Altadena restaurants Betsy and Miya bring comfort to a recovering community

Neighborhood customers are drawn to Betsy’s string lights and cozy dining room.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Park along Betsy’s block on a dark winter night, walk past the sobering charred brick shell that housed Altadena Hardware for decades and look for the restaurant’s inviting string of lights hung over the entrance. Inside, light from shaded lamps and sconces glows amber-soft. Knotty patterns ripple through the wood paneling like images of sound waves. The playlist is classic soul and ’90s hip-hop, with a few discos tunes thrown in early evening. Tables fill nightly. The din registers as cheering, not deafening.

Betsy’s emphasis on coziness feels almost prescient — as if knowing how imperative an enveloping, intimate atmosphere would be needed — given that the place opened only a month before the Eaton fire. It was called Bernee at first, started by the team of Tyler Wells and Ashley Bernee, then married, who also ran All Time in Los Feliz. The couple split last year. Ashley took over All Time. The Altadena space suffered minimal damage, and after months of introspection and urging from his employees, Tyler rechristened the place as Betsy in August.

Chef-owner Tyler Wells reopened his restaurant as Betsy in August last year.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Tyler is an upbeat, engaged presence, a blur of motion in a bow tie or snappy hat, delivering plates or uncorking bottles of wine. Executive chef Paul Downer, who previously held the same title at All Time, stands at the center edge of the open kitchen framed by the hearth. Cooks jostle blazing logs and tend to cast-iron pots set on tiered grates. It’s hard not to pause at this sight, noticing the layers of ash beneath the grating and the blackened tiles behind the hearth, without thoughts flashing to the subject of humans and fires.

Regulars of All Time will recognize the succinct, broadly Californian-Italian tenor of the menu: sharply-dressed, cheese-boosted salads with lettuces and seasonal produce from local farms; entrees that include usually at least one pasta or plate of fish but lean into handsome hunks of meat with well-seasoned sides.

Ricotta gnocchi takes after the Parisian model, finished in a pan until each piece has a deep-brown oval sear, arriving simply sauced in lemon and fragrant black pepper under a blanket of Parmesan. A massive pork chop, roughly in the shape of Australia, lands smoky and sliced and surrounded by market inspirations: succotash in the warmer months, roasted squashes and heartier greens in January. A tomahawk steak rings in at $185, served with chimichurri and a Worcestershire-powered steak sauce, and it could easily be the meal’s centerpiece for four people. A side of potatoes, roasted in beef tallow, crackle and yield in elementally satisfying ways.

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon, black pepper and parmesan at Betsy.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

I admire the subtle twists of inspiration here and there. For cheeseheads like me, so bored with the repetitive appearance of standards like Humboldt Fog, it’s fun for a daily-changing cheese plate to present a ripe slice of Linedeline, a goat’s-milk beauty made in Wisconsin with a thin mottled rind and a wobbly cream line that nicely contrasts the pleasantly chalky center. A special of Rancho Gordo fava beans, paired with buttery Chanterelle mushrooms, was earthy sustenance ideally suited to chase away the chill of recent rainy evenings.

“Yeah, we’re a band of trauma survivors here,” says server Courtney Johnson, who also curates the wine list, as she opens a bottle of full-bodied white from the Savoie while conversing. Johnson grew up two blocks from Betsy and was also forced to relocate after the fire. She doesn’t say the words with bitterness. Like this whole operation, she’s conveying realism, and chosen purpose, and possibility.

Neighborhood customers are drawn to Betsy’s string lights and cozy dining room.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Park along Betsy’s block on a dark winter night, walk past the sobering charred brick shell that housed Altadena Hardware for decades and look for the restaurant’s inviting string of lights hung over the entrance. Inside, light from shaded lamps and sconces glows amber-soft. Knotty patterns ripple through the wood paneling like images of sound waves. The playlist is classic soul and ’90s hip-hop, with a few discos tunes thrown in early evening. Tables fill nightly. The din registers as cheering, not deafening.

