Papa Cristo’s is closing!

After 77 years.

He was part of Shirley’s life since she was a little girl.

He was part of my life for sixty years.

Shirley’s Dad was Greek. Jimmy Kenegos, a city slicker from Athens.

Technically, he was her step-dad, but since he raised her from little, he was her Dad.

Like all Greeks who come to America, he worked in a restaurant.

Like all Greeks anywhere in the world, they find each other like a compass always pointing Greek.

So he found Papa Cristo’s, the restaurant deli and market, at Pico and Normandy in Los Angeles, and the rest, as they say, is history.

When Shirley and I became an item just out of high school, I became part of the family comings and goings. I was introduced to Greek food in all its wonderfulness, and they took me to Pico and Normandy and introduced me to Chrys Chrys. It was love at first bite.

The early restaurant had limited seating. There was a record shop next door, and we bought some records. Chrys bought out the record store and expanded the dining room.

The parking lot in back is bordered by flowering plants and fruit trees with yellow lemons and vines with grapes. A corner of the lot was later developed into an outdoor garden patio with tables and chairs and awnings and lights and heaters, and Shirley and I were among the first to enjoy the al fresco dining as Mark took our order and waiters brought the food, and Greek music hovered in the air.

Over the years, Shirley and I would go as often as we could. The longer drive when we were living in Riverside, the shorter drive when we moved to Altadena.

The drive never bothered us, because we knew where we were going.

We tried just about everything on the menu so we could know which were our favorites.

The three lamb chop plate was an obvious favorite. It came with potatoes, those little round red ones perfectly cooked. It came with salad, and pita with tzatziki. The water was free, help yourself, as much as you want.

When we were pinching pennies, we got one order and split it, one chop for Shirley, two for me.

We loved the avgolemono soup.

We loved the grilled feta.

We loved the grilled eggplant, well done, surrounded either by feta or grilled tomato slices.

We loved the varieties of dessert, baklava, galaktoboureko, melomakarona, loukoumi.

I learned the words and the flavors, and my life became cosmopolitan.

I remember long years ago, when we had a block party on Highland Avenue. It was pot luck. We ordered take out by special arrangement with Chrys’s friend who came in just for that, and brought as our share a whole leg of roasted lamb, a plethora of potatoes, a pot of green beans served Greek with olive oil, onions, garlic, minced tomatoes.

It was the life of the party, and we were hailed as heroes. Everyone descended on the food and it disappeared so quickly we didn’t even get a bite. No matter, we thought, we’re happy to share, and we know where there’s more.

We were delighted when we went to hear Amy Goodman at the cathedral on Wilshire Boulevard around the corner from Vermont Avenue. We parked in the structure belonging to the United Teachers of Los Angeles, then crossed the street to join the crowd of the faithful who had all paid extra for the pre-talk dinner with Amy.

What a delicious surprise! Papa Cristo had catered the event, and the feast was laid out on the long table. For many, it was their first taste of Greek food, and they were immediate converts.

For us, it was the comfort of already knowing.

We brought Amy flowers, as we always did, and felt we were sharing her with Chrys.

Then there were the family dinners at the restaurant. Thursday nights, advance reservations, any size party. We brought many groups of friends many times.

For me, it was like hog heaven.

One end of the restaurant was reconstituted, tables put together to make a long communal board, like the Boarders’ Table at Centro Basco.

A bouzouki player was already playing at the corner of the room.

A kind of toll booth was set up where you sign in, already on the list. Mark, Chrys’s cousin, manned that entry point, where several bottles of wine were standing opened, with glasses ready.

We were presented with samples of each wine to taste, determining if we wanted to add wine to the dinner, and our choice was recorded.

A tsunami of food was layered at the end of the long table for communal passing. An endless stream of steaming platters proceeded from the kitchen, as the whole menu transferred itself to us.

Hors d’oeuvres stations with small plates let us nibble and munch and talk as all the guests were arriving.

Then the call to action.

We descended upon the long table and began the endless feast.

We were magically in Greece. The travel posters let us choose which locality.

One time, when we brought Lisa and Eric, Lisa had commented that she was hoping for fish, which was not included on the list. Suddenly there appeared a fillet on an individual platter, grilled to perfection, just for her. She let us all have a bite, and it was the best fish I’ve ever tasted.

Greek food is honest food. It understands the palate without needing to be tortured by exaggeration. It knows what we want and gets right to it.

