Here or to Go? : MTA Tunneling May Push Owners of Once-Popular Phil’s to Retire
Inside Phil’s Diner, it’s like the Big One has hit.
The ground rumbles. Dust blows in great sheets, coating windows. And the empty stools make it appear as though the throngs of customers who used to pack the place are huddled out of sight, waiting for the shaking to stop before returning to their steak and eggs.
But owners Charles and Wendy Hong know all too well the source of this largely man-made disaster.
Tunneling for the MTA’s Red Line has further isolated the 1920s-era diner from modern life, and threatens to bury it completely. Construction trucks create the rumbling. A neighboring tower of dirt feeds the dust clouds. Combined with the frequent closures of Chandler Boulevard near Lankershim Boulevard, fallout from the subway project is keeping away passers-by.
Plenty of businesses have suffered during the subway construction, but few have absorbed more of a blow than Phil’s. Work on this portion of the subway is expected to continue until 2000.
Unfortunately, the Korean couple say they may have reached the end of the line. If business doesn’t improve by November, Charles Hong says he will exercise an option to break his lease.
“I can’t move it,” he said during a recent lunch rush, which consisted of a handful of customers. “I’m too old for that. I tried to sell, but nobody is interested.”
Looking at the homespun, 14-seat diner--decorated with vintage Coke bottles and a Chesterfield cigarettes sign--it is not hard to see why the diner in recent years was listed among the best in the city by a weekly newspaper. It has been the backdrop for movies and album cover photos.
Phil’s has an utter lack of pretense, a quality savored by regulars who can settle into a vinyl-covered swivel seat without a word and have their favorite dish in front of them in minutes.
“This place is one of a kind,” said Kris Wilson, a camera operator from Valencia, who favors the steak sandwiches. “It’s like home-cooked fast food.”
As customers trickle in, the Hongs urge them to sign a petition, adding to a list of more than 700 names of those supporting Phil’s Diner.
Charles Hong won’t say what he plans to do with the petition, which does not call for any specific action. He said he has never contacted the MTA to inquire about possible support from the agency.
*
Other businesses have received a variety of assistance, including financial support and customized solutions to parking problems.
Steve Chesser, a spokesman for the MTA, wonders why the Hongs have not appealed for help.
While small businesses may be at a disadvantage during construction, Chesser said: “We’d go the extra mile for Phil’s Diner just as we would for North Hollywood Toyota.”
The Hongs can afford to retire. Although Phil’s has maintained limited hours--9 a.m. to 3 p.m.--they have managed to support themselves, put three children through college and fund an abiding passion for golf.
If they are forced to shut down the diner, the couple would lose their daily routine, honed over 20 years: shopping for fresh vegetables together, the give and take with customers. Though no one has placed an order in more than an hour, Charles Hong cleans the grill, which he had scraped minutes earlier.
Wilson recalled an illustration of the Hongs’ devotion to ritual.
“I was here one time at 2:45,” he said. “A buddy of mine wanted a cup of coffee. No. They made him a cup of instant--they were going to play golf that day. They wouldn’t make a new pot.”
The diner has a far-reaching legacy. On a recent Sunday, Charles Hong opened the newspaper’s glossy advertising section to find a half-page plug for a miniature porcelain replica of Phil’s. Two installments of $14.95 would buy a piece of Valley lore.
“Cruise back to the fabulous ‘50s!” implored the national advertisement. “Phil’s Diner--located in North Hollywood, California, and still in operation--brings back fond memories of a time when you could buy a hamburger with just the change in your pocket . . . and still have a few nickels left over for the jukebox!”
*
The Hongs received a small fee from Danbury Mint for use of the diner’s image, but that money is gone, along with the bright paint job and sparkling sign pictured in the ad.
After being on his feet for hours, Charles Hong finally sits, appearing ill at ease on the other side of the counter.
“If you ever want to get on the Internet, let me know,” calls a computer-savvy customer as he heads for the door.
“I don’t know,” Hong responds, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.
Computers are for another restaurant, another local landmark. They’re not for one that depends on time standing still.
