On March 29, Taix as we know it closes forever. The iconic French restaurant originally opened downtown in 1927 and relocated to its current chalet on Sunset Boulevard in 1962. It’s a grim reminder of L.A.’s insatiable appetite to destroy its own heritage and especially devastating to a certain milieu of writers and artists, myself very much included. Since it announced its closure, I’ve been visiting as often as I can to say farewell, not only to the charmingly shabby faux-1920s interiors, but to the many lives I’ve lived at its tables. First as a young guitarist when a bandmate worked the bar’s soundboard, next with the Chinatown artist scene, then with Semiotext(e)’s avant-garde lit circle, later through firecracker romances and heartbreaks during the art party Social Club, recently floating through the louche carnival of Gay Guy Night and now with the circus of beatniks from my reading series Casual Encountersz.
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It’s difficult to explain why this cavernous and windowless restaurant means so much, so I’ve tried to list everything I love about Taix.
I love that they don’t play music. I love the 1960s bathrooms. I love the bottomless tureens of soup. I love the complimentary crudité from the pre-pandemic era. I love the cold pats of butter. I love that you can always get a table, no matter how many people roll in. I love the free refills on Diet Cokes. I love the 80-year-old couples on dates. I love how the dim lighting makes everyone seem chic. I love the frayed carpeting. I love the fake votive candles. I love the icy martinis. I love the corner booth beside the fireplace. I love the smoked mirrors and tin-plate ceilings in the elegant back dining rooms. I love the small fortune I’ve spent there picking up the check for many strippers, poets and bohemians. I love its rundown glamour, which miraculously evokes Old Hollywood, Belle Époque and trashy Americana all at once. I unironically love the food, which isn’t spectacular, but is very comforting. I love how a waitress once ran off with a friend of mine and slept on my couch for a week. I love how my wife generally hates eating at restaurants but loves eating at Taix. I love how every L.A. artist I know has their own singular version of this list.
The only thing I don’t love about Taix is that its owners are tearing it down to erect soulless condos. I know the city needs housing, but not like this. I hope we’ll all find a new place to call home again soon.
Taix shaped me as a writer and artist, along with so many others, which is why before the new owners demolish this cultural institution, I asked other creatives what the Echo Park landmark means to them.
Chris Kraus.
(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)
Chris Kraus, writer, artist and co-editor of the independent press Semiotext(e): When I moved to L.A. in 1995, Taix was the go-to place, with its deep banquettes, cuisine bonne-femme and its nightly prix-fixe specials. Mostly it was police officers and their wives who went there. Sylvère Lotringer and I went often, for him it was a little reprieve from the non-Frenchness of L.A. He could order in French and exchange pleasantries with an elderly French waiter who seemed to live there. Years later, when Sylvère moved to Ensenada and was less active with Semiotext(e), Taix was the site of our “Annual General Meetings” — Hedi El Kholti, Sylvère and I would have dinner together and Hedi would catch Sylvère up on all the forthcoming publications and projects. Taix was a place to run into people unexpectedly. About a decade ago, when the bar was refreshed, it changed again and I kind of lost track of it.
Rachel Kushner, novelist: I dined at Taix probably once per week for 23 years. It hurts so much that it is closing. I simply stopped going, so that I could begin to grieve, and also to avoid every last random tourist standing by the host station, on their phone, and the glum possibility of being seated in the second dining room, a.k.a “the Morgue” as my friend Benjamin Weissman put it. I want to protect my memories of the special occasions I enjoyed in this perennial special occasion establishment … I want to remember Bernard, a cheerful Basque from Biarritz who worked there 60 years, got progressively trashed over the course of his shift, went to Bakersfield on Sundays to party with his sheep-herding countrymen, came back Wednesdays sunburned and happy. The old valets who were let go during the pandemic. I used to give them a Christmas bonus every year, as a thanks for letting me park my classic out front. Look, I was born in Taix. I mean, in a way. I nursed my newborn in Taix. He grew up there. People who criticize the food are losers, and will never understand. The steak frites are great. The panna cotta, discontinued after the pandemic, was my favorite. The Louis Martini Cabernet was reliable. (Bernard told me the wine cellar downstairs took up the entire footprint of the main restaurant. Don’t know if that’s true.) Meanwhile, I can’t put my arm around a memory. All the smart girls know why. It doesn’t mean I didn’t try.
