The Marvelous Florence Pugh


I have, by virtue of my years in the worlds of fashion and publishing, had plenty of occasions to sit in restaurants with all kinds of very famous people. I cannot remember a single one who was received as warmly as Florence Pugh was at The Benjamin Hollywood on an early Friday in April. To put it another way, I have never in my life gotten better—or more rapturously friendly—service in the entire city of Los Angeles. The 29-year-old actress strode into the oak-lined, windowless restaurant on a shaft of setting sunlight in a two-piece navy silk ensemble, backlit like the action-movie heroine she currently is (she’s reprising her role in the Marvel universe as Yelena Belova for Thunderbolts*—we’ll get to that in a minute), and greeted everyone with a massive grin followed by a charmingly decisive order: Grey Goose martini, dry as a bone, twist. “I’ve been thinking about that all day,” she smiles. Did she twinkle? I’ve read about movie stars twinkling before. This may have been my first taste of it.

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(Image credit: Greg Swales; Styling: Chanel jacket, skirt, and earrings; Zahn-Z rings; Gianvito Rossi shoes)

Pugh—fresh from a day of filming promotional content for Thunderbolts* with the expertly glowing glam to prove it—warned me early that she couldn’t say much about the production, whose details (including that pesky titular asterisk) have been kept tightly under wraps in advance of its May premiere. I warned her that Disney wouldn’t let me see it beforehand, so I wouldn’t know what to ask her anyway. She let loose her famous laugh, a sort of gloriously husky, deep belly shaker. Her martini in its frosted glass was delivered by our beaming waitress. “Our bartender says this is the best martini he’s ever made,” she says. “No way,” Pugh replies warmly. “My friends are going to be so jealous.” She snapped a picture of it for a group text: “We have a little martini crew.” She’d actually been to The Benjamin a few nights prior with friends and said they’d had the burger and sampled several house martinis. (The most popular is Ben’s Martini: gin, vermouth, lemon oil, its own pile of potato chips.) For the record, I don’t think her repeated patronage is why our waitress, rhapsodically attentive, lingered—or why the barback later came over to catch up.