In the aftermath of the Intelligentsia Los Angeles holiday party, I looked at some other possibilities for our next Los Angeles coffeebar on what can only be described as a dumbass why-did-I-drink-that-2nd-glass-of-rye- so-I-could-feel-like-I-am-bleeding-out-of-my-eyes-hangover. After a mild debate (which inevitably occurs if you are being shuttled around by our very own James Marcotte, resident foodie and raconteur), we decided to head to Langer’s, the only James Beard award-winning deli in this here great United States of America.

Langer’s is located (and has been for over sixty years) adjacent to MacArthur Park, an area that is now chock-full of fake ID stores; barbershops advertising fades, flattops, and custom scalp art; and streets lined with tough looking cholos and black eye-linered cholas with whom long-term eye contact is not highly recommended if your goal is to make it to your destination unscathed. Following this protocol closely, James and I arrived safely in the confines of Langer’s to be greeted by the warming smells of matzo ball soup, briny pickles, pastrami and corned beef. My grandmas, Gersten (German, out of Berlin) and Zell (Russian, out of Minsk), respectively tried to offer this kind of fare in their kitchens, but it ended up slightly heavy-handed but prepared with love in the first case and dry, salty, and flavorless in the second.

Anyway, back to Langer’s. The décor is trapped somewhere between the 60’s and 70’s and not in any sort of intentional, ironic, hipster diner sort of way; I just don’t think it has been updated since then. That said, it is tidy and well-kempt. A bit about the service: It is always top-notch. Not in a “you need to wear a jacket for dinner” sort of way, but more in a “Mom is happy to see you for lunch, before you were a jerky teenager” kind of way. I guess what I mean is that it is always stunningly accommodating and genuinely friendly, as if the folks working here actually enjoy it. Take a look at the guys working the grill and you notice that even they look like their having a good time. Weird, huh? So how does this manifest itself in the food?

In a word, remarkable. James, feeling a bit queasy from the reverie of the night before and (in his words) “a sandwich I slept on all night”, soothed himself with some matzo ball soup, took a bite of the legendary #19 on the menu (Pastrami with Swiss Cheese, Russian Dressing, and Coleslaw) and seemed to have spontaneously regained his appetite. I, on the other hand, had no trouble polishing off a bowl of matzo ball soup, at least four marvelous pickles and an absolutely mouth-watering turkey Rueben. I have eaten at Langer’s many times and James only twice, but we both agreed that it has been astonishingly good on each visit. At some point in time, the owner must have made a conscious choice to use only the best ingredients, treat the staff well, and build a place that could last. I can’t think of many restaurants that have continuously operated for sixty years and still have the same vigor and love for what they do in their sixtieth year as they did in their first.

After we gained about two pounds each, and after I purchased a t-shirt that said “When in doubt…eat Langer’s HOT pastrami”, we walked back to our car completely full and happy. We agreed that what we had just eaten was perfect in every way (avoiding the obvious artery clogging concerns) and James said cheerfully, “Maybe next time I’ll try something different.”

I responded, “Why would you do that? How could it have been any better?”

“I guess you’re right.”

We drove off into a rare rainy day in Los Angeles.

I’m on a plane headed to Los Angeles for Intelligentsia’s holiday party for our West Coast crew. If anyone sees this in time, you are certainly invited to attend the festivities. We’ll be at the York, a nice pub with a solid beer selection and tasty food in Highland Park (a Los Angeles neighborhood) starting at 8:00 P.M.

In Chicago the temperature may barely break into the double digits today. I know it’s raining in LA, but I think it is still supposed to reach the 60s, so I have no good reason to complain.

After only five months, our coffeebar in Los Angeles is thriving, which helps to reduce some of the sting of the long delays and the expense of the build-out. It looks like our West Coast Roasting Works will be permitted, functional, and all pretty some time in February, various Los Angeles County and City Departments willing. (Readers, please rub your lucky rabbit’s foot and pick a four leaf clover, if nearby.) For those of you that attended our party during SCAA, you saw the precursor to what will be a great training center and cupping lab, although based on the state many of you were in during that party, you may not remember.

The Roasting and Quality Assurance crew is chomping at the bit to finally roast some coffee, and we are eager to give tours to the public and to host our Espresso Enthusiast classes, Barista Training classes, and Meet the Grower visits there. Oh, and of course you must visit our coffee-packing-only room. We HAD to build this room smack dab in the middle of the space, thereby reducing the useable section of the warehouse in about half. We built it, at very little expense (please note more than just a little sarcasm here), because Los Angeles County demanded it before we could receive approval to roast and package coffee. The City of Angles, I mean Angels is notorious for delaying the opening of most any food-related venue be it a roasting facility, coffeebar or restaurant. Ask anyone here who has tried to open one.

Oh, on another note, I look forward to the upcoming Barista competition season. It should be a good one.

I’m going to try to get the posts out more often…time permitting.

Strange that I would think of this as I am rumbling along on the South Shore train line, from Chicago around the bottom of now icy Lake Michigan, heading to pick up my ’84 Landcruiser after some bodywork to clean up its rust. It’s a cold, dark Chicago winter morning. The train lurches along the backside of the Southside, and through smudgy, road-salt-encrusted train windows, the city emanates a melancholy beauty. It may help that I am listening to Wilco’s “Yankee Hotel Foxtrot”, which adds texture to an industrial landscape that seems to be alive, emitting steam with each warming breath.

Luxury, like much else, is being commoditized in the world of consumables. Leather seats in cars are becoming more standard and we wouldn’t dream of not having power windows. Almost all of us can afford to by something fluffy and fleecy, probably made in a country with a very low labor cost, at Target to keep us warm as we watch a football game (“gridiron” to my overseas reader(s)) on our new flat-screen, high-definition TV’s.

That said, the luxury I most relish is the one that seems to be the hardest to find, that of time. Peaceful, reflective opportunities that are stolen on planes, on the road to somewhere/nowhere, or on a train ride like this, in the morning before everyone else in my house is awake…enjoying a great cup of coffee. Here is to a luxurious 2008.

Oh, and Nick Cho, I think you owe me a glass of Bourbon; this is my 8th 9th post. Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve, 20 years old should do just fine.