Cord Jefferson, writer and director: When I started going to Taix, in 2004, you could still gamble at the bar. They sold keno slips and lottery tickets, and whenever Powerball got over $100 million, I’d buy a ticket with my pint. Where else can you do all that while simultaneously watching a game and eating a tourte de volaille? Taix was where I watched the heroic Zinedine Zidane headbutt the gutless Marco Materazzi in the saddest World Cup final ever. When France lost that afternoon, my favorite server, Phillipe, cried. Phillipe’s teeth were often as wine-stained as his customers’. He’d bum me cigarettes in the parking lot and speak abusively about the ways the neighborhood was changing. I’m happy Phillipe is not around to see the digital renderings of what they plan to erect once they demolish the Taix chateau: another condo building with all the charm of a college dorm. It’s a damn shame what’s happening to Taix. I wish I had more money so I could buy it and keep it around, but I never won the Powerball.
John Tottenham, novelist and poet: It’s a shame that Taix is closing, not only because other plans will now have to be made for my funeral reception, but because it was the last civilized watering hole in the neighborhood. There isn’t anywhere else that one can walk into and immediately satisfy the social instinct among a convivial and refreshingly diverse clientele in what is becoming an increasingly homogenized locality. It has been the nexus of my social life for over 20 years, and is simply irreplaceable.
Jade Chang.
(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)
Jade Chang, novelist: I’d only known Taix as a raucous bardo of a French restaurant, then there was a memorial service for Alex Maslansky, my beloved friend Max’s brother, owner of Echo Park’s best bookstore, Stories. Alex was a beautiful and beleaguered soul, born worried, born romantic, difficult and hopeful and apparently a shockingly good poker player. The room was packed with music people and book people, sober friends and poker friends, packed with the gorgeous girls who’d always loved him, our collective sorrow potent and sweet enough to pull the walls in around us tight as we said goodbye and goodbye.
Alexis Okeowo, New Yorker staff writer: I was a late discoverer of Taix, stumbling upon it when I moved to a bungalow just above Sunset during the pandemic from New York. I seemed to only see writer friends there. I met up with a journalist for drinks and then ran into a new writer friend at the bar. I later had a big, spontaneous dinner with TV writer friends and then a birthday celebration in the dining rooms that ended in two friends escorting me home, sick and happy off a mostly-martini meal and the selfies I took in the bathroom with the iconic pink and gold wallpaper. Every time, there was talk about ideas and gossip and so, so much laughter.
Alberto Cuadros, writer/curator and co-founder of the Social Club: About 10 years ago, Max Martin and I started Social Club as a weekly social salon at Taix. We thought of it as a kind of Beuysian social sculpture, it was a weekly ritual, and over time it became something of an institution in the L.A. art world. Everyone knew where to go in L.A. on a Wednesday if they wanted to meet interesting people or find friends. I even met my wife there who was visiting from Montreal.
Siena Foster-Soltis, playwright: Taix felt like one of the few remnants of the L.A. I grew up in and love so dearly.
Ruby Zuckerman.
(Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)
Ruby Zuckerman, writer and co-founder of the reading series This Friday: Taix is the only restaurant in L.A. that doesn’t lose its mind if new friends drop in halfway through dinner or if you stay at your table for hours after you stopped ordering. That kind of flexibility leads to spontaneous nights where what started off as an intimate hang expands into an all-out party. As a writer, that flexibility has allowed me to meet editors, collaborators and readers, drawn together by pure fun rather than networking. One of my favorite nights involved getting in a physical altercation with novelist John Tottenham after he stole my phone to send prank texts to my boyfriend. I’ll miss taking selfies in the bathroom.
Blaine O’Neill, DJ and events organizer: I always say Taix is the “People’s Country Club.” It is exceptional because of the staff who understand the importance of hospitality, and the scale of the space is humane. You’re able to evade feeling pinched by the noose of transactional cosmopolitanism.
