Sabbatikos

Los Angeles teaches you patience. Not as a virtue, but as a Southern California necessity. Beyond idling endlessly in traffic on The 405, the lesson continues once you arrive at your destination. You park. You get out. You stand on a sidewalk or at the front of the house, waiting for the host to call your name.

After traveling to LA extensively over the past few years, I have noticed a pattern. When you want to eat out, you often need to wait for it. Even if you have a reservation. Perhaps especially if you have a reservation.

Some of this is intentional Instagram-demand. Manufactured scarcity. Long lines as advertising. The visual sign that something desirable is happening inside, and you are not yet part of it, so you queue up. FOMO is a powerful motivator in our family.

But there is also an honest kind of demand. Places that just get it right. Food, price, atmosphere. Once the word is out, it takes on a life of its own. A line forms whether the restaurant wants it to or not, and suddenly a patient wait becomes the price of admission.

This is not unique to Los Angeles, for example, our recent experience at Apollo Bagels in New York, had us waiting for their benchmark bagel. Waiting has become the off-menu item. The participation tax. But in LA, waiting is not the exception, it is the rule. Many restaurants don’t bother with reservations anymore. They don’t need to. The sidewalk becomes the lobby. The queue becomes the review.

On previous trips we have waited for extravagant hot dogs at Pink’s, waited for a table at Pann’s, waited in the liquor-bottled lobby for our reservation at Tam O’Shanter, enjoyed the view and garden while waiting at Yamashiro, and stood in sawdusted winding queue at Philippe the Original French Dip. Sat in our car at at the parking-lot procession at In-n-Out. We’ve lingered like a siesta at Casa Vega and El Coyote, where on this most recent trip we waited thirty minutes for a taste of their transformative tamales.

For example, this year we returned to Lawry’s The Prime Rib, where we once again spent Christmas Eve doing exactly what you should be doing on Christmas Eve, prime rib. We had a reservation, and yet we still waited nearly an hour in the lobby before being seated. To be fair, it may be the busiest night of the year. Still, it is worth the wait, as Lawry’s never disappoints, from the spinning salad and silver carts to the prime rib ceremony and, on Christmas Eve, table-side carolers.

It was a few days after Christmas and a few days before New Year’s. Our stomachs had finally forgiven us for the indulgence at Lawry’s. With room in our bellies and bargains in our minds, we set our sights on something Clara had experienced months earlier and wanted to share with us. She warned us to be prepared to wait, a crucial calibration of our expectations for the evening ahead. The destination was Hae Jang Chon, an all you can eat Korean BBQ institution in Koreatown.

We thought we did everything right. We took a Waymo so we wouldn’t need to park and arrived by 6:15, at what we believed was early by LA standards. With optimism, we put our name on the list and were told the wait would be one hour and fifteen minutes.

We settled in with about seventy-five likeminded souls spilling off the sidewalk and into the parking lot, waiting within earshot and in anticipation of their names to be called. If you really wanted Korean BBQ, there was another spot right next door, empty but fully staffed. Another sat across the street with open tables. But no. Everyone wanted this one. Why? We’d have to wait to find out.

Names were called. Not ours. Anxiety rose. The rules were strict. Miss your name and your table goes to the next on the list. Entire party must be present to win. No wandering. We peered anxiously through windows guessing what table might be the next to leave. We took turns checking the list like nervous travelers checking the gate number, seat assignment, and departure time over and over. Were we still there? Yes. Clara. Table for four. Only eight tables ahead of, then six. It was going to happen!

Finally, after nearly two hours (1:55), we were summoned, “Clara, table for 4?!” We bolted forward like we had been picked for a team. We entered ravenous, ready to do damage. One price to feed them all! I’m fairly certain they lost money on us.

The all-you-can-eat rules were simple. Order three meats at a time and consume it all before you can order more. Repeat until defeat.

Their menu read like a dare. We could choose from an assortment of beef; marinated short ribs to prime brisket, bulgogi, steak, pork; belly, jowl, neck, as well as chicken, squid, shrimp, octopus, and even beef hot dogs. We started with brisket, bulgogi, and chicken, before a second round of steak, ribs, and more brisket.

Meat sizzled before us. Smoke rose to our nose. Time disappeared. Endured anticipation makes food taste better, and after two hours of waiting, everything tasted like a trophy earned. It was worth the weight…er, I mean wait.

If Koreatown tested our evening patience, a trip to Phil Rosenthal’s new diner, Max and Helen’s, in Larchmont Village, tested our morning resolve. Named after his parents (which you’d immediately know if you’ve watched his excellent series, Somebody Feed Phil), and infused with the same warmth and earnestness that makes that show feel like a vacation with an old friend.

It was our vacation. But we set alarms. We picked up Emmy, Clara’s (what we thought might be imaginary) friend at 6:45am. She does exist! And we were excited to finally meet her. It was a Monday. Traffic was surprisingly light so we arrived in the quaint neighborhood of Larchmont at 7:15 am. The restaurant opened at 8:00.

Even at this hour we were not the first in line. We were about 30 deep. No list yet (the restaurant wasn’t open), just a queue down Larchmont Blvd, which was slowly waking around us. Dogs. Joggers. The buzz and tapping of espresso machines from nearby coffee shops. We had heard that lines at Max and Helen’s could be hours, like 4, 6, even 8! The Hollywood Reporter even did an article about how Spielberg couldn’t pass the queue.

Eight am sharp, the doors opened. Anxiety again, would we get in on the first seating? Would we get our name on the list? Would we be able to sit inside (they do have a parklet)? It was unseasonably cool outside. But Max and Helen’s seats about 40, mostly two-tops. We were lucky enough to get the last tables for four. It felt ceremonial. Breakfast tasted better because it had been anticipated. Because we had committed. Because we had gotten up early and waited. But also because breakfast at Max and Helen’s is comfort food elevated. The prices are elevated as well, but the food quality was exceptional and the simple plates (that say Max and Helen’s) held standard diner fare, but prepared with care. The pancakes were delicious! My omlette was incredible. The eggs were amazing. The bacon! The bagel was nearly NYC level. Even the coffee was great (unfortunately they were fresh out of mugs for sale). We were finished by 9am! We had a whole day in LA ahead of us now. The possibilities were endless. Where should we plan to queue tonight?