Restaurant 6: Phillipe the Original

Or Farewell, My Lovely

I got stood up. But I saw it coming. The lady in question, Michelle, is someone I know well. If pressed, if, say, a chili dog at Chroni’s were on the line, I may even admit that she and I had been romantic. I often say never date a co-worker but I have done so twice. The first time it ended badly and felt that I got off lucky. The second was catastrophic.
It’s never a sign of a healthy relationship when someone breaks up with you four times via text. But to me, I am an eternal optimist. I find this to be a mere bump in the road, a tic in the ointment of love that I can merely shake off with my charm and wit. “Oh, yes, I got your text. You’re so cute. Let’s hang out, Friday!” And then, poof, this “on-again, off-again” romance was on again. What our relationship needs is the thing I dread most: confrontation. When a relationship isn’t working I would rather things just fade away than find myself tangled up in the razor claws of a young pretty. Why expend so much negative energy? Why the histrionics?
Our plan for lunch today resulted in a no-show. How humiliating! Ah, I hate when I get one-upped like this. This was the final straw. To disrespect me like that has brought me ready to draw blood and to receive her kind of below-the-belt jabs. She’s that kind of person. Worse for her than dealing out my humiliation with apathy: she missed out on the pleasures of the famous French dip at Philippe's the Original.
When you walk into Phillipe, don’t be discouraged by the lines. Take your place among the multitudes of French dip fanatics and bring a newspaper to wile away the five minute wait to the counter. Better yet, strike up a conversation with the lovely standing in a line to your right or the pretty but confused British tourist standing in line to your left. Don’t be scared. It’s very easy to do because you share a common bond: you’re standing in line after dealing with a horrific parking situation for a deli sandwich. Say this: “Isn’t Phillipe’s the best?” And then go from there. Romantic flings that led to wrong-headed marriages culminating in messy custody battles have started on flimsier premises.
When they call you forward, order the beef or lamb dip, though a friend of mine swears by the turkey. When you ask for blue cheese on your dip you’re asking for a palate explosion, especially if you touch it up with the complimentary hot mustard that sits on every table. It’s marvelous. I find the pickled eggs to be bland so you’d be advised to get the dill pickle spear instead. Do yourself a favor and avoid the tables where the scenery is concrete wall and framed food reviews. Go upstairs and sit by the window. Today I plopped myself down alone. I looked longingly outside and saw the shadows that the buildings of downtown LA make at dusk. How can you not think of a Raymond Chandler novel with such a view? As I ate my beef dip I looked around the room and saw a community of Phillipe lovers, alone but unified. As for my date, I ordered her a dish, nothing on it, just the dish, cold.