The air in the room is weighing, a mental weight that tilts me just two feet to the left, where she went on ahead of us, and not easily. It’s a strange, dissonant geometry: a space anchored to a spot you hate because the person you love is sitting right there. You’re a tourist in a graveyard that your niece has forced back into a living room.

For a second, the a mind drifts, my mind, unmoored, looking at the stained and overused carpet where everything changed. Then she speaks, and the snap of her voice pulls me back into the present, mostly I suppose.

ME: (Coming to, the words catching up to the moment) ...And then I woke up again.

NIECE: (Not looking up, just existing in the space) What was the dream?

ME: I had a dream having a dream I had a dream I didn't have a dream. Just a Russian doll of nothingness. What about you? What's your favorite lately?

NIECE: I have weird ones. Friends of old friends that I don't have that much anymore. My friends that are nice stay nice in the dreams, and the ones that aren't… they just aren't. I don't really like myself in them. But do you ever remember them well? Like you’re in the same place? Where are you?

ME: (Glancing toward the window, anywhere but the floor) Not on the couch.

NIECE: No, somewhere else. Where’s the furthest dream? Do you dream you’re your at grandmas? Or at school? Or driving in the mountains?

ME: Sometimes I’m driving north along the Redwood Highway. It’s like at the house, but I’m moving back. I’ve been away a long time and I can’t afford to live in the same place anymore, so I have to go north. It gets weird. I drive west and it’s like Guerneville, but the roads are all wrong. Mountains and rivers that don't exist, warped visions. It’s the same, but it’s different.

NIECE: (A beat of silence) Do you ever dream about Kafka? Or powder? It’s all interesting. When do you have your best dreams?

ME: (The thought of the band she mentioned earlier flickers) Oh, the band was called The Garden.

NIECE: What kind of music do you like?

ME: Experimental rock maybe, but I don't know. A little of this and that.How many people were in the band?

NIECE: A lot. Must be more than two. I didn't see them. I don't know.

Me: huh? What?

NIECE: (She shifts her weight, looking at my feet) Did you go to grandmas for summer?

ME: No, I've been cash poor. What could I do? I've had holes in my shoes. I have not even been wearing socks; look! 

NIECE: Did you like those shoes? Sometimes I really like a pair of shoes you wear until they fall completely apart. Like you’re just a lot of socks and I can see your toes through the shoe.

ME: (Looking down at the repairs, the hand-stitched reality of things) I had one pair that fell apart. I sewed them back together. Now they look great. People look at them and ask what happened, and I just tell them, "Life's expensive. I gotta make things last."

NIECE: (Nodding, accepting the logic of the repair) Okay. Yeah. It’s okay.

ME: They work just fine. Thank you.

"They work just fine," I repeated, mostly to myself. "The shoes. They work just fine."

I stood up, the weight of the drive home already settling into my aging joints. I hate that drive. It’s not just the miles or the traffic or the way the car starts to speed over the asphalt; it’s the distance, the time in a certain direction.

She’s been gone almost five years now, gone beyond anything measurable, beyond the warped roads of my dreams or the thoughts that don’t exist in an ordinary way. But sitting here on this couch, two feet from where it happened, she feels like a radios static frequency I can almost hear.

When I get in the car and start it, I’m the one forcing the distance. Every mile I put between this house heading to my own is like manually pulling a thread out of a tapestry. I drive south and the connection thins. I feel it less and less with every exit sign, and I hate it. I hate that my brain lets go of the hurt the further I get, because the hurt is the only thing that proves she was ever here, besides my nieces of course. It hurts to stay, but it’s a different kind of agony to drive away and feel her fade into the rearview.

Sous Chef at San Pedro's Savage Court

At 20 years old in 1989, I walked away from The Grand House and into the role of sous chef at the Savage Court. It felt like stepping into a new chapter, trading the familiar for a gleaming new kitchen and joining a team that would help shape one of San Pedro’s most beloved spots along its growing restaurant row. I can still feel the spark of those early mornings, the sense that we were part of something being built with heart.

The soul of the place was its owner, Rick Hankus. Rick had this fun and bouncy presence, and he was the cheesecake‑and‑tart master, his desserts were the kind people talked about long after they left the restaurant. Rick could be a stress ball, and who could blame him? Running two restaurants, one in Hermosa Beach and one in San Pedro, meant long, grinding days and endless driving back and forth; this was before cell phones were a thing, before the convenience of constant communication, so he carried the weight of both places on his shoulders every single day.

And in the kitchen, I worked under chef Jeffrey Cooper, a true talent with a creative fire that never seemed to dim, even under all the pressure, he still created unforgettable menus, and he trusted me enough to share his treasured flourless chocolate cake recipe.

