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The Dining Out Column
by
Harry Buschman
Part 1
Ernie's hardware store is gone, so is Denise's "Buttons and Bows." Our
stationery store is gone ... remember when you could buy stationery in a
stationery
store? Pacelli's shoe store and Shapiro's pharmacy are gone, all gone. Ernie
would fix broken things in the back of his hardware store -- lawn mowers,
shower heads, broken storm doors. Denise could sew a curtain or let out a seam
and
Shapiro could lance a boil.
It was a lot like living in the 17th century.
Then, one by one, the city sized super stores appeared on the horizon. We
called them 'box stores.' Everything they sold came in a box - a box that had
been opened and then taped shut again. They dropped anchor on the outskirts of
Westlake Village and commenced firing.
Stores without pity ... "OPEN TWENTY FOUR HOURS" ... "AIR-CONDITIONED" ....
"FREE COFFEE" ... "WE WILL NOT BE UNDERSOLD" ... "BUY ONE GET ONE FREE." Ernie
and Denise went down in the first volley, Shapiro in the second. The battle left a vacuum in the village, and since nature and real estate agents abhor
vacuums, the empty stores have been reoccupied.
Old Dick Donahue and I take the two mile walk up and down Westwood Avenue
occasionally and we take note of what's new. He's "Old" Dick now. He was known
as
"Big" Dick while his son, "Little" Dick, lived at home. With sophistication
at such a low ebb in Westlake Village it isn't surprising the super stores had
their way with us.
"That's new," said Old Dick, "what's an Industrial Winding Company?"
"Beats me," I replied. If you looked through the open door you could see
sparks flying inside. "Maybe they make sparks. You in the market for sparks,
Dick?"
He had a pad and pencil with him and he mumbled as he wrote the address down,
"352 Westwood -- Industrial Winding Company."
"This seems to be important to you, Dick." I remarked.
"I'm gonna write down all the new stores along Westwood Avenue ... I know, I
know ... so what, who cares! Well I sure do if you don't. This neighborhood's
changing -- used to be that the people who lived here, made their living here."
I am patient with Old Dick because he represents a part of my life that is
very dear to me. As two old widowers we are part of the wrack that has been
washed up on this desolate strand of suburbia. He thinks he is a living part of
the change, and I admire him for that. It's my belief that these things happened
long ago, and while we raised our families and dozed our lives away, progress
ran over us like a road grader. Now we walk through Westlake Village like the
punch drunk casualties of a vast natural disaster. We gawk at the devastation
like the survivors of a tornado or an earthquake.
On and on we went, up and down Westwood Avenue. "Schlecter, a Full Service
Company," "Norman J. Wheaton, Packaging Supplies," "International Brokerage."
Surveillance cameras tracked us as we walked. I felt like an intruder in my own
town.
"Had enough, Dick? ... let's go home, okay?"
We did the back mile and headed for home. Dick seemed to be holding something
inside him, and as we broke off for the day he finally let it out and said,
"There were six restaurants, imagine that! Who the hell eats here? When was the
last time you ate in a restaurant on Westwood Avenue?"
"I think you've had a full day Dick. I've never had a meal on Westwood
Avenue. Neither have you. The restaurants are not for us they're for them, the
Schlecters, the Wheatons, they have lunch here."
"On top of that there's two delis," he added, "the competition must be
fierce." A conspiratorial look narrowed his eyes ... he was beginning to
frighten
me. "I'm going to speak to Lucas Crosby."
I guess I don't catch on to things as quickly as I used to. Old Dick was just
getting warmed up and I was ready for my afternoon nap. I couldn't see how
Lucas Crosby had anything to do with six restaurants and two delis. Lucas is the
publisher of the world's most unnecessary newspaper; our very own Westlake
Village "Guardian."
"Don't you get it, dimwit," he nudged me, "A dining out column -- you and me
could eat free for the rest of our lives." He looked both ways and lowered his
voice. "Look, I ain't so good with words, but you got the kiss of the poet in
you, see. You know what these restaurants will do for a good review in the
Guardian? Anything, that's what! The restaurant business is the most competitive
industry in the world. One bad review ... just one ... it's curtains."
Lucas has his print shop down by the railroad station. He does wedding
invitations, flyers and newsletters, but his main source of income comes from
the
advertising in the semi-monthly "Westlake Village Guardian." You won't find
much news in the Guardian -- local break-ins from the police blotter, an up-date
on the bridge over Northern State Parkway, (which is taking longer to build
than the Great Pyramid of Gizeh) and high school sports. But! and it's a big but
-- there is lots and lots of advertising. Advertising in the Guardian has put
Lucas's three sons through Princeton.
I have never been kissed by a poet, but Old Dick Donahue has certainly been
hit in the mouth with the Blarney Stone. It took him a week to do it, but Old
Dick finally got Lucas to agree to give up half a page of advertising. There
was one caveat -- one I am sure that will forever keep us from achieving an
honored niche in the fourth estate's Hall-Of-Fame. "Don't say nothin' bad about
nobody." Actually, what Lucas said was, "I don't shit where I eat, and neither
do you, okay?" He can be blunt at times. I came up with the name; "High On the
Hog," it was the best I could do under the circumstances.
We have been successful on the whole. I've gained nearly fifteen pounds, and
Old Dick over thirty. There were times in the beginning when I found it
dishonest to wax enthusiastic about some of the things Dick and I forced
ourselves
to swallow. Our requests to interview the chef were frequently laughed at or
ignored. Holding the wine to the light often revealed the swirls you see in
vinegar gone bad, and the sauces, (mostly Worcestershire and ketchup) did not
stand close investigation.
We are now into our third round of contesting restaurants for "High On the
Hog." Old Dick and I are fully aware that each of them are outdoing themselves
to gain our approval. It is amazing to both of us how they have improved since
our earlier visits, but should the few remaining residents of Westlake Village
venture to eat in any of them they will find slimmer pickings than we have.
Nothing like the fabulous dining experience we enjoy to the fullest every day.
The power of the press can not be overestimated.
©Harry Buschman 1997
(1190)
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