Every once in a while, “a job” and “a dream come true” collide and mate vigorously. And this is one of those times. I have been tasked with traversing the city well after dark to shamelessly gorge on high-calorie delicacies like my life depends on it—exploring the kind of late-night haunts that keep the city’s pulse beating long after midnight. And frankly, it just may. That said, there are quite a few other paths that fulfill the mission at hand—maybe this is just first in a series—which is my way of saying that choices had to be made and edits of destination had to happen. And with that all cleared up, it is time for the dream to come true...

The LA Late Night Quadruple Bang, rolling east to west, originates at The Original Tommy’s, sails over to Pink’s Hot Dogs, drops down to Voodoo Doughnut, then concludes at Canter’s Deli at Fairfax Avenue. At Tommy’s, I barreled right in with the top seller, the Double Chili Cheese Burger; at Pink’s, a top seller as well in the form of a longtime personal fave, the Spicy Polish Dog fully loaded—that’s right, a no holds barred back to back second helping of chili; at Voodoo, I procured that beloved signature namesake, the “Voodoo Doll” which I backed up with the super sexy Maple Blunt; which sent me careening further on west into the iconic arms of “The Fairfax” at Canter’s—half pastrami/half corned beef on rye—I washed down with a custom-made old-school-certified Vanilla Egg Cream.

Real talk, Tommy’s Double Chili Cheese Burger is a call to gooey and greasy arms for the ages if you even believe at all in the enduring magnitude of the snack bar burger. Smash burger be damned, standing on Beverly Blvd. under the ample glistening Tommy signage, it is a moment where I am blessed to intuitively comprehend that a timeless city ritual is in full effect. And with a vengeance. Served up hot and fast and flanked by an ample supply of napkins, if you haven’t done it, then you haven’t been taking care of yourself with nearly as much love as you thought you were. I implore you to sprint, paddle, or jimmy-jam over, after that 2am call to action, to where Rampart and Beverly come together and get in on the good, good times.

Now properly primed by a double patty blast, it is time to keep on keepin’ on to Melrose, where the best way to stay high on the city’s carb supply is to stay golden with that Spicy Polish Dog. Naturally, loaded with everything. All things being equal, I must say that Pink’s chili had a touch more body than Tommy’s. That said, the real value, I'm talkin’ the big real KABOOM, happened when I burrowed through the chili and busted into the actual dog itself, the red hot apocalypse of the Spicy Polish Wiener. No matter how much time transpires between my Pink’s-specific indulges, that dog kicks my ass and curb stomps any lingering reservations—new-school whining haters be damned.

And with that said, it’s time to bring a little more light into the dark of night and dive into a sexy little plot twist that first reared its overly glazed head on April Fool’s Day, 2025. Because that’s the day Voodoo Doughnuts—born and raised in Portland, Oregon, courtesy of Cat Daddy Pogson and Tres Shannon—turned the northwest corner of Melrose and La Brea into a pink neon barrage. The pink neon serves both to properly illuminate and to act as a kind of homage to their northern-border neighbor, Pink’s, founded in 1939. Feeling giddy from all the chili and sodium jangling my synapses, it seemed the only honest move was to take down the Voodoo Doll, because, hey, it’s shaped like a voodoo doll covered with chocolate frosting and filled with raspberry jelly. What could possibly be bad about plummeting headlong into a doughnut boasting those kinds of specs? Then, things went full metal sexy squared when I spotted the Maple Blunt cozied up not far away, at which point, I decided that as long as I had air in my lungs, maple anything was a meta-epic way to enhance a mission hellbent on overloading the arteries, which not only worked but simultaneously transformed me into a half-dazed carb-zombie standing outside yet another LA institution, a little tattered and torn but still proud, Canter’s Deli on Fairfax Ave.—a late-night haven where you can rest your weary, party-hard butt on a pleather booth and chill.

The Fairfax Sandwich is a thing. If you love corned beef and you love pastrami, you were born to lock horns with this savory temptress on a magic carpet ride. Add to that the Vanilla Egg Cream and really the only words that suffice are Sweet Jesus. Lately, it’s been troubling me that people I talk to, people who may even think they have lived a pretty full life, have yet to swill a proper deli-rendered egg cream between their cheek and gums. If you’re one of these people, I implore you to stop questioning and do so immediately.

Gut fully loaded with so much goodness, life’s unending, relentless quest for meaning feels temporarily quelled. My ill-fated and deeply beloved fool’s errand which has compelled me to forgo my safety as I danced across the deep-fried plains feels right and good, purpose crystal clear in my next move, which involves me imploring you, my long-suffering reader, to drop this magazine and do exactly what I just did. In a single night. Not only will said misadventure be f’ing amazing but also, your life will be better than it was before. In a forever kind of way. Ciao...

Arty Nelson has written for GQ, Interview, LA Weekly, BIKINI, Black Book, Ray Gun, and the LA Times. He owns the One Trick Pony Art Gallery on Western.