It was impossible to get around. Every summer when I would go to visit my mother's people I would have to cull out a day to spend with my grandmother Eva. My mom's mom was a prickly pear of a woman, more a cactus in keeping with her Mexican heritage. She was harsh, quick to judge, fast to critique, not a whole lot of fun to hang out with. But to her credit she doted on me, got me fat so that when I went home my mother would have other things to worry about other than my not too often seen Pop.Eva made it a point to drag me away from my ever spoiling grandfather. He had a different way about him, one that was more connected to life outside their four plex. He had connections all around the neighborhood, had all the little old ladies on Westmoreland anxiously awaiting his arrival. He cut their lawns and moved their furniture and in turn they paid him a few dollars and plied him with sodas and fresh baked goods. He was happy and shared that happiness with the world, shared the spoils of that delight in living with me. We were often out and about together, running errands, fetching artesian water fresh from the tap in Griffith Park or grabbing burgers at Tommy's.
Eva, on the other hand, liked being housebound. It was her domaine, her bully pulpit. I did my best to stay away and wander about out of doors. But I had to give over at least one day a year to her. Looking back those afternoons spent with her were part of the fundamental building blocks of my appreciation for soon to be lost downtown LA. Back in those days downtown was still vibrant, if a bit tawdry. The department stores were still up and running, the theaters still had movies splashed across their screens, most building were still being used for the purposes they were built for and had not yet been gutted and turned into mini-swap meets or parking garages.
Going out with Mrs Chavez meant washing up, combing my hair, wearing long pants. We always caught the bus, never drove, never asked for a ride. Once we disembarked on Broadway I found that walking with Eva meant walking alongside her, not way out in front, not lollygagging behind. It made me feel like Von Stronheim in Sunset Blvd, a mini-man servant pressed into service. a two legged chihuahua dog in the guise of a grandson. But there were always two highlights to our day: lunch at a cafeteria and a double bill at one of the numerous movie palaces that were still to be found on Broadway.
I remember Clifton's Cafeteria more clearly than the others she took me to. It had a special place in the heart of Angelenos even back then, well before it became the kitschy foodie icon the way that Phillippes, Tommys and the Pantry have become. It was filled with a sort of timelessness that many places I had eaten in up to that time lacked. I loved the way that the room smelled when we entered, how it was both noisy and hushed all at the same time. The lighting rebounded and settled into the decor, a sort of movie set for the cafeteria set. We always shared a leisurely lunch. My food interests were still outrageously narrow in those days, so the only items I can remember ever enjoying there were the macaroni and cheese and the jello. I'm sure that my insistant grandmother piled up other delectables on my tray, but those two things stand out.
After lunch we would take a walk and look around at the theater marquees. The movies that we choose to watch were always enlightening. My grandmother never paid attention to things like film ratings. She was the kind of gal who grooved on mayhem and murder, had stacks of detective pulps and Mexican murder rags by the side of her bed, so picking mature rated movies for a ten year old youngster mattered not a wit to her. So under her wing I caught films like Play Misty for Me, Groundstar Conspiracy and Five Man Army. If it wasn't a spaghetti western or a cheesey, violent thriller it wasn't considered. The more lurid the posters and the lobby cards the better. My eyes were pried opened wide during those summer movie forays and have never had a chance to close.
I think back on those days I spent with Eva and realize that they were mighty fine days indeed. Sure, I used to absolutely hate being told to sit up or to walk alongside her in the tone of voice that she used to speak to me in. She was terrifying in alot of ways, forceful, mean spirited and not very kind to my grandfather or my mom. But she was a powerhouse, a force of nature to contend with, one that turned me onto strange and interesting movies and Cliftons and forever seared in my mind the wonders and glories of the finest film palaces of the world, the ones that still graced the Broadway corridor of downtown LA back in the day.
Thanks, Mama, it really was truly a great time after all.
Action!
The Official Clifton's homepage! Great postcard images!
http://cliftonscafeteria.com/
Nice LA Times piece on Cliftons:
http://articles.latimes.com/2009/feb/04/food/fo-cliftons4
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