Damon’s opened in Glendale on a stretch of Central Avenue (a few blocks from the then-new, now-gone Sears Roebuck) in 1937. My family has been going to the tiki-themed steakhouse ever since. My great-grandparents Norma and Robert Blair, affectionately called G.G. and Papa, got engaged at the restaurant in 1946, where they continued to celebrate milestone anniversaries throughout their lives.
Damon’s has been a constant, even after it moved to Brand Avenue in 1980. I’ve spent countless date nights, birthdays and New Year’s Eves in its big green booths under the soft tiki lighting. If I went through my camera roll right now, I would easily find a hundred photos of me posing next to a tropical Chi Chi cocktail or celebratory brownie sundae.
Damon’s cocktails include its Mai Tai, Blue Hawaii, variations of the Chi Chi with creamy coconut and macadamia nut.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
In a city constantly reinventing itself, it is a privilege to have a place that has lasted long enough to become a family tradition. To have somewhere to remind you of generations that came before, and generations to come.
“Families coming to Damon’s is why it has stayed around as long as it has,” said manager Ivana Prince. “People will come in here with their kids and we’ll watch them grow up.”
Robert and Norma Blair, the author’s great-grandparents, married in 1947, a year after they were engaged at Damon’s. Papa and G.G. celebrated their 40th anniversary at Damon’s. (Lauren Bethke)
When I was 18 I stayed off and on at my great-grandma’s house near Glendale Community College. Every other Thursday at 10 a.m. I would take G.G. to get her hair done in a garage converted into a salon — the same cut and fluff she always had, her signature look.
Afterward she would say, “Get me my horse! Let’s get steaks!” — her horse meaning her walker and steaks meaning one steak sandwich cut in half. We would be the first people at Damon’s, splitting the lunch sandwich at noon sitting in the same booth almost every time.
When I miss her, those are the days I think of.
The first owners of Damon’s, Loyal Adelbert Damon and his wife Mona, sold their Los Angeles candy stores to open Damon’s Steak House nearly 90 years ago. A single palm tree rooted in the middle of the original restaurant inspired its tropical decor, an “island paradise” aesthetic that was amplified at its new location, which was sold to a private group in 2004.
Inside Damon’s, the scene of countless date nights, holiday celebrations and birthdays.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
When you walk through the entrance, you’re met with black booths wrapping around the waiting area, then an explosion of color hits the second you step into the dining room. The aquarium with its mascot puffer fish to the right, the low lighting, the colorful murals on the walls, the comfy green booths — it all takes you to a completely different world.
G.G. loved the transition into the full tiki vibe. She’d always tell stories of how it reminded her of a time living near the beach — Damon’s was her escape too.
In March of 2022 I was hired to be a floor manager of Damon’s. I had been working at Belle’s Bagels in Highland Park for over two years and was ready for a change. One day — vintage style — I randomly called Damon’s to see if they were hiring. To my surprise, they were. A floor manager was about to move away, and they needed someone to cover the night shifts.
A quintessential meal at Damon’s: New York steak with crispy fried onions and a twice baked potato with chives and sour cream.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed my resume, went in for an interview, and was offered the job. I couldn’t believe it. Almost surreal. I could remember days of being served by a waitress whose mother — who also worked there — would take over her tables so she could take her 10-minute break. That was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be so perfectly woven into the space that if I wasn’t there for a shift, people would notice because the staff is just as memorable as the unique decor.
They made it very clear — and honestly I already knew from being on the other side of it — that the holidays were nonnegotiable. You had to be available. I was completely ready to dedicate myself to being there.
I took three days in between the jobs to go visit my family in Florida, knowing I wouldn’t be able to request much time off once I started working at Damon’s. I was staying in my mother’s guest room when something dawned on me. I just felt it in my bones. I texted my sister to bring me a pregnancy test.
I was not planning on getting pregnant. I did the math. I thought Damon’s would be my legacy job. But I knew that learning a new role while dealing with morning sickness and figuring out what my future looked like would be too much.
I had to turn down the job at Damon’s.
Photo prints of the staff and patrons of Damon’s Tiki Steak House.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed the manager and explained that I could no longer take the position because I was pregnant, due in November.
The response: “Congratulations, I do have to express to you what an unbelievably stressful position this leaves us in at Damon’s.”
I didn’t go back to Damon’s for most of my pregnancy.
Nine months passed, and I was past my due date. My doctor decided to induce labor.
Before induction, I was told to go eat a big meal and then check into the hospital. My partner and I agreed that our last meal as a family of two had to be at Damon’s.
We got a late reservation. We ate New York steak with peppercorn sauce, crispy fried onions piled to the gods, twice-baked potato with chives and sour cream, and of course the iconic house salad — which, if you don’t get it, I do judge you.
The house salad at Damon’s. “If you don’t get it,” the author writes, “I do judge you.”
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
We said goodbye to the puffer fish in the tank, and left to check into the hospital.
Three long days later my son was born. A perfect little boy. We named him Damien — a version of Damon (which I knew only as a last name to Loyal and Mona) — after the place that had carried my family through four generations of special occasions and ordinary Tuesdays.
A month later, still scrunched up like a little worm, I took Damien to Damon’s for the first time. The fifth generation of my family sitting in the same room we had all sat in before — watching the same hustle of Hawaiian shirts, metal salad bowls spinning, happy birthday claps drifting softly from somewhere across the room.
My legacy was Damon’s. Just not in the way I thought it would be.