Betsy’s emphasis on coziness feels almost prescient — as if knowing how imperative an enveloping, intimate atmosphere would be needed — given that the place opened only a month before the Eaton fire. It was called Bernee at first, started by the team of Tyler Wells and Ashley Bernee, then married, who also ran All Time in Los Feliz. The couple split last year. Ashley took over All Time. The Altadena space suffered minimal damage, and after months of introspection and urging from his employees, Tyler rechristened the place as Betsy in August.

Chef-owner Tyler Wells reopened his restaurant as Betsy in August last year.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Tyler is an upbeat, engaged presence, a blur of motion in a bow tie or snappy hat, delivering plates or uncorking bottles of wine. Executive chef Paul Downer, who previously held the same title at All Time, stands at the center edge of the open kitchen framed by the hearth. Cooks jostle blazing logs and tend to cast-iron pots set on tiered grates. It’s hard not to pause at this sight, noticing the layers of ash beneath the grating and the blackened tiles behind the hearth, without thoughts flashing to the subject of humans and fires.

Regulars of All Time will recognize the succinct, broadly Californian-Italian tenor of the menu: sharply-dressed, cheese-boosted salads with lettuces and seasonal produce from local farms; entrees that include usually at least one pasta or plate of fish but lean into handsome hunks of meat with well-seasoned sides.

Ricotta gnocchi takes after the Parisian model, finished in a pan until each piece has a deep-brown oval sear, arriving simply sauced in lemon and fragrant black pepper under a blanket of Parmesan. A massive pork chop, roughly in the shape of Australia, lands smoky and sliced and surrounded by market inspirations: succotash in the warmer months, roasted squashes and heartier greens in January. A tomahawk steak rings in at $185, served with chimichurri and a Worcestershire-powered steak sauce, and it could easily be the meal’s centerpiece for four people. A side of potatoes, roasted in beef tallow, crackle and yield in elementally satisfying ways.

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon, black pepper and parmesan at Betsy.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

I admire the subtle twists of inspiration here and there. For cheeseheads like me, so bored with the repetitive appearance of standards like Humboldt Fog, it’s fun for a daily-changing cheese plate to present a ripe slice of Linedeline, a goat’s-milk beauty made in Wisconsin with a thin mottled rind and a wobbly cream line that nicely contrasts the pleasantly chalky center. A special of Rancho Gordo fava beans, paired with buttery Chanterelle mushrooms, was earthy sustenance ideally suited to chase away the chill of recent rainy evenings.

“Yeah, we’re a band of trauma survivors here,” says server Courtney Johnson, who also curates the wine list, as she opens a bottle of full-bodied white from the Savoie while conversing. Johnson grew up two blocks from Betsy and was also forced to relocate after the fire. She doesn’t say the words with bitterness. Like this whole operation, she’s conveying realism, and chosen purpose, and possibility.

Neighborhood customers are drawn to Betsy’s string lights and cozy dining room.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Park along Betsy’s block on a dark winter night, walk past the sobering charred brick shell that housed Altadena Hardware for decades and look for the restaurant’s inviting string of lights hung over the entrance. Inside, light from shaded lamps and sconces glows amber-soft. Knotty patterns ripple through the wood paneling like images of sound waves. The playlist is classic soul and ’90s hip-hop, with a few discos tunes thrown in early evening. Tables fill nightly. The din registers as cheering, not deafening.

Betsy’s emphasis on coziness feels almost prescient — as if knowing how imperative an enveloping, intimate atmosphere would be needed — given that the place opened only a month before the Eaton fire. It was called Bernee at first, started by the team of Tyler Wells and Ashley Bernee, then married, who also ran All Time in Los Feliz. The couple split last year. Ashley took over All Time. The Altadena space suffered minimal damage, and after months of introspection and urging from his employees, Tyler rechristened the place as Betsy in August.