Tif Sigfrids, gallerist and publisher Umm…: Taix was a cultural nexus. A space with broad range. It went from being the dark bar I read books and day-drank at in my 20s to the place where I rented a private room to host my son’s first birthday party. It’s where I watched Barack Obama get elected twice, the Lakers win back-to-back championships, and where I indulged in countless night caps and an unreasonable amount of all-you-can-eat split pea soup. You never knew what kind of hot jock, wasted poet or other type of intrigue you might run into there. You can’t make a place like Taix up. It’s a place that just miraculously happens.
Kate Wolf, writer and editor: Though I have been going to Taix for nearly 20 years, embarrassingly, it was only in the last year that I realized the building wasn’t from the 1920s. Those smoke-stained mirrors, that tin ceiling, the drapery and light fixtures are in fact set-dressed — ersatz! Which of course only makes me love the place more. Taix’s history, and its spot in the city’s cultural firmament, cannot be denied. But what really makes it so special are the people who work there and the clientele, not its past. This point is perhaps my only hope in losing what is my favorite restaurant in Los Angeles. That by some divine grace, we will all find each other again in another spot, designed to a different decade than the horror-filled present, and fill it with the same warmth, the same bottomless soup bowl, the same cheer.
1/4
Hedi El Kholti, the co-editor of Semiotext(e). (Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)
2/4
Writers Lily Lady and Siena Soltis-Foster. (Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)
3/4
Poet Meat Stevens (Steven Lesser). (Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)
4/4
Sammy Loren, writer and curator of Casual Encountersz. (Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)
Hedi El Kholti, artist and co-editor Semiotext(e): Taix is where we would end up after every reading since 2004 when I started working at Semiotext(e). I have memories of being there with Kevin Killian, Dodie Bellamy, Gary Indiana, Michael Silverblatt, Colm Tóibín, Rachel Kushner and Constance Debré among others … Taix has that particular anachronistic vibe that made L.A. so charming when I moved here in 1992, one of these places that time forgot. It was odd when it became really hip in the last 10 years. It made me think of what Warhol wrote about Schrafft’s restaurant when it had been redesigned to keep up with the fashion of the moment and had consequently lost its appeal. “If they could have kept their same look and style, and held on through the lean years when they weren’t in style, today they’d be the best thing around.”
Loren is the founding editor of the art and literary conceptual “tabloid” On the Rag and curator of the reading series Casual Encountersz.
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Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, the author of “Dangerous Liaisons,” is often credited with “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” Given our aggrieved times, it’s not surprising how many of this year’s new mysteries explore revenge, but these four recent releases are especially notable.
Author Jose Ando
(Yuka Fujisawa)
Jackson Alone By Jose Ando Soho Press; 160 pages; $29
While English translations of Japanese crime novels have increased in the last 20 years, most still focus on a culturally homogeneous, straight, Japanese society. Now comes Jose Ando’s “Jackson Alone,” published in Japan in 2022 andtranslated into English by Kalau Almony, which centers on a mysterious African Japanese massage therapist whose life is upended after his clients and colleagues at a fictional sports conglomerate discover a violent revenge porn featuring someone who looks like him. Despite having no memory of the incident, Jackson joins three other outraged, queer men like him in switching identities to seek out and confront their abusers, who can’t seem to tell them apart.
As the quartet’s scheme plays out, this slim novel becomes less a revenge thriller and more a satiric unmasking of Japanese racism and homophobia which spurs “the four Jacksons” to claim their right to exist authentically without the judgment and stereotyping of the hetero, “pure Japanese” gaze. This bold debut earned “Jackson Alone” wide praise and Japan’s Bungei Prize, awarded to first-time novelists, and makes Ando, now in his early 30s, a writer to watch. (The author’s answers to the following questions were translated by Almony.)
Why was it important for you to tell the stories of queer African Japanese men in your novel?
