Where Time Almost Stood Still

This morning at the Farmers Market shines silver. The famous clock tower bumps against clouds low as an acoustic ceiling, and beneath the green roof of the market, between the welter of tchotchke stores and fruit vendors, the restaurants and newsstands, the air is rimed with an inland mist. Atop the asphalt ground, the round tables glimmer damply, slick and worn as a scattering of old dimes.

At 9:30, it is still too early for the young, hip industry wannabes and almost-ares who gather on the Western Terrace, in the fragrant shadow of the Gumbo Pot. But at the eastern patio, most of the tables are already taken. The Sunday smell of warm sugar and frying dough from Bob’s Doughnuts still overwhelms the work-a-day scents of melting mozzarella, baking bread, cooking meat. Here, solitary figures hunch over their cups, their papers, their unpaid bills. Nannies and mothers pour orange juice into sippy cups, tear croissants into manageable pieces, sit beside the strollers and sigh. Groups of women and of men, but few of both, lean only slightly into their quiet conversations; they are listening, yes, and talking, but also sipping and watching, thinking and gathering. Steam, perhaps, or memories--whatever is required today.

Mornings and late afternoons at the Farmers Market belong to the regulars. From noon till 2 p.m., the tourists rule, arriving by the busload to eat lunch and keep their eyes peeled for Julia Roberts, for Ben Affleck, both of whom have been spotted here, but never at lunch hour. The rest of the day is owned by the faithful--a disparate group who can be found here each and every day, always in the same area, often at the same table. Retirees in track suits and patterned sweaters, screenwriters and musicians, leggy model hopefuls with flawless pedicures, studio executives and surgeons, the unemployed and underemployed. Amid the strawberry-sweet breath of the fruit stands, they scribble notes, swap war stories and contact numbers or just stare into space, lulled by the whir of Magee’s peanut butter maker, the breeze stirred by passersby, the light dancing on 200 souvenir shot glasses.

The only thing these people have in common is that five, 10 or 40 years ago, they stopped by for a cup of coffee and a hard roll and decided to stay. That and their growing concern that after more than 65 years, their home-away-from-home, this brick-red and cream-colored heart of Los Angeles is about to change.

The controversy over the development of the land adjoining the Farmers Market began almost 20 years ago. In the Reagan years, the A.F. Gilmore Co., which owns the 31-acre plot at the corner of 3rd Street and Fairfax Avenue, began clearing its throat and muttering words like “redevelopment.” In 1988, redevelopment took the shape of a planned 600-room hotel at the Farmers Market and a 2-million-square-foot shopping center next door. Amid howls of protest from nearby residents and concerns about the impact on traffic, the hotel idea was jettisoned and the shopping center scaled down to 640,000 square feet. Construction on $100 million worth of high-end shops, restaurants, movie theaters and offices began last year. The new mall, dubbed the Grove, will be completed next year.

To make up for the pulled-up parking lot, the Dell, an under-occupied line of Farmers Market storefronts, was demolished and paved over. Still, parking and traffic have become a nightmare on the already overused corridor, and many market regulars have taken a hiatus that vendors and regulars alike fear will slide into permanent retirement. The stalwarts, customers so loyal they might someday earn a plaque on a table like the one dedicated to the late Times columnist Alan Malamud, cannot stay away. And so they shake their newspapers out, grumble to each other and glare at the growing latticework of girders, at the secular spires of cranes.

“It’s been an island of stability in this town,” says novelist and screenwriter David Freeman, who has been a morning regular for two decades. “There have been no big changes until this coming encroachment and that was the beauty of it. At the Farmers Market it is always 1962. Except in Du-par’s, where it’s still 1945.”

Others are even more passionate. “We are a village in Kashmir that is being overrun,” splutters one die-hard denizen in a tone that is only slightly self-parody. “Life as we know it is about to end.”

On this morning, two days before the beginning of Passover, the market remains steeped in its odd charm. Moving among the tables, a grizzled man in a military cap that proclaims him a veteran of foreign wars offers copies of a Haggada on pages of neon orange.

“This is why we’ve been coming here for 20 years,” says director Paul Mazursky, who sits with Freeman, as he has for years. “Where else can you get coffee and a Haggada from a man who fought with Sgt. York?”

This is how so many conversations about the market begin: “Where else?” As in, “Where else in L.A. can you actually hang out?” “Where else in the world will you see this many kinds of people or this many kinds of caramel corn?” “Where else can you go that is virtually unchanged since you were a kid?”

“This is the only place in Los Angeles, probably the world, where I can come shopping with no money in my pocket,” says Philip, 50, who says he has been coming to the market since he was 2 and declines to give his last name. “The people here know me, they’ll say, ‘s’OK, get me next time,’ because they know I will.”

“This is the greatest people-watching in L.A.,” says the die-hard, as he orders a “tall percent cap” from Starbucks. “And it’s so easy. You got your Starbucks, your newsstand, the best croissants this side of Paris, France. What else do you need? For a certain type of underemployed male,” he adds, “the kind who thrives on easiness, this is nirvana.”

And he prefers his nirvana untouched. When discussing the plans for a shuttle modeled on the old trolley cars that would carry people from a parking garage on Fairfax to the Grove, he has as close to an apoplectic fit as one can have while still drinking a tall percent cap.

