Sawdust Memories

A ride on BART or the Washington Metro during their first few weeks of operation seemed like a glimpse of the future. For a lot of us, the Blue Line is a trip to the past, a ride through the back streets and dusty suburbs of Los Angeles that we never quite see as we whiz south on the 710. (In the late ‘50s, the last remaining Red Cars ran along more or less the same route.)

There are the Watts Towers, free of scaffolding and almost close enough to touch; there are the warehouses and tree-lined streets of Compton and Willowbrook, looking like clean desert towns. The Los Angeles River even seems to have water in it as it courses toward the sea. And the end of the line is only a few blocks from the huge Long Beach used-book store called Acres of Books, always a logical destination.

A suitably nostalgic destination on the Los Angeles end, though several blocks from the present Pico-Flower terminus, might be Cole’s P.E. Buffet. Located below sidewalk level in the old Pacific Electric Terminal (which is where the old Long Beach line ended up), Cole’s is the oldest surviving restaurant around--founded 1908--and something of a shrine to the Red Car. It teems with faded photographs, Mt. Lowe Railway posters, and red-glass Car Barn signs: a theme restaurant before its time.

When you trip down out of the bright sunlight into the dim warren of Cole’s, you stumble into another era, with real Tiffany lamps, sawdust on the floors, and a couple of pickle-nosed guys at the bar who look like they haven’t budged from their stools since 1946. (One bartender says he’s been tending bar here since before Repeal.)

On the wall opposite the bar, a large, framed photograph of the 1906 post-quake ruins of San Francisco is a gleeful souvenir of a time when the L.A.-S.F. rivalry mattered to Angelenos--other than Jack Smith. Three men in Sta-Prest short-sleeved white shirts, like office extras from a Doris Day movie, discuss a fourth man’s affair with his secretary. There’s horseradish and hot mustard on the tables, darts in back rooms and dark Ritterbrau on tap; a sort of romantic, Chandleresque dinginess you won’t find anywhere else in town. This is the land of blood, sweat and beers.

As you stand in line at the buffet, tray in hand, you might think that Cole’s would be a swell place to try meat loaf, or knockwurst and beans, or corned beef and cabbage, or stuffed peppers. It’s not, unless your particular nostalgia extends to the flavor of wet cardboard. (One friend claims to enjoy the Superball texture of Cole’s steam-table home fries, but we’re talking about pathology here, not gastronomy.) Macaroni and cheese is utterly bland; barbecued lamb ribs sweet and insipid. Little cafeteria dishes of salad, from cole slaw and potato salad to pale discs of something green, are uniformly dull.

In fact, if nothing but the steam-table food were available, you’d do just as well eating at the Greyhound Terminal across the street. But Cole’s, where French-dipping was reputedly invented, serves huge, glorious sandwiches, and you’ll lunch as well here as at any counter in town. The sandwiches are even better than Phillippe’s.

When it’s finally your turn, a man in a white apron and a tall white cap takes your order, and dissects, say, a pastrami deftly as a surgeon, flipping the fat to one side and piling lean, sinewy meat onto a French roll. He sogs the top half of the roll in a salty broth, and voila . . . French dip, soft and crisp, rich and meaty, right there on your tray. Sandwiches are also made with freshly roasted turkey, meltingly delicious brisket, and good roast beef and pork. Skip the desserts, Jell-O and sugary pies and such. And get your beer from the bar rather than from the buffet line unless you’d really rather have a glass of Bud.

Cole’s P.E. Buffet, 118 E. Sixth St., downtown, (213) 622-4090. Open Monday-Saturday, 9 a.m.-7 p.m. (bar until 11 p.m.). Full bar. Cash only. Lunch for two, food only, $8-$10.