Writer Lauren Bethke at one of Damon’s green booths, and at the restaurant with her son Damien. (Thomas Gavin)
Damon’s opened in Glendale on a stretch of Central Avenue (a few blocks from the then-new, now-gone Sears Roebuck) in 1937. My family has been going to the tiki-themed steakhouse ever since. My great-grandparents Norma and Robert Blair, affectionately called G.G. and Papa, got engaged at the restaurant in 1946, where they continued to celebrate milestone anniversaries throughout their lives.
Damon’s has been a constant, even after it moved to Brand Avenue in 1980. I’ve spent countless date nights, birthdays and New Year’s Eves in its big green booths under the soft tiki lighting. If I went through my camera roll right now, I would easily find a hundred photos of me posing next to a tropical Chi Chi cocktail or celebratory brownie sundae.
Damon’s cocktails include its Mai Tai, Blue Hawaii, variations of the Chi Chi with creamy coconut and macadamia nut.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
In a city constantly reinventing itself, it is a privilege to have a place that has lasted long enough to become a family tradition. To have somewhere to remind you of generations that came before, and generations to come.
“Families coming to Damon’s is why it has stayed around as long as it has,” said manager Ivana Prince. “People will come in here with their kids and we’ll watch them grow up.”
Robert and Norma Blair, the author’s great-grandparents, married in 1947, a year after they were engaged at Damon’s. Papa and G.G. celebrated their 40th anniversary at Damon’s. (Lauren Bethke)
When I was 18 I stayed off and on at my great-grandma’s house near Glendale Community College. Every other Thursday at 10 a.m. I would take G.G. to get her hair done in a garage converted into a salon — the same cut and fluff she always had, her signature look.
Afterward she would say, “Get me my horse! Let’s get steaks!” — her horse meaning her walker and steaks meaning one steak sandwich cut in half. We would be the first people at Damon’s, splitting the lunch sandwich at noon sitting in the same booth almost every time.
When I miss her, those are the days I think of.
The first owners of Damon’s, Loyal Adelbert Damon and his wife Mona, sold their Los Angeles candy stores to open Damon’s Steak House nearly 90 years ago. A single palm tree rooted in the middle of the original restaurant inspired its tropical decor, an “island paradise” aesthetic that was amplified at its new location, which was sold to a private group in 2004.
Inside Damon’s, the scene of countless date nights, holiday celebrations and birthdays.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
When you walk through the entrance, you’re met with black booths wrapping around the waiting area, then an explosion of color hits the second you step into the dining room. The aquarium with its mascot puffer fish to the right, the low lighting, the colorful murals on the walls, the comfy green booths — it all takes you to a completely different world.
G.G. loved the transition into the full tiki vibe. She’d always tell stories of how it reminded her of a time living near the beach — Damon’s was her escape too.
In March of 2022 I was hired to be a floor manager of Damon’s. I had been working at Belle’s Bagels in Highland Park for over two years and was ready for a change. One day — vintage style — I randomly called Damon’s to see if they were hiring. To my surprise, they were. A floor manager was about to move away, and they needed someone to cover the night shifts.
A quintessential meal at Damon’s: New York steak with crispy fried onions and a twice baked potato with chives and sour cream.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed my resume, went in for an interview, and was offered the job. I couldn’t believe it. Almost surreal. I could remember days of being served by a waitress whose mother — who also worked there — would take over her tables so she could take her 10-minute break. That was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be so perfectly woven into the space that if I wasn’t there for a shift, people would notice because the staff is just as memorable as the unique decor.
They made it very clear — and honestly I already knew from being on the other side of it — that the holidays were nonnegotiable. You had to be available. I was completely ready to dedicate myself to being there.
I took three days in between the jobs to go visit my family in Florida, knowing I wouldn’t be able to request much time off once I started working at Damon’s. I was staying in my mother’s guest room when something dawned on me. I just felt it in my bones. I texted my sister to bring me a pregnancy test.
I was not planning on getting pregnant. I did the math. I thought Damon’s would be my legacy job. But I knew that learning a new role while dealing with morning sickness and figuring out what my future looked like would be too much.
I had to turn down the job at Damon’s.
Photo prints of the staff and patrons of Damon’s Tiki Steak House.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed the manager and explained that I could no longer take the position because I was pregnant, due in November.
The response: “Congratulations, I do have to express to you what an unbelievably stressful position this leaves us in at Damon’s.”
I didn’t go back to Damon’s for most of my pregnancy.
Nine months passed, and I was past my due date. My doctor decided to induce labor.
Before induction, I was told to go eat a big meal and then check into the hospital. My partner and I agreed that our last meal as a family of two had to be at Damon’s.
We got a late reservation. We ate New York steak with peppercorn sauce, crispy fried onions piled to the gods, twice-baked potato with chives and sour cream, and of course the iconic house salad — which, if you don’t get it, I do judge you.
The house salad at Damon’s. “If you don’t get it,” the author writes, “I do judge you.”
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
We said goodbye to the puffer fish in the tank, and left to check into the hospital.
Three long days later my son was born. A perfect little boy. We named him Damien — a version of Damon (which I knew only as a last name to Loyal and Mona) — after the place that had carried my family through four generations of special occasions and ordinary Tuesdays.
A month later, still scrunched up like a little worm, I took Damien to Damon’s for the first time. The fifth generation of my family sitting in the same room we had all sat in before — watching the same hustle of Hawaiian shirts, metal salad bowls spinning, happy birthday claps drifting softly from somewhere across the room.
My legacy was Damon’s. Just not in the way I thought it would be.
