dedalus_1947 | Another Perfect Day

From the South Bay
To the Valley
From the West Side
To the East Side
Everybody’s very happy
‘Cause the sun is shining all the time
Looks like another perfect day
I love L.A. (We love it!)
I love L.A. (We love it!)
(I Love L.A. – Randy Newman: 1983)

Kathy and I spent Super Bowl Weekend at the Omni Hotel in downtown Los Angeles last month. We had tickets to hear Michael Feinstein at the Disney Concert Hall on Saturday evening and decided to stay over until Monday morning. We’ve done downtown weekends before, when catching a show or a play at the Music Center. It made for a relaxing evening of dining and entertainment without the delays and inconveniences of driving to and from Los Angeles in one night. On other occasions we’ve stayed at the Biltmore and Checkers Hotels in that same part of town, but we prefer the Omni. Even though Kathy and I were born and raised in Los Angeles, we continue being amazed at the old and new sights and attractions of the city – those we experienced in our youth, and those we discover. In the past we had explored the Central Library, Pershing Square, the Jewelry District, and the Bunker Hill complex around Grand Avenue. That weekend we planned on meeting Toñito for dinner before our show on Saturday, and then visiting some old and new sights on Sunday, beginning with a return visit to the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA). We quickly fell into our extemporaneous method of exploring cities and ad-libbed the rest of the day, before returning to the hotel and dressing for dinner at the First & Hope Restaurant. We started with a bird’s eye view of the Historic Core of downtown from the little park called Angel’s Knoll on Olive Street. Then, walking down a stairway to Hill Street, we paralleled the Angel’s Flight track, and made our way through Grand Central Market to Broadway, and then Spring Street. Along the way we saw the time-worn Million Dollar Theater, the famous Bradbury Building, the stores and shops along Broadway, and the Theatre and Latino Museum on 5^th and Spring. On our way back we inspected some of the private art galleries and residential lofts in the Old Bank District. However, the one place I especially enjoyed was Grand Central Market, which I was surprised to discover, Kathy had never seen.

Grand Central Market is easy to miss. It is tucked away at the foot of Bunker Hill in a nondescript building between Hill Street and Broadway, where it occupies the ground and basement levels. The market bears no resemblance whatsoever to our modern concept of a supermarket. There is no towering façade, no polished floors or wide aisles stocked with packed foods, and canned or refrigerated groceries. The market looks like an indoor bazaar, or an enclosed farmer’s market filled with colorful, independent vendors. I could imagine this venue starting out as a centrally located meat, fish, and poultry store, that eventually expanded to include fruit, vegetables, spices, candies, and other prepared foods.

Markets have always held a special allure for me. I love wandering through open-air, farmer’s markets and spacious, air-conditioned supermarkets, as well as perusing the gaudy merchandise in cheap 99-Cent and Big Lot stores. I feel just as curious and excited as I imagine Ali Baba did, when seeing and touching the riches contained in the secret cave of the 40 Thieves. Perhaps it’s because the goods and merchandise in these markets spark memories of times I went shopping with my Mexican grandmother, Mima, when we visited her in Mexico City, and when I accompanied my parents to Grand Central Market in 1950’s Los Angeles. I still recall my first images of Grand Central Market when I was a child of 5 or 6 years old. Saturdays were market days for abuelita, my Mexican-American grandmother, and my mom and dad would sometimes accompany her when we visited on that day. Occasionally, they allowed my Uncle Charlie and me to go along.

