The late Friday afternoon sun beats down on the black asphalt parking lot. Exchanging maps and traffic tips, bike messengers gather around wrought-iron tables. I sip my Frappucino on the outdoor patio, trying to avoid the cigarette smoke floating over from a man nearby, though his smoke is preferable to the toxic emissions spitting from the neighboring drive-thru line.
There is an odd mix of clientele at this shared seating area, with tables for the Starbucks patrons out to enjoy the summer sun, as well as Bob’s Big Boy clients. This quintessentially ‘50s burger joint is famed throughout Southern California, along with its namesake Bob (who appears as Dr. Evil’s iconic getaway ship in Austin Powers).
Reading the LA Weekly’s feature “Best 100 restaurants in L.A.,” I look up every now and then, take a sip of coffee, and notice that three or four old cars are parked in the lot in front of Big Boy’s.
“Vroom, vroom, vrrrrr.” The revving of a car engine draws my attention once again to the lot, where a minivan is pulling out of a space and a little yellow ‘60s car is filling its place. A college-aged girl emerges from the driver’s seat and circles around to the back, where she pops the trunk, finds a rag and walks around the car, wiping down every window. She gets a bag from the front seat and approaches the outdoor seating area, where she sits down at a neighboring table and begins reading a textbook.
A man of the girl’s acquaintance in his mid-fifties takes a seat across the table and asks where her parents are. Looking up from the book, she responds that they are coming later, so she brought the car. Silence falls over the pair as she resumes reading and he fixes his gaze on the parking lot that continues to empty of Toyotas, Jeeps and Hondas with each slot replaced by some brightly colored, gleaming muscle car, each aiming to outshine the latest arrival.
I am startled from my light reading by a loud roaring laugh coming from the parking lot. Looking up I see three men in their early sixties, wearing shorts, tall white socks and baseball caps entertaining themselves around one of the parked cars. Booming voices bounce off of every sign, every car and the walls of Bob’s and Starbucks, adding to the constant hum of the vintage engines. One man walks over to a parked green convertible, reaches over the side and blasts the radio with an oldies station.
A few men pull green canvas camping chairs out of their trunks and approach the outdoor seating area, where the bike messengers have disappeared, the burgeoning writers with laptops have packed up for the afternoon, and I sit-an isolated Starbucks customer, now surrounded by a sea of vintage car aficionados. A few feet beyond me towards the Bob’s side of the patio, some men set up camp, and begin their exchange of light, convivial jabber, making jokes and telling stories that suggest bonds of existing friendship.
At the moment when they should have pulled cans of Bud out of padded coolers, one or two of the men stand up and, to my surprise, head toward Starbucks. A few minutes later, a few of them emerge holding their very own Starbucks Frappucinos. They take their seats and continue to enjoy the company of their kinsmen in car love.
The production assistants who frequent this Starbucks in Burbank, a half a mile from Warner Brothers Studio and ABC, have finished their daily coffee runs by now, with their eight beverages in each hand. It is another Friday afternoon in Los Angeles-some gentlemen enjoying their cars, coffee and company, and I have just been informed of the 100 best places to eat in the city.
