
We’re walking along Figueroa Street’s Highland Park hipster drag at 9 p.m. on a Thursday night, looking for something to eat. Within a span of a few blocks, though, we’re greeted by one closed sign after the next. How is it possible that both bar-adjacent pizza joints are already done for the night?
We’ve been here before, maybe a year ago, when we walked two miles (no exaggeration) before stumbling upon a cramped, hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant that serves to what is now considered Los Angeles’ late night crowd. Maybe we could have gone back to that spot, but we decided to catch the Metro to Chinatown, where there are still a small handful of restaurants open until at least 10 p.m.
I shouldn’t have to explain to readers that 9 p.m. is a perfectly reasonable time to eat dinner. People around the world know this as a fact. An actual late night meal is after midnight. I used to indulge in those too, but gave up the habit post-pandemic, not because I have grown sensible in my old age, but because reliable late night spots in Los Angeles are now so few and far between that trying to find food at 2:30 a.m. has become a hassle I don’t need after a DJ gig.
It wasn’t always like this. Los Angeles used to be a proper city. It wasn’t a 24/7 city, but we didn’t operate on farm time either. If you got off work late, you could still get take out or make a grocery store pit stop on the way home. You could meet up with friends for coffee at night or grab a bite to eat after the concert/club/bar. Now, good luck finding food beyond 8 p.m. You should have done your meal prep on Sunday so that you could be safe at home by sunset and ready to settle into a 10-step nighttime routine for optimal sleep hygiene so that you’ll wake up refreshed at 4 a.m. and ready to take on your morning ritual of making content about the life you want people to think you have. Don’t forget to have your friendly, neighborhood delivery bot bring by that breakfast smoothie you love.
These are, truly, the lamest of times.
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