Grand Central Market was a wondrous experience, and it reminded me of the huge Mercado de San Cosme, a vast Mexican market located in a colonia (or barrio) near the downtown section of Mexico City, when my grandmother, Mima, took me there. The Mexican mercado was a vast and exotic emporium of colorful, individual stalls, brilliantly veiled kiosks, and clean, metal counters, filled with animated, vendors hawking and demonstrating their wares, produce, and foods in lavish Spanish phrases. The San Cosme market was a high ceiling pavilion, with criss-crossing beams that spanned the walls and decorated the overhead space with floating armadas of piñatas and helium-filled balloons of every shape and color. In contrast to its American cousin, the Grand Central Market of Los Angeles was on the first floor of a four-story building, with a decidedly, low ceiling. But what it lacked in height, it made up in vibrancy and volume. There seemed to be more of everything in that predominately Mexican-American market, located between Hill Street and Broadway, and it was all exhibited in an organized and efficient fashion along cement aisles, behind thick, glass displays, atop gleaming, stainless steel counters, and over, brilliantly illuminated signs and advertisements. Charlie and I would press our noses to cold glass and stare at rows and rows of sardines, octopus, and giant fish that seemed to stare back with surprised expressions. We would also gape in shocked amazement at lines of huge cow’s tongues, rippled sheets of cow’s stomach, goat and pig’s heads, and entire pig’s feet. It was the first time I saw meats exposed in an anatomically, identifiable fashion. The experience was better than a trip to the zoo or museum, because this mercantile venue bustled with active, loud, and friendly people speaking a mixture of English and Spanish. What I found especially fascinating was the lack of packaging. As in Mexico, much of the fruit and produce was not hidden or enclosed, but stacked and piled in the open for inspection and selection. Aisles of boxes filled with fruit and vegetables were almost a physical impediment to our movement through the market, and we were always a finger-length away from piles and piles of tomatoes, melons, bananas, apples, and oranges.

Leaving the fish, poultry, and meat sections of the market, Charlie and I would move on to the more complex counters of chiles, spices, and moles, in beckoning jars and displays of enticing shapes, colors, and textures. There were heaps of red, black, and purple chiles, in twisted, crumpled, and dehydrated shapes, next to transparent jars and vases filled with powders of black, and deep maroon mole. We sidestepped our way along the length of the long counter, with Charlie, who was five years older than me, reading the names of the spices and chiles. Then we reenacted the process at the equally long counter containing Mexican fruit and sugar candies, dried fruits, and nuts displayed behind a long plate of sectioned glass. I pointed to the delicacies I most wanted to eat and longed to ask my parents to buy them for us. But my mother had forewarned me about begging. Charlie and I were there to look and help, and not whine for candy or toys. Once the adults had purchased their groceries, and we had proven ourselves to be disciplined window shoppers and helpers, we might be rewarded with an helado, an ice cream cone, at the end of the afternoon. If we exited on Broadway, we would leisurely stroll along the street, licking our cones, looking at the Coming Attraction posters of the Million Dollar Cinema, or inspecting the open vistas of countless shops selling Mexican leather goods, clothing, shoes, toys, and magazines. If we exited on the Hill Street side of the market we would eat our ice cream while watching the two funicular cars of Angel’s Flight as they traveled, simultaneously, up and down Bunker Hill. Riding those cars on one or two occasions as a child was almost like a “D-ticket ride” on the Disneyland Railroad. There was even a moment of panic when Charlie said we were going to crash, as the two cars seemed ready to collide, until narrowly passing each other in opposite directions. Even the car ride home was exciting, because we traveled along Broadway, through the middle of town, all the way into Lincoln Heights. Along this corridor we would pass the civic center, with the towering City Hall building in the middle, and then drive through Chinatown, with its ornate building facades, lanterns, and bright lights, and finally the railroad yards, extending from Union Station.

The present Grand Central Market was still able to engender those old memories of the 1950’s and 60’s. The physical location of the store had not changed much, and the foodstuffs were still the same. The only exception was the presence of more Asian and Central American vendors and their food preferences. But, rather than trying to describe where we walked, and what we saw that day, I’d invite you to peruse the photos I took that afternoon. I uploaded them into distinct Flickr albums with individual descriptions. Perhaps those images might encourage you to do your own exploring of these downtown locations.

2011-02-05 The Omni Hotel

2011-02-06 A Sunday at the MOCA

2011-02-06 Cruising Grand Central Market

2011-02-06 On Broadway

2011-02-06 Up Spring Street