Chef-owner Tyler Wells reopened his restaurant as Betsy in August last year.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Tyler is an upbeat, engaged presence, a blur of motion in a bow tie or snappy hat, delivering plates or uncorking bottles of wine. Executive chef Paul Downer, who previously held the same title at All Time, stands at the center edge of the open kitchen framed by the hearth. Cooks jostle blazing logs and tend to cast-iron pots set on tiered grates. It’s hard not to pause at this sight, noticing the layers of ash beneath the grating and the blackened tiles behind the hearth, without thoughts flashing to the subject of humans and fires.

Regulars of All Time will recognize the succinct, broadly Californian-Italian tenor of the menu: sharply-dressed, cheese-boosted salads with lettuces and seasonal produce from local farms; entrees that include usually at least one pasta or plate of fish but lean into handsome hunks of meat with well-seasoned sides.

Ricotta gnocchi takes after the Parisian model, finished in a pan until each piece has a deep-brown oval sear, arriving simply sauced in lemon and fragrant black pepper under a blanket of Parmesan. A massive pork chop, roughly in the shape of Australia, lands smoky and sliced and surrounded by market inspirations: succotash in the warmer months, roasted squashes and heartier greens in January. A tomahawk steak rings in at $185, served with chimichurri and a Worcestershire-powered steak sauce, and it could easily be the meal’s centerpiece for four people. A side of potatoes, roasted in beef tallow, crackle and yield in elementally satisfying ways.

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon, black pepper and parmesan at Betsy.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

I admire the subtle twists of inspiration here and there. For cheeseheads like me, so bored with the repetitive appearance of standards like Humboldt Fog, it’s fun for a daily-changing cheese plate to present a ripe slice of Linedeline, a goat’s-milk beauty made in Wisconsin with a thin mottled rind and a wobbly cream line that nicely contrasts the pleasantly chalky center. A special of Rancho Gordo fava beans, paired with buttery Chanterelle mushrooms, was earthy sustenance ideally suited to chase away the chill of recent rainy evenings.

“Yeah, we’re a band of trauma survivors here,” says server Courtney Johnson, who also curates the wine list, as she opens a bottle of full-bodied white from the Savoie while conversing. Johnson grew up two blocks from Betsy and was also forced to relocate after the fire. She doesn’t say the words with bitterness. Like this whole operation, she’s conveying realism, and chosen purpose, and possibility.

Neighborhood customers are drawn to Betsy’s string lights and cozy dining room.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Park along Betsy’s block on a dark winter night, walk past the sobering charred brick shell that housed Altadena Hardware for decades and look for the restaurant’s inviting string of lights hung over the entrance. Inside, light from shaded lamps and sconces glows amber-soft. Knotty patterns ripple through the wood paneling like images of sound waves. The playlist is classic soul and ’90s hip-hop, with a few discos tunes thrown in early evening. Tables fill nightly. The din registers as cheering, not deafening.

Betsy’s emphasis on coziness feels almost prescient — as if knowing how imperative an enveloping, intimate atmosphere would be needed — given that the place opened only a month before the Eaton fire. It was called Bernee at first, started by the team of Tyler Wells and Ashley Bernee, then married, who also ran All Time in Los Feliz. The couple split last year. Ashley took over All Time. The Altadena space suffered minimal damage, and after months of introspection and urging from his employees, Tyler rechristened the place as Betsy in August.

Chef-owner Tyler Wells reopened his restaurant as Betsy in August last year.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Tyler is an upbeat, engaged presence, a blur of motion in a bow tie or snappy hat, delivering plates or uncorking bottles of wine. Executive chef Paul Downer, who previously held the same title at All Time, stands at the center edge of the open kitchen framed by the hearth. Cooks jostle blazing logs and tend to cast-iron pots set on tiered grates. It’s hard not to pause at this sight, noticing the layers of ash beneath the grating and the blackened tiles behind the hearth, without thoughts flashing to the subject of humans and fires.