Both Rick and Jeff have passed on ahead of us now, and their absence makes those memories shine even brighter. I think often about what they gave me, opportunity, mentorship, belonging, and a sense of purpose during a time when I was still finding my way in life. Being their sous chef wasn’t just about cooking fine cuisine; it was about being part of a team that poured its soul into giving San Pedro something special.

So thank you, Rick. Thank you, Jeff. You were a good part of my life, and I carry those years with me still.

---

A 1989 Los Angeles Times review praises "Savage Court" for bringing adventurous, Westside-style cuisine to San Pedro. Chef Jeffrey Cooper's menu is highlighted for unique combinations, including a Brie burger and sautéed grouper with radish-and-apple hash.

1989-07-21 Los Angeles Times review

I don't know what happened. Maybe it was highway hypnosis. We were just driving over to the Westside and the next thing I knew someone was shaking my shoulder and saying, \"Hey, this is San Pedro.\" No problem, I knew where I was. San Pedro: Yugoslav restaurants, loud Greek restaurants, that place that's like eating in a gracious old home where they happen to hire one avant-garde cook after another. And Ports O' Call. But here was something strange called Savage Court, right across the street from a war-surplus store that boasts it can get you a used battleship if you want, and it seemed just like a Westside restaurant. In any way you can name--exposed bricks and beams, antique fans, artsy photos; funny-colored peppercorns, funny-colored pastas, Italian ices, funky cheeses. Particularly the funky cheeses. A roasted head of garlic was served with a cube of rich goat cheese practically strong enough to overpower it. The dressing on a salad of wild greens was enriched with mascarpone and ground walnut--likewise maybe too much for the greens, but wild in its own right. There's even funky cheese on the burger, a thick patty of meat in the traditional oblate spheroid shape of a back-yard-barbecue burger, served in a big sesame bun that has as much trouble holding such a patty as any toasted bun ever has. It came with sauteed mushrooms and melted Brie on it. Once I got past the shock of smelling hot Brie on a burger, it was peculiarly enjoyable. I'd go for the Dijon on this particular burger. The funny-colored peppercorns were a little more problematic. I can remember the sarcastic sharpness of the red and green peppercorns in the Cabernet sauce on the steak, but I can't remember the steak at all. The funny-colored pasta I tried was black fettuccine with a bunch of seafood in red sweet pepper sauce, which sounded a little more interesting than it was. The really notable thing about Savage Court is the unusual flavor combinations, which seem to show up particularly on the daily specials. There was a soup of pureed celery root, apple and onion, more tart than sweet and truly fascinating. Sauteed grouper was topped with a light but agreeably savage hash of raw apple and radish that I can still taste. On the whole, though, my memory is a little cloudy about the whole episode. I remember dishes like American home cooking from Mars. A chicken breast was sauteed in olive oil with tomatoes and lots of minced garlic and rosemary, but the best part was the crunchy wild-rice pancakes, still seething with hot oil when they came out of the kitchen. The sauteed pork tenderloin was stuffed with apple and corn bread (and some almonds), topped with very welcome fried onions (called \"onion marmalade\" on the menu, presumably because they were distinctly sweet). The desserts change all the time, but one really stands out in my mind, a chocolate \"cake\" of the current Westside variety (viz. a brownie), made with very good chocolate and in an arresting bitter chocolate sauce. You can have your cheesecakes (particularly the Almond Roca cheesecake, which is pretty heavy going by the end of a meal here), you can have your vanilla bean and butterscotch gelati , I'll take the cake. No, on second hand, I'll take the gelati too. I did all the driving. Savage Court, 354 West 6th St., San Pedro. (213) 514-3505. Open for lunch Tuesday through Friday, for dinner Tuesday through Saturday. Beer and wine. Street parking. American Express, MasterCard and Visa accepted. Dinner for two, food only, $30 to $45.

https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1989-07-21-ca-4056-story.html

The Grand House

I worked at The Grand House at 809 South Grand when I was eighteen and nineteen years old. It was the mid to late‑1980s, and the place was unlike anything else in San Pedro at the time and had a very European feel to it. Placed in a 1923 Spanish‑style home turned into a restaurant, bed‑and‑breakfast, and folk‑art shop all under one roof. It had this charm you couldn’t forget creaks in the floors, a musty and cool basement stocked with worldly wines and spirits, colorful art hanging from the walls, and a kind of lived‑in magic that made people feel instantly at home and relaxed.

I was the pantry cook back then, responsible for salads, cold appetizers, and the mountain of vegetable garnishes that went on every plate. The style of food was the kind of cuisine that felt both familiar and a little larger than life,” which meant everything had to look vibrant, abundant, and full of life. I spent my shifts surrounded by the smell of fresh produce, the clatter of the kitchen, and the folk art that covered the walls like a patchwork of stories. The dining rooms were always packed and weekends were insanely busy. San Pedro regulars mixed with people who’d driven in from far places just to get a tasted and take in the vibe; to experience the place and the food.

