Sharing loss, food and some humanity

During the pandemic, I have found myself in Los Angeles three times. Sometimes business is unavoidable, whether it’s going in to work or going somewhere to work.

And before anyone starts bellyaching about COVID protocols, just remember that only a few weeks ago I was the only person wearing a mask in a room full of people eating. Granted, they were 6 feet apart and the room wasn’t completely full, but that grouping was probably the highest risk of infection that I have faced in the last 10 months. Spending six hours alone in my car, and then two days by myself in a rental unit certainly wasn’t.

L. A. has certainly changed. On the eve of the shutdown, the eerily deserted streets and shuttered restaurants left a decidedly dystopian impression. Several months later I was struggling to determine what was a homeless encampment and what was outdoor dining. On my most recent trip, the outdoor dining tent cities were gone; the homeless ones, however, are not.

I needed to eat. It is a universal constant. And luckily for us bartenders, drinking is usually not far behind. So, like every animal in the animal kingdom, I eventually needed to leave my lair.

My goal was nostalgic. In an unexplainable irony, I have discovered an unusual fact. There is a product called San Francisco-style potato salad. That is not the irony. The irony is that it doesn’t seem to be available anywhere except for L.A. And trust me, I have looked.