pink pants specifically for this moment. The baby pink room robe matched that matched the drapes really took me to another place (or maybe that was the weed we bought in Portland?).
If you want the grandeur of the pink tufted dining booths you have to dine at the steakhouse. I use the term dine loosely as the food was almost inedible. We ordered chicken pesto and a steak salad—wish we never did that. I always say, if you can't cook just distract people with a bomb table setting—the Madonna Inn steakhouse did just that, and I'm not even mad. In retrospect, if the food had in fact been amazing, there's a slight possibility I'd have had a heart attack.