I had wanted to go to Cole’s for a long, long time, long enough to slow roast a beef on an LA sidewalk. Cole’s and Philippe the Original are neck-in-neck on the French Dip-o-drome, that is, if you believe the hippety-dippety-dipped-up-hype. Neck-in-neck, but not beef neck, silly. Roasted beef, the sandwich kind, the kind sliced thin, so your teeth don’t have to do it.
You oughta see the penny tile floors and the mahogany bar and the light orbs and vertical dills and happily stacked meat and the bowls of liquid mahogany edible beef shellac.
I was there with fabulous Jenn, cool in the shade of her LA savvy.
Cole’s is a bit more high-brow than Philippe the Original. Lower lights, higher brow. Bout the same level on the roast beef layer. Medium-brow, not too thick, not too thin.
Shellackety-stacked piles of beef on rolls, rolls that soak, rolls built to soak, built to absorb, built to absorb under the orbs. Dip, dip, dip. More like dunk, actually, for a duration.
Truly, anyway you slice it, long as it is across the grain, a French Dip, done the LA way, in other words, IN LA, is fine fine fine. Mighty fine. Not much room in my life for food superlatives. You get to a certain level of nirvana and the sandwiches levitate on the same heavenly plane.