Regulars of All Time will recognize the succinct, broadly Californian-Italian tenor of the menu: sharply-dressed, cheese-boosted salads with lettuces and seasonal produce from local farms; entrees that include usually at least one pasta or plate of fish but lean into handsome hunks of meat with well-seasoned sides.

Ricotta gnocchi takes after the Parisian model, finished in a pan until each piece has a deep-brown oval sear, arriving simply sauced in lemon and fragrant black pepper under a blanket of Parmesan. A massive pork chop, roughly in the shape of Australia, lands smoky and sliced and surrounded by market inspirations: succotash in the warmer months, roasted squashes and heartier greens in January. A tomahawk steak rings in at $185, served with chimichurri and a Worcestershire-powered steak sauce, and it could easily be the meal’s centerpiece for four people. A side of potatoes, roasted in beef tallow, crackle and yield in elementally satisfying ways.

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon, black pepper and parmesan at Betsy.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

I admire the subtle twists of inspiration here and there. For cheeseheads like me, so bored with the repetitive appearance of standards like Humboldt Fog, it’s fun for a daily-changing cheese plate to present a ripe slice of Linedeline, a goat’s-milk beauty made in Wisconsin with a thin mottled rind and a wobbly cream line that nicely contrasts the pleasantly chalky center. A special of Rancho Gordo fava beans, paired with buttery Chanterelle mushrooms, was earthy sustenance ideally suited to chase away the chill of recent rainy evenings.

“Yeah, we’re a band of trauma survivors here,” says server Courtney Johnson, who also curates the wine list, as she opens a bottle of full-bodied white from the Savoie while conversing. Johnson grew up two blocks from Betsy and was also forced to relocate after the fire. She doesn’t say the words with bitterness. Like this whole operation, she’s conveying realism, and chosen purpose, and possibility.

Neighborhood customers are drawn to Betsy’s string lights and cozy dining room.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Park along Betsy’s block on a dark winter night, walk past the sobering charred brick shell that housed Altadena Hardware for decades and look for the restaurant’s inviting string of lights hung over the entrance. Inside, light from shaded lamps and sconces glows amber-soft. Knotty patterns ripple through the wood paneling like images of sound waves. The playlist is classic soul and ’90s hip-hop, with a few discos tunes thrown in early evening. Tables fill nightly. The din registers as cheering, not deafening.

Betsy’s emphasis on coziness feels almost prescient — as if knowing how imperative an enveloping, intimate atmosphere would be needed — given that the place opened only a month before the Eaton fire. It was called Bernee at first, started by the team of Tyler Wells and Ashley Bernee, then married, who also ran All Time in Los Feliz. The couple split last year. Ashley took over All Time. The Altadena space suffered minimal damage, and after months of introspection and urging from his employees, Tyler rechristened the place as Betsy in August.

Chef-owner Tyler Wells reopened his restaurant as Betsy in August last year.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Tyler is an upbeat, engaged presence, a blur of motion in a bow tie or snappy hat, delivering plates or uncorking bottles of wine. Executive chef Paul Downer, who previously held the same title at All Time, stands at the center edge of the open kitchen framed by the hearth. Cooks jostle blazing logs and tend to cast-iron pots set on tiered grates. It’s hard not to pause at this sight, noticing the layers of ash beneath the grating and the blackened tiles behind the hearth, without thoughts flashing to the subject of humans and fires.

Regulars of All Time will recognize the succinct, broadly Californian-Italian tenor of the menu: sharply-dressed, cheese-boosted salads with lettuces and seasonal produce from local farms; entrees that include usually at least one pasta or plate of fish but lean into handsome hunks of meat with well-seasoned sides.

