Cole's, the downtown landmark bar and restaurant, and claimed inventor of the French dip, is set to close on August 2nd. No official statement has yet been made on the reason, but members of Cole's staff, who wish to remain anonymous, have confirmed the plans with L.A. TACO.
Located on the ground floor of the Pacific Electric building since 1908, Cole's is deeply intertwined with L.A. history, serving as a hangout for infamous figures like writer Charles Bukowski and crime boss Mickey Cohen.
Philippe's often gets much of the glory when it comes to representing the French dip, the sandwich famously invented in L.A. But Cole's is more than just a footnote.
After all, they are different kinds of establishments that offer different kinds of experiences. Philippe's is a cafeteria-style restaurant located in a cavernous, but sparsely-adorned, dining hall. Its saw-dusted floors, old wooden phone booths, and wall-mounted sturgeon contribute to a rustic, informal feel, while its sandwiches, soups, and pickled eggs are simple, old-fashioned comforts.
Cole's, on the other hand, is more of a saloon; a little darker and decorated in the manner of a 19th-century pool hall. Unlike Philippe's, it offers cocktails and historically caters to a seedier clientele.
While Philippe's has long been a reliable booster of the LAPD, the patrons at Cole's once consisted of mobsters, poets, lowlifes, bohemians, and professional barflies over the years. Both places also offer competing origin stories for the invention of the French dip; Cole's version of the tale involves a man with sore gums asking for something soft to chew, leading the chef to dip his sandwich in an au jus, and is as wild as anything you're likely to hear about the dish's creation.
Losing Cole's doesn't just mean losing a bar. Or a sandwich. It means losing one irreplaceable dimension of the city's history. Cole's is L.A.'s oldest restaurant, operating continuously in the exact location since its debut.
Bukowski was a drunk who frequently faced poverty during his life. Without those low-lit bars and other overlooked spaces that day-walkers would often prefer not to think about, Bukowski and people like him would not have been able to furnish us with great art, or different ways of thinking and living. Cole's has long been one of those places that, against all odds, endured for generations, across two different centuries.
As part of the Pacific Electric building, it was situated directly above the central terminus of the Red Car lines, L.A.'s legendary lost public transit system. Cole's was founded to capitalize directly on commuter traffic and even opened the city's first check-cashing business to facilitate that.
The tables at Cole's are made out of material recycled from the Pacific Electric Red Cars. Unlike many bars that trade in a faux-retro aesthetic as a part of a gimmick, Cole's was a true survivor.
It doesn't really matter who invented the French dip. Or even who has the better one; the fact that there are two competing originators, both with equally compelling, but probably equally fabricated stories, speaks to the creativity and the plain old gumption of the people of L.A. The friendly rivalry between fans of either place helps us identify one another culturally as Angelenos. It's part of who we are, part of what people come from all over the world to see.
And there's something to be said for preserving the seedy side of the city's history, the places occupied by people who were outcasts one day, perhaps revered artists and social revolutionaries the next. It's essential to us as a culture to have spaces like Cole's, where those living on the margins can thrive without the scrutiny or intrusion of polite society.
Bukowski was a drunk who frequently faced poverty during his life. Without those low-lit bars and other overlooked spaces that day-walkers would often prefer not to think about, Bukowski and people like him would not have been able to furnish us with great art, or different ways of thinking and living. Cole's has long been one of those places that, against all odds, endured for generations, across two different centuries.
Without Cole's, we will still have a place to eat French dips. But there's one less sound in the symphony, one less color on the canvas of the city, and in particular, Downtown L.A.
The loss of The Pantry, Hank's Bar, and now Cole's in 2025 is devastating for an area already struggling to recover from the pandemic. Add to that the closures of neighborhood institutions like Pico-Union's Papa Cristo's or Monterey Park's Jonathan Gold-approved Mandarin Noodle House, plus the news that legends like Du-Par's and Chili John's are struggling to stay afloat, and it becomes clear that something is seriously wrong in Los Angeles.
Beyond the already flimsy land-marking process, which only protects buildings and not businesses, and which can be circumvented relatively easily by determined developers and landlords, L.A. offers practically no protections for historic restaurants.
Fixtures like Cole's are vital cultural resources and historic third places, and they have an inestimable value for the people of L.A. beyond the profit that can be extracted from them month to month. At some point, we may find our city a much worse place to live without them.
