Ernie's hardware store is gone; so is Denise's "Buttons and Bows." Our stationery store is gone...remember when you used to buy stationery in a stationery store? Pacelli's shoe store and Shapiro's pharmacy...gone, all gone. Ernie would fix things. Lawn mowers, shower heads, broken storm doors, Denise could sew a curtain or let out your waist band, and Shapiro could lance a boil.
Like an invading armada, the city-sized super stores dropped anchor on the outskirts of Westlake Village, stormed the beaches and commenced firing. Stores without pity..."OPEN TWENTY FOUR HOURS"..."AIR-CONDITIONED"..."FREE COFFEE" ..."WE WILL NOT BE UNDERSOLD"..."BUY ONE GET ONE FREE". Ernie and Denise went down in the first volley, Shapiro in the second. It's left a vacuum, and since nature and real estate agents loathe vacuums, the old stores have been reoccupied. They're not 'stores' anymore. They make widgets and gizmos, and they're run by shifty-eyed people who are here today and gone tomorrow.
Old Dick Donahue and I take the two-mile walk up and down Westwood Avenue occasionally, and we take note of what's new. He's "Old" Dick now. He was known as "Big" Dick while his son, "Little" Dick, lived at home. With sophistication at such a level in Westlake Village, it's not surprising the super stores put us to rout in two volleys.
"That's new," said Old Dick. "What's an industrial winding company?"
"Beats me," I replied. If you looked through the open door you could see sparks flying inside. "I guess they make sparks. You in the market for sparks, Dick?"
He had a pad and pencil with him, and he mumbled as he wrote the address down, "352, Industrial Winding Company."
"This seems to be important to you, Dick." I remarked.
"I'm gonna write down all the new stores along Westwood Avenue...I know, I know...so what, who cares! Well, I sure do if you don't. This neighborhood's changing...used to be that people who lived here made their living here."
I am patient with Old Dick because he represents a part of my life that is very dear to me. As two old widowers, we are part of the wrack that has been washed up on this desolate strand of suburbia. He thinks he is a living part of that change, and I admire him for it. It's my belief that these changes occurred while we ignored them. Somehow we thought we had better things to do and, like thieves in the night, the shifty-eyed people ran off with everything we treasured. Now we tip-toe through Westlake Village like the survivors of an enemy invasion...intruders in our own home town.
On we went, up and down Westwood Avenue. "Schlecter, a Full Service Company," "Norman J. Wheaton, Packaging Supplies," "International Brokerage." Surveillance cameras tracked us as we passed by. Every window was barred and taped with conductive wire -- were they really that afraid of us?
"Had enough, Dick?...Let's start back, O.K.?"
We did the back mile and headed for home. Dick seemed to be holding something inside, and as we broke off for the day he finally let it out and said, "There were six restaurants, imagine that. Who eats here? When was the last time you ate in a restaurant on Westwood Avenue?"
"I think you've had a full day, Dick. I've never had a meal on Westwood Avenue. Neither have you. They're not for us; they're for them, the Schlecters, the Wheatons, they have lunch here."
"On top of that there's two delis," he added. "The competition must be fierce." A conspiratorial look narrowed his eyes...he was beginning to frighten me. "I'm going to speak to Lucas Crosby."
I guess I don't catch on as quickly as I used to. Old Dick was just getting warmed up, and I was ready for my afternoon nap. I couldn't see how Lucas Crosby had anything to do with six restaurants and two delis. Lucas is the publisher of the world's most unnecessary newspaper--our very own "Westlake Village Guardian."
"Don't you get it, dimwit?" he nudged me. "A dining out column -- you and me could eat free for months." He looked both ways and lowered his voice. "Look, I ain't so good with words, but you got the kiss of the poet in you, see. You know what these restaurants will do for a good review in the "Guardian?" Anything, that's what! The restaurant business is the most competitive industry in the world. One bad review ... just one x, it's curtains."
Lucas has his print shop down by the railroad station. He does wedding invitations, flyers, and newsletters, but his main source of income comes from the advertising in the semi-monthly "Westlake Village Guardian." You won't find much news in the "Guardian" -- local break-ins from the police blotter, an up-date on the bridge over Northern State Parkway (which is taking longer to build than the Aswan Dam), and high school sports. But! and it's a big but -- there is lots and lots of advertising. The "Guardian" has put Lucas' three sons through Princeton.
I have never been kissed by a poet, but Old Dick Donahue has certainly been hit in the mouth with a chip off the old Blarney Stone. It took him a week to do it, but Old Dick finally got Lucas to agree to give up half a page. He had one caveat -- one that I am sure will forever keep Dick and I from achieving an honored niche in the fourth estate's Hall-Of-Fame. "Don't say nothing bad about nobody." Actually, what Lucas said was, "I don't shit where I eat, and neither do you, O.K.?" His tongue can curl your hair at times. I came up with the name -- "High On the Hog." It was the least I could do.
We have been successful on the whole. I've gained nearly fifteen pounds, and Old Dick over thirty. In the beginning, there were times when I found it dishonest to wax ecstatic over some of the things Dick and I swallowed. We had devised a five-step rating evaluation, beginning at 'splendid', and running through 'superb', 'spectacular', 'sublime' and 'sensational'. As I look back on it now, it was a little extravagant. Our requests to interview the chefs were usually laughed at or ignored. Holding the wine to the light often revealed the seeds and skins, and the sauces were rarely more elaborate than catsup and Worcestershire sauce.
But things improved. We are now into our third round of contesting restaurants for a 'sensational' rating in "High On the Hog." Old Dick and I are fully aware that each of them are outdoing themselves to gain our highest rating. It is amazing to both of us how they have transformed themselves since our earlier visits, but should the few remaining residents of Westlake Village who read our column venture to eat in any of them, they may find slimmer pickings than we. Nothing like the fabulous dining experience we enjoy every day. The power of the press can not be overestimated.
Copyright 1997 Harry Buschman