Ricotta gnocchi takes after the Parisian model, finished in a pan until each piece has a deep-brown oval sear, arriving simply sauced in lemon and fragrant black pepper under a blanket of Parmesan. A massive pork chop, roughly in the shape of Australia, lands smoky and sliced and surrounded by market inspirations: succotash in the warmer months, roasted squashes and heartier greens in January. A tomahawk steak rings in at $185, served with chimichurri and a Worcestershire-powered steak sauce, and it could easily be the meal’s centerpiece for four people. A side of potatoes, roasted in beef tallow, crackle and yield in elementally satisfying ways.

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon, black pepper and parmesan at Betsy.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

I admire the subtle twists of inspiration here and there. For cheeseheads like me, so bored with the repetitive appearance of standards like Humboldt Fog, it’s fun for a daily-changing cheese plate to present a ripe slice of Linedeline, a goat’s-milk beauty made in Wisconsin with a thin mottled rind and a wobbly cream line that nicely contrasts the pleasantly chalky center. A special of Rancho Gordo fava beans, paired with buttery Chanterelle mushrooms, was earthy sustenance ideally suited to chase away the chill of recent rainy evenings.

“Yeah, we’re a band of trauma survivors here,” says server Courtney Johnson, who also curates the wine list, as she opens a bottle of full-bodied white from the Savoie while conversing. Johnson grew up two blocks from Betsy and was also forced to relocate after the fire. She doesn’t say the words with bitterness. Like this whole operation, she’s conveying realism, and chosen purpose, and possibility.

Neighborhood customers are drawn to Betsy’s string lights and cozy dining room.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Park along Betsy’s block on a dark winter night, walk past the sobering charred brick shell that housed Altadena Hardware for decades and look for the restaurant’s inviting string of lights hung over the entrance. Inside, light from shaded lamps and sconces glows amber-soft. Knotty patterns ripple through the wood paneling like images of sound waves. The playlist is classic soul and ’90s hip-hop, with a few discos tunes thrown in early evening. Tables fill nightly. The din registers as cheering, not deafening.

Betsy’s emphasis on coziness feels almost prescient — as if knowing how imperative an enveloping, intimate atmosphere would be needed — given that the place opened only a month before the Eaton fire. It was called Bernee at first, started by the team of Tyler Wells and Ashley Bernee, then married, who also ran All Time in Los Feliz. The couple split last year. Ashley took over All Time. The Altadena space suffered minimal damage, and after months of introspection and urging from his employees, Tyler rechristened the place as Betsy in August.

Chef-owner Tyler Wells reopened his restaurant as Betsy in August last year.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Tyler is an upbeat, engaged presence, a blur of motion in a bow tie or snappy hat, delivering plates or uncorking bottles of wine. Executive chef Paul Downer, who previously held the same title at All Time, stands at the center edge of the open kitchen framed by the hearth. Cooks jostle blazing logs and tend to cast-iron pots set on tiered grates. It’s hard not to pause at this sight, noticing the layers of ash beneath the grating and the blackened tiles behind the hearth, without thoughts flashing to the subject of humans and fires.

Regulars of All Time will recognize the succinct, broadly Californian-Italian tenor of the menu: sharply-dressed, cheese-boosted salads with lettuces and seasonal produce from local farms; entrees that include usually at least one pasta or plate of fish but lean into handsome hunks of meat with well-seasoned sides.

Ricotta gnocchi takes after the Parisian model, finished in a pan until each piece has a deep-brown oval sear, arriving simply sauced in lemon and fragrant black pepper under a blanket of Parmesan. A massive pork chop, roughly in the shape of Australia, lands smoky and sliced and surrounded by market inspirations: succotash in the warmer months, roasted squashes and heartier greens in January. A tomahawk steak rings in at $185, served with chimichurri and a Worcestershire-powered steak sauce, and it could easily be the meal’s centerpiece for four people. A side of potatoes, roasted in beef tallow, crackle and yield in elementally satisfying ways.

