I’ve always been a night owl and find peace in small hours when milk men and vampires stir. The Saugus Café was sanctuary, back when it was famous for being open 24 hours. Long after bars closed and before annoying morning people stumbled from bed, I’d slip in to write, nibble French fries and sip hot tea.

One uncommon hour, I sat by myself. I couldn’t help but notice a young, stunningly beautiful mother, alone, with her child. Odd time for a new baby to be goo-gooing in a sanctuary tailor-made for outlaw motorcycle gangs. Soon, from the men’s room, the father joined them. Tall, I’m guessing he was 6-foot-8, closer to 7 feet because he was wearing white, platform patent leather shoes. He was stuffed into an outlandishly tight, white outfit, dotted with sequins and fake jewels, a matching belt that was championship-wrestler wide, giant high collar, werewolfian sideburns, towering rockabilly black hair and a slightly affected hunka-hunka sneer. He was the largest Elvis impersonator I had ever seen. I’m wearing a cowboy hat. We nodded at one another. That was the last eye contact we made.

I remember thinking: I love this place.

I’ve always loved the Saugus Café. I can’t recall anything approaching a good meal there. Passable? Filling? Yes. But nothing where you pat your tummy afterward and coo, “Wow! Was THAT delicious!”

And yet, in a world of sameness, of chain restaurants passing as dystopian Disneyland eating troughs, my eclectic soul was safe there. It’s the oldest restaurant in Los Angeles County. Well. Was. After........

© Santa Clarita Valley Signal