When I was a teen, most summers I got to spend some days working at my dad’s L.A. office. One evening on the drive home, Dad started acting strangely. He said that the car was inexplicably pulling off the freeway. I was old enough to know he was fooling, especially when the car made a perfect left turn under the freeway, but I had no idea why Dad was doing this, especially in this part of the San Fernando Valley. The air reeked of grains and hops from an enormous Anheuser-Busch brewery as we pulled in to a ratty-looking burger joint.
I had never been here before. There were painted picnic benches outside on a covered patio. Inside there was a “condiments bar” featuring only napkins and hot peppers. The place seemed unkempt and Spartan. Why on earth did Dad, um I mean the Le Sabre bring us here? We typically ate dinner at home with the family and in dress shirts and ties we appeared grossly overdressed.
We got in line and Dad asked what I was having. A large menu board showed four different kinds of burgers, the only variation being the number of patties you wanted. Cheese optional. All versions came loaded with chili, which Dad said was not optional. I mean, it probably was but he said I had to get the chili. This was turning out to be a strange evening.
The place had a traditional American name (Tommy’s) but the cashier and cooks were all Latinos and they worked fast. As soon as the cashier handed change to the patron ahead of us, he bellowed “Nes pleez!” We quickly stepped up and ordered a pair of doubles. The cashier repeated the order to his amigo at the grill/chili vat and quickly made change. Almost simultaneously we received the change and our food, in a small brown box. The chili-oozing burgers looked kind of gross but the smell was rather enticing.
We found a seat on the patio and began working on our meal. In short, it was the best burger I’d ever tasted. Nothing really 
Despite the fact that it was 20 miles from home, I returned countless times with friends, siblings, dates, and even youth groups en route to the LA temple. We even stopped there on the way home from the airport after I had been gone on my mission for two years in South America. (p.s. after flying 30,000 sleepless and anxiety-ridden miles through the night, Tommy’s loses some of its charm.) I could tell many Tommy’s stories. That Tommy’s restaurant changed over the years (i.e.; indoor seating) but the experience was largely the same.
On my last trip to California my parents again treated me to Tommy’s, but this time at a new locale. There is now a Tommy’s in Simi Valley almost a literal stone’s throw from our old house. It was still as tasty as ever but it was different. The place was neat and comely. The cashier, Miles, asked to “take my order” and asked if I wanted the combo meal. Hot n’ Spicy or Lite? Just kidding about that part, but we did have to wait seven minutes to get our meal. But it was still Tommy’s and the tasty burger brought back so many rich memories.
I’m really glad the Buick made that choice so long ago.
2 comments:
we patonized the Simi Tommy's on our way to Sam's Eagle Court when we were out for Thansgiving. There are two requirements for every trip back to California: Mother Ocean and Tommy's.
Amen to your post and to Stephen's comment. For those who have not had the joy of a Tommy's burger, they just don't understand.
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