Honorable Mention
The view from the blue swivel chairs
by Jacob Tan
Perhaps the smallest house in Manhattan Beach is a one story bungalow on Highland Ave, one of the town’s few remaining beach cottages. Despite its small size and low-hanging roof, the blue-trimmed cottage houses hundreds of people in its rooms and on its patio on any given Sunday. This breakfast joint is so beloved that people will wait patiently in a row of plastic chairs on the sidewalk for their chance at some syrupy pancakes, with a side of old California nostalgia.
I am talking about Uncle Bill’s Pancake House. The restaurant opened in 1961 in an empty walkstreet home. Other breakfast places stand little chance against the allure of Uncle Bill’s, and this summer morning, I want to partake in the nostalgia too.
I walk past the tired teenage hostess from my high school, towards a little blue door that reveals one of Uncle Bill’s secrets: a diner-style seating area adorned with vintage photos and Christmas cards that families have sent to the house. Stuck to the window next to the blue door is a haphazard collection of sun-faded “Zagat Restaurant Guide” stickers from 2003, 2006, 2011, and 2017—in no particular order. Sometime after 2017, the hand that slapped these stickers on ceased to pay much mind to those reviews. Uncle Bill’s doesn’t need to impress, it simply needs to house the sleepy beachgoers who frequent the restaurant for their morning coffee with eggs and toast. I squeeze into a sparkly blue swivel chair in the diner, and wave to the wait staff as they move past each other in the cramped galley, moving in perfect coordination with colorful plates. I have visited Uncle Bill’s for nearly twenty years, first brought here by my grandmother as a young child twice-weekly, where I learned to read in the very swivel chairs that I sit in now. Back then, we ordered a plate of two muffins, a coffee for my grandmother, and a hot chocolate with whipped cream for me. Today, I almost reach for one of the yellowed plastic menus, but stop myself, opting to stick with tradition. Then the waitress—who still serves my grandmother twice weekly while I am away at college—slides me coffee and a plate with two muffins, still remembering my order some15 years later. As I stir cream into my coffee, I take note of the people who are at the restaurant today. The main dining area is a mix of locals and tourists, some of whom have clearly travelled from faraway places. But I am pleased to see the regulars are unchanged—the usual older gentleman sitting in the corner, a pair of barefoot surfers scarfing down BLTs, and a father and his young son whom I smile at, his face barely making it above the counter.
Manhattan Beach has changed dramatically in the past 50 years. What began as a provisional beach town has swelled into a fully-formed city, threatening to dethrone other beaches as the favorite destination of travelers blown westward to Southern California. Each time I come home from university a restaurant downtown has been remodeled or sold, and a new building has been erected. The yellow plaster classrooms of my former elementary school have been replaced by modern white buildings reminiscent of an urban office. And I can’t help but think of the hysteria amongst local teenagers that went unheard when Wahoo’s—the favorite meal of many Junior Guards—was replaced by another restaurant. On my most recent visit home, I noticed that its changed again
Change is a condition of living by the sea. To choose to settle upon faultlines and sandy soil is to accept the impermanence of your existence, to acquiesce to the supremacy of the earth. In the coming years, Manhattan Beach will continue to take new forms—new generations of beachgoers will be born, new restaurants and homes will be erected, sandcastles will be built and washed away by the waves. I think often of my childhood that unfolded in these blue swivel chairs, and the many people who have been raised by this magical place. I cannot stop the endless beating of the waves, but for certain I have been a witness.
