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On a recent evening at the restaurant Dear John’s in Culver City, Frank Sinatra’s supple baritone crooned its way across crowded dining room tables laden with steaks and martinis. Sliding onto an empty stool, I asked the bartender if the packed house was standard for a Tuesday night. He barely looked up from the Manhattan he was stirring: “This is one of the slowest nights we’ve had since we opened.”
Dear John’s, the recent reboot of a steakhouse that dates
