A red leather booth restaurant is a certain kind of thing. Often an Italian joint or a steakhouse with some ethnic vibes. But a black leather booth is another thing altogether. Expect the place to be darker, with a menu centered around meat; all else is an afterthought. There will be some peas and carrots, but pay no attention. While a red booth sets you up to stand out, a black booth lets you disappear into the wilderness of what is happening around you.
You may find yourself in a strip mall in Redondo Beach, California. If you do, dip into the Bull Pen, a steakhouse that has bounced around Pacific Coast Highway since 1948 before settling in its current location in 1978. Slide into a black “leather” booth. Try their famous burger, or, as I do, damn the torpedoes and have a slab of prime rib. If you’ve thrown the towel in on healthy eating, pair that with a loaded baked potato and just let the carbo load happen. I have heard that some people like roughage with their meals, and you’ll be happy to know that the green salad is that super-chilled iceberg kind, without adoration, except for the optional beets. These are old-school canned beets, not the roasted, fussy new iterations. I dig beats. Some of you do not. Some of you are wrong. On one occasion, the always-reliable restaurant ran out of beets, and I called a friend who lived across the street to bring me a can of beets. The beets do this thing when they bleed into the bleu cheese dressing, and it turns pink and delicious, and you gotta have it.
I have been eating and drinking at the Bull Pen for most of my adult life. For some years, I drank more than I ate; lately, it’s been the other way around. I have lived across the street from the place on two separate and distinct occasions, but that’s a story for another time.
They have a team of stellar bartenders doing yeoman’s work, even when the place is stacked five deep. The drinks are simple and stiff, and the dapper squad, led by Rudy and Leslie, are always unflappable.
The first time I remember eating at the Bull Pen was for a work lunch. We all ordered the famous cheeseburgers. It was simple: the meat and the cheese, a slightly toasted bun holding it all together. The plain plate was a declaration that not everything had to change. My business partner and I were having lunch with our landlord, who ate there more often than any reasonable cardiologist advised. He was a Navy man and had no time for affectation. We sat against the brick wall that runs along the entrance, and I noticed there were no windows, just little squares of glass block that formed a transom up high and out of reach.
Across the dining room, dotted with those black leather booths around the perimeter and tables in the center, there are antique glass chandeliers that also adorn the bar. I’m sure they light up the place, but they don’t appear to be giving it much effort, and I suspect that’s the point.
The Bull Pen creates a vortex, and when you try to slip in for just one drink, you may find yourself shutting it down.
The crowd still skews to the far end of life expectancy, something I enjoyed with irony in my 20s, and now that I prepare to join them, I take comfort. The best way to experience the Bull Pen is to book a table for dinner with your friends later in the evening when they won’t be seating another party after you. Do this on a weekend. 9 PM, it’s like a starter pistol goes off, except it’s a saxophone. It is loud. Lean in. Soon, the tiny dance floor in the bar will swell up as my fingers do after too much beer. This is when the real magic happens, and you will be grateful for those black leather booths.
A steady but small rotation of local musical acts usually plays Thursday-Saturday. Mike Forbes & The Explosion is a staple on most Saturday nights. Like an aging Rob Lowe in St. Elmo’s Fire, his sax and glorious white hair are worth the outing alone. Twenty-plus years ago, I handed a cassette tape to Rod, the owner, that my friend had made of his new band, Once More. They were a bunch of business professionals who wanted to moonlight as a bar band. They’re playing at the Bull Pen next week.
I told you it was an older crowd, but they’re not all there for dinner. When I started hanging out here, I was awestruck by the older men, clad in Reyn Spooner shirts, who bounced around the dance floor like so many drunken buoys. These men had no fear, no sense of shame, and zero self-awareness. I wondered if there was an internal dialog. Did they say to themselves, “She’s a solid 10 and 26 years old, but I have three strands of hair and a state pension. I’ve got a shot.”, or were they merely heat-seeking missiles, indiscriminately asking every woman to dance like some cold-caller selling extended auto warranties? Eventually, though, these things sort themselves out.
In gathering my thoughts to write this drivel for you, I found a post about the place that quickly devolved into a discussion about the bold nature of some of the older female patrons who directed their amour at younger men. Heck yeah. You’ve come a long way, baby.
The last time I visited the bar, a group of women came in dressed as Pan Am flight attendants, complete with roller bags. Jae, who works the door when he’s not serving, made them check their bags at the entry. They were followed by a group of brides searching for a bridesmaid, one lady dressed like Mrs. Roper, and a couple of dudes in leather jackets and sunglasses. This seemed normal to me. I attended a friend’s birthday at the Bull Pen, where I wore a bathrobe once. It was not Halloween.
Come as you are. The place has a Toby Keith feel - always bringing a diverse crowd. An old rummy may be throwing a few back with a couple who just flew in private and want to reminisce. I remember a wealthy older woman coming in regularly in a gown and tiara. Then there may be a group of younger parents at the end of some couple’s dinner, the men all clad in Travis Matthew polo shirts, and they see things they had not imagined. It’s not a costume bar, but you never know what you’ll get through the wood and stained glass doors. I always return to find out, and so should you.
I don’t know if Mona and Cliff envisioned such madness when they opened back in ‘48. Or if their sons, Don and Rod, knew it would keep rolling when they took over. These days, you’re likely to find Rod’s son Josh working the front of the house when you come in.
All of this history, all of this silly madness, this throughline, gives me hope. I like the hope of the old folks on the dance floor, the hope that not everything has to change, and the simple promise of a good time.
xAP
Pick the Saturday! An always favorite time!!!!
Ante, you had me at “…you never know what you’ll get through the wood and stained glass doors. I always return to find out, and so should you.” After the loss of so many favorites in Malibu, I thought I’d try south for a night. What’s the best night to go?