What TV shows edit out is how difficult it can be to receive the Larry David treatment if you’re not Larry David. Several concierge services can help you close the celebrity gap...

In the past, star-struck tourists came to Los Angeles for the chance to spot a celebrity on the Sunset Strip and then be happily herded back onto the bus for a studio tour. But with the advent of celebrity tabloids and shows such as Entourage and Curb Your Enthusiasm, visitors have become more familiar with the nuances of show business. The localizing of L.A. has given out-of-towners the notion that with enough money and a private plane, perhaps they, too, can jet out here for the weekend and get bounced from Ted Danson’s kid’s birthday bash or attend a Paul McCartney pre-concert VIP party. What these shows edit out, however, is how difficult it can be to receive the Larry David treatment if you’re not Larry David. Access to the right spots often has less to do with money than with chance and where your name appears in the credits. Today, several concierge services can help you close the celebrity gap. For a fee, Mint (310- 273-3225; mintlifestyle.com) and Luxury Attaché (212-358-0200; luxuryattache.com) can usher you into openings or the Chrysalis Annual Gala; snag hard-to-get dinner reservations at Pizzeria Mozza or CUT; procure tickets to sold-out shows; get you a spot as an extra; and squeeze your name onto the guest list of L.A.’s hottest club de nuit. Or you can simply take the “Teddy Tour.”

I’m not a celebrity, but after navigating Hollywood for nine years as a screenwriter, I have cultivated a network of television stars, bartenders and maîtres d’ that has enabled me to crack the L.A. code. For my non-commercial-flying friends from points south and east, this drill is like a fractional share to the city — and, generally, it’s transferable. Maybe you have your own in-the-know friend who can augment this list (and, in a pinch, it never hurts to go with one of the aforementioned professional services), but the following spots should serve as a good Tinseltown template. It certainly worked for my buddy George.

First Stop: Sushi
There are 40 some general-aviation airports in L.A., and several make many all-time favorite lists: There’s Long Beach (LGB), with its glamorous Art Deco terminal; Van Nuys (VNY), where Norma Jean worked and Sydney Pollack and the Entourage gang can often be spotted; and Bob Hope in Burbank (BUR), just 11 miles from Hollywood and Vine. But for my money, nothing can beat flying into tiny Santa Monica (SMO, 310-458-8591; santa-monica.org/airport) at sunset— an experience we locals like to call the “martini shot.”

The tarmac clings to the edge of a mesa high above the Pacific, and when I meet George, the guys in special effects are really pulling out all the stops. George, whose family owns one of the biggest collections of fast-food franchises in Texas, has just flown in from Dallas and has been looking forward to this moment for, oh, about five years. He gives me a bear hug and looks around expectantly, as if wondering where all the paparazzi are. So he’s a bit surprised when, after dialing Beverly Hills Rent-A-Car (310-337-1400; bhrentacar.com) for the red Porsche I’ve reserved for the weekend, I lead him back into the terminal and up the stairs to the third floor.

The Hump restaurant (310-313-0977; thehump.biz) is a So-Cal insider favorite for its incredible ocean view and because it’s virtually impossible to find unless you happen to fly by. It’s also, arguably, the best sushi bar in L.A. Upon settling in at the counter, we briefly confer with executive sushi chef Susumu, who recommends “omakase for two” and begins to liberate a spiny lobster from its pomegranate-hued shell. Omakase, Susumu explains to George, means “trust the sushi chef.” And so we do, for 90 blissful minutes.

Bill Clinton Slept Here
Choosing a hotel in L.A. is a little like choosing an airport in that you can’t go wrong with any of the usual suspects: sipping pinot grigio and twisting spaghetti Bolognese by the alfresco bar above Sunset Boulevard at the Chateau Marmont; strolling the gardens at Hotel Bel Air; picking out the A from the B (and C) list producers trolling the pool for talent at the Beverly Hills Hotel. But if the weather is mild and you want to feel the sand between your toes, I recommend bunking just a few minutes from your plane at the Fairmont Miramar (800-257-7544; fairmont.com/santamonica).

The Miramar commands a spectacular property on the bluffs with Santa Monica Pier’s giant Ferris wheel at one end of the beach and the Santa Monica mountains at the other. The former residence of nineteenth-century U.S. Senator and silver magnate John P. Jones, the white-columned mansion lends a unique historical feel to the grounds, although the choicest accommodations are the $1,300-a-night private bungalows discreetly tucked in among the riot of indigenous flora. The Miramar’s staff, led by general manager Ellis O’Conner and VIP coordinator Matt Moore, is friendly and — even rarer for the staff of an L.A. hotel — not merely killing time between movie roles. From the moment George zips the Porsche through the ornate gate, up the brick lane and around the centuries-old fig tree and announces, “We’re home!” he barely has to utter a request before the staff takes care of it. No wonder that whenever he’s in L.A., Bill Clinton stays in the hotel’s most spacious, secluded bungalow, No. 161. George and I are sharing a 2003 Merus on his terrace, going over the weekend’s itinerary, when he notices that I’ve scrawled “Larry David(?)” at the top of the page. George’s eyes widen. He is a passionate Curb Your Enthusiasm fan, and, as I figured he might be, is over the moon to learn that an agent friend of mine lives in a condo down the hall from where you-know-who has been living since he and his wife separated. And my friend just happens to be throwing a party tonight.