Writer Lauren Bethke at one of Damon’s green booths, and at the restaurant with her son Damien. (Thomas Gavin)
Damon’s opened in Glendale on a stretch of Central Avenue (a few blocks from the then-new, now-gone Sears Roebuck) in 1937. My family has been going to the tiki-themed steakhouse ever since. My great-grandparents Norma and Robert Blair, affectionately called G.G. and Papa, got engaged at the restaurant in 1946, where they continued to celebrate milestone anniversaries throughout their lives.
Damon’s has been a constant, even after it moved to Brand Avenue in 1980. I’ve spent countless date nights, birthdays and New Year’s Eves in its big green booths under the soft tiki lighting. If I went through my camera roll right now, I would easily find a hundred photos of me posing next to a tropical Chi Chi cocktail or celebratory brownie sundae.
Damon’s cocktails include its Mai Tai, Blue Hawaii, variations of the Chi Chi with creamy coconut and macadamia nut.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
In a city constantly reinventing itself, it is a privilege to have a place that has lasted long enough to become a family tradition. To have somewhere to remind you of generations that came before, and generations to come.
“Families coming to Damon’s is why it has stayed around as long as it has,” said manager Ivana Prince. “People will come in here with their kids and we’ll watch them grow up.”
Robert and Norma Blair, the author’s great-grandparents, married in 1947, a year after they were engaged at Damon’s. Papa and G.G. celebrated their 40th anniversary at Damon’s. (Lauren Bethke)
When I was 18 I stayed off and on at my great-grandma’s house near Glendale Community College. Every other Thursday at 10 a.m. I would take G.G. to get her hair done in a garage converted into a salon — the same cut and fluff she always had, her signature look.
Afterward she would say, “Get me my horse! Let’s get steaks!” — her horse meaning her walker and steaks meaning one steak sandwich cut in half. We would be the first people at Damon’s, splitting the lunch sandwich at noon sitting in the same booth almost every time.
When I miss her, those are the days I think of.
The first owners of Damon’s, Loyal Adelbert Damon and his wife Mona, sold their Los Angeles candy stores to open Damon’s Steak House nearly 90 years ago. A single palm tree rooted in the middle of the original restaurant inspired its tropical decor, an “island paradise” aesthetic that was amplified at its new location, which was sold to a private group in 2004.
Inside Damon’s, the scene of countless date nights, holiday celebrations and birthdays.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
When you walk through the entrance, you’re met with black booths wrapping around the waiting area, then an explosion of color hits the second you step into the dining room. The aquarium with its mascot puffer fish to the right, the low lighting, the colorful murals on the walls, the comfy green booths — it all takes you to a completely different world.
G.G. loved the transition into the full tiki vibe. She’d always tell stories of how it reminded her of a time living near the beach — Damon’s was her escape too.
In March of 2022 I was hired to be a floor manager of Damon’s. I had been working at Belle’s Bagels in Highland Park for over two years and was ready for a change. One day — vintage style — I randomly called Damon’s to see if they were hiring. To my surprise, they were. A floor manager was about to move away, and they needed someone to cover the night shifts.
A quintessential meal at Damon’s: New York steak with crispy fried onions and a twice baked potato with chives and sour cream.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed my resume, went in for an interview, and was offered the job. I couldn’t believe it. Almost surreal. I could remember days of being served by a waitress whose mother — who also worked there — would take over her tables so she could take her 10-minute break. That was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be so perfectly woven into the space that if I wasn’t there for a shift, people would notice because the staff is just as memorable as the unique decor.
They made it very clear — and honestly I already knew from being on the other side of it — that the holidays were nonnegotiable. You had to be available. I was completely ready to dedicate myself to being there.
I took three days in between the jobs to go visit my family in Florida, knowing I wouldn’t be able to request much time off once I started working at Damon’s. I was staying in my mother’s guest room when something dawned on me. I just felt it in my bones. I texted my sister to bring me a pregnancy test.
I was not planning on getting pregnant. I did the math. I thought Damon’s would be my legacy job. But I knew that learning a new role while dealing with morning sickness and figuring out what my future looked like would be too much.
I had to turn down the job at Damon’s.
Photo prints of the staff and patrons of Damon’s Tiki Steak House.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed the manager and explained that I could no longer take the position because I was pregnant, due in November.
The response: “Congratulations, I do have to express to you what an unbelievably stressful position this leaves us in at Damon’s.”
I didn’t go back to Damon’s for most of my pregnancy.
Nine months passed, and I was past my due date. My doctor decided to induce labor.
Before induction, I was told to go eat a big meal and then check into the hospital. My partner and I agreed that our last meal as a family of two had to be at Damon’s.
We got a late reservation. We ate New York steak with peppercorn sauce, crispy fried onions piled to the gods, twice-baked potato with chives and sour cream, and of course the iconic house salad — which, if you don’t get it, I do judge you.
The house salad at Damon’s. “If you don’t get it,” the author writes, “I do judge you.”
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
We said goodbye to the puffer fish in the tank, and left to check into the hospital.
Three long days later my son was born. A perfect little boy. We named him Damien — a version of Damon (which I knew only as a last name to Loyal and Mona) — after the place that had carried my family through four generations of special occasions and ordinary Tuesdays.
A month later, still scrunched up like a little worm, I took Damien to Damon’s for the first time. The fifth generation of my family sitting in the same room we had all sat in before — watching the same hustle of Hawaiian shirts, metal salad bowls spinning, happy birthday claps drifting softly from somewhere across the room.
My legacy was Damon’s. Just not in the way I thought it would be.
