When Cole’s French Dip in L.A. announced that the 1908-founded restaurant and tavern, the oldest in L.A., would be closing due to slow business, a friend and I attempted to visit in July. With a line down the block, though, we gave up.
Since then, you may recall, I’ve returned twice, with no wait at all, and enjoyed renewing my acquaintance with a place I’d gone to now and then over a couple of decades. Each time, I asked about the closing date.
On my August visit, the new date was mid-September. That was later extended to Halloween. When I went in late October for one last meal, the new, absolute last date was New Year’s Eve.
Whatever. My itch had been scratched. Then my Chino Hills friend Lisa, who’d given up on the line with me in July, suggested we try again on Dec. 21, 10 days before the last call.
Well, why not? We rode Metrolink to Union Station, took the subway to Pershing Square and walked a few blocks to 118 E. 6th St., an address that after typing it a few times here was committed to memory.
Cole’s was moderately busy, but within a few minutes we were able to order and claimed seats. We clinked our glasses and were soon dipping our sandwiches into au jus. Like me, Lisa decided she prefers Philippe, but that doesn’t mean Cole’s isn’t a fun alternative.
When the server brought out my food, I asked her if New Year’s Eve was still the last day.
You won’t be surprised to hear that it isn’t.
“At this point there’s no set date,” she said, flashing a smile.
Out on the sidewalk, Lisa joked: “I feel like we single-handedly saved this restaurant. First we couldn’t get in and you wrote about it. Then they kept extending the date. Now we’re here and there’s no set date.”
(On Friday, Cole’s posted on Instagram that it’s now open “through January 2026.” The owners appear to be extending the date as they try to sell it.)
I don’t have enough influence in LA to have made a difference. But it’s a pleasant thought.
As is the possibility Cole’s can stay open indefinitely.
Cole’s (cont’d)
Readers Don and Bonnie Makela tell me they made the trip into L.A. on Nov. 8 just to eat at Cole’s for the first time.
Where did the Makelas journey from? Beaumont, nearly 80 miles distant. From Claremont, where I live, I’d traveled a mere 33 miles.
The Makelas drove to San Bernardino and, emulating my route, rode Metrolink to Union Station, caught the subway to Pershing Square and walked from there through downtown’s historic business district.
“This brought back many memories as we both worked in downtown L.A. in the ’60s and ’70s,” Bonnie says by email. The couple previously lived in Covina before retiring to Beaumont.
At Cole’s, the Makelas ordered lamb dips with fries. “We enjoyed the old-time feel of the restaurant,” Bonnie says. “Very good, but we both think Philippe’s French dips are better.”
They thanked me for inspiring them to take the trip.
I admire their sense of adventure and am flattered they would walk (and ride, and chew) in my footsteps.
Palm trees are lit (cont’d)
My Oct. 24 column on the strangely beautiful paintings of palm trees on fire at Riverside’s The Cheech reminded Allan Lagumbay of a verse from the 2004 Bad Religion song “Los Angeles is Burning.”
To wit: “When the hills of Los Angeles are burnin’/Palm trees are candles in the murder wind/So many lives on the breeze/Even the stars are ill at ease/And Los Angeles is burnin’.”
On a related musical note, I continue to stockpile song lyrics citing Inland Empire cities, many of them from you, the listening public, after a request here on, ah, Oct. 31, 2024.
Why the delay in sharing them? Distraction, certainly. Also, every time I finish a column, ideas for two more columns drop out of the sky. Even this item, written two months ago, I’ve felt obliged to bump repeatedly due to space considerations.
But in 2026, my resolution is to get these lyrics into print! Also, to go back to the gym, travel more, eat fewer carbs, etc.
miscelLAny
Oct. 28 was like an all-day Carey McWilliams festival for yours truly.
That morning I finished writing my McWilliams column. After lunch, the column was posted online and I shared it on social media.
That evening, in downtown L.A., I ate dinner at Cole’s (see above) before hoofing it toward the Central Library for a talk by writer Susan Orlean. At Pershing Square, on a whim, I crossed the plaza diagonally.
A monument in the center stopped me short. It was a six-panel wall composed entirely of a lengthy quote by who else but Carey McWilliams.
The excerpt from McWilliams’ 1946 “Southern California: An Island on the Land” — originally titled “Southern California Country” — recounts how, on that spot, circa 1929, after seven years in L.A., his “conversion” into an Angeleno took place.
He’d left the Biltmore, where sidewalk newsboys were shouting a series of wild and salacious headlines, and headed into the park. There, “an aged and frowsy blonde,” skirts held high, was cheered while “singing a gospel hymn as she danced gaily around the fountain.”
The quote ends: “here, indeed, was the place for me – a ringside seat at the circus.”
After a morning and afternoon immersed in Carey McWilliams, a stray turn in Pershing Square that evening had put him in front of me again. Here, indeed, was the place for me.
Then, shaking my head at the wonder of it all, I pressed on toward the library and a ringside seat for Susan Orlean.
David Allen, ringmaster and tamer of the lyin’, writes Sunday, Wednesday and Friday. Email dallen@scng.com, phone 909-483-9339, and follow davidallencolumnist on Facebook or Instagram, @davidallen909 on X or @davidallen909.bsky.social on Bluesky.