Is L.A. Loveable or Leavable?

“That’s a funny name for a restaurant,” my father said in Persian during summer 1990 as we drove near La Cienega and San Vicente Boulevards toward the Beverly Center and saw a fast food stand seemingly on an island of grass, right in the middle of traffic.

“Why is it a funny name?” asked my mother, also speaking in Persian. “What’s it called?”

“Fatburger,” my father responded. 

“What?”

“Fatburger. Like a fat hamburger.”

“I don’t get it,” my mother said. Fortunately, my sister and I had learned enough English to help my mother visualize a big, fat, meat patty, or “kotlet” in Persian.

“I don’t understand people in Los Angeles,” said my mother. “Are they all overly-skinny movie stars or people who wait in line at Fat Kotlet?”

I shared her inquiry. There seemed to be at least two Los Angeleses: The one inhabited by wealthy, skinny celebrities, and the city that belonged to everyone else. Most of the people we spent time with were immigrants, with whom we rode buses.

Initially, everything in L.A. bothered my mother. “They call this ground beef?” she complained about meat options at a local kosher, Persian supermarket. That’s how we came to own a meat grinder, which I was tasked with operating every day after school. Everyone who moves to this city has their priorities; quality ground beef was ours. Sadly, my mother insisted on buying the leanest chuck steak possible to shove inside that noisy meat grinder. Her burgers were anything but fat. And I wasn’t allowed to visit Fatburger because it would ruin my appetite for kabob, “kotlet,” stuffed grape leaves or anything else my mother made with the meat I worked so hard to grind. 

My mother had other beefs with this city, too (no pun intended): The hideous traffic, neighbors she didn’t know and the fact that bus drivers didn’t speak Persian. And then, there was the smog. 

“I’m going to get asthma here!” she cried, until my father reminded her that as one of the most polluted cities in the world, her former hometown, Tehran, made L.A. look like a serene village in New Zealand. Sure enough, my mother developed asthma here. And as years went by and I continued to walk home on heavily congested Wilshire Boulevard, so did I. In hindsight, a little asthma is a small price to pay to live in one of the best cities in the world, at least for me. 

Yes, I still believe that L.A. is one of the best cities in the world. 

I believe this, despite the fact that we burn down half of downtown whenever we win an NBA championship; despite the fact that I carry pepper spray and a taser when I walk back to wherever I’ve parked my car, day or night; and despite the fact that, last week, it took me ten minutes to drive three blocks. It was scorching hot in February, traffic was bumper-to-bumper at 1 p.m., and three men in separate trucks asked me to roll down my window so they could offer me a great deal on fixing a giant dent in my car’s bumper. As I crawled at a snail’s pace, there was only one thing to do: I rolled down the windows, inhaled my smog (yes, it belongs to me and all Angelenos) and started blasting “My Sharona.”

I love L.A. because seeing the good in anything that’s so inherently imperfect keeps me young. Rather than incessantly complaining about crime, homelessness, inept governance or the high cost of living, I smile, take a puff of my inhaler and metaphorically wrap the city in my arms, trying my best not to pepper spray the air. It’s polluted enough, but that’s part of its charm. I love my City of Angels, especially because those angels gave my family and I refuge from tyranny.  

In 2022, it doesn’t take courage to hate L.A.; it takes courage to still love it. 

But for me, the best part of L.A. is its Jewish community. I’ve never seen anything like it. And there’s a reason why most of my friends who’ve moved to cities such as Denver, Dallas, Miami or Las Vegas are still not as happy as they would like to be: “It’s just not the same community as we had in L.A.,” they say.

They’re right. What is it about L.A.’s Jewish community that’s so rare and wonderful? Maybe it’s because, like the city itself, our Jewish community is a true melting pot, whether a pot of Ashkenazi cholent, Moroccan dafina or Persian hamin. 

I love seeing girls in tank tops and jeans seated next to tables of boys in black kippot and tzitzit at places like Jeff’s Gourmet on Pico Boulevard; or Israelis in muscle-T’s standing in line next to bearded Orthodox men at kosher bakeries in the valley; or Persian teens who arrive at Aroma Cafe at 10:30 p.m. on a Saturday night and order only dairy items because, while they still eat at non-kosher restaurants, they don’t eat meat that’s not certified kosher. And then, there are the newest Jewish immigrants — the French — who are downright fabulous. The most valuable aspect of the L.A. Jewish scene is that there’s a community for everyone.

The Jewish Angelenos I appreciate most are Holocaust survivors and all of the elderly men and women whom I see pushing shopping carts like walkers along Pico in the days and hours leading up to Shabbat. 

But the Jewish Angelenos I appreciate most are Holocaust survivors and all of the elderly men and women whom I see pushing shopping carts like walkers along Pico in the days and hours leading up to Shabbat. I’m in awe of the survivors’ life experience and resilience, and I listen with sacred attention as they describe the love and bonds they shared for family members who perished at the hands of Nazis. And when they describe what L.A. was like in the early 1950s, I, who came to this city in 1989, listen with obsessive wonder. 

The elderly men and women on Pico, most of whom are Persian, thankfully never endured the Holocaust, but they exemplify resilience and sacrifice in having escaped their homeland and resettled in this concrete jungle. I’m nearly intoxicated with love and awe whenever I approach old, Persian Jewish women at Elat Market or Glatt Mart and ask them about the best cuts of meat or their trademark secrets for the perfect gondi, or chicken-chickpea meatballs and broth infused with cardamom — a Persian Jewish Shabbat staple. “Cook it with neck bone,” says one, while another swears by mixing the meat with chicken fat.

I love watching the old Persian men who play backgammon every afternoon at park picnic tables throughout the city. When those tables were off-limits and covered with police tape during the peak of the pandemic, I often wondered in melancholy curiosity what happened to those men. Thankfully, they’re now back, sharing bags of dried fruit and nuts, maneuvering backgammon techniques and reminiscing about the truly good days back in pre-revolutionary Iran. 

As for me, I never did get to eat at Fatburger. Once my family and I began keeping kosher, that Fatburger window closed for good. But I don’t mind. I get my burger fixes…and my weekly copy of this paper, at Jeff’s Gourmet.

Tabby Refael is a Los Angeles-based writer, speaker and civic action advocate. Follow her on Twitter @RefaelTabby