Another 6:00 a.m. flight from Chicago to Los Angeles. Making this flight usually entails waking up around 4:00 a.m. and fumbling quietly in the darkness so as to not wake Emily or Scarlet (who have on occasion described me as “noisy”). I am fairly adept at this drill as I probably take this flight every couple of weeks. It appears that I will be making it much more often for reasons that will become clear in the not-too-distant future. My wardrobe for this adventure is almost always the same: jeans, slip-on Vans (great for making it through security), a t-shirt (short or long sleeve depending on the season) and a jacket (when seasonally appropriate). This, one could argue, is where my luck begins. You will notice I am not putting on a tuxedo (although recent commentary on our removal of the 20 oz. drink from our menus in Chicago labeled me “elitist”, which implies a monocle, top hat and perhaps an FDR-like cigarette holder) or a suit or even the uniform of so-called “relaxed” employers (khakis and a golf shirt… oh my!).

That’s right ladies and gents, the clownish, fighting – middle – age – with – every – breath, incongruously – t-shirt – and – sneakers – wearing – while – reading – the – Times – business – section guy next to you is me. Thank god. I will admit that at some distant point in history, I had hoped to be one of those guys wearing a suit on his way to some important meeting. But thankfully, I flubbed the LSAT and realized that I was not going to be a lawyer (at least not the kind I wanted to be). In hindsight, I am glad it went down that way as I now view lawyers as a necessary evil (my apologies to the lawyers that we currently employ) as they tangle with the insurance folks and the ever-daring bankers (excepting our current banker who I really happen to think is great) for a spot in one of the lower circles of Hell.

After flubbing the test, I had one real job in sales for a large company. I did well but did not enjoy it very much and lasted ten months. After this experience, I launched head-long into entrepreneurialism by starting a bottled iced tea company with a friend (which tanked after four years), worked for a couple of coffee roasters in their retail stores (Peet’s and the now-defunct-in-the-U.S. Spinelli) and then, after coming to my senses, or maybe forgetting about them, I moved from San Francisco to Chicago to launch Intelligentsia with my wife. Much to my amazement and after so many close calls, we are still around and are finally getting things shored up in a way I really hadn’t thought would be possible. Upon leaving California, I felt a little beaten, and I think Em did too, like we had let ourselves down, but we swore that someday we’d be back in some form. With a thriving coffeebar in Silver Lake, a Los Angeles Roasting Works and another coffeebar there on its way, I guess we’re back in the state.

So why “lucky”? Well, it goes like this: I am lucky to still be married to Emily (undoubtedly the most clever and most beautiful woman in the room) after all of the strains we’ve encountered; lucky to have parents (believe it or not their names are Don and Daisy) that never doubted this was possible (even after losing their investment in my first business misadventure); lucky to have Scarlet (my now six-year-old daughter who reminds me that every day should be an adventure attacked with gusto); lucky to have found coffee; lucky to work everyday with some of the smartest (certainly smarter than me), most creative, nicest, hardest working folks you’ll ever meet; lucky to have dodged so many bullets in this business; lucky to have found people that believe in what we do; and lucky to not have to put on a suit to go to go to work every day in some faceless place that gets to make no relevant difference each day. I guess that all-in-all it’s not too bad, 6:00 a.m. flights not withstanding.

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.