Bill Fischler

Day breaks on this reach of beach to the scuffing of joggers and rummaging of the homeless. Later, Bill Fischler shoves open the flaking door of tattered Patrick's Roadhouse and at 7:58 a.m., morning becomes official. A jukebox that played in Ricky Nelson's den shuffles through a mongrel collection of 45s from "La Boheme" to Kid Ory and stops at Billy Eckstein. Fischler sings through an open window to deserted sand and his is a dreadful falsetto with a vibrato trapped in 72-year-old pipes.

Patrick's Roadhouse, a shamrock-adorned institution on Entrada Drive near Pacific Coast Highway, is the kind of neighborhood joint that names omelets for its best customers -- and not just the famous ones like Arnold Schwarzenegger, whose scrambled eggs with the works was dubbed the Governator Special. Mark Fishman, a licensed acupuncturist and thrice-weekly regular, got to design a "Dr. Mark" concoction for the menu: eggs with sauteed spinach, mushrooms, onions, red bell peppers, Swiss cheese and house salsa on the side, assuming one knows to ask for the condiment.

Patrick's Roadhouse, a shamrock-adorned institution on Entrada Drive near Pacific Coast Highway, is the kind of neighborhood joint that names omelets for its best customers -- and not just the famous ones like Arnold Schwarzenegger, whose scrambled eggs with the works was dubbed the Governator Special. Mark Fishman, a licensed acupuncturist and thrice-weekly regular, got to design a "Dr. Mark" concoction for the menu: eggs with sauteed spinach, mushrooms, onions, red bell peppers, Swiss cheese and house salsa on the side, assuming one knows to ask for the condiment.

Day breaks on this reach of beach to the scuffing of joggers and rummaging of the homeless. Later, Bill Fischler shoves open the flaking door of tattered Patrick's Roadhouse and at 7:58 a.m., morning becomes official. A jukebox that played in Ricky Nelson's den shuffles through a mongrel collection of 45s from "La Boheme" to Kid Ory and stops at Billy Eckstein. Fischler sings through an open window to deserted sand and his is a dreadful falsetto with a vibrato trapped in 72-year-old pipes.

The paint that covers Patrick's Roadhouse borders on the unappetizing -- think soggy yellow-green algae in a tidal pool. But Bill Fischler knew what he was doing when he chose the color in the early 1970s for his new eatery. The eye-assaulting hue helped turn an otherwise lackluster building into one of the most recognizable landmarks on Pacific Coast Highway, and, with Fischler as alchemist, green became golden.

Bill Fischler describes his establishment as "a poor man's J. Paul Getty Museum." The outside is bright green, with white block letters spelling out "Patrick's Roadhouse" over a banner of shamrocks. In a second-floor window, a mannequin beckons to those driving along Pacific Coast Highway. Supposedly, Fischler designed the interior of the Santa Monica restaurant.

I went to see the movie to be reminded and maybe amused by "Hope and Glory" . . . and I saw Johnny Staines, Neil Pannell, Pete Burbidge, Geoff Hillsdon, Terry Silver, all the cheeky little sods of my hopeful and glorious boyhood in London during World War II. Writer/producer/director John Boorman also was a kid in splintered, rationed, wartime England. That's what makes his movie such a super replica.

If there's one place like home, it's the hangout. Where pork chops come with crackling and fries were potatoes only 10 minutes ago. Home. That's the Pantry on Figueroa. A thorough, devoted, morning-after-the-night-before hangout comes with ale, honest laughs, old friends and no lonely hearts. That's front parlor. That's the King's Head pub in Santa Monica. Waiters who fuss like grandparents and booths that haven't budged since 1936. Familiarity breeds contentment. Family.

Those who do not live in Los Angeles seem to know only the worst of our city. She is frippery and Frisbees, they say, palimony and the Polo Lounge. We are parents between common-law partners with a monopoly on criminal madness from the Black Dahlia to the Billionaire Boys Club. We remain victimized by commentators who pick, pick, pick at our wackiness, our smog, our former governor, until that's all anybody in Zagreb knows about Los Angeles. We who live in Los Angeles know the best of our city.