Grabbing a pickled egg at Philippe.
“This is terrible. Boy, look at this mess. This is terrible,” said my father looking at the traffic slowly moving north on Interstate 5 toward downtown Los Angeles. “Remind me to never to travel on these highways again.”
“Dad, all you have to do is relax,” I responded. “You’re the passenger. You can’t control the traffic but you can control your own thoughts and actions. Just learn to relax.” End of min-sermon.
“Oh, this is terrible,” he moaned in a slightly softer tone.
We arrived at Philippe restaurant on Alameda Street, near historic Union Station, at 11:15 a.m., just before the noontime rush. The restaurant, according to its brochure, “is one of the oldest and best known restaurants in Southern California, family owned and operated since 1908.” It still has its original wooden stools and has sawdust scattered throughout the dining area.
Celebrities and L.A. officials often plop down at one of the communal tables to devour a sandwich or two . The brochure states that “L.A. Times reporter Cecilia Rasmussen says, ‘burly railroad, brewery and factory workers rubbed elbows with judges and politicians.’” And judging by what we saw, that’s correct.
My parents and I ate the Pork Double Dip sandwiches, dill pickles, potato salad, cole slaw, and pickled eggs. Philippe is known for dipping the bread into gravy before making the sandwich, which makes it a very tasty meal.
Philippe, the Original, on Alameda Street in downtown Los Angeles.
Placing orders at the deli counter.
Mildred and Bill eat everything in front of them.
Dining tables are on two floors.
A sight seldom seen any more: telephone booths.
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