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon, black pepper and parmesan at Betsy.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

I admire the subtle twists of inspiration here and there. For cheeseheads like me, so bored with the repetitive appearance of standards like Humboldt Fog, it’s fun for a daily-changing cheese plate to present a ripe slice of Linedeline, a goat’s-milk beauty made in Wisconsin with a thin mottled rind and a wobbly cream line that nicely contrasts the pleasantly chalky center. A special of Rancho Gordo fava beans, paired with buttery Chanterelle mushrooms, was earthy sustenance ideally suited to chase away the chill of recent rainy evenings.

“Yeah, we’re a band of trauma survivors here,” says server Courtney Johnson, who also curates the wine list, as she opens a bottle of full-bodied white from the Savoie while conversing. Johnson grew up two blocks from Betsy and was also forced to relocate after the fire. She doesn’t say the words with bitterness. Like this whole operation, she’s conveying realism, and chosen purpose, and possibility.

Neighborhood customers are drawn to Betsy’s string lights and cozy dining room.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Park along Betsy’s block on a dark winter night, walk past the sobering charred brick shell that housed Altadena Hardware for decades and look for the restaurant’s inviting string of lights hung over the entrance. Inside, light from shaded lamps and sconces glows amber-soft. Knotty patterns ripple through the wood paneling like images of sound waves. The playlist is classic soul and ’90s hip-hop, with a few discos tunes thrown in early evening. Tables fill nightly. The din registers as cheering, not deafening.

Betsy’s emphasis on coziness feels almost prescient — as if knowing how imperative an enveloping, intimate atmosphere would be needed — given that the place opened only a month before the Eaton fire. It was called Bernee at first, started by the team of Tyler Wells and Ashley Bernee, then married, who also ran All Time in Los Feliz. The couple split last year. Ashley took over All Time. The Altadena space suffered minimal damage, and after months of introspection and urging from his employees, Tyler rechristened the place as Betsy in August.

Chef-owner Tyler Wells reopened his restaurant as Betsy in August last year.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Tyler is an upbeat, engaged presence, a blur of motion in a bow tie or snappy hat, delivering plates or uncorking bottles of wine. Executive chef Paul Downer, who previously held the same title at All Time, stands at the center edge of the open kitchen framed by the hearth. Cooks jostle blazing logs and tend to cast-iron pots set on tiered grates. It’s hard not to pause at this sight, noticing the layers of ash beneath the grating and the blackened tiles behind the hearth, without thoughts flashing to the subject of humans and fires.

Regulars of All Time will recognize the succinct, broadly Californian-Italian tenor of the menu: sharply-dressed, cheese-boosted salads with lettuces and seasonal produce from local farms; entrees that include usually at least one pasta or plate of fish but lean into handsome hunks of meat with well-seasoned sides.

Ricotta gnocchi takes after the Parisian model, finished in a pan until each piece has a deep-brown oval sear, arriving simply sauced in lemon and fragrant black pepper under a blanket of Parmesan. A massive pork chop, roughly in the shape of Australia, lands smoky and sliced and surrounded by market inspirations: succotash in the warmer months, roasted squashes and heartier greens in January. A tomahawk steak rings in at $185, served with chimichurri and a Worcestershire-powered steak sauce, and it could easily be the meal’s centerpiece for four people. A side of potatoes, roasted in beef tallow, crackle and yield in elementally satisfying ways.

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon, black pepper and parmesan at Betsy.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

I admire the subtle twists of inspiration here and there. For cheeseheads like me, so bored with the repetitive appearance of standards like Humboldt Fog, it’s fun for a daily-changing cheese plate to present a ripe slice of Linedeline, a goat’s-milk beauty made in Wisconsin with a thin mottled rind and a wobbly cream line that nicely contrasts the pleasantly chalky center. A special of Rancho Gordo fava beans, paired with buttery Chanterelle mushrooms, was earthy sustenance ideally suited to chase away the chill of recent rainy evenings.