Writer Lauren Bethke at one of Damon’s green booths, and at the restaurant with her son Damien. (Thomas Gavin)
Damon’s opened in Glendale on a stretch of Central Avenue (a few blocks from the then-new, now-gone Sears Roebuck) in 1937. My family has been going to the tiki-themed steakhouse ever since. My great-grandparents Norma and Robert Blair, affectionately called G.G. and Papa, got engaged at the restaurant in 1946, where they continued to celebrate milestone anniversaries throughout their lives.
Damon’s has been a constant, even after it moved to Brand Avenue in 1980. I’ve spent countless date nights, birthdays and New Year’s Eves in its big green booths under the soft tiki lighting. If I went through my camera roll right now, I would easily find a hundred photos of me posing next to a tropical Chi Chi cocktail or celebratory brownie sundae.
Damon’s cocktails include its Mai Tai, Blue Hawaii, variations of the Chi Chi with creamy coconut and macadamia nut.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
In a city constantly reinventing itself, it is a privilege to have a place that has lasted long enough to become a family tradition. To have somewhere to remind you of generations that came before, and generations to come.
“Families coming to Damon’s is why it has stayed around as long as it has,” said manager Ivana Prince. “People will come in here with their kids and we’ll watch them grow up.”
Robert and Norma Blair, the author’s great-grandparents, married in 1947, a year after they were engaged at Damon’s. Papa and G.G. celebrated their 40th anniversary at Damon’s. (Lauren Bethke)
When I was 18 I stayed off and on at my great-grandma’s house near Glendale Community College. Every other Thursday at 10 a.m. I would take G.G. to get her hair done in a garage converted into a salon — the same cut and fluff she always had, her signature look.
Afterward she would say, “Get me my horse! Let’s get steaks!” — her horse meaning her walker and steaks meaning one steak sandwich cut in half. We would be the first people at Damon’s, splitting the lunch sandwich at noon sitting in the same booth almost every time.
When I miss her, those are the days I think of.
The first owners of Damon’s, Loyal Adelbert Damon and his wife Mona, sold their Los Angeles candy stores to open Damon’s Steak House nearly 90 years ago. A single palm tree rooted in the middle of the original restaurant inspired its tropical decor, an “island paradise” aesthetic that was amplified at its new location, which was sold to a private group in 2004.
Inside Damon’s, the scene of countless date nights, holiday celebrations and birthdays.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
When you walk through the entrance, you’re met with black booths wrapping around the waiting area, then an explosion of color hits the second you step into the dining room. The aquarium with its mascot puffer fish to the right, the low lighting, the colorful murals on the walls, the comfy green booths — it all takes you to a completely different world.
G.G. loved the transition into the full tiki vibe. She’d always tell stories of how it reminded her of a time living near the beach — Damon’s was her escape too.
In March of 2022 I was hired to be a floor manager of Damon’s. I had been working at Belle’s Bagels in Highland Park for over two years and was ready for a change. One day — vintage style — I randomly called Damon’s to see if they were hiring. To my surprise, they were. A floor manager was about to move away, and they needed someone to cover the night shifts.
A quintessential meal at Damon’s: New York steak with crispy fried onions and a twice baked potato with chives and sour cream.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed my resume, went in for an interview, and was offered the job. I couldn’t believe it. Almost surreal. I could remember days of being served by a waitress whose mother — who also worked there — would take over her tables so she could take her 10-minute break. That was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be so perfectly woven into the space that if I wasn’t there for a shift, people would notice because the staff is just as memorable as the unique decor.
They made it very clear — and honestly I already knew from being on the other side of it — that the holidays were nonnegotiable. You had to be available. I was completely ready to dedicate myself to being there.
I took three days in between the jobs to go visit my family in Florida, knowing I wouldn’t be able to request much time off once I started working at Damon’s. I was staying in my mother’s guest room when something dawned on me. I just felt it in my bones. I texted my sister to bring me a pregnancy test.
I was not planning on getting pregnant. I did the math. I thought Damon’s would be my legacy job. But I knew that learning a new role while dealing with morning sickness and figuring out what my future looked like would be too much.
I had to turn down the job at Damon’s.
Photo prints of the staff and patrons of Damon’s Tiki Steak House.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed the manager and explained that I could no longer take the position because I was pregnant, due in November.
The response: “Congratulations, I do have to express to you what an unbelievably stressful position this leaves us in at Damon’s.”
I didn’t go back to Damon’s for most of my pregnancy.
Nine months passed, and I was past my due date. My doctor decided to induce labor.
Before induction, I was told to go eat a big meal and then check into the hospital. My partner and I agreed that our last meal as a family of two had to be at Damon’s.
We got a late reservation. We ate New York steak with peppercorn sauce, crispy fried onions piled to the gods, twice-baked potato with chives and sour cream, and of course the iconic house salad — which, if you don’t get it, I do judge you.
The house salad at Damon’s. “If you don’t get it,” the author writes, “I do judge you.”
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
We said goodbye to the puffer fish in the tank, and left to check into the hospital.
Three long days later my son was born. A perfect little boy. We named him Damien — a version of Damon (which I knew only as a last name to Loyal and Mona) — after the place that had carried my family through four generations of special occasions and ordinary Tuesdays.
A month later, still scrunched up like a little worm, I took Damien to Damon’s for the first time. The fifth generation of my family sitting in the same room we had all sat in before — watching the same hustle of Hawaiian shirts, metal salad bowls spinning, happy birthday claps drifting softly from somewhere across the room.
My legacy was Damon’s. Just not in the way I thought it would be.
