Generally speaking, people either loved this restaurant or never came back after one invariably raucous meal there. The food was delicious, the rest depended on one’s sense of theater or, too often, theater of the absurd.
Ibrahim Safid came to L.A. years before as an exchange student from Saru, one of those small Middle Eastern countries that have a hundred times more oil than citizens. He came to study economics with the intention of returning home one day and injecting some Western know-how into a land rich in natural resources and old wisdom but not much twentieth century. Instead, he became addicted to everything California and stayed. His father was rich and indulgent, so when his only son said he wanted to live in America and open a men’s clothing store, Dad supplied the money. The store did well but Ibrahim grew bored and sold it. About this time he met Gus, who was working as a waiter at a swank restaurant in Beverly Hills. After they’d been together some time they decided to open their own place.
From the beginning it had been called Crowds and Power, and whatever else you might say about the restaurant, the food was good. Ibrahim had a knack for hiring cooks. He was also a neophiliac. Neo, not necro: things constantly had to be new. Paint the place, change the furniture, the cuisine. The most dreaded word off his lips was “redecorate” and the people who worked there heard it very often. Not that he was looking to improve or refine either. It didn’t matter to him if the avocado soup was perfect, the walls a wonderful blue, or that the strange high-tech cutlery made people smile and heft the pieces in their hands like delighted children with new toys. Out with the old. Out! Out! Out! What was exasperating was that the man was often right. Los Angelenos love change. The more Ibrahim changed the style, the look, the dishes at Crowds and Power, the more people came. Lily contended her boss knew what he was doing, no matter how flutter-brained his decisions appeared. Gus insisted his lover had only been lucky. One day he’d change everything again and suddenly they’d be empty “as a nun’s cunt” and it would stay that way because even the best customers finally grow tired of never knowing what the hell they’re coming to. Krazy Kat Ibrahim listened to Gus and smiled full of love but continued to do it his way.
Lily managed to manage the place. I got the feeling it was because she had the ability to stand back from this melee at the right moments. She wasn’t a particularly patient woman, but in her job she knew how to wait till all the information was in before making a judgment.
Everyone there liked and appreciated her, even the misanthropic Gus. You could see in the way people looked at her or asked her opinion that she was special to them, a valued spirit and arbiter who could see all sides and was generally fair with her assessments.
All this in one day. After lunch I walked out into the trombone blast of heat and light and was momentarily stunned. But was it because of what I’d walked into or out of? I had her address and telephone number written in nervous script on the inside of a pack of matches from the restaurant.
When Ky brought my car around, Cobb the greyhound was sitting next to him in the passenger’s seat.
“Does he always do that?”
“No! He’s very good dog, but sometimes there is a car he likes and he just do it.”
“Don’t people mind?”
“Yes! Many hate it. Then Ibrahim give them a free meal.”
I climbed in and looked at the old boy, who had yet to move, although Ky had opened the door on the other side and was calling for him to come out.
“I have to go home now—if that’s okay with you?”
He didn’t look at me. I was about to pat his head but remembered Lily saying he didn’t like to be touched. After some more time he yawned enormously and slowly stepped down and out.
I drove home with good new smells in the car—greyhound, hope, excitement.
My friend Mary Poe is the hardest-hearted human being I know. She is a private investigator who specializes in divorce cases. She’s also a great fan of “Paper Clip” and on more than one occasion has told me stories from her working life that I’ve been able to use in the strip. That night while I was working and still basking in the events of the day, she called.
“Max? I’ve got one for you. I don’t know if you can use it but it’s funny as hell anyway. This cop I know told me they got a call from a woman who just moved into some ritzy new apartment up off Sunset. Said she was coming out of her place and heard someone calling for help. But the weird thing was, this ‘help’ was real quiet, you know? Not like HELLLLP! But ‘help,’ in small letters. So they shoot a squad car over and the woman shows them the apartment. Sure enough, they put their ears to the door and hear it too—a little quiet ‘helllp.’
“Bang! They break down the door and charge in. The caller follows them in to see what’s up. Nothing in the living room. Nothing in the kitchen. Bingo! Guess what’s in the bedroom. A totally naked woman tied down on a brass bed. S&M time, right? Even better, down on the floor next to her is a guy in a Batman suit and he’s not moving. Looks like he’s maybe dead.
“The skinny is, it turns out these two lovebirds are married. The only thing that gets them hot is for him to tie her down, then get dressed in his Batman costume, climb up on the dresser next to the bed, and jump down on her, screaming ‘BAAAATMAAAAN!’ Only this time Mr. Romantic missed and cracked his skull on one of the bedposts. He’s been lying on the floor more than an hour and wifey’s scared he’s dead, but embarrassed about being where she is, so all she’s been doing is calling, ‘Help,’ but real quietly, hoping only the right kind of person will hear and come.”
“Was Batman dead?”
“Nope, only a concussion.”
“I like it, Mary, but it ain’t for the strip. Listen, something else. Do you know a restaurant named Crowds and Power?”
“No.”
“Do you owe me a favor?”
“No, Max. You owe me two.”
“Oh. How about making it three?”
She sighed. “I’ll get a pen and paper.”
“No need. I only want you to find out about that restaurant.”
“Anyone in particular there?”
“Just a kind of general look-see.”
“How come?”
I considered lying to her but what was the point? “I met someone who works there and I want to know—”
“Very romantic, Max. You meet a woman and immediately want them investigated. What’s her name?”
“Lily—No, look, you’re right. It’s terrible. Forget it. Forget I asked.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong—it’s not such a bad idea these days. Isn’t love wonderful now? You meet someone and get excited, but you can’t sleep together because they might have AIDS, and you can’t marry them because every other marriage breaks up, and who’s supposed to give who flowers now that we’re all liberated?… Tell me if you do want me to look into it. I always like it when you owe me favors.”
“I will. How’s Frank?”
“Frank’s Frank. He’s wrestling this weekend. You wanna go?”
Mary’s husband was none other than Frank Cornish, better known as “Tackhead,” onetime world wrestling champion. One of Mary’s favorite pastimes was going to his matches, sitting ringside and booing him. I’d gone along a few times and spent most of the evenings pulling her back into her seat. One memorable night Tackhead leaned over the ropes, pointed a menacing finger at his wife, and growled, “Dance on my dick, Rat Queen!” At home they watched Preston Sturges films, read science fiction novels, and she bossed him around. Not that he paid any attention. I never fathomed the dynamics of their marriage although we spent a good deal of time together. They fought constantly and openly, and even when they were at peace, it was like the loaded pause between lightning and its slow husband, thunder. Any second now…