Mmmmm, wet bread

One of the advantages of living in a city as big as Los Angeles, is the gift of discovery. There's always some thing to see or experience, that in even after 42 years of residence, l haven't seen or done before. 

Until the advent of the Metro line trains feeding in and out of downtown Los Angeles, I never had any reason to go there. Much less any desire to step along the urine-shellacked streets of Skid Row.

Nevertheless that's where Ms. Muse and I found ourselves this past Sunday night. Being an aficionado of  French Dip sandwiches, she had suggested an outing to Coles.

I'm not a particular fan of au jus meals, I prefer a crunchy toasted texture, you might say we are wet sandwich incompatible. Nevertheless I was game for a jaunt to downtown LA for some old fashioneds brought to life by the grimy aroma of urban mismanagement.

And the place, though noticeably more even more downscale than one might think, did have its own charm. Its own understaffed charm. There was one bartender and one waiter.  Serving close to 50 people. Though some of those people appeared to be regulars and only there for the cocktails. Many of them had their heads on their arms draped over the 100 year old wooden bar.

To be honest, I'm not sure there wasn't a guy in the kitchen, taking the orders, and then jetting over to legendary Phillippe's, only to bring them back to Coles and rebrand them, if you will.

Ms. Muse opted for the Roast Beef, I demured. Maybe it's my long running viewership of The Daily Show and their nightly skewering of Arbys (Arbys, when your mouth wants to pick a fight with your stomach.)  

Also, since my pescatarian diet restricts my intake of red meat, I was gonna make sure it counted and chose the pastrami, which wasn't Langer's worthy or even Cantor's worthy, but still respectable nonetheless. Made even better by Cole's trademarked Atomic Mustard -- a fiery blend of mustard and horseradish. 

For my gentile readers, if you're not gastrically familiar with horseradish, I suggest you tread lightly.

In all, if you haven't experienced Cole's I suggest you do. If for no other reason than to say you did. When we returned to bucolic Sierra Madre -- a million miles from Skid Row, Los Angeles -- we sprayed the bottoms of our shoes with Lysol. Then put them in a double paper bag and popped them in the microwave.

Just before we left I trepidatiously decided to use the Men's Room. 

I'm glad I did.

It would appear Mr. Bukowski and I were the only ones who chose not to pee on the sidewalk.