The primary reason was that those characters never really showed up in Japanese literature, and even when they did, they’d be reshaped into something that was easily digestible for the majority. Before I became an author, I would get irritated whenever I encountered that sort of representation. I wrote “Jackson Alone” to submit to a competition for new writers. In my head, it felt like Jackson and the other characters were there the whole time hollering, “Hurry up and get us out there!”
While there are some frank sex scenes in the novel, what shocked me was how dehumanizing encounters with many “pure Japanese” were for Jackson and his friends. Why were those scenes important to the story?
Living as a minority, you often get questions along the lines of, “What kind of painful things have you experienced?” Right? When you’re asked something like that, don’t you always want to shoot back, “Before you ask me about my experience, why don’t you tell me what you’ve done?” Victimization doesn’t just happen because a person from a minority group is standing around, there’s almost always a perpetrator. The different kinds of dehumanization I wrote about in this book are based on the sorts of things I experience almost every day.
In terms of novels I’ve read, there’s “Out”by Natsuo Kirino and the works ofMieko Kawakami. My direct inspiration though comes mostly from my own life.
Author Caroline Glenn
(William Morrow)
Cruelty Free By Caroline Glenn William Morrow; 320 pages; $30
In Glenn’s fiction debut, Lila Devlin, once one of the most famous actresses on the planet, returns to Los Angeles 10 years after the kidnapping and death of her daughter, Josie. The kidnapping caused a media frenzy, which precipitated Devlin’s meme-worthy downward spiral and the end of her marriage to a rising young Hollywood actor. After an “Eat Pray Love” retreat from the spotlight, Devlin is back with Glob, a line of ethical skincare products with a higher purpose: “A way for Josie to live on by applying the principles of self-actualization and inner peace that she learned in India. She wanted to help people heal just as she had.”
But Hollywood has a short memory and most of the people who benefited from Devlin’s meteoric rise and the kidnapping can’t be bothered to help her now. After a meeting with one of them goes horribly wrong, Devlin and her publicist Sylvie, another a victim of Hollywood’s censure, find revenge offers a unique albeit gruesome ingredient for Glob’s products. Although the novel’s flashbacks seem to digress at times, it all clicks into place once Lila starts exacting her increasingly unhinged revenge. “Cruelty-Free” is an edgy journey with razor-sharp observations about fame and revenge. Readers will be looking forward to what comes next for this talented creator.
What inspired your novel?
I love Sondheim’s “Sweeney Todd.” So much. And the core of that story, a man falsely imprisoned for a crime he didn’t commit and eventually driving him insane, is unfortunately pretty evergreen. Other inspirations: the Lindbergh baby, how much I hate true crime media, NYC publicist Lizzie Grubman, cash grab celebrity beauty brands, rich white women going on “Eat Pray Love” trips to Asia, the city of Los Angeles (go Dodgers).
Lila Devlin makes a journey from being a grieving mother to being a villain. How do you keep the reader’s sympathies?
I don’t think the reader’s sympathies are supposed to necessarily stay with Lila. The core of this book, stripping away the weird digressions, is about how society makes monsters. Lila’s career, her body, her entire life was consumed by the world until she was left with nothing, and now she’s holding a mirror back up to it. You can understand where she’s coming from, but after a certain point … she’s gonna hit diminishing returns.
In your thinking, is revenge ever justified?
The point isn’t whether or not it’s justified. It’s whether or not it’ll make you feel better. And it can’t, it’s hollow. Nothing will ever undo the original sin, and devoting your life to ruining someone else’s is a loss for both of you.
Author Leodora Darlington
(YellowBelly Photo)
The Exes By Leodora Darlington William Morrow; 384 pages; $29
This UK fiction editor’s debut centers on Natalie, driven into therapy to get to the root of her blackouts and the murderous impulses toward former boyfriends they may be hiding. But then Natalie meets “the one” — James, her boyishly handsome boss at a London start-up — and becomes even more terrified that the monster inside her may strike again.
In carefully interwoven flashbacks and letters to her exes, readers learn why: Natalie’s disastrous dating histories — and the deaths of her abusive boyfriends — are detailed as well as her early relationship with James and the family trauma she and her younger sister suffered at the hands of a father who they saw abuse, and almost kill, their mother.