Writer Lauren Bethke at one of Damon’s green booths, and at the restaurant with her son Damien. (Thomas Gavin)
Damon’s opened in Glendale on a stretch of Central Avenue (a few blocks from the then-new, now-gone Sears Roebuck) in 1937. My family has been going to the tiki-themed steakhouse ever since. My great-grandparents Norma and Robert Blair, affectionately called G.G. and Papa, got engaged at the restaurant in 1946, where they continued to celebrate milestone anniversaries throughout their lives.
Damon’s has been a constant, even after it moved to Brand Avenue in 1980. I’ve spent countless date nights, birthdays and New Year’s Eves in its big green booths under the soft tiki lighting. If I went through my camera roll right now, I would easily find a hundred photos of me posing next to a tropical Chi Chi cocktail or celebratory brownie sundae.
Damon’s cocktails include its Mai Tai, Blue Hawaii, variations of the Chi Chi with creamy coconut and macadamia nut.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
In a city constantly reinventing itself, it is a privilege to have a place that has lasted long enough to become a family tradition. To have somewhere to remind you of generations that came before, and generations to come.
“Families coming to Damon’s is why it has stayed around as long as it has,” said manager Ivana Prince. “People will come in here with their kids and we’ll watch them grow up.”
Robert and Norma Blair, the author’s great-grandparents, married in 1947, a year after they were engaged at Damon’s. Papa and G.G. celebrated their 40th anniversary at Damon’s. (Lauren Bethke)
When I was 18 I stayed off and on at my great-grandma’s house near Glendale Community College. Every other Thursday at 10 a.m. I would take G.G. to get her hair done in a garage converted into a salon — the same cut and fluff she always had, her signature look.
Afterward she would say, “Get me my horse! Let’s get steaks!” — her horse meaning her walker and steaks meaning one steak sandwich cut in half. We would be the first people at Damon’s, splitting the lunch sandwich at noon sitting in the same booth almost every time.
When I miss her, those are the days I think of.
The first owners of Damon’s, Loyal Adelbert Damon and his wife Mona, sold their Los Angeles candy stores to open Damon’s Steak House nearly 90 years ago. A single palm tree rooted in the middle of the original restaurant inspired its tropical decor, an “island paradise” aesthetic that was amplified at its new location, which was sold to a private group in 2004.
Inside Damon’s, the scene of countless date nights, holiday celebrations and birthdays.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
When you walk through the entrance, you’re met with black booths wrapping around the waiting area, then an explosion of color hits the second you step into the dining room. The aquarium with its mascot puffer fish to the right, the low lighting, the colorful murals on the walls, the comfy green booths — it all takes you to a completely different world.
G.G. loved the transition into the full tiki vibe. She’d always tell stories of how it reminded her of a time living near the beach — Damon’s was her escape too.
In March of 2022 I was hired to be a floor manager of Damon’s. I had been working at Belle’s Bagels in Highland Park for over two years and was ready for a change. One day — vintage style — I randomly called Damon’s to see if they were hiring. To my surprise, they were. A floor manager was about to move away, and they needed someone to cover the night shifts.
A quintessential meal at Damon’s: New York steak with crispy fried onions and a twice baked potato with chives and sour cream.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed my resume, went in for an interview, and was offered the job. I couldn’t believe it. Almost surreal. I could remember days of being served by a waitress whose mother — who also worked there — would take over her tables so she could take her 10-minute break. That was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be so perfectly woven into the space that if I wasn’t there for a shift, people would notice because the staff is just as memorable as the unique decor.
They made it very clear — and honestly I already knew from being on the other side of it — that the holidays were nonnegotiable. You had to be available. I was completely ready to dedicate myself to being there.
I took three days in between the jobs to go visit my family in Florida, knowing I wouldn’t be able to request much time off once I started working at Damon’s. I was staying in my mother’s guest room when something dawned on me. I just felt it in my bones. I texted my sister to bring me a pregnancy test.
I was not planning on getting pregnant. I did the math. I thought Damon’s would be my legacy job. But I knew that learning a new role while dealing with morning sickness and figuring out what my future looked like would be too much.
I had to turn down the job at Damon’s.
Photo prints of the staff and patrons of Damon’s Tiki Steak House.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed the manager and explained that I could no longer take the position because I was pregnant, due in November.
The response: “Congratulations, I do have to express to you what an unbelievably stressful position this leaves us in at Damon’s.”
I didn’t go back to Damon’s for most of my pregnancy.
Nine months passed, and I was past my due date. My doctor decided to induce labor.
Before induction, I was told to go eat a big meal and then check into the hospital. My partner and I agreed that our last meal as a family of two had to be at Damon’s.
We got a late reservation. We ate New York steak with peppercorn sauce, crispy fried onions piled to the gods, twice-baked potato with chives and sour cream, and of course the iconic house salad — which, if you don’t get it, I do judge you.
The house salad at Damon’s. “If you don’t get it,” the author writes, “I do judge you.”
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
We said goodbye to the puffer fish in the tank, and left to check into the hospital.
Three long days later my son was born. A perfect little boy. We named him Damien — a version of Damon (which I knew only as a last name to Loyal and Mona) — after the place that had carried my family through four generations of special occasions and ordinary Tuesdays.
A month later, still scrunched up like a little worm, I took Damien to Damon’s for the first time. The fifth generation of my family sitting in the same room we had all sat in before — watching the same hustle of Hawaiian shirts, metal salad bowls spinning, happy birthday claps drifting softly from somewhere across the room.
My legacy was Damon’s. Just not in the way I thought it would be.
