A couple deep into their golden years are in hysterics. Corned beef hash and haystack hussies (grits with bacon, green onion, cheddars, eggs, and biscuits) between them, black coffee, and jokes older than the combined age of couple at the table next to them. We're in a booth beneath a canvas umbrella: Gab, my girls, potted cactus plant, plastic lawn chairs, and silk daisies in soup cans before us. Farmers Daughter patrons make their way out into their day, cover-ups and bathing suits, all to the tune of old school Prince. The sun is high but the hour isn't. It's September, and the scene is but one more confirmation that summer is a year round season in Southern California.
We're visiting TART for breakfast, it's served all day, so is lunch. My egg white veggie omelet arrives in a skillet, overflowing with spinach and squashes and tomatoes, validating that location actually is everything, when you're caddy corner to Trader Joe's, Whole Foods, and The Original Farmer's Market. But that doesn't explain why the oatmeal pancakes are so good. Doesn't have to.
My girls are good to go with their waffles, but once they caught glimpse of the motel pool with the oversized rubber duckies, forget about it. It's a movie they can't get enough of. It's fenced in, they're fenced out, take it in girls, and take your time. I get it. I'm at my own movie, as I sip my coffee and marvel at the multi-generational mish mosh this Fairfax staple pulls. This one's a model. That one probably collects model cars. A motley crew of sinners and saints and senior citizens who've seen it all before.
A wall to the west of rakes, plows, and other farm paraphernalia I wouldn't have a clue what to do with, it's hung craftily over a foosball table and bale built seating. As far as restaurants go it's more Swingers than swank, but it is solid. Benedicts and baked potato scrambles, unmistakable mojo, and an al fresco patio built to host this hodgepodge of habitants within our endlessly amusing town.
As you exit, a smorgasbord of flavored toothpicks is there for the taking. My six year old snagged a strawberry cinnamon variety, perched it between her baby teeth. With the Farmers Daughter sign behind her and the enamel tub of silk hydrangea before her, she looked so silly. And all together, just right.
Its name is Tart, but it's all soul. Pull up a plastic chair and make like that couple you want to be when you grow up. Clink mugs in hopes that this place is still around, once you are.
115 Fairfax Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90036