The Pantry Cafe — that is, the Original Pantry Cafe — has not budged more than tectonics demand from the corner of 9th and Figueroa for 84 years. Back in its 69th year Detective Harry Bosch paid a pre-dawn visit to the L.A. landmark:
“He wiped the remaining shaving cream off and put on his beige summer suit with a light-blue button-down oxford. On a hanger in the closet he found a maroon tie with little gladiator helmets on it that was not unreasonably wrinkled or stained. He pegged it in place with the 187 tie pin, clipped his gun to his belt and then headed out into the predawn dark. He drove into downtown for an omelet, toast and coffee at the Pantry on Figueroa. Open twenty-four hours a day since before the Depression. A sign boasted that the place had not gone one minute in that time without a customer. Bosch looked around from the counter and saw that at the moment he was personally carrying the record on his shoulders. He was alone.”
—The Black Echo
Well, if it’s angsty enough for Bosch it’s angsty enough for me, thought I as I pushed past these doors:
And I pushed right back out. Maybe Harry, the former “Tunnel Rat” of Nam, felt at home in the cramped quarters amid the smells of carnage and fear, but I would have to be hungry as a Uraguayan football team to choke down whatever rubbish gave off the fetid odors that sent me reeling back onto Figueroa.
O! Poor Detective Bosch! Now I understand why you are so angry all the time.
The Black Echo By Michael Connelly
(Warner Books, Mass Market Paperback, 496 first appearance of Harry Bosch pages)