Writer Lauren Bethke at one of Damon’s green booths, and at the restaurant with her son Damien. (Thomas Gavin)
Damon’s opened in Glendale on a stretch of Central Avenue (a few blocks from the then-new, now-gone Sears Roebuck) in 1937. My family has been going to the tiki-themed steakhouse ever since. My great-grandparents Norma and Robert Blair, affectionately called G.G. and Papa, got engaged at the restaurant in 1946, where they continued to celebrate milestone anniversaries throughout their lives.
Damon’s has been a constant, even after it moved to Brand Avenue in 1980. I’ve spent countless date nights, birthdays and New Year’s Eves in its big green booths under the soft tiki lighting. If I went through my camera roll right now, I would easily find a hundred photos of me posing next to a tropical Chi Chi cocktail or celebratory brownie sundae.
Damon’s cocktails include its Mai Tai, Blue Hawaii, variations of the Chi Chi with creamy coconut and macadamia nut.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
In a city constantly reinventing itself, it is a privilege to have a place that has lasted long enough to become a family tradition. To have somewhere to remind you of generations that came before, and generations to come.
“Families coming to Damon’s is why it has stayed around as long as it has,” said manager Ivana Prince. “People will come in here with their kids and we’ll watch them grow up.”
Robert and Norma Blair, the author’s great-grandparents, married in 1947, a year after they were engaged at Damon’s. Papa and G.G. celebrated their 40th anniversary at Damon’s. (Lauren Bethke)
When I was 18 I stayed off and on at my great-grandma’s house near Glendale Community College. Every other Thursday at 10 a.m. I would take G.G. to get her hair done in a garage converted into a salon — the same cut and fluff she always had, her signature look.
Afterward she would say, “Get me my horse! Let’s get steaks!” — her horse meaning her walker and steaks meaning one steak sandwich cut in half. We would be the first people at Damon’s, splitting the lunch sandwich at noon sitting in the same booth almost every time.
When I miss her, those are the days I think of.
The first owners of Damon’s, Loyal Adelbert Damon and his wife Mona, sold their Los Angeles candy stores to open Damon’s Steak House nearly 90 years ago. A single palm tree rooted in the middle of the original restaurant inspired its tropical decor, an “island paradise” aesthetic that was amplified at its new location, which was sold to a private group in 2004.
Inside Damon’s, the scene of countless date nights, holiday celebrations and birthdays.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
When you walk through the entrance, you’re met with black booths wrapping around the waiting area, then an explosion of color hits the second you step into the dining room. The aquarium with its mascot puffer fish to the right, the low lighting, the colorful murals on the walls, the comfy green booths — it all takes you to a completely different world.
G.G. loved the transition into the full tiki vibe. She’d always tell stories of how it reminded her of a time living near the beach — Damon’s was her escape too.
In March of 2022 I was hired to be a floor manager of Damon’s. I had been working at Belle’s Bagels in Highland Park for over two years and was ready for a change. One day — vintage style — I randomly called Damon’s to see if they were hiring. To my surprise, they were. A floor manager was about to move away, and they needed someone to cover the night shifts.
A quintessential meal at Damon’s: New York steak with crispy fried onions and a twice baked potato with chives and sour cream.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed my resume, went in for an interview, and was offered the job. I couldn’t believe it. Almost surreal. I could remember days of being served by a waitress whose mother — who also worked there — would take over her tables so she could take her 10-minute break. That was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be so perfectly woven into the space that if I wasn’t there for a shift, people would notice because the staff is just as memorable as the unique decor.
They made it very clear — and honestly I already knew from being on the other side of it — that the holidays were nonnegotiable. You had to be available. I was completely ready to dedicate myself to being there.
I took three days in between the jobs to go visit my family in Florida, knowing I wouldn’t be able to request much time off once I started working at Damon’s. I was staying in my mother’s guest room when something dawned on me. I just felt it in my bones. I texted my sister to bring me a pregnancy test.
I was not planning on getting pregnant. I did the math. I thought Damon’s would be my legacy job. But I knew that learning a new role while dealing with morning sickness and figuring out what my future looked like would be too much.
I had to turn down the job at Damon’s.
Photo prints of the staff and patrons of Damon’s Tiki Steak House.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed the manager and explained that I could no longer take the position because I was pregnant, due in November.
The response: “Congratulations, I do have to express to you what an unbelievably stressful position this leaves us in at Damon’s.”
I didn’t go back to Damon’s for most of my pregnancy.
Nine months passed, and I was past my due date. My doctor decided to induce labor.
Before induction, I was told to go eat a big meal and then check into the hospital. My partner and I agreed that our last meal as a family of two had to be at Damon’s.
We got a late reservation. We ate New York steak with peppercorn sauce, crispy fried onions piled to the gods, twice-baked potato with chives and sour cream, and of course the iconic house salad — which, if you don’t get it, I do judge you.
The house salad at Damon’s. “If you don’t get it,” the author writes, “I do judge you.”
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
We said goodbye to the puffer fish in the tank, and left to check into the hospital.
Three long days later my son was born. A perfect little boy. We named him Damien — a version of Damon (which I knew only as a last name to Loyal and Mona) — after the place that had carried my family through four generations of special occasions and ordinary Tuesdays.
A month later, still scrunched up like a little worm, I took Damien to Damon’s for the first time. The fifth generation of my family sitting in the same room we had all sat in before — watching the same hustle of Hawaiian shirts, metal salad bowls spinning, happy birthday claps drifting softly from somewhere across the room.
My legacy was Damon’s. Just not in the way I thought it would be.
