Downtown LA is a wasteland. Downtown LA is a walkable, exciting place. Downtown LA is a direct portal to Hell. The Last Bookstore is a direct portal to Heaven. Everything you can find elsewhere in Los Angeles you can find in Downtown Los Angeles. Richard Ramirez stayed downtown. Nicolas Cage lives downtown. Everything that is filmed in Downtown Los Angeles is actually supposed to be New York City. I like the older things in downtown Los Angeles. I like The Golden Gopher, where I spent one spectacularly depressing lunch break sipping depression Daiquiris while working the Thanksgiving Dinner shift at the Ace Hotel. I like Cole’s, soon to close for good, where I snuck into the men’s restroom to find that ‘Bukowski Pissed Here’ plaque. I used to like Clifton’s Cafeteria, when it was still hanging on to its original interiors, and original customers, where the cafeteria offerings themselves were cheap but disgusting and the Disneyland inspiring decor always kept me enchanted.
I’ve worked at various places downtown over the years. Downtown is my Tower card, for those who know Tarot. Downtown is never easy but always leads to something better.
My first downtown gig, running a pizza stand known for kooky New York Style pies named after culty characters like Mr. Pink, Tony Clifton, and The Dude, seemed like a natural match. The stand was next door to The Orpheum theater, and would endure outrageous pre-show crowds, hungry and excited, then suffer through post-show crowds, drunk and impatient. Our delivery drivers never showed up to work and our drawers were always suspiciously missing bills. A low point came when a good friend of my ex’s walked up to the counter of the dingy, soulless pizza counter and saw me working there. I’d just moved to LA after leaving that very ex behind in San Francisco, and he saw me there, depressed, but even worse, depressing, serving slices from behind an aging, grubby window. I quit that job after a few months of torture and vowed to never work downtown again.
A year later, I was back. I’d accepted a job at a breakfast counter inside Grand Central Market, a must-see for any tourist, but a must-avoid for anyone looking for a job. The building is loaded with history, slow walkers, annoyed babies, aggressive crackheads, and the borderline alcoholics that work there (One of course, being me). I lived through the 2016 Women’s March that stomped through the market, pussy hats ablaze, the largest crowd I’d ever seen and the longest wait for a restroom I’ve ever pinched through. My nights were spent at Golden Road Brewing or La Cita, drowning my sorrows in beer. I left shortly after that, again vowing to never work in the cursed triangle of suffering known as Downtown Los Angeles.A couple of months went by and, surprise to no one, I found myself back in DTLA. This time, I’d found a real-deal serving job at the restaurant on the ground floor of the Ace Hotel, a gorgeous building right next door to the iconic United Artists Theater. I love old theaters, and this one is especially enticing with its Charlie Chaplin and Mary Pickford lore. I made good money and the disturbances that came with the job were more funny than anything else, like an old couple dining before an Eric Burdon show who invited me to have a threesome, and a junky who ordered three servings of vanilla ice cream, threw them up, then demanded not to be charged since he didn’t technically ingest the food. When I left, I had a somewhat redeemed reverence for downtown, despite having no desire to go back.
Four years later, you guessed it, I found myself back in the area to open a new restaurant. This time it was with a trusted long time employer and a sense of stability. I was no longer the hungover gremlin of yesteryear, I was a grounded adult. I’ve been here for three years, and it’s been the hardest job of my life. Long, grueling days, taxing problem solving, inconsistent staffing. Needless to say, when I’m done with the day, I book it back home.
Every time I crawl on the 110 north, Pasadena bound, I marvel at the futuristic beauty of the Westin Bonaventure Hotel, in all its Blade Runner sensibility. If you haven’t drunkenly traipsed around the conversation pods that line the upper floors, do it now. Sometimes the beast of the city calls out to me, whispering promises of ancient bars and odd old men and inspiration. A few weeks ago, I yielded to it, accepting an invite to see the Murder City Devils at the Regent. I am a lil rocker bitch, afterall. We decided to meet up for pre-show drinks at The Escondite, a lively Chicago-centric bar near skid row famous for selling Malort and for hosting various car and motorcycle shows. People who drink Malort, by the way, are also the kind of people who love the smell of gasoline and black licorice. Real sociopathic types. Either way, while there, I learned about a new bar from the same owners, conveniently located upstairs. I love anything unknown, so I jumped at the chance to check it out.
Uncle Ollie’s Penthouse is a kitsch bitch fever dream. You enter on the side of 414 Boyd Avenue, where, in our case, a delightful bouncer was blasting 80’s Freestyle classics that almost made me want to hang out with her instead of making my way in. Once in, you crawl up a set of stairs and are greeted by a host. They assign you a red solo cup and a name tag, because, “It’s always a house party at Ollie’s”. I love a gimmick, even if it comes with sketchy fluorescent lighting and carpeted stairs. Once inside, you’re greeted with a gigantic lion and dimly lit booths. There’s an entire wall of glass cubes that lead to a dance floor (sadly it was closed when we arrived) but my mind wandered to all of the hedonistic evenings I could spend in such a place.
The owner, a beachy Dave Bautista lookalike, was incredibly sweet to me when I crawled on one of their many eye-catching vintage displays. He flirtatiously showed me the proper way to come atop the horse (face down, ass up) and was schmoozing with most of the patrons. I loved his version of hospitality, a warm invite to make yourself at home, that his bar is a kinetic experience, to be touched and explored. As I walked around the various rooms of the bar, I couldn’t help but look back at the owner’s ripped arms, tattooed and bulging. Arms that I’ve never been held by, nor wish to be held by, but arms that I appreciate in their existence. The environment was warm hearted but teased at debauchery, and the ripple effect was a happy crowd and friendly bartenders. Seating is plentiful, lion based or otherwise, including a cozy nook near a framed print of Burt Reynolds’ Playgirl centerfold. My type of place. I got a margarita that was perfectly sour, sweet, and refreshing and let the tequila enhance my inner childlike curiosity about Uncle Ollie. In all fairness, what downtown lacks in outright charm it makes up for with cool old bars. Why not take a chance on a cool old new bar?
I left happy and buzzed, vowing to come back soon. Who am I? Certainly not the downtown hater that I claim to be, perhaps an imposter of a much more hip city dweller. Maybe I’m turning soft, enjoying life more, or maybe Ollie’s is just that fun.
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