One Record at a Time: Brad Mathews on Music, Cooking, and Sobriety

Los Angeles Nights

Brad eventually left for Los Angeles as the city was emerging as a leader in both music and food. Nights shifted from bar bands to shows at the Greek, the Troubadour, and the Hollywood Bowl. Restaurants became gathering points, with places like Animal, Lazy Ox, and Gjelina drawing the city’s cultural crowd.

He started to get to know other emerging chefs, including Brian Dunsmoor and Jonathan Whitener, who would become one of his closest friends. They ran around the city together, catching shows and grabbing bites.

“Going to see the Black Keys at the Hollywood Palladium was just as exciting as going to dinner at Animal beforehand,” Brad said. “Seeing John and Vinny cooking, then going to the show. It felt like I was hitting every note in one day.”

He began working for Joe Miller at Bar Pintxo, his Santa Monica tapas bar, and a new rhythm started to take hold. After work, he would still be wired until four in the morning, sitting outside his apartment smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap beers until he could fall asleep. It was easy to justify. He had worked hard, he deserved a drink, something to come down from the adrenaline of service.

As he moved up, the days got longer. Now he was going in earlier, leaving later, still wired afterward, still drinking to come down, still seeing live music whenever he could. At the time, it didn’t feel dangerous. It felt like a routine.

After nearly five years, Brad started working under David LeFevre, opening Fishing with Dynamite in Manhattan Beach and creating seasonal dishes like crisped-up soft-shell crabs with Old Bay aioli. He started commuting daily from Santa Monica, and the long drives meant constant music: the Arcs, the Raconteurs, Alabama Shakes, Arctic Monkeys. At home, he was playing guitar more, working out riffs after long shifts, still smoking and drinking as part of the rhythm.

“There’s a formula to both,” Brad said. “At the rawest level, you have ingredients. In music, you have instruments. The real thing is finding the soul and translating it, how you communicate what you feel to someone else, how you evoke emotion.”

During this time, he stayed close with Jonathan Whitener. They would talk about music, restaurants, and the grind of the industry, both pushing forward in parallel.

A year and a half in, he was pulled into opening Cadet in Santa Monica with Kris Tominaga. That’s where he met Greg and Daisy Ryan. The restaurant closed after a year, but it gave them time to bond and begin imagining what working together long-term might look like.

Brad returned to LeFevre’s group, eventually running the kitchen at Fishing with Dynamite. Around the same time, his personal life began to unravel. He got divorced, went broke, and leaned further into drinking and substance use to manage the pressure.

Pandemic Drift

Then the world shut down.

With restaurants closed and nowhere to go, Brad fell into a strange rhythm. Mezcal Bloody Marys became a daily habit, less about brunch and more about filling time. Before the pandemic, he had been messaging with Greg, now running Bell’s with Daisy, about opening Bar Le Côte, but those plans were suddenly put on hold.

Eventually, he took the risk and moved to the Santa Ynez Valley to help with Oui Bar, Bell’s pandemic takeout concept, serving up lusciously crunchy Morro Bay fried oyster po’ boys, which would become a BLC staple. He lived alone on a vineyard in the Santa Rita Hills. Service ended early, and he would be home by late afternoon, surrounded by rows of grapes and very little else. The nights took on a predictable shape. A 12-pack, guitar, cigarettes, country music. Dwight Yoakam, Gary Clark Jr., Sturgill Simpson, Brooks & Dunn. By early evening, he would be drunk enough that he couldn’t leave.

At the same time, he, Greg, and Daisy were sketching out Bar Le Côte as they worked together on the line. Slowly, the world began to reopen. After a series of sold-out pop-ups, they opened the restaurant.

Rising Success

Bar Le Côte found its footing quickly. The first year was strong, opening with dishes that pulled from the local coastline, like Brad’s brackishly plump Santa Barbara Hope Ranch mussel paella and ice-cold peel-and-eat shrimp, dusted with his piquant BLC spice. The restaurant landed on Esquire’s Best New Restaurant list, earned recognition from the MICHELIN Guide, and stayed busy from the start.

But outside the restaurant, Brad’s life remained out of balance.

“Music and playing guitar became almost non-existent,” he said. “All energy went toward getting the restaurant open. When the workday ended, it was like, we’re getting fucked up to counterbalance the stress.”

He liked who he was at the restaurant. Outside of it, he didn’t. Work became a place to hide. Nights filled with drinking, mushrooms, weed, cigarettes. Over time, he became good at hiding it, or at least he believed he was. During this period, he stayed in touch with Jonathan Whitener. One night, after the Esquire recognition, Brad called him. Both were alone, both drinking, both listening to Merle Haggard.

“At one point, Jonathan said, ‘It’s lonely at the top.’”

A Change Is Gonna Come

There was no single rock-bottom moment. The restaurant was thriving, which made things more complicated. But in the back of his mind, Brad could see where the road would lead. A DUI. Hurting himself. Hurting someone else. Calling Greg from jail after wrecking his car. The thought kept coming back that the clock was winding down.

There was also the reality of the business. Parts of it, including the alcohol permit, were in his name. The responsibility weighed heavily on him.

A friend eventually confronted him. She had gotten sober herself. “You have a problem,” she told him, “you are an alcoholic.”

At first, he dismissed it. She pushed him. Don’t drink for twenty-four hours. Come to an AA meeting. He made it, almost to the minute, and went with her that afternoon. Listening to people share their stories, he began to recognize parts of himself. It started to click that being on opioids as a kid had normalized being in an altered state, that his whole life had been shaped by allowing himself to be on drugs when he was free of any responsibility.

That night, January 18th, 2023, he wrote:

“Today I went to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. Never done that before. Didn't know what to expect. I have to admit I was overwhelmed with happiness and relief. It was fun and it was sad. It gave me some hope and it made me realize that I can be a better person for myself. Alcohol has completely taken over me. I have an addictive personality and I am addicted to alcohol and I want to stop. I am tired. My body hurts. I struggled to go one day without a drink. In fact, I can't remember the last time that I went twenty-four hours without a beer before today, but today will be that day and tomorrow will be that day. Today I'm sober. Today is a new start. Today, I want to be sober and tomorrow I want to be sober too. One day at a time.”

My Way

That day became the beginning of his new life. He went back to music, back to guitar, back to listening with intention. Junior Kimbrough, R.L. Burnside, Son House. He put his electric guitar away, too tied to drinking, and focused on acoustic. Just him and the instrument.

He and Jonathan stayed close during this time, talking through the changes and supporting each other as they navigated their lives and careers. Within a year, he quit smoking cigarettes and started working out after work, filling the hours that used to be the most dangerous. Some friendships faded, but a new feeling replaced them, a sense of being okay on his own.

Loss and Resolve

A little over a year into his sobriety, Jonathan Whitener died. As one of his closest friends, someone who had been there through the highs and lows, losing him shifted everything. It was, for Brad, the end of any belief that he could ever go back to any kind of indulgence

“It brought me down to earth,” he said. “I used to feel invincible.”

They had talked about growing old as chefs together, opening restaurants, continuing to dig into music. Jonathan’s career was picking up again, he was happy, his restaurants were doing well, and then he was gone. The loss sharpened Brad’s focus. It made the path forward clear.

Around that time, Greg sent him the first Zach Bryan record. Brad connected deeply with the storytelling, songs about addiction, family, and coming out changed on the other side. He leaned into everything, playing more guitar, refining his menu, buying cookbooks, buying records, arranging flowers for the restaurant. He wanted physical things around him, things he could touch and return to.

Five years into Bar Le Côte and nearly three years into sobriety, his life had settled into a new rhythm.