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Community Corner

Boulevard St. Germaine in South Pas?

My brother Rick from Santa Barbara was in town again recently and he described coming into South Pasadena on the Gold Line from Union Station downtown and strolling around the neighborhood of our local station:

“We were rolling out of the Highland Park Station, you know that stretch just before the train crosses the steel trestle bridge over Arroyo Seco and curves north toward the mountains, then east toward South Pasadena.  I was in one of the forward facing seats on the left and the abrupt change in light caused me to look up from the LA Times calendar section and take in the view.  Suddenly I was looking out onto a verdant expanse of trees and residences sloping gently all the way up to the San Gabriel Mountains.

“As we approached the South Pasadena station, I happened to glance out the opposite side window and caught a flash view of a café with patrons seated outside on a wide sidewalk.  It reminded me of other neighborhood cafes where I’ve sat outdoors, passing the time and hanging out in various cities in different parts of the world.  We pulled into the station at 5:40 pm, just as it was sun was setting.  Walking down the ramp of the station platform I looked around and noticed at the intersection at Mission Street and Meridian Avenue, which the train crossed diagonally as it pulled out of the station, other small cafes, a bakery, and an ice cream emporium surrounding the intersection, all with a various mix of folks sitting outside, chatting and eating and drinking. 

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“But I decided to look for that café I had first seen when arriving.  Just on the other side of the station platform railing was a pocket park where a small group of teenage boys and girls were sitting on a blanket and doing a respectable job of harmonizing on ‘The Lion Sleeps Tonight’.  One of the boys and two of the girls had acoustic guitars, one of which was a twelve-string, with its unmistakable resonance, and one boy was keeping rhythm on a small conga drum.  The woven ticker tape metal sculpture of a briefcase toting commuter hurrying toward the ticket machines ignored the small band of minstrels. 

“I walked away from the station alongside the park on the side street called Meridian and the bustle of the intersection quickly subsided.  A cinnamon fragrance seemed to be drifting over from the bakery.  Just past the park there was a shoebox size museum called the Meridian Iron Works, which was closed.  The sign said it was only open Thursday and Saturday afternoons.  There was a model of a train station in the window and, peering in, I could see a vintage, maybe Wurlitzer, theater organ.

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“Along Meridian, there were camphor, sycamore, and pine trees and in a grassy median a young man was sitting and punching the keys of a laptop at an octagon shaped table under an oak tree.  On the seat beside him was a napping little girl.  (She wore a pink bonnet.)  And then there was the café I had seen from the train, a brown stucco building a short block down on the corner of El Centro Street.

“It was February, but unseasonably warm and perfect for loitering at an outdoor table in the twilight, with a drink, the local newspaper and the passing parade.  The place was called Bistro de la Gare.  Patrons were seated outside on a wide sidewalk surrounded by planters dominated by large pink roses.  The Bistro sat next to another restaurant/market called Nicole’s that also had customers enjoying their aperitifs out on the sidewalk.

“The menu at Bistro de la Gare was typically French, typically bistro, which was fine with me.  I ordered a glass of Domame la Forge Pinot Noir and told the waiter I may order something else later.  The waiter, who may have been the proprietor, looked French enough.  Her reddish brown hair was in two pony tails.  She did not have an accent and seemed friendly and reserved at the same time.  She didn’t offer her name, a good thing in my way of thinking.

“The others seated around me were mostly couples of all ages, looking like professors (corduroy jackets and scuffed brown loafers), TV series development girls (skinny black framed glasses), 1980’s hipsters (shorts and Doc Martens), and lawyers (expensive jacket, bag, and pumps).

“In the distance I heard a gruff, bluesy, baritone voice start “Dear Prudence” accompanied by what sounded like a plugged-in acoustic Martin.  It was coming from another restaurant half a block down on the other side of the street.

“When my Pinot was gone the waiter came back and asked if I still wanted to order something to eat.  I said, ‘I’ll have another one of these, pointing to the empty wine glass, and Le Carpaccio de Boeuf.’  She said very seriously that the carpaccio was her favorite thing on the menu and walked away without writing anything down.  I was a little surprised that she took me into her confidence like that after being the very model of friendly, but somewhat detached professionalism.  I believed her; she seemed trustworthy.

“Finished with the newspaper, I looked through the black, square planed French windows into the bistro’s interior, where there were about twelve tables in front of a large Charles Aznavour concert poster, with other customers engrossed in what I’m sure were intense and intimate conversations about art, mathematics and philosophy.

“The waiter came back with the wine and carpaccio, which was a deep red, drizzled with an exceptional virgin olive oil, sprinkled with fresh parmesan, and surrounded by greens in vibrant color.

 “Afterwards I decided to saunter down El Centro, drawn by the strains of ‘Corrina, Corrina’, the music still coming from the other café, called the Firefly Bistro, from the singer with the plugged-in Martin.  I was still hungry.”


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