Writer Lauren Bethke at one of Damon’s green booths, and at the restaurant with her son Damien. (Thomas Gavin)
Damon’s opened in Glendale on a stretch of Central Avenue (a few blocks from the then-new, now-gone Sears Roebuck) in 1937. My family has been going to the tiki-themed steakhouse ever since. My great-grandparents Norma and Robert Blair, affectionately called G.G. and Papa, got engaged at the restaurant in 1946, where they continued to celebrate milestone anniversaries throughout their lives.
Damon’s has been a constant, even after it moved to Brand Avenue in 1980. I’ve spent countless date nights, birthdays and New Year’s Eves in its big green booths under the soft tiki lighting. If I went through my camera roll right now, I would easily find a hundred photos of me posing next to a tropical Chi Chi cocktail or celebratory brownie sundae.
Damon’s cocktails include its Mai Tai, Blue Hawaii, variations of the Chi Chi with creamy coconut and macadamia nut.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
In a city constantly reinventing itself, it is a privilege to have a place that has lasted long enough to become a family tradition. To have somewhere to remind you of generations that came before, and generations to come.
“Families coming to Damon’s is why it has stayed around as long as it has,” said manager Ivana Prince. “People will come in here with their kids and we’ll watch them grow up.”
Robert and Norma Blair, the author’s great-grandparents, married in 1947, a year after they were engaged at Damon’s. Papa and G.G. celebrated their 40th anniversary at Damon’s. (Lauren Bethke)
When I was 18 I stayed off and on at my great-grandma’s house near Glendale Community College. Every other Thursday at 10 a.m. I would take G.G. to get her hair done in a garage converted into a salon — the same cut and fluff she always had, her signature look.
Afterward she would say, “Get me my horse! Let’s get steaks!” — her horse meaning her walker and steaks meaning one steak sandwich cut in half. We would be the first people at Damon’s, splitting the lunch sandwich at noon sitting in the same booth almost every time.
When I miss her, those are the days I think of.
The first owners of Damon’s, Loyal Adelbert Damon and his wife Mona, sold their Los Angeles candy stores to open Damon’s Steak House nearly 90 years ago. A single palm tree rooted in the middle of the original restaurant inspired its tropical decor, an “island paradise” aesthetic that was amplified at its new location, which was sold to a private group in 2004.
Inside Damon’s, the scene of countless date nights, holiday celebrations and birthdays.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
When you walk through the entrance, you’re met with black booths wrapping around the waiting area, then an explosion of color hits the second you step into the dining room. The aquarium with its mascot puffer fish to the right, the low lighting, the colorful murals on the walls, the comfy green booths — it all takes you to a completely different world.
G.G. loved the transition into the full tiki vibe. She’d always tell stories of how it reminded her of a time living near the beach — Damon’s was her escape too.
In March of 2022 I was hired to be a floor manager of Damon’s. I had been working at Belle’s Bagels in Highland Park for over two years and was ready for a change. One day — vintage style — I randomly called Damon’s to see if they were hiring. To my surprise, they were. A floor manager was about to move away, and they needed someone to cover the night shifts.
A quintessential meal at Damon’s: New York steak with crispy fried onions and a twice baked potato with chives and sour cream.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed my resume, went in for an interview, and was offered the job. I couldn’t believe it. Almost surreal. I could remember days of being served by a waitress whose mother — who also worked there — would take over her tables so she could take her 10-minute break. That was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be so perfectly woven into the space that if I wasn’t there for a shift, people would notice because the staff is just as memorable as the unique decor.
They made it very clear — and honestly I already knew from being on the other side of it — that the holidays were nonnegotiable. You had to be available. I was completely ready to dedicate myself to being there.
I took three days in between the jobs to go visit my family in Florida, knowing I wouldn’t be able to request much time off once I started working at Damon’s. I was staying in my mother’s guest room when something dawned on me. I just felt it in my bones. I texted my sister to bring me a pregnancy test.
I was not planning on getting pregnant. I did the math. I thought Damon’s would be my legacy job. But I knew that learning a new role while dealing with morning sickness and figuring out what my future looked like would be too much.
I had to turn down the job at Damon’s.
Photo prints of the staff and patrons of Damon’s Tiki Steak House.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed the manager and explained that I could no longer take the position because I was pregnant, due in November.
The response: “Congratulations, I do have to express to you what an unbelievably stressful position this leaves us in at Damon’s.”
I didn’t go back to Damon’s for most of my pregnancy.
Nine months passed, and I was past my due date. My doctor decided to induce labor.
Before induction, I was told to go eat a big meal and then check into the hospital. My partner and I agreed that our last meal as a family of two had to be at Damon’s.
We got a late reservation. We ate New York steak with peppercorn sauce, crispy fried onions piled to the gods, twice-baked potato with chives and sour cream, and of course the iconic house salad — which, if you don’t get it, I do judge you.
The house salad at Damon’s. “If you don’t get it,” the author writes, “I do judge you.”
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
We said goodbye to the puffer fish in the tank, and left to check into the hospital.
Three long days later my son was born. A perfect little boy. We named him Damien — a version of Damon (which I knew only as a last name to Loyal and Mona) — after the place that had carried my family through four generations of special occasions and ordinary Tuesdays.
A month later, still scrunched up like a little worm, I took Damien to Damon’s for the first time. The fifth generation of my family sitting in the same room we had all sat in before — watching the same hustle of Hawaiian shirts, metal salad bowls spinning, happy birthday claps drifting softly from somewhere across the room.
My legacy was Damon’s. Just not in the way I thought it would be.
