Monday, July 31, 2017 at 7:15 a.m.
I tasted a ghost. And it died 26 years ago, so you know this was one bet-your-foodie-tush, no-doubt-about-it, bona fide walking-dead apparition. It was last seen on a west-of-the-405 corner of San Vicente and Darlington, where a Coral Tree now blandly stands; and this was definitely a Casper: one of those friendly ghosts. And when it was alive, everyone ate it. With its cracker-thin, multicheese blend and sauce to the crustless-edge style, it kept Angelenos stuffed in the happiest of ways throughout the 1970s and ’80s. It kept us coming back for birthday parties and after Little League games and with family on Sunday nights again and again and even more, and when you were there nothing else mattered. This wasn’t your average pizzeria.
Regular Jons (that’s how the owner punctuated the name) was a Brentwood institution. A restaurant you looked forward to visiting at a time when a Hamburger Hamlet was slinging slop across the street instead of Suzanne Goin’s Tavern, a time before Whole Foods and readily available sushi and options beyond Reddi Chick at the Country Mart; the dark culinary ages for that soon-to-be-infamous-for-a-white-Bronco community. But Regular Jons was our spot, a dining room away from your dining room where you’d endlessly swallow slices, standing in sawdust playing Donkey Kong and Karate Champ with a grease-stained palm. It was the anti-L.A. The kind of place that served pitchers of soda on long red- and white-checkered tables in a wonderfully warped wooden room with all kinds of strange light barely keeping things aglow.
When Ferris Bueller’s Day…
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