But, empathy aside, does any amount of family or romantic trauma justify revenge, even murder? By the time Darlington builds her case for and against Natalie, James and the other characters in this tightly drawn circle, readers will be taken through a number of sometimes shocking reveals that suggest that the family ties that bind can also cut off opportunities for forgiveness. Darlington has crafted a dark, edgy thriller whose engaging protagonist and intriguing psychological insights linger in the mind long after the memory of that last, jaw-dropping twist fades away.
What inspired your novel? “The Exes” began with a title that just popped into my head: “To All the Boys I Killed Before.” I adore the romance genre — I’m a huge fan of tropes, from enemies-to-lovers to fake dating. But that love for romance exists alongside a growing frustration with the rollback of women’s rights globally. That convergence of feelings made me wonder: What kind of girl would write letters to former flames, not out of love, but out of despair?
For much of the novel, readers can’t be sure whether Natalie has murdered her exes in a fit of rage or if something else is at play. How did you draw on this uncertainty to build the reader’s sympathies for the character?
What felt important in drawing readers close to Natalie was letting them see through a window into her past and why she is the way she is. Understanding her as a vulnerable child or anxious teen feels crucial to making sure we’re invested in all of the twists that slam through the second half of the novel. I really do think a great twist requires deep character empathy as much as it does clever plotting.
In your thinking, is revenge ever justified? Yes. Ha! Well, in all seriousness, quite a few characters in this story are pursuing their own revenge plots. I do think it is possible to justify revenge to a jury, but never to oneself. Not in a soul-deep way. The pursuit of revenge takes a spiritual tax on a person that can sometimes cost more than they’ve bargained for, and we see the unraveling effects of that in “The Exes.”
Author W. M. Akers
(Gianna Smorto)
To Kill a Cook By W.M. Akers G.P. Putnam’s Sons; 384 pages; $30
After so much revenge, W.M. Akers has just the palate cleanser in “To Kill a Cook”, a homage to 1970s Manhattan and its fine dining temples. Bernice Black, a sharp-tongued restaurant critic for the Sentinel, a struggling newspaper, is meeting chef Laurent Tirel, her culinary mentor and friend, at his restaurant to plan her fiancé’s birthday party. But Tirel, once lauded as “King of the Butter Boys,” is struggling too. Caviar and truffle prices are skyrocketing, forcing Tirel to cut corners while clinging to his restaurant’s former glory. When Bernie finds the restaurant empty and a veal stock reduced to the consistency of “cold blood,” she thinks Tirel is making an aspic for the party. Instead, she finds Tirel’s head in the refrigerator, suspended in the aspic along with the decorative veggies.
Thus begins an intense romp through New York’s finest restaurants when Bernice — who realizes the NYPD doesn’t know their aspics from a hole in the ground — decides to get the scoop of the decade by finding Tirel’s killer herself. Akers nails 1970s New York’s glitz and grime as Bernie interviews an assortment of renowned chefs, fellow critics, criminals as well as Tirel’s business associates and son, Henri, who also happens to be an old flame. But the pièce de résistance of this delectable mystery is Bernice herself — a bold, brash feminist who’s trying to figure out her sexuality while being honest with the ones she loves. Here’s Bernice replying to an NYPD detective’s accusation that she’s not a lady: “I guess that was supposed to hurt my feelings, but I quit trying to be ladylike sometime around the first grade.” “To Kill a Cook” is a decadent treat, with enough loose ends in Bernice Black’s life and career to leave readers hungry for more.
Why did you decide to set your novel in 1970s Manhattan?
1972 was a key turning point in the history of American fine dining. It’s the moment when old-school French — think white tablecloths, heavy sauces and snooty maitre’d’s — faded into the background, allowing nouvelle cuisine and what we now call New American to take its place. It’s also a moment when exceptional, modern cooking would share a menu with “parsleyed ham in aspic” or something else that today’s diners would consider repulsive. That tension between old and new, and the question of what fine dining would become, drives a lot of the conflict in the book.
How did you research the restaurants you describe so well in the book? Did any of those chefs/restaurateurs inspire Laurent Tirel, the murder victim?
