Hollywood Lunch

This is your loyal Lunch editor Francis’ childhood friend Tristan Denton checking in from West New York, aka LOS ANGELES. I’m reaching you from a studio apartment in a building where everyone’s packages get stolen (seen here in the 1920s from the Los Angeles Library’s incredible photo database) in HOLLYWOOD.

So, the Hollywood Lunch. The famous "power lunch."

Pull your Tesla up to the valet in the nick of time and fling the man your keys; suits from the William Morris Endeavor Agency are waiting. We're here to talk industry talk over expensive salads (after we get through some chit-chat). Oh wow, you're from the East Coast and went to private school? How offbeat and charming! 

Well, that's not my Hollywood. I'm simply not a "Hollywood guy." I've never had a power lunch. But no fear — I did some reporting and reached out to the least-canceled director in my contacts for an extremely short interview on the topic: scion of a Hollywood dynasty, Roman Coppola.

Lunch Magazine: “Hi Roman, I hope you don't mind that I stole your cell number from your assistant when they forgot their phone at the bar while going to the bathroom on our Hinge date! Please let them know to call me back… Anyway, I wanted to ask: What does a Hollywood Lunch mean to you?”

Roman Coppola: “Well, a Hollywood Lunch makes me think of two places. One is Musso and Frank, which is my favorite restaurant in Los Angeles. Wonderful history and excellent food. The servers who work there tend to have very long tenures, so it feels like a homecoming whenever you go in. The other place I think of is the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel, a famous and iconic lunch spot for Hollywood power players. I don't go there frequently, but it's always memorable when I do, as you tend to see prominent filmmakers, and there's a buzz about the place of deals being made and projects being cooked up.”

I could say something snide, but really I could fuck with either of those choices… Solid stuff! Although I'd rather overdraft my bank account at 4AM, not 1PM, you know?

For me, Hollywood Lunch comes from a taco truck parked at a gas station under an overpass overseen by the smallest possible billboard for Los Angeles Apparel. (RIP to American Apparel and my youth.) Appropriately, it's named Happy Tacos. The usual clientele is dudes working. And I've never had the tacos, but we all seem happy eating there.

The 0.4 mile walk — yes, some of us walk, even if it's just to a parking spot! — from my apartment carries you through the realms of desolate souls who cling to their shred of property rights in the form of tent homes and RVs that claim the sidewalks until a fire starts or the city decides to do a sweep. So it's a twofer: you get an excuse to leave the house to spend money you don't have, and you get a chance to survey the true legacy of the American dream. 

My cousin Danny, born and raised in Mexico City, once told me there's a joke in Mexico about following “The Four T's Diet:” tacos, tostadas, tamales, and tortas. Ever since I learned that there was, in fact, a food that combined my favorite childhood foods, refried beans and sandwiches, I've been on the version of that diet where, 9 times out of 10, you get a torta.

Even though I already know what I want, I have to peruse the carne selection. It usually goes pollo, asada, carnitas, maybe buche, trip, machaca, or any number of delicacies; my go-to is al pastor.

Perhaps I have a thing for the synthesis of concepts I mistakenly believed were disparate (see: refried beans and sandwiches), but I can never pass up the union of Mexican-style marinated pork and the Levantine shawarma cooking technique.

Truthfully, I'd rather get my al pastor from the Leo's Tacos in the parking lot of the WSS discount shoe warehouse on Sunset Boulevard, where at night the monolithic trompo is on full display so you can see a man slicing shards of al pastor straight into the tortillas cradled in his hand that’s level with his hip with an expert flick of the wrist. I like to think he could disarm hijackers with the same technique. Across the street is a famously unbuilt, now fully built, Target that I snuck plates of the same al pastor tacos through to eat on their inexplicable patio overlooking the boulevard with my friend Solomon.

But Leo's is a farther walk than I have time for, and a lunchtime torta from HT is guaranteed to hit. 

In my opinion — and I'm not an expert, not even a wannabe Jonathan Gold — a perfect torta hovers on the edge of structural instability like a too-ambitious cantilevered house in the hills one mudslide from total collapse. The mayo-toasted bread has soaked up the sweet, savory juice of the red meat. The heft of the thick-cut beefsteak tomatoes and refried beans pushes the issue even further. Squeeze a lime and pour on spicy salsa from the plastic ramekin, and you're at the point of no return. You can't put it down, or you may never be able to pick it up again in one piece. So eat on you must. Maybe take one hand off to smear juice to your phone while responding to an email or sipping off a Jarritos mineragua.

Soon enough, the torta is only a physical memory — a pleasing sensation of spice and fat settling in the stomach. But it might trigger a full emotional sense memory. In prideful reverie, I recall the last time I saw Danny, after meeting him on the Walk of Fame, when he told me the al pastor we got was as good as back home. If that's all it takes to get fat, happy, and full, why would I choose any other Hollywood Lunch?

And wouldn't it be nice to follow it up with a nap? 

But duty calls, and Hollywood never sleeps…

Editor’s note: Would you like to read more features from guest writers? Let me know in a reply to this email : )