The restaurant spreads before you, six steps below ground: sawdust floors, lines of people, painted menus and neon beer signs on the walls. The lines--at peak hours there are 10 of them, each up to 20 people long--weave between the tables where scores of others are eating, oblivious to the crush. Pick a line and wait your turn.
When you reach the counter, you don't need to consult the menu on the wall, of course. You've been here before. You make it short and snappy--"Beef, double dip. Coleslaw, blueberry pie, coffee."
For The Record
Los Angeles Times Wednesday, April 23, 2008 Home Edition Main News Part A Page 2 National Desk 1 inches; 41 words Type of Material: Correction
Philippe's: In the Los Angeles Times Magazine's April 6 issue, a caption with an article about Philippe the Original misspelled the last name of a woman who has worked at the restaurant for 38 years. She is Juanita Gonzalez, not Gonzales.
For The Record
Los Angeles Times Sunday, May 04, 2008 Home Edition Los Angeles Times Magazine Part I Page 14 Lat Magazine Desk 1 inches; 21 words Type of Material: Correction
Philippe's: A caption accompanying "The Big Dipper" in the April 6 issue referred to Juanita Gonzales. The correct spelling is Gonzalez.
This is Philippe the Original, an L.A. institution that will be 100 years old in October. It has been serving French dip sandwiches--single-, double- and even triple-dipped--for 90 of those years.
Philippe's (as everybody calls it) is in the heart of old Los Angeles. Union Station is a block away; Olvera Street skitters off to the south. Chinatown is in its backyard. And our town would be a different place without it--not just because Philippe's still manages to be one of our favorite restaurants, serving 2,200 to 3,000 customers a day on weekdays and as many as 4,000 on weekends. ("Last Saturday," says Juanita Gonzalez, who's been making sandwiches here for 20 years, "there were so many people trying to get in, they got stuck at the doors.") No, Philippe's special contribution to this town of feverish change is that it is a rock--decade after decade it seems to be the same restaurant your father or grandfather introduced you to when you were a kid.
As always, a woman in a light tan uniform sets to work putting together your order: scooping slaw, dipping both halves of a French roll in jus with a pair of tongs and assembling your sandwich on a thick, gray pulp-paper plate. She'll use the same tongs to pick up a slice of pie, and she'll get the coffee from a counter behind her.
It takes about a minute and a half. You pay cash, but don't try handing the money to her--she won't touch it. Put your payment on a little metal tray, and someone else will return it with your change. Then you'll wander around with your food and choose a seat. You can grab a stool at one of the long common tables, with lines of customers inching forward on either side of you. But if you don't want somebody's elbow in your coleslaw, continue around to the right--there's a spacious room with more common tables and some booths.
