Tam O’Shanter

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Mourning the loss of The Pantry

We all want to live a long life.  However, if we live long enough, we will end up outliving things that bring us joy such as our favorite restaurants.

Case in point, the Original Pantry Café in downtown Los Angeles which survived over a century before closing last week.

Former Los Angeles Mayor Richard Riordan who died in 2023 loved the restaurant he owned so much that in 1985 he made sure that the air space above the one-story structure (where it moved to in 1950) would be protected from development.

Those managing his trust which benefits several charities want to maximize the wealth of its portfolio by selling the restaurant at the intersection of 9th and Figueroa to generate more revenue.

I will miss the grilled sourdough toast, the overflowing plate of crunchy-on-top potatoes and the bottomless mug of joe.   All of that could be resurrected if a new location could be found, but what will forever be lost will be the physical space which remained unchanged for 75 years as well as the employees, some of whom had decades of experience.

The décor remained constant:  high-back wooden chairs, white Formica tables with condiments, huge menu boards adorning the walls, and the line of people outside, always a line, wrapping down its 9th Street side as if hugging an old friend. 

As everyone patiently waited for one of the waiters to step outside to call the next customer, it was easy talking to strangers in front or in back of you, one of the few downtown places where pleasantries were exchanged; it made everyone feel connected to our common city.

There were two doors guarding the interior:  one for entering and the other for exiting.  In order to leave, the traffic flow led customers to a small enclosure (like an old bank) where the cashier sat on a stool.  Your belly was full and life was good.

That small corner piece of real estate created countless memories for those of us who frequented it as one of the few eateries open 24 hours (until the Pandemic), a beacon for night owls like my friends who would head over there following a 10:00 p.m. movie at the Grauman’s Chinese Theater, or a 4:00 a.m. breakfast after staying up all night.  In either case, it was the perfect L.A. nightcap. 

I was a teenager when I “discovered” The Pantry, always ordering breakfast. When all the other restaurants in the L.A. area were closed, you could always count on getting something good to eat at the Pantry and feel blanketed by its history.  

When I last went to The Pantry months ago it was celebrating its centennial.  I purchased a new Pantry mug since the logo on my one at home had long ago vanished.  Now that the Pantry has vanished, I cling to the new mug I have, a reminder of good times.

Angelenos are familiar with the heartbreak of iconic restaurant closures, most notably the Pacific Dining Car (1921-2020).  We still have century-old establishments such as Cole’s (1908), Philippe’s (1908), Musso and Frank’s (1919), Tam O’Shanter (1922), and El Cholo (1923). That’s why it behooves us all to keep returning to them while they remain.

When a business lasts for over 100 years in Los Angeles it is a miracle.  And now we have one less miracle in our lives.

The Pantry was THE diner of Los Angeles, a “welcome to L.A.” ambassador that lasted through 17 U.S. Presidents.  It nourished us not only with comfort food, but history of the city.  People need places like these to nourish one’s soul.  Like a friend who passes away, it’s painful knowing that you can never go back to it again.

Leave a comment Posted on journalism, Public Education, public school, student newspaper, students, teachers, teaching

Saying Goodbye at the end of the School Year is Never Easy

Each June I struggle finding the right departing remarks to say to my studentsas the class runs its course (pun intended).

It’s my last chance to hold their attention and leave a lasting impression with them of sage advice.

I fail every year.

How can one encapsulate the meaning of the yearlong learning experience?

I know that the secondary teacher does not have as hard a time emotionally as the elementary teacher in saying goodbye.

In grammar school, a teacher accumulates 180 days of 6 hours each for a total teaching time of 1,080 hours—accounting for a lot of bonding—while upper grade teachers spend only 17% as much time with their pupils. No wonder why people tend to remember a beloved third grade teacher more than an algebra teacher; one is more like a parent while the other an uncle that visits on holidays.

Still, I wish I could stop the clock and hold on to each class a little while longer.

But part of the education business is saying “hello” in August and “goodbye” in June.

For me, saying final farewells to my journalism students is the toughest for these young people have been with me for two to three years, spending their lunchtimes and evenings in room 11202, forging friendships with fellow dedicated kids who recognize at an early age the benefits of a group of people working hard together to produce a publication.

When I first took on the journalism job during my fourth year of teaching, I realized how remarkable it was to work so closely with young people on the school newspaper, finishing it long into the night, then driving the individually cut and pasted 11×17 rubber cemented pages to the print shop. (Now we electronically send the files—faster, but not as fun.)

When that 1993-94 year wound down, I could not imagine having those 18 kids vanish without commemorating and celebrating the work that was accomplished.

So we all agreed to have breakfast at Musso & Frank’s in Hollywood, a special restaurant in order to reflect that special year so that we all could be together one last time.

Thus was born what has now become an annual end of the year tradition, the journalism banquet.

After eating, I suggested a walk along Hollywood Boulevard. Only a couple of students had ever been to Hollywood so many were giddy about seeing in person the Walk of Fame, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre with its forecourt of handprints and footprints in cement, and other famous sights.

As the staff grew to 70 students within a few years, we had to change the venue to eating establishments with private banquet rooms since students would make speeches which extended the event past two hours. Over the years, we have held journalism banquets at the Smoke House, the Tam O’Shanter, and most recently Brookside Golf Club.

Of all the memorable speeches journalism students have given, I will never forget one by a young lady who as feature editor did little work, leaning on others to layout her pages. Yet when it came time to thank everyone, she turned to me and tearfully said how grateful she was for my support during her darkest days, looking up to me as a “second father.” Her kind words touched me more than any spoken by any other student in my career.

It is often said among educators that a teacher will never know with certainty the impact he makes on young people.   This student reminded me of that saying. And that the best way for a teacher to say “goodbye” is to let a student speak on his behalf.