I have a big pile of old cookbooks that inspired a lot of the specific dishes in the book, but the best resource was the New York magazine archives, particularly Gael Greene’s old columns. Bernice Black’s name is a little nod to Greene. And Tirel is very much inspired by Henri Soulé, whose Le Pavillon was the definitive New York restaurant for a generation, and whom Greene wrote about beautifully.
Bernice spends a lot of time trying to perfect a Charlotte Russe for her fiancé. Why that particular dish?
The Charlotte Russe is a specialty of my mother, a former caterer who helped run New York’s Hard Rock Café in the ’70s. It’s the kind of lavish, creamy, boozy party dessert that you don’t see often anymore, and it’s involved enough to offer Bernice a challenge. Julia Child’s got a good recipe in “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” but I relied on my mom’s recipe, whichreaders can find on my Patreon, and which my mom once cooked for Jacques Pépin!
Woods is abook critic, editor and author of several anthologies and crime novels.
The torta Chingona at Tacos Don Pillo is a beast of a sandwich, a tower of asada steak, jamon asado, tomato, onion, jalapeno, avocado and big slabs of salty, squeaky queso fresco. It’s enough to share, or satiate in a way that requires a nap shortly after. It is the star of the Tacos Don Pillo menu, an expansive list of tacos, quesadillas, burritos, salads, nachos and mulitas. Some days require the heft of the torta Chingona, others lean toward the tacos camarones. The trio of corn tortillas barely contain the plump, grilled shrimp, sweet and smoky grilled onions and slivers of avocado. Expect a perpetual line anywhere near an established meal time, but things move quickly.
For the handful of skiers gliding across a sun-drenched ridge high in the San Gabriel Mountains, the wide expanse of the Inland Empire stretched to the Pacific Ocean nearly two vertical miles below.
Across sparkling water, the rugged spine of Catalina Island graced the horizon.
The view rivaled anything at the posh, world-renowned ski resorts of Lake Tahoe, but this was humble Mt. Baldy — the familiar local mountain that, for a few precious weeks each year, becomes a downhill skiing destination that holds its own with anything in the American West.
A sign inside Top of the Notch restaurant at Mt. Baldy.
Last week — after the 10,000-foot summit that looms above Los Angeles emerged from storm clouds blanketed in white — was one for the ages.
But in a rapidly warming world, and in an industry dominated by two huge and growing conglomerates that are crushing the competition, every run feels fleeting.
These days, managing a small ski business is like trying to keep a mom-and-pop general store afloat after Walmart comes to town.
By noon last Wednesday on Mt. Baldy — a little more than an hour’s drive from downtown L.A. — it was getting pretty hot, and the snow was melting fast.
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For a skier racing between towering Jeffrey pines and plummeting through soft, slushy piles of forgiving snow, the hardest part was dodging exposed rocks and random tree limbs that appeared underfoot with alarming frequency.
The hardest part for the business is the fact that one of the conglomerates, Alterra Mountain Co., essentially surrounds Mt. Baldy.
Zac Chambers and his daughter Whitney, 6, of Upland, snowboard together at Mt. Baldy.
It owns Big Bear Mountain Resort and Snow Summit in nearby San Bernardino County, and Mammoth Mountain, the closest big resort in California’s High Sierra.
Although a season pass at Mt. Baldy is a relative bargain at about $300, it’s good only when there’s snow.
For about $800, you can get an “Ikon Pass” from Alterra, which offers access to all of its resorts in California and dozens more across the country and around the globe, including South America, Europe and Asia.
All of which makes keeping the lights on and the chairlifts spinning at beloved, but beleaguered, local resorts an exhausting labor of love.
Last week, Robby Ellingson, president and general manager of Mt. Baldy Resort, drove two hours to a rival resort in Big Bear Lake to pick up spare parts for an old chairlift that had broken down. He thanked them with a few cases of beer.
He planned to grab some tools and install the parts himself, with the help of an electrician.
Michael Phelps, left, and Seven Foster, of Riverside, take the chairlift up to Mt. Baldy Resort.
