Horses on Sunset
Look Horses: Part V
Look Horses: Some Equine Histories of Los Angeles is a multi-part series both about horses in the Southland and not. This is part five.
The pebbled glass door panel is lettered in flaked black paint: “Philip Marlowe . . . Investigations.” It is a reasonably shabby door at the end of a reasonably shabby corridor in the sort of building that was new about the year the all-tile bathroom became the basis of civilization. The door is locked, but next to it is another door with the same legend which is not locked. Come on in—there’s nobody in here but me and the hottest and most chaotic newsletter about horses.1 But not if you’re from Los Angeles Magazine.
It was one of those quick, bright summer afternoons we get in the late spring in California before the high heat settles in. The rains are over. The hills are still green and in the valley across the Hollywood Hills you can see snow on the mountains. All around town the jacaranda trees are beginning to drop their flowers and decompose, their honeyed musk seeping into the pavement. Everyone and everything is an edge, but not on one. Not yet.
When she dropped into my office, nearly dropping into my lap, she was all mascara-teared and hopeless. Something about a missing brother. Out doing who knows what with who knows who and definitely up to no good. Some bad debt following him around town, she said. Around some place called Horses.
In my day, it was Ye Coach & Horses. A British pub, one of those classic Hollywood joints, frequented by Hitchcock and later by Tarantino. It closed after seventy years when the landlord raised the rent. When Horses opened in the space, the papers called it an exquisite creature and praised the Continental-Caifornia menu.2 They say it’s a modern Hollywood institution.
“He likes it there. That’s his spot. Do you know it, Mr. Marlowe?”
I told her I did, vaguely. Been there once, not my scene. But it was a scene, scene. And then there was the whole trouble with the cats… But a job is a job.
After a night that went sideways, I found myself at Horses in the morning hours. Professionally, I’m here to see if anyone knows anything about this missing brother, but personally, I need a drink. You’re not human today, Marlowe.
You could know Hollywood for a long time without knowing the stretch of Sunset Boulevard between Stanley and Curson, but you can’t miss the electric blue facade of Horses. The door was open, so I crept in easy as the morning light.
The waiter sat me at a little two-top in the middle of the dining room with a yellow booth along the wall. My first order of business was a Bloody Mary. Days like today, you need something with a kick, a drink more horseradish than anything. I could have sustained on the gherkin, pickled onion, and olive garnish, but the waiter was sweet in a studied way, like he might talk if I sat here long enough.
The light is soft through the painted, angled skylights. It avoids the dark wood paneling and spills out across the checkered floor like a jammy egg.
It’s the first heat wave of the year, and that’s all anyone can talk about. The mornings are gray, but hot, the whole city has trouble waking up as the days proceed to get hotter. It’s a heat that pretends it's happy to see you, but doesn’t care if you’re alive or dead. It just keeps on burning.
So we dread it. The growing sweat beads down the forehead make everyone nervous. It’s cool enough in here until a pan comes crashing down in the kitchen. Heads turn but stay silent. I nearly jumped out of my seat. Should have ordered coffee to straighten out my nerves. Or send them straight to hell, one or the other.
I order a celery heart salad intending to add it to my Bloody Mary, but it arrives heaping with avocado, green apple, Thai basil, and generously shaved English cheddar.
“This is an old favorite that we just put back on the menu,” the waiter tells me. He’s an innocent soul, the kind who’d pay to play at the Viper Room.
The citrus in the salad combined with the cheddar in an emulsion light and rich, creamy and acidic. Deserves a second Bloody Mary.
The dining room starts to fill up. Musicians settle into booths wearing camouflage hats and orange Crocs, discussing the latest in hyperpop and harsh noise. A group of former Pinterest girlies and Huntington Beach mimosa moms are singing “Happy Birthday” across a banquet table. At the bar, two middle-aged podcasters pivot to video. The neighborhood Cryptobro has his usual. No sign of our missing brother.
I figure I’ll be here awhile, so I ordered a sandwich and a side of pancakes. Brunch is an expense that will be paid.
The Croque Madame was served open-faced on a silver platter, with a runny egg and ham slathered in mustard and crusted with béchamel. The fried sage made me feel like I had a little extra money in my pocket. You’re a king for a day, Marlowe. King for a day.
There’s a flash of blonde in the corner of my eye. A shock of straw like the photograph she showed me. Around the corner, the blonde turns through the cutout window at the bar. No little brother here. Just another aging surfer, farther away from the beach with every passing year.
The pancakes are thin enough to bend but not break, topped with finely granulated sugar and served with a lemon wedge, butter so rich it may as well be mascarpone, and maple syrup. It’s as close to heaven as you can get in this weather.
The door opens, brighter light filters in, and another group crowds the host’s desk. Not dressed for the weather. Must be tourists looking for hats. The lunch crowd shuffles in for something stronger. The Kacper Abolik paintings throughout the restaurant begin to laugh with timeless irreverence.
Still no sign of this missing brother. But if he’s had the pancakes, he’ll be back.
So will I.
The cover illustration in this edition of Look Horses is by Adam Abada.
Signs and storefronts obsessively assault Adam Abada. Buildings hurl corrugated iron siding, weather-worn woodgrain panels, and patina-laden blow-mold imagery at him faster than a flipped corner mart’s awning removal. The only agent soothing enough to cease the incessant flow of edificial community is ink. Ink put to paper in speeds fast enough to ebb the tide, in hopes that his pictorial representation of this endless flow of architectural anthropology in some way reflects the humanity held within.
You can find more of his work on Instagram @adamabadaart.
Tidbits won’t always be about horses. We expect Look Horses will wrap by the end of July. Follow us on Instagram @tidbits.la for the latest announcements, additional wanderings, and the things that fall in between.