In wrapping up the last of our frequently visited L.A haunts tour, as my best friend prepares to up and herself across country to settle into a city with a new loft waiting her in Brooklyn early next week we made sure to stop in at an old familiar spot last Monday to have lunch before the museum, at Ledlow on Main. Formerly "Pete's." Where we spent a good part of our late twenties trying to our best to dissect the shaky state of our lives back then. When we all worked bad jobs and consumed too many plates piled high with garlic fries to make up for it. Cried about boyfriends over craft beers we couldn't afford. And then laughed about being broke, and dreamed about better days ahead.
A decade later, our last lunch with her in this city was spent beside a particularly fussy 17 month old who helped ensure we didn't get too emotional about it all. Because it's almost impossible to make much room for over cooked sentiments when your lunch date is prone to screaming at all the waiters passing by, and in constant danger of stabbing himself (or you) in the arm just before the food arrives.
So, we bid adieu. Leaving a decade of memories behind us. Just like that.
Thanks for all the good times Pete's.
Err, I mean, "Ledlow."
