When I was eight, my culinary preferences stretched only as far as the Sherman Oaks Koo Koo Roo, a long-defunct rotisserie chicken chain that served the best Caesar salad in the world—or at least in the Valley. My parents, though, yearned for variety and implemented what my dad dubbed “The Palette Expansion Program.” Its terms were simple: Blindfolded with a backwards hoodie, my twin brother and I would spin around in front of a wall-hanging world map, dizzily plopping one finger on a region with a cuisine that—it was agreed—we would try.
That was how I discovered Trader Vic’s, a tiki bar and South Pacific Island–themed eatery at the Beverly Hills Hilton. Trader Vic’s was far from real Polynesian food, and it trafficked in stereotypes (the totem carving out front, for starters) that betrayed what it actually was: a tacky chain restaurant. Still, I fell in love. In love with the crab rangoon on the “pupu platter” and nonalcoholic mai tais (Trader Vic’s claims to have invented both) and with the rattan dining room décor and faux thatched roof.
Trader Vic’s opened in …