In most major US cities, downtown is the creamy, throbbing center of nightlife. Downtown Los Angeles? Not so much. Half of it is a sea of lofts and art galleries where the D-list celebrities of the world congregate to drink Rite Aid champagne and talk about how “misunderstood” socialism is. The other half is a lego-land metropolis of office buildings, home to the alpha baby boomers of southern California. (They moved here in the Summer of Love to do that whole “tune in, drop out, freak out, lube up…whatever” thing, now they tell themselves they’re gonna “corrupt the Man from the inside.” They still keep that Zappa concert ticket stub in their wallets, between the Vons Club card and the card for Guru Sajj, the herbalist, who they swear they’ll be calling any day now.)

Somehow, in the latter half of downtown, Dan and I found something we didn’t even know was missing in our lives.

The Original Pantry (9th & Figueroa) has been kicking around since 1924 and they’re still lightyears ahead of us. Dining there for the first time is like telling your WWII vet grandfather that you just spent 2 hours at the mechanic’s waiting for an oil change. He doesn’t tell you you’re a lazy pantywaist and that he knew how to do an oil change himself by the time he was 3. He just half-smiles and looks kind of confused and you get the feeling he’s thinking it. It’s an educational experience that makes you want to be a better person. Most of these waiters have been working there for over 40 years and they are more man than you or I will ever be. There’s so much to learn.

Really it just comes down to a system. There are unwritten rules galore that you must pick up and to do so you’ve got to have your wits about you. If, upon arrival, you dilly dally about the “please wait to be seated” sign for more than a few seconds you’ll most likely be the target of heavily accented, garbled hollers and gesturing from a couple bus boys that I took to mean “Find a seat already, goddamnit! If I don’t read English I don’t expect you to!” So it was, that Dan and I, upon our first visit, wandered around the tables, all dear-in-headlights, ’till an aproned gent (who I’d liken to a rainy day Kool Aid guy) nodded at us and waved in the direction of an open table. We then made the mistake of asking for menus. No, no, no. Our waiter silently indicated a chalkboard on the wall with twelve or so options. That’s all you get, Junior. If you’ve somehow ballroom danced your way into the good graces of your server, you may be able to mix and match. However, we may have waved goodbye to that possibility with the seating fiasco of our second visit.

See, we were going to meet the Parsons and assorted Parson-friends from out of town at the Pantry ’round midnight. Dan and I rode in together (all the way blaring Broken Social Scene and bathing in each song’s 10,000 tracks of Kevin Druid majesty) and arrived first. We entered the seating area, mumbled something to Kool Aid about a few more people on the way, and took our seats, real pro-like. He looked confused for a second (in hindsight, I think he was clicking on a mental stopwatch), but bustled along and continued about his merry way. Everything was going according to plan and utensils, water and pungent cole slaw were quickly provided. 5 minutes later: the Parsons’ friends arrive, but no Parsons. Still, our party had outgrown our wee 4-seater table, so we claim the one adjacent as well. Makes sense, right? Apparently, we might as well have spit right in Kool Aid guy’s face and taken a shit on the grill. Our server returns, mighty kerfuffled, and asks if this is everyone and the answer to this, of course, is “no.” Face a tad red, he says something to the effect of “They can’t just sit there. We have a lot of customers and if your party’s not all here, I’ll have to take your table away soon.” Or something like that. I can’t really remember ’cause his delivery was such that I was frightened to my very core. Soon afterward, the Parson-friends, a bit frightened by the waiter and the food prices, took off and left Dan and I to fend for ourselves. Our waiter sped away and spoke to another waiter, out of hearing range (I asked but have since forgotten the other waiter’s name, so for the sake of the story we’ll call him John Glenn.) I imagine Kool Aid said something along the lines of “I’m sick of taking shit from the these newbies, John. Either you take care of ‘em or I douse them in fry grease and throw them in the alley.” John Glenn, being the heart-of-gold good cop of the establishment, obliged. John Glenn explained to us that it’s customary to gather the entirety of your party on the streetcorner outside before entering the restaurant. After we apologized, John Glenn was all smiles and proceeded to sweep us off our feet. He brought us toast without asking, refilled our water and answered all our preliminary menu-related questions. It’s was like feeling really awkward at a family reunion then seeing your old playground pal, cousin Larry, all grown up and wearing a homemade Neutral Milk Hotel shirt. Glory.

Then, at last, the Parsons showed up and merriment and ribaldry abounded. The rest of the evening was magical and we plan to return soon. Next time, hopefully, we will be a little more learned, a little more wise to the ways of the Pantry, and really filthily rich. I don’t quite know how we’re gonna do that last part. I’ll keep you posted.

Anyway, you should know that adventure awaits you if you choose to take the plunge. (And a short stack is only $3.50 and it’ll fill you up like Travis Barker.)

Yours,
Torquil Crossingham