“I climb the lift towers, I drive snowcats, I do pretty much everything,” he said, chuckling at all of the hard, physical labor despite his executive title. “There’s a lot of things I do that none of the other dudes who hold my position would dream of — out of necessity.”
Another Mt. Baldy executive, Ellingson’s brother Tommy, turned up for an interview on the mountain in a camouflage hoodie, clutching an electric hand drill.
“Everybody’s like a Swiss army knife up here,” he quipped. “It’s awesome, it’s organic!”
It’s also very old-school.
While resorts like Mammoth invest millions in state-of-the-art chairlifts that whisk six people at a time up the mountain with astonishing speed, Mt. Baldy relies on slow, creaking two- and three-person lifts reminiscent of the 1980s.
A lot of the ski gear, ski fashion and the skiers themselves seemed proudly rooted in a bygone era too.
A skier carves down the mountain at Mt. Baldy.
Chris Caron, a 65-year-old retiree who lives 20 minutes down the road, stood at the top of the experts chairlift with a beard as white as snow, a black plastic sun shield across his nose and a cold craft beer in hand.
“There’s big conglomerates trying to buy everybody up, and I don’t want that,” he said, shading himself beneath the bill of his Pliny the Elder ball cap. “That’s what I love about here. It’s not so commercialized.”
Caron said he snowboards at Baldy every chance he gets — 20 to 30 days in a good year.
“I grew up here. We used to ride our bicycles and hike these mountains,” he said. “It’s like home.”
Driving back from visiting family in Missouri recently, Caron stopped at Taos Ski Valley in New Mexico, a bucket list destination for people who don’t shy from pricey vacations. He couldn’t help himself, he said — they’d just had a big dump of fresh powder and it wasn’t too far out of his way. But it didn’t feel right.
“It’s pretty posh,” he said with a resigned shrug. “That’s just not me.”
Also enjoying the uncrowded slopes and gloriously short lift lines on Wednesday was Tommaso Ghio, 28, an aspiring filmmaker from Italy who spent much of the afternoon snowboarding shirtless and looking like an extra from a Visit California commercial.
Old skis adorn a light fixture at the Top of the Notch restaurant at Mt. Baldy.
He and his friends drove up through the desert where it was, “like 80 or 90 degrees, and then we just ended up on top of a mountain,” covered in snow, he said, grinning as if he had won the lottery. “You can’t get this anywhere else.”
But the balmy weather that made the afternoon feel so decadent, and otherworldly, also poses a serious threat to Baldy’s on-again, off-again ski season.
It started with a surprise early storm in November — one that had locals dreaming of a record-breaking year — followed by a bone-dry December.
Then at Christmas, an atmospheric river that dumped several feet of snow on Northern California resorts arrived at Mt. Baldy, which tops out at 8,600 feet, as “catastrophic” rain, Ellingson said.
Rain washes away existing snow and destroys the quality of anything left behind.
And since Christmas week crowds generate about 30% of annual revenue at many U.S. ski resorts, the storm soaked Mt. Baldy in more ways than one.
Things stayed grim until last week’s storm, which dropped more than 2 feet of snow at the base of the resort and up to 3 feet at the top.
With limited snow at lower elevations, people make the up-and-down trip from the chairlift at Mt. Baldy.
It took some time to recover from damage done by the howling wind and make sure none of the enormous piles of snow on the upper reaches became life-threatening avalanches. When the resort finally opened, the skiing was as good as any in recent memory.
“I’ve lived in Mt. Baldy almost my entire life,” said Ellingson, who is 50, “and last Friday was one of my top five days ever.”
He’s hoping the storm delivered enough snow to stay open for at least a month, but the heat is not helping.
Ellingson’s family bought the Mt. Baldy Lodge, a restaurant in the village far below, in the late 1970s. They started running the ski hill, which they own a substantial share of, in 2013.
Increasingly fickle winters have forced the resort to branch out in an attempt to boost summer earnings and attract non-skiing customers: hosting moonlight hikes with live music in the restaurant at the base of the lifts, renting “glamping” tents on wooden platforms — with beds and locking doors — to tempt uneasy campers to sleep beneath the stars.
