Sharla's Memory of Philippe's

If Philippe's was local, I'd be there every week. Besides loving the double-dipped lamb sandwiches (where can you get lamb these days?), it brings back such strong memories of family, specifically Mom.

Upon entering, the wonderful meat aromas consume you. It would not be the place for vegetarians! Behind the tall counter stands an army of teeny tiny ancient women, appearing to be in their nineties, busily hacking away at enormous pieces of flesh. You watch as they cut the meat off the bone for YOUR sandwich. They mean business - no delicate little slices here - but that doesn't matter because the meat practically melts in your mouth! Then, the crucial element - they dip or double-dip your sandwich in its own juice! Perfection!

Upon leaving the counter, you make your way across the sawdust-covered floor to the BOOTHS. Never mind the room full of tables - it just must be a booth. These gargantuan monstrosities must be 10 feet tall, totally enclosing families as if they were seated in their own separate room. Plenty of conversation and laughter always followed.

Philippe's always seemed less a restaurant than a trip to the past, to the thirties and forties, the days of Bogart and Bacall, of streetcars in L.A., of a young woman from Wyoming named Ila, of a different time.

 

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