Twenty minutes later, we’re making our way through the beautiful people to the bar as George keeps a sharp lookout. A young straight-to-DVD actress I used to date joins us, promptly brushes her shoulder against George and tells him about the time I dropped a bowling ball on her foot. She’s apparently taken by George’s accent, because when she discovers that he’s a pilot, she affects her own Texas drawl in declaring, “My dahddy’s got a jet, too!”

After an hour, with still no sign of Larry David, I’m ready to move on to our next stop. That “Winston’s(?)” has been upgraded from question mark to sure thing is due mainly to the young starlet now attached to George’s arm. George has allotted a generous “palm budget” for this weekend — at a club such as Winston’s (323-654-0105), you’ll want to start with $20 pressed into the hand of the valet who takes your car and work up from there — but your money, of course, always goes farther with a beautiful young woman in tow. Outside, the starlet gingerly removes her stilettos before climbing into George’s lap in the Porsche when a Toyota Prius pulls up. “You know,” George says, “Larry drives one of those.” Sure enough, when the valet opens the door, out pops a slightly stoop-shouldered guy wearing a baseball cap, who turns around and . . . looks nothing like Larry David.

Surf and Turf
It was a long night, and George hasn’t played that hard in a while, so the next morning we agree that what we need for a pick-me-up is to get slapped around by the ocean. An hour later, professional surfer and private surf coach Carla Rowland (310-384-2531; carlarowland.com) leads us into Venice’s breakwater, and, after a few pointers and some encouragement, George and his hangover are hanging 10 on the side of a wave.

Afterward, famished, we tear up the Pacific Coast Highway to feed George’s fried-food cravings at Neptune’s Net (310-457-3096; neptunesnet.com), a biker/Navy/locals dive famous for its cold beer and fried fish. As we carry our trays onto the deck, pelicans dive-bomb the water for their own pre-fryer helpings when a kid yelps and points toward the water. The entire restaurant turns to ooh and aah: In L.A., the one thing guaranteed to create a bigger buzz than a Brad-and-Angelina sighting is a school of dolphins lunching at Neptune’s Net.

Curtain Time
If you’re going to open a restaurant in L.A. with a seven-foot, black-velvet curtain draped across its entrance, you’d better be sure you have your act together, and trust me — at Capo (310-394-5550; caporestaurant.com), they do. Well-dressed diners huddle under the vaulted ceiling of the dimly lit, intimate bungalow, a peekaboo window into the kitchen providing a glimpse of soufflés being whisked. In the back corner of the dining room, a white-toqued chef tends to an open-front asado with tenderloins, strips, New Zealand baby racks of lamb and veal chops sizzling on the brasero above the burning logs. Dennis, the maître d’, greets us and, within seconds, leads us to our table, leaving a wine list with more than 1,200 bottles, including dozens found only at Capo. Brian, Capo’s pugnaciously friendly bartender (he looks like a slightly shrunken Barry Diller) comes over and, before we order, lines up four open bottles of red wine and demands that we taste them. He also tells us what we’re having for dinner: “definitely” Maryland crab torta; scallops with white-corn polenta; truffle ravioli; burrata caprese salads; and 16-ounce New York strips — “medium rare.” After 24 hours in L.A., George must be feeling cocky, because he fixes Brian with a steady gaze: “Why don’t you bring us some of that foie gras terrine, too?” Score one for the Texan. Brian rewards George’s boldness by bringing over three small complimentary glasses of Sauternes whose semi-sweetness melds perfectly with the earthly terrine.

Happy Ending
George calls in the morning saying he wants to stretch out a bit before flying home. “Want to do some yoga?” Stephanie Phelan, one of L.A.’s loveliest yogis, meets us in George’s room and begins to wring last night’s wine from his liver with a series of positions that an hour later leaves him exhausted and gasping on the floor. Still, he perks up a bit when he learns that a massage appointment awaits us at Exhale (310-899-6222; exhalespa.com/santamonica), Santa Monica’s most exclusive spa. Our treatment starts in the “Quiet Lounge,” then progresses to George wading — buck naked — through the “temperature pools.”

The scene is vaguely reminiscent of a Curb episode from earlier this season, in which Larry decides to get his father, who’s been depressed, a massage with a “happy ending” to cheer him up, and the confused old man ends up falling for his masseuse. The difference for us, of course, is that the only thing George has to be depressed about is that wheels-up at SMO crept up on him a lot faster than he wanted. He emerges from his remarkably skilled (and strictly G-rated) massage plenty happy. After all, L.A. isn’t going anywhere — and he still has my number.

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