A burger joint. Stand-alone building. Iconic image on the front window facing the street, a he-wolf and she-wolf in different colors, facing opposite directions, both happy with the democratizing equality of food.

The restaurant was a go-to in Pasadena. Everybody knew it, loved it.

I think Shirley knew it before I did. Those were the days when I was teaching, school-bound at lunch, but Shirley had the car and could get around in the larger world.

I remember my first time there, an impression reinforced by later visits.

It was comfortable, homey, welcoming. The woman at the counter knew her stuff. She could recommend, or approve you selection, “Good choice.”

The menu had a Native American lean, as I remember, like the Navajo tacos we used to eat on our Southwest tours and vacations.

Good fries, delicious onion rings, generous burgers.

Seating indoors. In back, there was a covered patio. A small parking lot for about a dozen cars led through the patio to the back door and inside. People would sit at the tables in the patio, businessmen at a business lunch, families with children, neighborhood groups like the Knitting Circle getting together for lunch. Inside and out it was community.

Wolfe Burger was down from our local neighborhood in Altadena. Up there we had Fox’s Restaurant. In Pasadena, it was the Wolfe.

It was a shock when they sold out and new owners took over. It was not the same.

When you live long enough in one place, you see things come and go. Too often the new is not an improvement.

And why do I mention it now? Because I just read a posting on the website, “You know you’re from Old Pasadena when…” Photos, and people’s memories. “I used to go there for lunch…” “I took a date there and we had great onion rings…”

When you live long enough, your memories pile up.

I remember, in the early ‘70s, the Dutch Indonesian restaurant on Lake Ave. It was like another world. The rijsttafel was overwhelming. I think there had to be at least two customers to qualify, and then they brought you endless food, bowls and platters, and a recognition that peanut sauce is one of the basic food groups.

It was Europe come to Pasadena, on Lake just above Colorado Blvd. They said it was authentic, and we believed it.

They had a little sister take out across the street, selling some of the same food through the window. We tried it at least once, and it was good, but why buy the lesser when the Real Deal is right there a few feet away.

I was just learning what it meant to have a steady income, and my fear of spending money was lessening. Shirley was a great help in that respect, and we did the town.

When, fifteen years later, we actually went to Europe, landed in in Amsterdam, and went to the guidebook recommended restaurant for authentic Dutch Indonesian food and a legendary rijsttafel, Pasadena had already prepared us. We said, “Yes, we know this. Pasadena got it right.”

Over the years, things come and go.

Restaurants are particularly painful in their loss. Going out to dinner is an event, a high point in the daily routine, and when the experience is good, we want to repeat it.

Maybe two years after we arrived in Pasadena, our Dutch Indonesian Restaurant was gone. We didn’t know why. Was it too exotic? It couldn’t have been too expensive because we went there and were willing to pay the price.

Gone with the wind.

The past absorbs the present. Stepping back, we see a pattern, a world in decline.

The website, “You Know You Are from Old School Pasadena When…” People dig out memories and ask for confirmation. “Does anybody remember…?”

Yes.

I do.

Like Kabakian’s Restaurant on Colorado Blvd. Family owned Armenian Middle East food with a comfortable welcome feel.

The old guy, overweight, we called him Kabakian, would take our order and shuffle it to the kitchen. He moved the way Tim Conway moved on the Carol Burnett Show, shuffling across the floor so slowly you thought he would never reach the other side.

When the food was served, Kabakian would shuffle over and take a small bite from your plate in his fingers and insert it into your mouth. Ladies first. A sign of respect, sharing, “Good, isn’t it? Eat it all. Clean your plate.”

Kabakian’s is long gone.

The Pasadena website holds memories.

Pasadena Heritage tries to preserve the past.

People say, “It was better then.”

The world is rushing toward extinction. People no longer have the assurance that “it won’t happen in my lifetime.”

Why should it be so hard to do something so easy? Keep the good, throw away the bad.

The Forces of Power have so diminished humanity that cliches come home to roost. “Money is the root of all evil,” but it’s also “the bottom line.”

I turn my mind around. Not to focus on the loss, but the joy, how lucky I was to have had such experiences.

And here I am with my memories. Dutch Indonesian Pasadena, and Shirley who was everything, and Kabakian shuffling across the floor to put the first bite into my mouth.

[The four Kabakian brothers – Leon, Narcess, Haig and Krikor – have passed on, but are not forgotten. They were lovely people who introduced generations of Pasadena and Altadena families to their culture, serving the very best Armenian and Lebanese dishes as their mother had taught them to prepare.]