The dinner well underway, a sudden sound, maybe finger cymbals, maybe the bouzouki re-asserting itself, and a belly dancer appears and begins her gyrations.

She draws members from the audience who dance with her, sometimes laughing, sometimes blushing, as grandfathers show off to the encouragement of the grandmother, and they bow, retire, and are replaced by another, drawn from the crowd, sometimes protesting, “I can’t dance,” but our rhythmic clapping and cheers propel them to the floor and they suddenly dance Greek, flushed with the exertion, return to their seat at the table as we pat them on the back.

Already we’ve eaten more than any human in the history of the world, and then dessert. Of course, the obligatory baklava, but also the layered cream of galaktoboureko, and melomakarona with those wonderful almonds, and Greek coffee for those brave enough.

And Papa Cristo talking with us as family. And we say, “Can we come back next week?” and he says, “We’ll be here.”

I, who always eat too much, am ready to stagger to the car, but no, first the leftovers, because there’s always too much, and containers are ready to take the rest of the feast home, the endless moment as time adjusts itself and carries us over until next time.

Everyone loves Papa Cristo. Everyone loves his food. He loves us back, and we come to this island of magic in the Byzantine Latino Quarter of the city proclaimed by a billboard towering over the neighborhood.

One time, when we were there with New York Judy, she saw David Suchet paying at the counter. This was when his Hercule Poirot was all the rage on PBS and everyone watched from week to week and acknowledged him as one of the greatest actors of our time.

Judy ran up to him to gush, and I accompanied her without any reluctance.

Another later time, I was talking with Mark about the popular Greek cooking show where Diane Kochilas goes to every region in Greece and highlights the local specialties with the local cooks. Mark said, “Oh yes, she came here when she was in town promoting her book.”

Mark we got to know even better than Chrys, who was up in his office overlooking us all, and Mark was on the floor, taking orders at the counter, or going from table to table talking to us as real people.

There’s nothing token about anything or anyone at Papa Cristo’s.

Mark would tell us about his writing career, screenplays he was wrestling with for possible movies, and I was too shy to offer my services as proofreader.

One time, as Mark was taking our order at the counter, and we decided again to add grilled eggplant well done, Shirley noticed a sign for the house wine, and ordered a glass. Mark told us how he was with the committee that went to the winery to curate the various blends they were trying to assess until they reached their agreed selection to be their house wine. I may have said something like, “After all that tasting, how could you tell the difference?”

He laughed and said, “It was a glorious afternoon.”

The house wine is so good, you want another glass.

Just recently, Kristina, who can find anything that exists on TV or the Internet, found the videos of Chrys, a natural on camera with the star quality that emerges from the screen in three dimensions, with his wicked raised eyebrow and sly sense of humor. He filmed a series of cooking lessons, showing that he knows and can do everything, and generously promotes Greek cooking so you can do it at home, though of course the restaurant is always there available ready and waiting and saves you the trouble.

Chrys loves cooking the way he loves food, loves people, loves his family, loves life. He’s so loveable you want to take him home with you.

And there’s that video he made with the basketball star, where he’s photo shopped to giant size, and drives a giant gyro. He’s a sly one, and we laughed so much we had to watch the video again.

I had been after Kristina and Chaz to come to Papa Cristo’s when we were down in the area, in Altadena working on the house. It was high on our list.

Then the shock, the news that Papa Cristo’s was closing. He doesn’t own the building, and the landlord raised the rent impossibly high.

He’s considering other options, but the restaurant is in its last days.

We rushed down, parked on the street because the lot was full, and joined the line reaching down the street as people kept coming and the line continued behind us.

There were hand-written signs in the window announcing which of the menu items were no longer available. The shelves in the market were nearly empty. For years, he had found a supplier and also carried Ethiopian specialties. The Ethiopian community came to buy their own culture, but stayed to eat Greek.

I saw Mark through the window and we waved at each other.

The last time Shirley and I came to Papa Cristo’s, she could hardly walk. I was using a walker, and the waiters had to help her to the car. We didn’t want to realize that it was the last time we would be there together.

I’m glad today that Kristina, Chaz, and I were able to go to Papa Cristo’s while it’s still open, still exists. We’ll find ways to keep in active touch as the daughters develop ways to continue.

My family by marriage has made me Greek. Papa Cristo and I share the same love, and it sustains me for all the rest of my life.