La Poubelle was my first foray into the all-outdoor-all-the-time dining scene we’ve become in Los Angeles. I knew LP as an after-UCB (Upright Citizens Brigade) improv show hang. And aside from the masks and spaced tables, it still lived up to the almost psychedelic sidewalk scene I love-hated. Heady with booze and real glamour and wannabe-glamour and cigarettes. Also suddenly Beck was there and the paparazzi caused the restaurant to run out and surround him with ferns. It was SOOO LA. Pandemic-style. I also ventured west, to meet a few cautious friends at The Auld Fella, a gastropub-ish vibe in Culver City. Downtown Culver on a Wednesday evening was bustling. All I know is I arrived for the tail end of happy hour, and (oops) left after midnight, and there was a steady stream of people coming through the whole time. My friends and I may or may not have gone through four bottles of wine: unmemorable rosé , reasonable-for-the-place-and-times DeLoach Pinot Noir , Prosecco of some sort, and another bottle of rosé. Who was it by then and who cared? And there were several cocktails. All ballasted by a cheese plate and French fries and other sundry dishes. But those thick cut, skin on, perfectly browned and crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside French fries were fire. My fry game has not been active since lockdown, but baby, I can rebound. But I needed to see how my girl-who-goes-to-bars-solo experience would be. I’d adored taking my writing or a book to my local watering holes to chill and work and get distracted by strangers and/or other regulars, with the occasional pool game thrown in, at my favorite walk-able spot. I miss the thrust of bar life in Los Angeles. So I put on my boots and clomped on down to said walk-able bar Crawford’s, with its cozy booths (off-limits for now) and “Fried chicken and ice cold beer”. But how would it be without fellowship and strangers and a hearty handshake from all my favorite bartenders? Pre-pandemic, one jostled for a booth or a bar stool at Crawford’s no matter what night of the week. I felt a tug at my heart to see my watering hole so calm. Once inside, despite a plexiglass divider, and once I revealed my face, I was warmly greeted. I love being a regular. And there was Dodgers baseball on the television. I felt reassured. Even if I had to go outside to enjoy my Pinot Noir. In my sidewalk seat, despite the lack of crowd, I still felt indelibly in Los Angeles. To my left and across Rampart (o’er the rampart how quaint) the sign for Tommy’s World Famous Hamburgers twirled. That was an outdoors-only place already! To my right and just before Rampart, the Taco Bell drive-through was swamped. Not that that is SOOO LA except… I’d say I’m ashamed of the nights Crawford’s fun has ended with a Taco Bell run and the small thrill of running home with my crunch wrap, except I’m not ashamed because Taco Bell rules, even if they are robbing us vegetarians of our 7-layer burrito and potato dishes now, the traitors. I digress. I mourned that there was not going to be any meeting of new people. Or playing pool. I mourned the 9pm closing time; 9pm was typically closer to the tip-top of an Ellen night out. I’ve been known to walk to Crawford’s at midnight. Also to Uber to random winemaker-hosted parties at 1am but that’s another story (or so). But it felt good to walk in my neighborhood. In Westlake. Or Rampart Village, if you please, we are a city of mini-cities. Walking down my neighborhood’s streets, passing the street vendors and food carts felt idiosyncratically Los Angeles, even behind a mask. My time at LaPoubelle and the Auld Fella had been reassuring that we will party on even if it requires masks and space. I realized that so much will still go on, and my city is doing it as safely as possible. Things may never be “the same”, but this will always my home. A pandemic can’t kill Los Angeles.