photo by Andy Kitchen

Warning: I will metaphor you to death on my love of the Original Farmers Market — my belief that it is L.A.’s soft hidden heart, the sweet spot in our centrifuge, the comforting nook in our jangly pinwheel of a city.

You like to cook, right? Just mix several metaphors and stir.

Too often, L.A. is metal on metal, bone on bone, a grindy place too frantic to offer a kind word or a passing nod.

Not at the market. Here, strangers lean over to ask: “Hey, is that grits you’re eating?” Or, “Wow, that hot sauce. Did you find it here?”

The market moves to a different tempo. It even has a backstage feel to it, like we’re someplace not everyone gets to see. Sure, you might see a soap star or game show host buying bok choy. Who cares?

Walled off as it is, the market doesn’t enjoy much of a breeze, yet somehow stays 10 degrees cooler than the surrounding park­ing lots. And, as nearly everyone knows, it’s cooler than The Grove.

Why is it cooler than The Grove, at least in spirit? That question is kind of personal and requires too much self-reflection. Not sure I’m up to it. Let me get back to you in a moment.

And what exactly is the overall attraction of the market anyway? Architecturally, it offers a rancho feel, the sort of look they started bulldozing across L.A. in the ’60s.

Sure, the market’s iconic clock tower is appealing, but there’s no overarching design theme. There’s a wiggle of neon here, a mere smirk of green awning over there, and Formica tables just everywhere. It resembles an old episode of “I Love Lucy ” where Ricky could walk in at any time.

Seriously, if a hot L.A. designer got within a mile of this place, I’d be surprised.

Not so The Grove, of course. Amazing in its own way, it features every trendy element L.A. can muster – high-end boutiques, pretty people left and right … their pretty Pekinese … pretty everything.

Hey, what do I know? I can’t tell a meercat from a Mercedes. I’m just a simple goof who puts ice cream in the kids’ scrambled eggs (makes them extra creamy). And, as I confessed recently, I learned to write by watching Johnny Carson monologues.

My only hobby is – no kidding – taking Angie Dickinson to lunch and asking: “So seriously, Angie. Who’s more romantic? Me or Bacharach? Come on, spill.”

Obviously, I’m into the classics: movies, malls and dames. I prefer people and places with lasting power.

So, give me the Roosevelt Hotel, the Polo Lounge, the Rose Bowl, Pink’s. I love old piers and saggy saloons held together by too much varnish.

And, drum roll, please: I gobsmack adore the Farmers Market, another grand dame, the centerpiece of a part of town we celebrate with this special anniversary issue today.

What’s the famous Raymond Chandler line? “From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be seen from 30 feet away.”

photo by Andy Kitchen

Similarly, on close inspection, Hollywood Boulevard doesn’t do that much for me. Nor does much of downtown.

Give me this odd relic at Third and Fairfax. No makeup. No posturing.

Honestly, I’m not sure how it’s still around. Started as a dairy farm, became an oil field. In the ’30s, pickup trucks started showing up, full of nuts and berries. How is it not a housing tract?

The market blossomed in the ’60s, and would eventually become a top tourist draw, even luring the Beatles. For years, it drew far too many tour buses.

Now, the locals are back to polish this pearl. Residents of Hancock Park and Park La Brea know they can pull together a picnic at the amazing French market (Monsieur Marcel), which pumps out fresh baguettes hourly.

The locals know about the first-class butcher counters – how at Huntington Meats & Sausages, you can buy Nancy Silverton’s custom burger mix (though many think Marconda’s, on the other side of the market, offers an even better mix).

They both also offer a porchetta, the decadent Italian roast – heavily spiced pork wrapped in pork belly. Seriously, does eating get better than that? If you’ve got something, please call immediately.

From smoky gumbo to pillowy empanadas, you can find most any delicacy here.

As always, simple is often best. At Charlie’s, you can order a cheeseburger at 9 a.m. or a waffle at noon – Katie won’t care. Meanwhile, Du-par’s might be the comfort food capital of the world.

As evening comes, you can grab a beer at EB’s ($7 pints).

Before Happy Hour ends, wander over to Market Tavern, a new pub featuring lots of Brits, with English trivia on Tuesdays and warm-fuzzy acoustic music most Sundays (5-7 p.m., call first to confirm).

Looking for a first-date option? Consider a hard cider or a Pimm’s cup at Market Tavern.

Even better, consider this entire sprawling landmark.

Grab coffee or a glass of wine and plant yourself to people-watch. Their joy is your joy. And you can mock them too.

This is L.A., after all. We’re nice, but we’re complicated. We can be a little judgy about shoes and haircuts, or the funny way folks walk.

Our public spaces too – we’re picky about those as well. Which is why we cherish authentic hangouts like this, redolent of inky coffee and melted butter.

A timeless spot to repair your sore soul.

Chris Erskine is a longtime columnist in Los Angeles, including 25 years at The Times. For past columns and books, go to ChrisErskineLA .com.