You're a bit numb. You're a bit elated. You're a bit confused. But it's okay. It's Friday night, and you've just been to see The Tree of Life. Remind yourself it's just a film. Sure, there's a reason for your nerves: the operatic, cataclysmic, lava-spewing, Dinosaur-tromping, nightie in hand masturbation, death, birth, butterflies, ladder/window/God motifs, a fierce and embittered Brad Pitt, a forlorn and lost Sean Penn, some rough and tumble Texas pre-teens, the freckled shoulders of Jessica Chastain (has it been said that we were the first magazine to feature this lass, because we were), clouds, blood, grass, Brahms, disappointment, failure, longing, heroism, and what ultimately amounts to a disorienting and profound portrait of our human journey.

As criticism heaps atop this film, which won the Palm D'Or at Cannes, the question that may really need address is this: is everything, no matter how we flex our experience, our wisdom, our language of interpretation, our opinions, our self-reflexivity, simply down to context? What makes anything good? Or misguided? Or award-worthy?

Because yours is a certain context. You're an editor. You've been waiting a long time for this film. And, contrary to an editor's typical entertainment consumption, in light of Terrence Malick's evasiveness, the money behind the film, the buzz, the stars, you didn't get to see it months in advance like you do everything else. And it's made you bitter. Insecure. But you dig your heels in, you go and pay for a ticket, and sit in a sold-out theatre of strangers, and you undergo an experience. As the final scene fades into black, you hear claps and boo's, much like those that were heard at Cannes. You wander out of the Arclight Cinemas, jump into your car, and despite your spinning head, you race toward West Hollywood. Because like any thoughtful person of taste you made certain arrangements for a post-film context, one that would allow for fresh air, conversation, sexy glances from across the room, and a delicious medley of culinary creations—one that would stylishly insulate stewing on what the fuck you've just been through: The Pali House Courtyard Brasserie.

There, you're greeted by chef Mike Bryant, a charming and no doubt talented young gent who asks what needs asking: any allergies, any foods you won't eat? The answer: of course not. Discretion, especially tonight, seems a bit, well, microscopically feeble. And not letting a chef do as he/she does is lame anyway. (It can also be noted here that Chef Mike “politely declines substitutions," as stated on the menu, which is awesome.)

So, you warm up with some Thai style alligator (you read that right) served in a stone ramekin, minced with sugar snap peas, cilantro, peanuts, and a specialty sauce. Next comes some salmon sashimi, bellied up against a little cucumber and pink peppercorn salsa, which, having watched Malick's 50s-era family gnaw through meatloaf and baked potatoes all film long, is a refreshing and tasty pillow on the palate. A margarita flatbread follows, which is very nice, and then the highlight, the punctuation on this evening of contexts—contexts of human innovation and helplessness beneath our greater forces: The Sunny Side Up Duck Egg, which features of course a duck egg sunny-sided over a wild meddling of Tasso ham, kale, mushroom confit, a verte sauce, and summer truffles (we at Flaunt love truffles. Don’t believe us, see here.)

As one might imagine, it leaves you delirious. Add to that the maple bourbon cocktails you’ve been slugging, the labyrinthine conversation you’ve been weaving around the crazy flick you’ve just seen, and the effect is a comforting wave of cultured, refined, tested rapture. With a night like this, one thing rings true: experience, truly, is all about context... but some things are just fucking good.