Chris Erskine

Some days, Los Angeles seems to be hanging on by its fingernails.

When they write the obit on Hollywood, which is about a week away, they will talk about the greed, the lack of taste, the union strife. Historians will wonder how, during this renaissance of television, the whole big wad of muck could collapse like it has. Much like Rome once did. Or the Pac-12. An entire colossus, gone overnight.

Yet, life goes on somehow. Western Sunset Boulevard, a ribbon of crystal light that dips into the sea, seems bulletproof to the whims of idealistic writers and greedy moguls. It’s as if this area has its own glowing capitalism.

In particular, the Pacific Palisades – that social experiment in suburban perfection – thrives these days. Its streets are brimming with Lambos and flat-tummied school kids off to get coffee together, in roving packs, their jackets hanging just so off their shoulders.

Mayberry for millionaires, this place, where mothers in $150k Mercedes honk at the other mothers taking too long to park.

Beep, beep, beep – the soundtrack of late-for-lunch affluence.

One modest 900-square-foot house, nothing much really, just sold for $2.7 million, more evidence that the Palisades real estate continues to cook.

And in a gallery on Sunset, down by the Mexican joint, an artsy piece of fabric featuring sailboats lists at $37,000.

To be sure, it’s a nice piece of art, like something your talented high schooler might’ve done, then stored in the corner of the garage. Yep, $37 large for something you might make in a weekend with some leftover t-shirts and Elmer’s glue.

You can probably sense the envy dripping in every sentence. I live in a good suburb, nicer than some, but everyone’s income would have to triple for us to match the beauty and refinement of the Palisades. Really is idyllic.

Just remember, envy is a form of flattery. Not a healthy one, perhaps.  Never said I was anything close to normal.

Old restaurants are like old friends. RIP, Gladstone’s, site of so many summer celebrations. (photo by Chris Erskine)

Still, I think the Palisades will survive all this. The situation is not as dire as I make it out, though I recently paid 12 bucks for a blueberry smoothie, and a cheeseburger at the stylish Hank’s will set you back almost 30 very American dollars. Don’t try to share the burger either. It’s not that big. Basically, it’s about the size of a child’s watch.

Just remember: location, location, location. Plus, vocation, vocation, vocation.

As you walk the wet, sprinklered streets, you start to wonder: What do all these people do for a buck? There can only be so many entertainment lawyers and strip-mall kings. I doubt many of these folks teach math or play the violin. But maybe. If there were any humorists around, they were keeping their heads down (as humorists should).

Sure, there is a healthy sprinkling of celebrities – approximately two per block. Tyra Banks used to live on that bluff off De La Paz that looks out to Japan, and they tell me Kobe once camped at the top of the bejeweled hill over there. In any case, the exodus west out of Beverly Hills now seems almost complete. So much riff-raff. So many killer smiles.

Now, they’re about to tear down the Palisades’ greatest landmark, Gladstone’s, most likely for public health reasons. Or maybe the sea just finally swallowed it, the pounding surf being the only local willing to be seen there.

Me, I liked Gladstone’s. I mean, no one could flub a table reservation quite like they could, and the food seemed double-fried, as if it hopped from one boiling vat of oil into another. Sizzle. Kerplunk. Sizzle.

But didn’t you love the foil swans?

Old restaurants feel like old friends. Reportedly, Wolfgang Puck will be putting up something nouveau here, with a vision he and Frank Gehry sketched on a cocktail napkin. No doubt, it’ll be somewhat exclusive. Beg a reservation, offload some Apple stock, that kind of place.

Just remember, that outside deck is public domain, somehow. You can plop there any time you please.

If there was anything I really liked about Gladstone’s, it was the accessibility. Anyone could eat there – even writers, even surfers, though we barely did. You went only with the kids, or out-of-town guests. Even then, somewhat reluctantly.

I sure hope my pal Wolfgang continues the playful foil swans, though I doubt he’ll serve shrimp in portions that allow those tugboats of leftovers. For 50 years, Gladstone’s wasn’t shy about overfeeding us. They left diners robust and happy, while we gazed out at the cellophane sunsets and that queen’s necklace of headlights winding down from Malibu.

“This ain’t so bad,” you always thought. “’Nope, not bad at all.”

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Email the columnist at Letters@chriserskineLA.com.