Writer Lauren Bethke at one of Damon’s green booths, and at the restaurant with her son Damien. (Thomas Gavin)
Damon’s opened in Glendale on a stretch of Central Avenue (a few blocks from the then-new, now-gone Sears Roebuck) in 1937. My family has been going to the tiki-themed steakhouse ever since. My great-grandparents Norma and Robert Blair, affectionately called G.G. and Papa, got engaged at the restaurant in 1946, where they continued to celebrate milestone anniversaries throughout their lives.
Damon’s has been a constant, even after it moved to Brand Avenue in 1980. I’ve spent countless date nights, birthdays and New Year’s Eves in its big green booths under the soft tiki lighting. If I went through my camera roll right now, I would easily find a hundred photos of me posing next to a tropical Chi Chi cocktail or celebratory brownie sundae.
Damon’s cocktails include its Mai Tai, Blue Hawaii, variations of the Chi Chi with creamy coconut and macadamia nut.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
In a city constantly reinventing itself, it is a privilege to have a place that has lasted long enough to become a family tradition. To have somewhere to remind you of generations that came before, and generations to come.
“Families coming to Damon’s is why it has stayed around as long as it has,” said manager Ivana Prince. “People will come in here with their kids and we’ll watch them grow up.”
Robert and Norma Blair, the author’s great-grandparents, married in 1947, a year after they were engaged at Damon’s. Papa and G.G. celebrated their 40th anniversary at Damon’s. (Lauren Bethke)
When I was 18 I stayed off and on at my great-grandma’s house near Glendale Community College. Every other Thursday at 10 a.m. I would take G.G. to get her hair done in a garage converted into a salon — the same cut and fluff she always had, her signature look.
Afterward she would say, “Get me my horse! Let’s get steaks!” — her horse meaning her walker and steaks meaning one steak sandwich cut in half. We would be the first people at Damon’s, splitting the lunch sandwich at noon sitting in the same booth almost every time.
When I miss her, those are the days I think of.
The first owners of Damon’s, Loyal Adelbert Damon and his wife Mona, sold their Los Angeles candy stores to open Damon’s Steak House nearly 90 years ago. A single palm tree rooted in the middle of the original restaurant inspired its tropical decor, an “island paradise” aesthetic that was amplified at its new location, which was sold to a private group in 2004.
Inside Damon’s, the scene of countless date nights, holiday celebrations and birthdays.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
When you walk through the entrance, you’re met with black booths wrapping around the waiting area, then an explosion of color hits the second you step into the dining room. The aquarium with its mascot puffer fish to the right, the low lighting, the colorful murals on the walls, the comfy green booths — it all takes you to a completely different world.
G.G. loved the transition into the full tiki vibe. She’d always tell stories of how it reminded her of a time living near the beach — Damon’s was her escape too.
In March of 2022 I was hired to be a floor manager of Damon’s. I had been working at Belle’s Bagels in Highland Park for over two years and was ready for a change. One day — vintage style — I randomly called Damon’s to see if they were hiring. To my surprise, they were. A floor manager was about to move away, and they needed someone to cover the night shifts.
A quintessential meal at Damon’s: New York steak with crispy fried onions and a twice baked potato with chives and sour cream.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed my resume, went in for an interview, and was offered the job. I couldn’t believe it. Almost surreal. I could remember days of being served by a waitress whose mother — who also worked there — would take over her tables so she could take her 10-minute break. That was who I wanted to be. I wanted to be so perfectly woven into the space that if I wasn’t there for a shift, people would notice because the staff is just as memorable as the unique decor.
They made it very clear — and honestly I already knew from being on the other side of it — that the holidays were nonnegotiable. You had to be available. I was completely ready to dedicate myself to being there.
I took three days in between the jobs to go visit my family in Florida, knowing I wouldn’t be able to request much time off once I started working at Damon’s. I was staying in my mother’s guest room when something dawned on me. I just felt it in my bones. I texted my sister to bring me a pregnancy test.
I was not planning on getting pregnant. I did the math. I thought Damon’s would be my legacy job. But I knew that learning a new role while dealing with morning sickness and figuring out what my future looked like would be too much.
I had to turn down the job at Damon’s.
Photo prints of the staff and patrons of Damon’s Tiki Steak House.
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
I emailed the manager and explained that I could no longer take the position because I was pregnant, due in November.
The response: “Congratulations, I do have to express to you what an unbelievably stressful position this leaves us in at Damon’s.”
I didn’t go back to Damon’s for most of my pregnancy.
Nine months passed, and I was past my due date. My doctor decided to induce labor.
Before induction, I was told to go eat a big meal and then check into the hospital. My partner and I agreed that our last meal as a family of two had to be at Damon’s.
We got a late reservation. We ate New York steak with peppercorn sauce, crispy fried onions piled to the gods, twice-baked potato with chives and sour cream, and of course the iconic house salad — which, if you don’t get it, I do judge you.
The house salad at Damon’s. “If you don’t get it,” the author writes, “I do judge you.”
(Ronaldo Bolaños / Los Angeles Times)
We said goodbye to the puffer fish in the tank, and left to check into the hospital.
Three long days later my son was born. A perfect little boy. We named him Damien — a version of Damon (which I knew only as a last name to Loyal and Mona) — after the place that had carried my family through four generations of special occasions and ordinary Tuesdays.
A month later, still scrunched up like a little worm, I took Damien to Damon’s for the first time. The fifth generation of my family sitting in the same room we had all sat in before — watching the same hustle of Hawaiian shirts, metal salad bowls spinning, happy birthday claps drifting softly from somewhere across the room.
My legacy was Damon’s. Just not in the way I thought it would be.
Writer Lauren Bethke at one of Damon’s green booths, and at the restaurant with her son Damien. (Thomas Gavin)
