Michelle and I live down the street from the Brite Spot, which we used to go to for years before it got all over-priced, built an uncomfortable outdoor patio, and served burgers on shiny, fancy buns. We were there so often, we got to know some of the wait-people quite well. We gave them nicknames. They knew our usuals. One of them even lives next door to us, and waves every time he walks by on his way to his shift. I drew penises on the receipts and they used to run after us to thank me for the artwork. We discussed whiskey preferences, and coffee choices. And of course there was Margaret the crooked waitress, who told us that she kept boys tied up in the back for us because we didn’t have any at home. Those were the days. Now they have silly, ugly wall light sconces, and coffee from Portland. Well, the pie is still awesome. Go there for pie.
But this isn’t about the Brite Spot at all. After watching Blade Runner at the Million Dollar Theater, Michelle and I were a little bit famished. Like, low-blood-sugar cranky level, without the crank. It used to be that we’d just Brite Spot it, but instead we kept going down Glendale Blvd, past our apartment, to Astro’s. Now, Astro’s has been the same for as long as I’ve lived in Los Angeles (all 13+ years), although prices have gone up quite a bit but so have their portion sizes. Inflation and expanding waist lines, I’d wager. The food is still as hit or miss as ever, and it’s open 24 hours, AND it will always serve diner-grade coffee. Because sometimes, all a girl needs is the black onyx eye of truth, not some fancy black water made from beans picked by endangered apes.