And in what Ellingson called a “swing for the fences” move, the resort recently bought a microbrewery in Upland. After serving beers at the restaurant for decades, it seemed like a natural next step.
Anything to avoid getting trapped in a “desk job,” Ellingson said, like his friends working as middle managers at the big, corporate resorts.
“I hate to throw shade,” he said, but do those guys ever go skiing?
Independence is priceless to Ellingson because, when you’re the boss and the snow is good, nobody can order you to stop throwing tricks in the terrain park and flying off jumps.
“I grew up during the X Games boom. That’s my identity,” he said. “I still get rad every single day.”
This seaside spot has been crowned the best fish and chip restaurant in the UK at the 2026 National Fish and Chip Awards, beating over 10,500 chippy operators nationwide
They weren’t the only winner based in Yorkshire(Image: Google Maps )
Fish and chips remain a beloved staple in British homes as the ultimate dining-out indulgence, and Yorkshire has now been confirmed as home to the finest establishment serving this classic dish across the entire nation.
This highly-rated Whitby restaurant has just been crowned the best fish and chip restaurant in the UK at the 2026 National Fish and Chip Awards, and based on customer feedback, the accolade is thoroughly deserved.
Competing against more than 10,500 chippy operators eligible for the competition, Trenchers of Whitby’s triumph in the ‘restaurant of the year’ category represents a remarkable accomplishment.
Shortlisted establishments must demonstrate ‘extensive product knowledge, sustainable business practices, employer integrity, first-rate customer service’ alongside exceptional skill in preparing the most delicious fish and chips.
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The Trenchers on New Quay Road uses the “traditional method of beef dripping” for frying to guarantee they’re delivering the “best possible product”, according to its website.
These deliberate cooking techniques have propelled the establishment above its fierce rivals. Yet the offerings for genuine food enthusiasts extend far beyond your standard fish and chips, though that naturally remains the restaurant’s cornerstone.
Menu choices feature seafood salads, crab, lobster, fresh fish alongside homemade pies and lasagnes, Whitby scampi, plus numerous vegetarian alternatives.
A recent guest shared their thoughts on TripAdvisor, stating: “Friendly service, nice atmosphere, incredible food and prices. Eaten here many times over the past few visits to Whitby and have never been disappointed. Absolutely recommend.”
Another diner described the “gravy is out of this world”. They added: “We travelled to Whitby for a weekend away. We popped into Trenchers Friday night, we were seated in a booth, and the drinks arrived promptly once ordered… The butcher’s gravy was absolutely delicious, and we would return just for the gravy.”
Located within walking distance of Whitby Beach, merely a 12-minute walk away, the eatery is positioned in the town centre, attracting visitors throughout the year. However, this doesn’t diminish their dedication to the art of preparing fish, as they continue to expand their modest empire.
Trenchers has established a sister venue, Tide by Trenchers, on Bridge Street in Whitby, which is scheduled to reopen in March 2026. It promises to “bring over four decades of award-winning tradition to Bridge Street”, offering seafood and additional meat options.
A somewhat newer and more upmarket alternative to the traditional fish and chip shop, one patron described Tide’s cuisine as “heaven on a plate”.
They added: “Wonderful. We had the special lobster dinner last Thursday of the month – would highly recommend, absolutely lush! Great wine selection, loved the Sauvignon Blanc.”
Claiming the top spot at the National Fish and Chip Awards 2026 was The Scrap Box in York, which scooped the coveted first place prize.
The shop’s two co-owners and brothers, Aman and Gavin Dhesi, are absolutely thrilled with their remarkable achievement. Following their victory, Gavin said: “There are so many outstanding fish and chip shops across the UK and countless awards, but this is the one every chippy dreams of, the ‘Oscars’ of our industry!”.
“With the most rigorous judging and the highest calibre of past winners, it’s a true honour to be recognised at this level. To represent the very best of fish and chips for the year ahead is both humbling and hugely meaningful to our team and a testament to the craft, care, and consistency we put into every portion of fish and chips.”
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