The View From Du Par’s Front Window

Whenever it rains, I go to Du Par’s for breakfast. The waitresses at Du Par’s know me, sort of, and I know them, sort of. I eat my oatmeal and we watch the rain together. Everyone seems to cheer up. Other cities may have their bistros or their neighborhood cafes. We have places like Du Par’s.

This particular Du Par’s sits on Ventura Boulevard in Studio City. Judging from its unreconstructed decor, I would estimate its age at 30 years. A venerable Du Par’s that never prostituted itself to the ‘80s, which may be the reason it now seems so reassuring.

I bring up Du Par’s, in fact, because it managed to survive the last decade in great style and continues to thrive. Just down the street a Johnny Rocket’s clone opened a few years ago amid some fanfare. It does not thrive. All over the city, you can sense a subtle switching of gears as we depart from one era and move to the next.

This conversion thrills me. Was there ever an age so loathsome as the ‘80s? Even the waitresses at Du Par’s like to gloat over its passing. The other day, as I sat at the counter and watched the rain flood the street, someone asked about the current status of a thing called Laurel Promenade.

“Laurel Promenade?” answered a waitress as she looked out the window at the rain. “You mean Laurel Lake .”

Then she laughed. We all laughed.

Most likely the name Laurel Promenade means nothing to you. But you will probably remember the civic brawl from which it was born. The site of Laurel Promenade once was occupied by a carwash. The most famous carwash of the age.

The brawl began when a developer announced his plans to tear down the carwash and replace it with a collection of fancy shops and restaurants. In the ‘80s, there seemed to be no end to the city’s appetite for fancy shops and restaurants, and the developer was confident of handsome profits for all.

Remarkably, the people of Studio City discovered they wanted no part of the new plan. They loved the carwash and, in desperation, tried to get it designated a cultural monument. More remarkably, they came close to winning. But finally they lost and the carwash was doomed.

Within days, the developer sent a squadron of bulldozers to rip down the carwash and dig a huge crater for underground parking. At one corner of the site, a big sign was erected announcing the coming of Laurel Promenade, complete with a painting of the fancy shops and restaurants.

And then all activity stopped. The bulldozers went away and did not return. The sign peeled in the sun, the painting faded. For 2 1/2 years the crater has just sat there.

You could argue that the carwash fight--unbeknown to any of us at the time--constituted the last symbolic twitch of the ‘80s in L.A. After that, the whole thing started to unravel. The market for $80 lunches dried up. The city seemed to turn quieter. Even certain phrases, like “Pacific Rim,” have fast faded. When was the last time you heard anyone say: “This will be the century of the Pacific Rim”?

As for the carwash site, we understand that the developer, an outfit known as Arba Group, lost its construction financing and simply pulled into its shell. You can see similar wounds left all over the city by other developers. If you pass Laurel Canyon Boulevard and Mulholland Drive, check out the ruined hulk of an unfinished apartment building that seems to be on the point of collapse. It’s a favorite of mine.

Someday, of course, the developer--or a surrogate--will return to dig some more at the old carwash site and we will finally get a replacement. How long till then? Nobody seems to know. It depends on the banks, and the banks don’t favor construction loans these days.

Listen, if I were a banker I wouldn’t favor them either. But that is not the subject of today’s discussion. Today we are talking about the city, and how one decade can impose costs on the next.

Thus far, the cost of the carwash fiasco to Studio City can be easily tallied. Arba Group destroyed a healthy business that formed one of the anchors of the town’s commercial district and replaced it with nothing. A huge, gaping sore has been left where people once gathered and talked while their cars got sudsed down.

That’s the gloomy view. You can also look on the bright side. The crater at Laurel Canyon and Ventura Boulevard amounts to a sort of historic marker. The spot where the ‘80s ground to a halt.

Hey, maybe we should have another try at this cultural monument thing. “Laurel Lake. Lest We Forget.” It has a ring.