This dim, kitchy oasis is actually the second iteration of Damon’s. The first location was established in 1937 — only four years after Don The Beachcomber, perhaps the original tiki bar, opened in Hollywood — a few blocks away on Central Avenue. And while the initial Damon’s did feature a single palm tree growing in the middle of the dining room, it wasn’t until they moved to this location, in 1980, that they fully embraced their tiki identity. Nowadays, while some tropical cocktail purveyors are reckoning with and disentangling themselves from the colonial nostalgia and co-opting of Oceanian iconography inherent in the American tiki tradition, Damon’s remains largely unchanged — an heirloom of yesteryear.

And from what I can tell, that’s the real draw of Damon’s: not as a restaurant (though they do sell food), but as a casual, friendly refuge from the outside world — a place to soak yourself in heavy-handed tiki drinks and have a fun time. That seemed to be the vibe, at least, at the bar, where I quickly ordered Damon’s Famous Mai Tai, and nursing it, took a look around. To my left, a group of regulars shook hands with a cook. To my right, the bartender joked with an older lady. Everyone was in a good mood, and I, too, was on my way to the same.

With barbecue on the weekends, a beef stroganoff special, and coconut fried shrimp, the menu lands somewhere between a budget steakhouse and a vaguely tropical diner. My heart fluttered when I saw the wagyu corndog listed on the menu (I love corndogs), but, following the advice of the bartender — a jolly fellow with a pocketful of one-liners who would be my guide for the evening — I decided instead to order the pork ribs with a side of creamed corn and a twice-baked potato. 

As I neared the bottom of my mai tai, the bartender brought over a basket of thick, soft bread with a few packets of butter, and a small plate of salad with house dressing — something akin to a French dressing. I looked from the salad, to the bread, then back to the salad. Were they daring me to make a salad sandwich? I finished my drink, and I decided I’d go for something a bit more refined. I buttered my bread and piled a heaping forkful of salad on top — a salad tartine of sorts. Honestly, it was great. I’m a sucker for a house salad.

I ordered another drink (this time a Black Pearl, a potent elixir of two spiced rums, lime, and orgeat, topped with a fernet float), and soon my food arrived. I examined the big plate of simple, no-frills comfort food before me: the twice-baked potato piled to the heavens, the corn rich with cream, and the ribs sticky and cooked long enough to slip easily away from the bone. It was what one might call: drinkin’ food.

And all and all, the food was fine, but I was so pleased to be there — in warm company and away from the horrors of the outside — that I couldn’t care less. The staff, too, seemed to have no illusions about the refinement of the cuisine; rather, they were just dead-set on making sure everyone had a good time. 

The food is, however, a necessity: the drinks here are strong. By the time I neared the end of my second, the bartender (perhaps seeing something in me I couldn’t see in myself) asked me if I was doing okay. 

“I’m great,” I replied. And I believed it. 

As I finished up my meal, it was nearing 6 p.m., and the dining room was starting to fill up. The vibes were high, and a lot of people seemed to know each other. It’s no doubt the hospitality at Damon’s that invites this rare sense of familiarity; in fact, as I signed my check, the bartender shook my shaky hand and asked me my name. Classy. 

It’s my opinion that Damon’s is a Glendale institution, a one-of-a-kind local haunt and a reliable escape in a micro-neighborhood that has otherwise trended largely towards the generic and the franchised. Its resilience and enduring appeal is apparent in the loyalty it garners, both in its customers and its employees, some of whom have been dining and working there for decades. The warm, laid-back atmosphere beckons you to have one more drink (and maybe a corn dog), and to stay a while. 

Sadly, however, it was my time to leave. All settled up and just drunk enough to walk, I set out onto the streets, blurry but renewed. The tiki drinks had done their work, and the affable atmosphere had cast its spell: I barely even noticed the consumerist wasteland I walked through on my wobbly way home. 

Cody Reiss is food and travel writer and a former cook at Chez Panisse. His work explores the personal, emotional, and intuitive side of cooking and eating, and has been featured on Bon Appetit, VICE, Eater, and Comedy Central, among others. You can find more of his writing on his Substack, To Taste, and follow his video work on Instagram. He lives in Los Angeles, where he is currently on the search for the best bean and cheese burrito.