Farewell to thee, our glorious greasy spoon
by Mick Rhodes | editor@claremont-courier.com
As refuges go, this one is unlikely.
I’ve been lucky to travel and eat great and not so great food all over the world. But just a handful of those culinary experiences has stayed with me in my day-to-day life. One that has, improbably, is a restaurant that will never be awarded a Michelin Star, or have an eponymous cookbook on the bestseller list.
Modest at best, sorta rundown at worst, it’s not fancy, and the views are unremarkable. But the people are great, and so is the food.
I’m of course talking about Los Jarritos, the little strip mall Mexican joint at 3191 N. Garey Ave. that so many Claremonters love, which, quite sadly, is closing May 14.
Pedro Lopez opened the nondescript restaurant in August 1986, and his family has run it since, changing little but the prices, periodically. Over that time it has become an institution for many, including my family.
I ate my first meal as a Claremont resident there in spring 2008. It was near 8 p.m. and I’d spent 12 hours battling it out on the 10 Freeway, back and forth between our old place in Venice and our new home in Claremont. I was exhausted, famished, and a little ripe. I called my friend Robin (back in the days when phone calls were a thing) to ask where I should eat. “Definitely Los Jarritos,” was the response.
Definitely.
I took her advice.
“I walked into Los Jarritos for the first time that night and knew inside of five minutes that I’d found my home,” I wrote in the Courier in September 2016. “Los Jarritos doesn’t wow you with flash. In fact, it’s downright spartan. TVs show American and Latin American sports, a few spare decorations and ads hang on the walls, and a large, self-serve beer cooler sits against the back wall. That’s about it for eye candy. Cooks in an open kitchen pull out trays of aromatic chile rellenos from ovens, and a glass counter holds stacks of red trays holding Los Jarritos’ highly addictive tortilla chips.”
That description holds to this day.
My 17-year relationship with the little hole in the wall we all call “Los” began that evening. It’s cheap. It’s good. And it’s about as far from pretentious as you can get. It’s the perfect neighborhood Mexican joint. Aside from time spent away from home over those years, nary a week has gone by without a visit. And nary a visit has passed without running into one or more table of friends or acquaintances.
My two youngest daughters were forced into becoming regulars. They didn’t have the same affection, but they tolerated it on the weekly for years.
Not too long after my son was born in 2010 my youngest daughter began attending preschool. Suddenly my infant boy and I had a few free hours every weekday morning. We traveled all around Southern California, visiting friends and goofing around in Pasadena, driving out to Orange County to look at guitars, and exploring Claremont and the surrounding cities.
Our most regular haunt was Los. We were there at least once-a-week. I’d plop him right up on the table in his car seat and we’d enjoy our meals, mine usually a chile relleno, his a bottle. Soon I was feeding him beans and rice, to his delight. Not too much later he began feeding himself. I think he learned to use a spoon at Los. By the time he was sitting in a well-worn high chair, most every food server knew his name. They watched him grow. They didn’t even ask him what he wanted, just brought him his go to: a cheese quesadilla, side of rice and beans, and flour tortillas. He learned restaurant etiquette there, and the valuable life skill of how to roll a burrito.
The author’s then 8-year-old son Everett at Los Jarritos in July 2018. Courier photo/Mick Rhodes
One week when his mother and sisters were out of town I told him we could go anywhere he wanted for dinner for the whole week. After the fourth night in a row at Los, I convinced him we should probably cook dinner at home for a change, or risk matching father and son heart attacks.
Sometimes out of town friends would come visit for lunch. Some were initially miffed at the allure. The sparse decor, no-nonsense vibe, and questionable bathrooms didn’t help. But all of them came away fans after the meal.
I worked in the restaurant industry for a decade. I know most successful ventures have a half-life. It’s rare that they stick around for 39 years; it’s a tough business, and the margins are thin. But when a restaurant endures long enough to a become beloved institution — as Los Jarritos surely has — the thought of it not being there is anxiety inducing. I mean, where are we going all going to go after May 14?
When we’re hurting, we want comfort, and Los was where I went for something normal during the darkest, most chaotic days of my divorce. Its closing feels like the end of something more than a restaurant. It’s become almost an involuntary impulse for my kids and I, especially for my son. I suspect I’ll always have a phantom limb-like emotional attachment to that soon to be redeveloped stretch of Garey Avenue. It’s weird how places can get hardwired into our brains like that.
According to one of its long-time food servers, there are no plans to reopen at a new location. So, farewell Los Jarritos, from my family. We are but one of what I suspect to be thousands of “number one fans” around here. My kids were raised on your deliciously salty beans, your fragrant rice, your simple quesadillas, enchiladas, and tacos, and your fresh house-made chips and tangy red salsa.
We will miss you.
Los Jarritos is at 3191 N. Garey Ave., Pomona. The hours are generally 8 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. or so, closing about 2 p.m. on Sundays. Get in there while you still can.
A change to the Blotter
Last week I implemented a new policy at the Courier with respect to the Police Blotter: no names. For years we’ve omitted the names of homeless people, people arrested for domestic violence, and minors. Since becoming editor in July 2022 I’ve heard from several readers urging me not to print names of people arrested for minor infractions, especially considering none have yet been convicted of a crime.
The reality is “the internet is forever,” and regardless of the outcome of any one Blotter case, those names are searchable in perpetuity. In addition, the Courier’s style Bible, published by the Associated Press, has since 2021 recommended not printing names of people arrested for minor crimes.
If you’re disappointed in this policy change, I ask you to imagine a scenario in which we publish the name of a man accused of possessing child pornography. Should that man be acquitted or otherwise not convicted, he would nonetheless forever be linked to that repulsive allegation. The internet does not forget.
Does that seem just?
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