Those were literally my “salad days”, the only time in my career when being green was actually part of the job description. By the time I turned nineteen, I had the rhythm of the place down. It was a high‑energy kitchen tucked inside a historic home, and being part of that crew was my true introduction to the restaurant world. Looking back, it was the best place to be to give me the first spark that set everything else in motion.

Menu before my time at the Grand House

From the Los Angeles Times

RESTAURANT REVIEW : Supercharged Home Cooking at San Pedro’s Grand House

By CHARLES PERRY

July 8, 1988 12 AM PT

At the next table, somebody was retiring or being promoted or something, and everybody seemed to be in the San Pedro Chamber of Commerce. In fact, from the way they called out to other tables I might have been the only person having lunch who wasn’t in the San Pedro Chamber of Commerce.

I sat under the huge old tree in the shady little quasi-Spanish patio, enjoying the cool sea air and playing with my salad, and thought how that made sense to me. If I were a San Pedro heavy-hitter, this is certainly where I’d go. Great patio aside, the Grand House is an exciting operation to find on a side street nowhere near the restaurant fast lane. In its short history it has always been a surprisingly daring, chance-taking place, and the present chef, John Chopchich, is not the first to have come from the Culinary Institute of America, that hotbed of experimentalism.

The menu has always tended to change at every meal. A menu that changes so often--it’s a large one, too, with at least 20 entrees at dinner--is a real challenge for a chef, one reason why the Grand House has tended to have energetic young chefs just getting started. It’s also a challenge to write about. What can you say about a meal that will probably never be served again?

Well, you can always generalize. You can characterize Chopchich as solid, both in the sense of not always wandering away from tradition and solid as in serving large portions of food that are a bit on the heavy side. The Grand House is a converted old home, and it’s serving a sort of supercharged home cooking, assuming that you grew up in a home with an intense background in haute cuisine.

There’s likely to be lots of pasta: say, basil fettuccine with deer sausage and smoked pheasant in a sea of garlic cream sauce. A number of appetizers will be close to familiar, like chicken breast with chanterelle mushrooms and slightly thickened Madeira sauce, except that the chanterelles will be fresh and surprisingly tender. Rack of lamb may be coated with bread-crumbs flavored with garlic and rosemary--and saffron.

But the toll of putting together a huge new menu every night must be the cause of oddities like salmon with papaya and saffron sauce (nice salmon, nice sauce, but if it were a marriage I wouldn’t give it six months), to say nothing of duck with coconut and strawberry, where the problem isn’t even the bizarre strawberries but the massive amounts of coconut, which hit the stomach like a sack of rocks.

And Chopchich has a tendency to go wacky on the garnishes. Bits of fruit, of course, that ‘80s equivalent of the old sprig of parsley on the plate, but mostly lots of vegetables. One night I counted nine with my entree, only one of which was really memorable: broccoli with a sauce that looked like some kind of chili but turned out to be a tart, concentrated essence of dried tomatoes.

The dessert chef, Christine Brown, also does best when she sticks close to the familiar. She makes an apple walnut cake far removed from the usual heavy, dense thing that goes by this name, light and delicate with an aromatic Drambuie cream sauce. On the other hand, I truly suspect chocolate brownies should not include pine nuts--there’s something musty about them--and the combination of flavors in the gingered rhubarb crisp made me think uneasily of eucalyptus leaves.

All in all, though, if I lived in San Pedro I’d make the Grand House my home.

Grand House, 809 S. Grand Ave., San Pedro; (213) 548-1240. Open for lunch Tuesday through Friday, for dinner Tuesday through Sunday; Sunday brunch. Full bar. Parking lot. All major credit cards accepted. Dinner for two, food only, $45 to $70.

Sunday Servings : Where to go for a Sunday supper

By Kathie Jenkins 

May 21, 1989 12 AM PT Grand House, 809 S. Grand Ave., San Pedro. (213) 548-1240. Style: Super-charged home cooking for San Pedro heavy-hitters. Setting: Converted old house with nifty patio. Recommended dishes: A daily changing menu might include basil fettuccine with deer sausage; chicken breast with chanterelle mushrooms in Madeira sauce; apple walnut cake. Cost per person:$20-$35

Lucky Days

 

Renee Laura Sluman

Renee Laura Sluman

The Stairs

San Pedro High School circa1987

RNA & RNE

Birth: 22 May 1970

Death: 6 May 1990 (aged 19) Orange County, California, USA

Burial: Green Hills Memorial Park

Rancho Palos Verdes, Los Angeles County, California, USA

Plot: Vista Verde, 107, B Memorial ID 72145666

Coco Le Chat

Lucky February 2026

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Michelle Adrian James

 

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