In Fairfax, located on Beverly Boulevard near Pan Pacific Park, he ran a modest but beloved Pan-Asian restaurant called Buddha's Belly. More than just a place to eat, it was a gathering place where our team and loyal regulars created an atmosphere of warmth and community. Every day, we exchange stories about our guests, the generous, quirky, kind souls whose smiles lit up our little corner of Los Angeles.
For five years, a regular stood out. The Buddha's Belly team referred to it as “Aloha.” He had a familiar, handsome face and loved our shao bing and pad thai sandwiches. During those five years, the only things I said to him were, “How's your pad Thai?”, “Nice to see you,” and “Thank you for coming!” His friendly smile and presence were a highlight of our routine interactions.
Then, one hectic afternoon changed everything. Rushing to a meeting and about to get into my car, I caught a glimpse of Lynda sitting at Table 64, smiling at me across our bamboo-lined patio (aka “bamboo forest”). I went over to say hello quickly.
“How's your pad thai?” I asked and then left.
A couple blocks from the restaurant, I was struck by the feeling that our brief encounter this time was different. There was a spark, a look in his eyes. Then I did something out of the ordinary: I called the manager on duty and asked him to go to table 64, seat 3, and ask for his number.
The next day, I found a business card on my desk with Lynda's cell phone number. It was on! That small gesture marked the beginning of something extraordinary.
Eager to seize the moment, I called her and asked her out that same weekend. However, it was his birthday month and that meant his calendar was booked for the next three or four weekends. Not wanting to let time pass, I proposed an unconventional plan: join me and an octogenarian friend at our annual opening night at the Hollywood Bowl. Little did I know that this would turn out to be both amazing and mortifying. My friend was very excited: she had no filter.
Shortly after picking up our dinner at Joan's on Third, my friend started asking Lynda questions, first light questions like “Where are you from?” and what are you doing?” Then, once seated in the Bowl, her questions continued. But now they were more direct questions: “Have you ever been married?” and “Do you have children?”
Surprisingly, Lynda didn't flinch and her unfiltered but elegant honesty was refreshing and alluring. He had been through the fires of life and knew that when it comes to an attack, it should not be based on any false pretense. Although I managed to answer a few questions that night, I still chuckle as I remember myself sitting with my legs extended and a notepad in my hand taking notes.
After I left her, she didn't know if she would hear from me since she didn't know anything about me. But I didn't wait three days to contact Lynda. I called her the next day to make plans to see her again. Since it was still his birthday month, I asked him to join me that night to watch a surf movie in the Ford with my best friend. She said yes and there we were on another date with a companion.
On our third date, we were finally alone. We ventured to an underground gem affectionately nicknamed the “Blade Runner” restaurant. Tucked away on Pico Boulevard behind no obvious signs and characterized by hoodless mesquite grills and stacked wine cases, the place exuded a secret charm. Sharing a bottle of wine with the owner, our conversation deepened and the electricity between Lynda and I became undeniable.
Our story took another turn when I was opening a new bar called Copa d'Oro (or Gold Cup) in Santa Monica that was similar to a bar on the same street called Bar Copa. The owner of Bar Copa invited me to discuss whether the concept was going to be too similar to his. As we waited in the packed room, I instinctively put my hand around the small of Lynda's back to steady us from the ebb and flow of the crowd around us. The intensity of our closeness and the energy between us was palpable, and we soon found ourselves at a quieter bar called Schatzi on Main where we had our first kiss.
Our courtship continued and would be defined by ease and grace. There were no mind games or calculations. One of us asked if the other was free and he easily answered yes. Our wish was to be together.
I fondly remember being at a Fatburger not far from where Lynda lived, and I called her to ask if she wanted to sit with me while I devoured a Double Kingburger with chili and egg (yum!), and she said yes. When it arrived, I was already halfway through eating the sandwich. But I was practicing a new way of eating a sloppy burger that my brother taught me. Why bother constantly cleaning your mouth when you're just going to ruin it with the next bite? To save time and energy, wipe your mouth once at the end.
She was practicing this new technique with a little sauce on her face and it didn't faze her in the least. I could only imagine what his internal monologue was!
After six months of effortless companionship, I asked Lynda to move out, and a year later, while at Zephyr's Bench, a serene and cherished hiking spot in the Santa Monica Mountains behind Bel-Air, I asked her to marry me.
Now, more than 17 years later, with two beautiful children and our pandemic dog in tow, I can say that I found my own aloha right here in the vibrant chaos of Los Angeles.
The author lives in Santa Monica with his wife and two children. They go to the Hollywood Bowl whenever they can. He also aspires to enter the Guinness World Records book.
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
