Dispatches from the City of Angels
I'm a writer and humorist living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my novel LOSING CLEMENTINE out March 6 from William Morrow. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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"Taint what a horse looks like, it’s what a horse be." - A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchett
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Reason #793 Why I Love L.A.: Breakfast at Philippe's
Tap, tap, tap.
"Is this two lines or one?"
Fifty people or more are crammed up against the counter, waiting for their chance to order. "Line" is being used in the loosest sense of the word, so loose the idea of counting would be funny if laughing wouldn't have been rude. Philippe's is in the downtown core of L.A., which sports its share of razor wire. I know a few people, most of them related to me, who'd assume such a scene would quickly dissolve into a Crips vs. Bloods shoot out. Nothing could be further from the truth.
The white-haired man in a USC shirt tapping me on the shoulder resigns himself to the neighborly chaos. "Okay, but you were here before me, so I'll make sure you get up there first." He doesn't call me "little lady," but you can tell he was thinking it.
Up ahead, a guy in dreads is excited about a friend's impending baby. On my right at one of the long communal tables - seating at Philippe's means making new pals - is a quartet of Asian men in serious conversation. The restaurant sits on the edge of Chinatown, and the language zinging back and forth escapes me but for the occasional "Obama!" I love this more than I have words for.
Philippe's opened in 1908 and has been in its current location since 1951, which is probably the last time anyone used one of their payphones. A bank of them, each with a glass bi-fold door and bench inside, line the dining room wall, just in case Cary Grant dashes in and needs to make a call. The candy counter sells black licorice, the way real candy was before Twizzlers came along and ruined everything. There is actual sawdust on the floor.
It's also home to the original French Dip sandwich that, like all truly great things, was invented by accident. You can get it for breakfast, but I have an addiction to pancakes, which come with real maple syrup. The sticky kind. The kind that strings between the tines of your fork. Coffee is nine cents, and it's good. Take that Starbucks.
Tourists never see this side of L.A. It's a shame, and it's why you'll have to pry me out of this city with a crowbar.
"Is this two lines or one?"
Fifty people or more are crammed up against the counter, waiting for their chance to order. "Line" is being used in the loosest sense of the word, so loose the idea of counting would be funny if laughing wouldn't have been rude. Philippe's is in the downtown core of L.A., which sports its share of razor wire. I know a few people, most of them related to me, who'd assume such a scene would quickly dissolve into a Crips vs. Bloods shoot out. Nothing could be further from the truth.
The white-haired man in a USC shirt tapping me on the shoulder resigns himself to the neighborly chaos. "Okay, but you were here before me, so I'll make sure you get up there first." He doesn't call me "little lady," but you can tell he was thinking it.
Up ahead, a guy in dreads is excited about a friend's impending baby. On my right at one of the long communal tables - seating at Philippe's means making new pals - is a quartet of Asian men in serious conversation. The restaurant sits on the edge of Chinatown, and the language zinging back and forth escapes me but for the occasional "Obama!" I love this more than I have words for.
Philippe's opened in 1908 and has been in its current location since 1951, which is probably the last time anyone used one of their payphones. A bank of them, each with a glass bi-fold door and bench inside, line the dining room wall, just in case Cary Grant dashes in and needs to make a call. The candy counter sells black licorice, the way real candy was before Twizzlers came along and ruined everything. There is actual sawdust on the floor.
It's also home to the original French Dip sandwich that, like all truly great things, was invented by accident. You can get it for breakfast, but I have an addiction to pancakes, which come with real maple syrup. The sticky kind. The kind that strings between the tines of your fork. Coffee is nine cents, and it's good. Take that Starbucks.
Tourists never see this side of L.A. It's a shame, and it's why you'll have to pry me out of this city with a crowbar.
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