7th STREET BUMPKINS

Pie in the face to J. Elfmont! (Calendar Letters, Jan. 4).

About a year ago, we--two friends somewhat past our salad days, but still mainstreaming--decided to see for ourselves what the Calendar-and-Gourmet -praised 7th Street Bistro had to offer.

As we entered, Venus as hostess finally noticed us as we were practically invisible in all the emptiness around us.

“Yes?” she queried. I checked behind me to see if a turnip had followed me in, since her look suggested there was a load of them in the vicinity. No Gucci bags--but hey, we weren’t wearing polyester pantsuits either.

“Lunch?” we inquired. After a long review of a paper on her appointment dais, she consulted a formally suited gent to her right who refused to even look at us.

He must have given consent. Who could tell? He didn’t move his lips. We were shown a table in the rear. Facing a dark gray wall, I think.

No, we didn’t have reservations. However, at high noon in this hallowed place--nary a reservation ticket on a table nor a vast array of diners either.

Forget the food. With this kind of welcome, and “comfortable ease,” who could eat?

Bumpkins of the Midwest and Peoria insurance salesmen--unite! Seventh Street and Torrance today--tomorrow the world!

L. MOORE

Covina