This is the first post in a series about Los Feliz. I have chosen, what for me, are it’s defining elements – it’s long standing gems. Let’s start with Cafe Figaro. The part of me that misses Europe loves this little cafe’s authenticity: the red leather banquettes lining the walls, the pressed metal bar, the chalkboard specials menu written in messy cursive and of course, the chef’s unwillingness to allow for any substitutions.
One afternoon I sat here alone with nothing but a copy of Tropic of Cancer and a very strong coffee that at happy hour was exchanged for a glass of rose. I had no sense of the Los Angeles that was outside the doors; I was in 1930′s Paris imagining a torrid time in 20′s New York.
