Found in L.A.

One of the saddest things I must report as my first outing into my Found In L.A. project is the death of Randy Hoffman, Owner and Chef of Chili My Soul in Encino. I only got to go there a handful of times over a period of a few months this past year–and every visit was a personal one into Randy’s “home.”  Randy had been featured on Food Network, and was a true chili connoisseur. The restaurant was an outgrowth of his booming business as THE gourmet chili wholesaler to L.A-area and beyond restaurants–and the inevitible question from guests was always “when’s the next store opening?” But Randy confided that it was HIS chili; that he wanted to maintain quality-control, and if he couldn’t oversee each restaurant, hire the cooks he wanted to hire, and get the best ingredients, well–it just wasn’t worth it.

On our first visit to the restaurant, it was kind of a fluke. Mathew and I had always wanted to stop by and try it–and finally did. Isn’t that how you find everything in L.A.? Someone tells you about it and urges you to go? We walked in and tried every single chili for the day except that DEMON chili. They were all delicious–from the Durango to the Poblano Turkey (Mathew’s favorite!) to the Soul Fries covered in Special Beef or Zydeco Chicken (my favorites!).  Randy was working the counter that day and talked us into two split bowls (to taste 4 delicious chili’s) and a soul fries. Randy was a big guy with a serious affection for chili. He was so intent on making each dining experience personal and wonderful, that he took the time to get to know your tastes and make suggestions; he’d move you away from a chili you might not like and onto something a little more to your taste; and he’d always stop by your table just to chat about the chili and any upcoming new flavors he was going to try.

He had great stories about his appearances on various Food Network TV shows, and his decor was a mash of tex-mex chili peppers and laminated and framed reviews of the chili. We never left without a couple of quarts to take home, full tummies, and a “can’t wait to come back” attitude. Twice we ate there 3 days in a row; and I was always begging him to add a Chili Omelet to his menu, but he’d just sell me a quart and tell me to make it at home. He was a great guy.

A couple of months ago, I pulled up with Mathew to have some lunch and to buy some gift certificates as a gift for a friend, but there was a sign on the door saying that the restaurant would be closed for a bit. Someone inside let us in and notified us that Randy had passed away just a few days earlier on June 18, and that the family was still deciding what they would do with everything. We kept checking every once in a while, and then I headed out of state for a few weeks. Last week, I drove by (after being in Ohio for 6 weeks) and the place was empty–gutted out–and a notice posted for a funeral service for Randy that had passed by a few weeks.

This is sad–not just for Los Angeles–because we’ve lost a true culinary genius (I don’t say this lightly), but in the larger scope of things, sad that someone can spend his entire life loving something and perfecting something, and then die and it is lost forever.

My father died on June 18 about 4 years ago; he had a small barbecue restaurant and a series of award-winning sauces. It had always been his dream to open his own restaurant, and he and his wife tested numerous barbecue sauce recipes on family and friends for a couple of years before they finally opened their own little place. It was barely open a year, and then he was ill for about 4 months before he died of Pancreatic Cancer. His wife moved back to Kentucky, and the restaurant filed for bankruptcy. I mention this because I think a lot about small dreams inside of each person–isn’t that why a lot of people come to L.A. in the first place? But you never know how things will turn out–you can have a good run of something and then its gone.

It’s definitely a reminder of the futility of life–and the futility of getting caught up in daily stuff that we don’t really need to worry about; honestly, everything passes–either by death or by a release and letting go. Eventually, we must all get back into our cars and head to the next dream–the next destination.

Rest in peace, Randy. We’ll all miss you.