“Yeah, we’re a band of trauma survivors here,” says server Courtney Johnson, who also curates the wine list, as she opens a bottle of full-bodied white from the Savoie while conversing. Johnson grew up two blocks from Betsy and was also forced to relocate after the fire. She doesn’t say the words with bitterness. Like this whole operation, she’s conveying realism, and chosen purpose, and possibility.

Neighborhood customers are drawn to Betsy’s string lights and cozy dining room.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

Park along Betsy’s block on a dark winter night, walk past the sobering charred brick shell that housed Altadena Hardware for decades and look for the restaurant’s inviting string of lights hung over the entrance. Inside, light from shaded lamps and sconces glows amber-soft. Knotty patterns ripple through the wood paneling like images of sound waves. The playlist is classic soul and ’90s hip-hop, with a few discos tunes thrown in early evening. Tables fill nightly. The din registers as cheering, not deafening.

Betsy’s emphasis on coziness feels almost prescient — as if knowing how imperative an enveloping, intimate atmosphere would be needed — given that the place opened only a month before the Eaton fire. It was called Bernee at first, started by the team of Tyler Wells and Ashley Bernee, then married, who also ran All Time in Los Feliz. The couple split last year. Ashley took over All Time. The Altadena space suffered minimal damage, and after months of introspection and urging from his employees, Tyler rechristened the place as Betsy in August.

Chef-owner Tyler Wells reopened his restaurant as Betsy in August last year.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Tyler is an upbeat, engaged presence, a blur of motion in a bow tie or snappy hat, delivering plates or uncorking bottles of wine. Executive chef Paul Downer, who previously held the same title at All Time, stands at the center edge of the open kitchen framed by the hearth. Cooks jostle blazing logs and tend to cast-iron pots set on tiered grates. It’s hard not to pause at this sight, noticing the layers of ash beneath the grating and the blackened tiles behind the hearth, without thoughts flashing to the subject of humans and fires.

Regulars of All Time will recognize the succinct, broadly Californian-Italian tenor of the menu: sharply-dressed, cheese-boosted salads with lettuces and seasonal produce from local farms; entrees that include usually at least one pasta or plate of fish but lean into handsome hunks of meat with well-seasoned sides.

Ricotta gnocchi takes after the Parisian model, finished in a pan until each piece has a deep-brown oval sear, arriving simply sauced in lemon and fragrant black pepper under a blanket of Parmesan. A massive pork chop, roughly in the shape of Australia, lands smoky and sliced and surrounded by market inspirations: succotash in the warmer months, roasted squashes and heartier greens in January. A tomahawk steak rings in at $185, served with chimichurri and a Worcestershire-powered steak sauce, and it could easily be the meal’s centerpiece for four people. A side of potatoes, roasted in beef tallow, crackle and yield in elementally satisfying ways.

Ricotta gnocchi with lemon, black pepper and parmesan at Betsy.

(Myung J. Chun / Los Angeles Times)

I admire the subtle twists of inspiration here and there. For cheeseheads like me, so bored with the repetitive appearance of standards like Humboldt Fog, it’s fun for a daily-changing cheese plate to present a ripe slice of Linedeline, a goat’s-milk beauty made in Wisconsin with a thin mottled rind and a wobbly cream line that nicely contrasts the pleasantly chalky center. A special of Rancho Gordo fava beans, paired with buttery Chanterelle mushrooms, was earthy sustenance ideally suited to chase away the chill of recent rainy evenings.

“Yeah, we’re a band of trauma survivors here,” says server Courtney Johnson, who also curates the wine list, as she opens a bottle of full-bodied white from the Savoie while conversing. Johnson grew up two blocks from Betsy and was also forced to relocate after the fire. She doesn’t say the words with bitterness. Like this whole operation, she’s conveying realism, and chosen purpose, and possibility.