“Yeah, that’s just what I want to do, take a toy shuttle from a parking garage to sit around with a bunch of Nordstrom shoppers. It was bad enough when Huell Howser did a segment--for weeks you practically had to park in Santa Monica. And the place was crawling with tourists.”

“Oh, we just don’t want to grow old,” says Philip, waving away the idea that a golden age has ended. “If we owned this property, we would have developed it years ago. We’re just on our way to becoming one of those old guys who say, ‘I remember when there was a racetrack here.’ Only we’ll be saying, ‘Ah, I remember when the parking was free.’ ”

Land Was a Dairy Farm In Its Early Years

This is not the first change that the market and its environs have faced. The original land grant, issued in 1880, was for a dairy farm, owned by Arthur F. Gilmore. In 1934, Arthur’s son, Earl, allowed 18 farmers to park their trucks and ply their wares at the now-famous intersection. During the intervening years the Gilmores continued to add stalls, until the market and its parking lots covered 15 acres. Over the years the family built a drive-in theater on adjacent acreage, as well as a stadium--complete with racetrack--and baseball field, both of which were torn down to make way for CBS studios.

Within the market there has been change as well--the invasion by Starbucks a few years ago marks the first, and only, successful venture by a chain store, and while many snarled and fumed, most now admit that coffee was never a strong point here. Previously, the only stand that offered cappuccino was run by a woman named Junie, who some believed was the basis for Lily Tomlin’s famous telephone operator character. (She was not.) While her personality was worth the trip, her coffee, apparently, was not.

“That was when the old market ceased to be,” says the die-hard. “When Junie left. Although,” he adds, “it’s nice to be able to get a decent cup of coffee.”

In 1995, the market, now owned by Gilmore scion Henry Hilty, began courting a younger, trendier crowd. A marketing consultant was hired. Two bars appeared and high-end boutiques.

For many, that’s when the change began.

“I have to say since they opened the bars, it’s gotten seedier,” says Mark Elson, a director-producer who has been a regular for 20 years. “It used to be cleaner--now it takes forever for the tables to be cleared.”

Elson remembers when all the restaurants used the same white plates and coffee cups, when all the tables had salt and pepper shakers on them. Now most food is served on paper and Styrofoam and condiments come in packets. Elson hangs in the western middle of the market, not quite the Western Terrace, but certainly not the eastern court.

“It’s mostly retirees up there and I feel very out of place, like someone’s going to come, tap me on the shoulder and ask me to leave.” But many of the younger professionals, the actors and execs he used to chat with, are gone. “I really don’t think it’s as popular as it used to be. It was a pretty vibrant scene, and a real cross-section; now it’s not so much.”

Owners Anticipate Improved Business

Many of the vendors agree that in the past year, business has dropped--people were put off by the demolition of the Dell and the old Gilmore bank, the lack of parking, the bulldozer-clogged traffic lanes, the general construction mayhem.

Hilty firmly believes that the Grove will help the market, rather than harm it, but the folks at A.F. Gilmore Co. understand that when it comes to a historic landmark, any change will have some fallout. In the Bugle, the monthly Farmers Market newspaper, the A.F. Gilmore Co. explains exactly what is going on, down to the reason for that pile of dirt, or that skeleton of steel. According to Mark Panatier, vice president for marketing and development, the strength of the market is that it is affected by very few things, including construction.

“Through the best of times and worst of times it remains a vibrant center,” he says. “Business continues to do well here, which is a very positive message for the vendors. In fact,” he adds, “I think the construction is actually drawing customers in--people want to see what’s going on. It’s very exciting.”

And some of the market’s current vendors agree.

Kip’s Toyland was one of the businesses moved from the Dell to the market proper. After 45 years in the same place, the transition was difficult, both mentally and physically, but proprietor Irvin Kipper says he feels very fortunate and believes that things are improving daily.

“Several months ago, there was confusion and concern,” he says. “Parking was a real problem, and people didn’t know exactly what was happening. But now I think they see that this is going to be something very special.”

Kipper is not at all concerned about the impending arrival of FAO Schwarz in the Grove. His is a very traditional array of toys--more Raggedy Anns than Gameboys, more board games than Barneys. “We have a very loyal customer base,” he says. “We find we’re catering to the fourth generation, the great-grandchildren of our early customers.”

That is the whole point of the market, the regulars say. There is a place, and a time, and a terrace, and a table for everyone. It is a neighborhood and a destination, a market and a mind-set. At one time or another every Angeleno walks beneath the crazy green roof, blinks a bit at the flesh-baring postcards, the personalized condom covers, and tries to decide between jambalaya at the Gumbo Pot or a corned beef sandwich at Magee’s.

“It is the only bit of L.A. that is a human space,” says David Kelly, a recently arrived Londoner. “It’s a little bit real, a little bit mad, but the food is good.”

Kelly compares the market to Covent Garden or parts of Soho, where, he says, bohemian culture collides with the tourists and the old folks. Although he’s only been in town a few months, he already has his favorite market story. “There was this older Ukrainian guy in line wearing this very fancy shirt,” Kelly says, “and his buddy, this other old Ukrainian guy, complimented it. And the guy answered, quite proudly, ‘I got it at Out of the Closet. You know, those gays have really good taste. But you gotta watch out, they’re a little skinny.”

Just telling the story makes Kelly laugh.

“Honestly,” he says, wiping his eyes, “where else in the world are you going to hear something like that?”