Legendary. Brash. Delicious. Zesty. These are but a handful of words to describe this L.A. landmark on Fairfax. As luck would have it, it was only a few blocks from our hotel, and yet some would call us nutty for actually walking - on foot - to pile down some pastrami here.
The menu is a wide-ranging cornucopia of foodular delights - yet surprisingly boasting no actual cornucopias. Kosher folk and Gentilians alike surely savour a meal at the bustling diner like an L.A. car sucks greedily on its frequent gas-ups.
And speaking of which and digressing fiercely, L.A.'s denizens will feebly complain that you have to drive everywhere, that is it simply the nature of the beast given the city's ludicrous sprawl, and many are quick to believe this line given the evidence - but I say the locals are full of feces. They're addicted to driving. That's all there is to it. And they like pretending they're not. It's quite clear that they get some sick, bent satisfaction out of spending their lives in their cars.
How else to explain a gigantic parking lot right ON the beach at Santa Monica? When they want to go somewhere, they want to go right there. Walking is something you do on a treadmill in a gym - not outdoors. The sidewalks are empty, the roads are choked with cars - always. The place is insane.
But damn, that's good pastrami.
(Kling-klang image to engorge.)