Josh's Comments
Corner of Vermont and Franklin, Los Angeles
Over malteds, Dave and I argued about this one. "It's simply not a diner, "
decided Dave. I demurred, and shifted the topic to the Doppler effect, avoiding
a tussle. But why wouldn't Fred 62 be a diner? It's open 24 hours, less a
moment or two in the early hours when they close the doors and wash the pot;
the coffee is cheaper than anywhere in town, at sixty-two cents (surely not a
riposte to KRS-1, asking some years ago, "what can I get for sixty-three
cents?"); the staff wears dapper blue uniforms and the walls have strange art.
A peek at Fred's history and uncanny (but all too familiar) cultural position
merits a glance. L.A. restauranteur Fred Eric took over the moribund site from
an old diner that shut its doors and dropped its name in the rusty deposit box
that keeps most of L.A.'s erased histories far from sight. Fred then reopened
the restaurant a little bit glitzier, a little bit more vinyled, with staff a
little bit more inclined to fuck up their hair, in what was quickly becoming
(in the words of culture-crank Tom Frank) "ground zero of hip", a little strip
in between Hollywood and Franklin on Vermont Avenue, just down the hill from
the Griffith Observatory.
The restaurant was everything it was supposed to be *and more*; and it is the
supplement of elevated dinerdom, of retro kitsch, that gave Dave the burr in
his pantyhose over his perfectly tasty tin cup of banana ice cream. Fred's is
the theme restaurant of the millenial diner craze. It's the diner that many
readers of this page carry with them when they go a diner-hopping; a whiff of
nostalgia, a sense that every diner entered is a lost world recaptured, that
diners are anachronisms. Even if "lost world" overstates the case, ask
yourself: why are diners different? Or cheesy? Or fun? If it's the first you've
thought of it -- if you've never pondered, at some level, the distinction
between a diner and a T.G.I.Friday's, then leave it all alone: I'm ranting. But
I think few find diners anything but peculiarly familiar, as if we have
experienced the diner before we set foot in it. That's the magic of this page:
it's a field guide to an experience that can be endlessly duplicated, and can
be comtemplated in the moment before thought. So that's why Fred's is a diner,
only slightly more or less than any other diner is really a diner.
That said, a word on the grub. The coffee is a thrifty buy as mentioned
before; it comes with an up-all-night r efill policy and a faint taste of
dishwasher soap. The food is universally tasty (this may in fact disqualify it
more than its crime of self-knowing: the adage "don't order the swordfish" just
doesn't apply). Favorites are the waffle, of an exceptionally nutty batter;
matzoh brie; a variety of japanese noodle dishes; " Bearded Mr. Frenchy" corn
flakes on French toast; and the occasional casserole s pecial of
Mac'n'cheese. Shakes and malteds can be had in a to-go cup, and a toaster sits
in every booth. The art is a bit too clever; although the usual suspects of
vague, woodsy landsc apes dot the walls, they have lines of 3-D text running
through them: "ATTENTION 20TH CENTURY SHOPPERS", "EVERYBODY BETTER THAN ME",
etc. The bathrooms are sparkly and have better art than the restaurant. There
are differences, to be sure. But Fred has the coffee and the hours; is
deliberate dinerhood a capital offense? Dave, rebut.
Dave's Response
Dave: They try too hard. The whole thing reeks of effort, man.