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The Man Who Ate L.A.1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | Itinerary | Home In the City of Angels, where the most iconic food is at the drive-thru, a spare tire is worth celebrating.
I’m hanging out at the pool at the swanky Roosevelt Hotel in Hollywood, trying to play it cool and act like I belong. I’m pretty sure few of the scenesters in this enclave, who all seem skilled in the art of wearing $500 bikinis or talking on their cellphones while swimming, started out their day as I did (eating goat tacos in downtown L.A.), but as long as I keep my mouth from falling open, I figure myself as suave as the next person. “It’s a scene, baby,” as many of the post-ironic hipsters like to say of the schmooze ’n’ booze atmosphere at the Roosevelt. And one thing I notice in the short time I luxuriate in its glow is that few things seem to impress the people making the scene more than somebody bringing in a bag of takeout from some cherished Los Angeles eatery. “Dude, In-N-Out Burger!” “Check it out – Roscoe’s Chicken ’n’ Waffles!” “Whoa! You are our new god!” |
