Steal my Food Itinerary: A SoCal Beach Dive Bar Crawl

Do birthdays matter? Not really. But they are, at the very least, an excuse to do something you might not usually do as a middle-aged father of two. On this most recent occasion, my birthday was a reason to drag an assortment of friendship flotsam across the Los Angeles coastline, working our way down through a selection of Southern California beach dive bars. (It also marks the second time I’ve used my assignments for Eater and Punch to rationalize, or maybe subsidize, a birthday bar crawl.) I truly believe that these old, salt-crusted pubs are an essential, last-remaining stronghold of our regional culture, and that they demand both our respect and our money.

This crawl took place on a Saturday in September, filled with drinks and snacks (but mostly bites of bar burgers), working our way from Santa Monica to Manhattan Beach before wandering inland for dinner in Torrance, home to some of the best Japanese food in the United States.

The plan was to start relatively early, enjoying as much sunlit ocean breeze as we could, while also allowing me to get a normal amount of sleep at the end of the night before waking up at traditional dad hours. The great thing about a bar crawl is that it allows people to jump on and off as they see fit. I’m also a sucker for a brisk itinerary, moving quickly from place to place: the key is to not care who shows up when and where, simply telling someone to add the necessary ETAs to the group chat as applicable.

Opened in 1959, and a roughly 8-minute walk from the beach, Chez Jay has remained a staple and a refuge in a city that has been rapidly pricing out old neighborhood bars and restaurants. It is a place to drink a martini or a beer, where the only rules are that you “take no pictures, and throw your peanut shells on the floor.” (I broke one of the rules.) The kitchen was not open yet, but the peanuts were plentiful and the pours were heavy. The red booths and red checkerboard tablecloths evoke an old Italian restaurant, though it is certainly more of a steak-and-seafood kind of place to have dinner. It started strong, with six people showing up, including my dad and stepmom.

Hinano Cafe has been operating on a busy stretch of Venice Beach since 1962. This perpetually packed place has become an iconic surfer hang serving beer and burgers (no full liquor license here) — and like a true surfer bar, it serves breakfast from 8 a.m. until noon. Our group swelled with more friends at our second location, where pitchers of beer were poured in a standing-room-only setting, alongside board-short-wearing day drinkers who were far too young and attractive for us to stay any longer than it took for this gaggle of graying dads to order and split a hamburger. At $12.50, this perfectly acceptable bar burger on a sesame seed bun was a pleasant enough edible intermezzo. I’d prefer to come back again at another time, like maybe 1975.

We had now crossed to the other side of the marina — something of a traffic dividing line in Los Angeles County — and settled into a perfect little three-bar-crawl that exists on a 0.2-mile stretch of this hidden, working-class LA beach community. The sun was starting to drop and the ocean breeze was relaxing our shoulders (although that also may have just been the drinks). We sauntered into Prince O’ Whales, which has been serving drinks under this name for over five decades, with another 18 years before under a different one (“The Bowsprit”). There are two indoor bars, though one was closed for the afternoon. Our bartender was the kind of grumpy you look for in a sailor’s saloon, and the room was crowded with some rather loud folks watching college football. (It turns out I’m getting old.) We took our drinks to the back patio, a serene little patch of cement, brick, faded paint and sun-withered wood. There was also a ping-pong table, and this round was highlighted by exactly the kind of late-summer weather that makes people live by the beach in Southern California.

After walking for about 90 seconds, we made it to a place known as “the smallest dive bar in Los Angeles.” It would feel like a California-themed yokocho in Tokyo if it weren’t so perfectly lived in, lined with old wood that feels like you’re drinking in the bowels of a turn-of-the-century vessel crossing the Atlantic. A drunk, nonthreatening stranger joined our group and asked a lot of questions. I ordered a vodka-soda and they gave me a gin and tonic, so I ordered a gin martini. It came with a “sidecar” that was, incredibly, just a rocks glass with a splash of rapidly warming gin in it. I curiously wandered into the adjoining Italian restaurant and was convinced by some very friendly women to order some food. I told them to pick their favorite dish and near the end of my martini, a foil container of steaming hot ravioli was dropped at our table. If my wife divorces me, I could see myself paying rent on one of these barstools, living out my twilight years and wondering where it all went wrong.

Looking back at my iPhone photo timestamps, I am incredibly impressed that we were able to have a round of martinis and a plate of ravioli in 26 minutes. We soldiered on, with an even shorter walk to our next location: the classic old surf bar and restaurant, The Shack. It feels almost set-decorated, with the perfect amount of wear and tear. This place was significantly more spacious and we found room at the bar, where we ordered the Shack Burger for all to try, as well as some wings. The signature burger comes, miraculously, with a butterflied Louisiana hot link on it, operating like juicier, snappier, spicier bacon. I, meanwhile, remained impressed with my ability to have five drinks (or was it six?) — a skill that rarely gets tested anymore.

Nearing its 100th year of operation (though not always as a bar — it opened during Prohibition), this could easily have been the last stop of the tour, the flagship bar you build a crawl around. Known among my friends as “the best dive bar burger in LA County,” this proud, defiant establishment has stood the test of time, surviving rapidly escalating real estate prices to remain the great neighborhood dive it has always been. It feels like a sacred escape from the rest of this wealthy beach community. The whole place seems to be made of wood and beer signs; there is one line for ordering and another for the bathroom; and every single patron — whether gray-haired in Hawaiian shirts or tatted-up bikers — seems to know how lucky they are to be there. There is a small grill behind the bar in the corner, under a yellow sign proudly proclaiming “no fries.” The cheeseburger is an exercise in simple chargrilled perfection, its meat sourced from the butcher shop next door, all served in a basket with a bag of potato chips. The menu also claims to have a teriyaki chicken sandwich, though I’ve never seen one there. I wished we could have stayed longer, or to have eaten a whole burger instead of just two bites, but such is the nature of a crawl. We quickly made our way out, calling our next restaurant to let them know we were running about 20 minutes late for our reservation.

Stop 7: Torihei — Torrance – sometime not long after 8 p.m.

We did a decent job of snacking rather than eating on our beach dive crawl, so after we settled into a long table adorned with sake and beer, there was perhaps no more comforting bite of food in the world than Torihei’s simmered slab of daikon radish, served in dashi and blanketed in katsuobushi (smoked, dried skipjack tuna flakes). It warmed my chest. This classic standby izakaya specializes in yakitori (grilled chicken skewers) and oden (simmered ingredients in broth). We sipped beers and crunched tender chicken cartilage alongside grilled chicken meatballs before finishing the night with some soborodon (a ground chicken and rice bowl).

I was home, showered, and in bed before 11:15. I think we nailed it.