Notice of Change

Perched in the shadows of the San Gabriel Mountains, Fox’s, entered my orbit in 1977 when, as a freshman, I was introduced to this homey restaurant on the fringe of my urban college landscape; close (and cheap) enough for a quick weekend stop before studious activities and traditional and recognizable in its atmosphere and offerings, which in my metamorphosis as an Intellectual, seemed then to be exotic in its homey-ness. Post-college, and over ensuing decades, continuity reigned surrounded by fluffed red & white gingham curtains and the framed and featured fox bric-a-brac displayed against wallpaper and pine paneling in this converted family home. Regular visits to LA always included the assurance of at least one cornflake mini-muffin - a blonde elfin mouthful made from a cereal box recipe found long before UPC stripes and bars. A reliable and resilient place, that is, until my most recent visit. With a muffin halfway to my mouth, a flurry of activity at the front window made me pause. A Public Notice of Application was being taped to the front window. A sterile but grotesque tattoo. What? Didn’t they already sell beer & wine? I wasn’t sure if I had the grace to accept assimilation of 3 olive martinis, cornflake muffins and gingham. It took my husband to point out, reading in reverse, that it in fact was a notice of change with a capital C and the beloved Fox’s of my mythic youth and iconic adult passages would soon have New Ownership. As the owner/cook passed our table, I needed to let him know I had been a customer since college and even though I wasn’t local anymore, I managed to stop in every couple of months when I was in the LA area. I get it, you begin working in your folks’ restaurant as a teenager and take over in 1967-it’s 50 years later and you’d like not to have to see another egg over-easy again if you don’t have to, but what did that mean for me? In the wake of several of my favorite eating establishments closing in recent times, it bears some self-reflection: What does it mean to shutter those connections to earlier versions of me? Melancholy over loss. Of comfort? Familiarity? A connection to that ridiculously arrogant, unfocusedly passionate young adult that first glimpsed Fox’s from the brink of BIG THINGS TO COME? Fox’s has always been like a visit to a favorite, unconditionally-loving relative. Even though you roll your eyes as you tell friends about their eternally medicinal green kitchen or ageless Readers’ Digest issues, you could always count on things to be the same and in the exact same location as last time you visited. You knew you always had a spot, a comfortable spot, and there weren’t any surprises that disrupted the status quo. For me, there is material truth in this comparison but like my relationship with Grandma, it goes deeper into my soul because, you see, whether the restaurant knew it or not, it was an inspiration to me. A silent cheerleader for the un-written play I’ve held captive for almost as many years as I’ve eaten there. Encouraging, non-judgmental, this restaurant has patiently waited for me to grow into my own, not just to linger and listen to the stories but to tell those stories. It never mattered what the story was, who it was about, or whether it was ever read, Fox’s just held that potential for me until I was ready to take possession of the treasure. A visit to the vault every couple of months, a reminder, never heavy-handed, just a nudge, that I could take my creativity in that direction-it would always be there. But now, will it? Always be there? Am I melancholy over loss? Isn’t loss only change, albeit sometimes with a capital and boldface C. It might seem trivial to compare a restaurant closing with the loss of love. There is much that is tragic and destructive that catches us up in its swirl. In losing something or someone dear, we can be sent to the point of the great void of nothing, without any sense of redemption. In the depths of our most profound loss of constants, that of the physical closeness of loved ones, of our vitality, of our sense of safety, that darkest of places we stare into will seem so, so empty. It takes great courage to open our eyes and look more deeply to see that life isn’t empty, there is always something there. That is loss, not a lack or absence, but a change in what is seen and experienced. I look differently now at my gift of Fox’s and its transformation. The constant over these years seemed to be the space, the food (#5 over-easy w/ muffins, please), the people, oh, bless me, the people, or so I thought. The constant, really, has only and ever been me, or more precisely, the creative spark of me that encountered an inspiration one day that I could write and would write. Mar sin a bheith ann agus mar sin tá sé.

Father's Day 2017: Born under a wandering star

This is mostly due to the efforts and epic trips organized by my father, William H. King, Jr., to show his kids the great land where we lived. Happy Father's Day, Dad, and thank you! I think it's time to take care of some unfinished business.
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