The sign on Valley and Garfield claims "World Famous Pastrami" and for years I believed it. I've been eating here since the building across the street was a movie theater, and before the Bob's Big Boy, further west on Valley, was reincarnated as Noodle Planet.
There were no noodles shops, dumpling houses, nor cafes back then. That was ancient history; pre-Chinatown if anybody can believe it. To folks who were born after Alhambra's henshin into its present version, the stand may look out of place among the Chinese script and Vietnamese names that can make one scratch their head, but to anybody who remembers Alhambra before the Asian Invasion, The Hat is one of the last remaining familiar faces on Valley Boulevard.
The Hat has expanded over the years into a small empire that's included locations in Monterey Park, Pasadena, and points east of Downtown Los Angeles (there's a location in Simi Valley). The newer incarnations offer more than the original's outdoor patio seating in the back, such as pidgeon-proof INDOOR patio seating and a cleaner retro look, but the heart of the original stand beats within all of them.
There are pastrami dips, generously assembled with deft hands, the meat piled seemingly haphazardly onto split rolls and garnished with mustard and pickles per your request (I like mine dry, sometimes). They're not the best; once in a while, the meat can seem a bit stubborn when it refuses to part from the rest of the sandwich, but whenever I have one in my hands, trying to manuever it towards my mouth, my opinion can be unfairly biased.
The brimming sandwiches are reined in by wax paper, but once unwrapped almost impossible to eat with any sort of civility, refusing to surrender without spilling half of the contents (enough for a whole 'nother sandwich) onto the table. The flavor veers toward the salty side; you'll definitely need to order a soda if the gigantic orders of thick french fries scares you off (even the small sized is more than anyone, other than an aspiring professional eater, should contend with).
As if the fries weren't big enough, they can be topped with their bean-less chili, similar to the stuff at Tommy's or Pink's, yet different; not as flavorful, but just as potent. An order of their chilifries seems more suitable for feeding a defensive line rather than a solo diner. There seems to be more fries that missed the red checkered paper serving tray than made it in so beware: it's a lot of chili, bright orange oil, and french fried potatoes.
There are also hamburgers, available in different versions: with cheese, with chili, with chili AND cheese, even one with pastrami. By default they come dressed with a 1,000 island-ish dressing, shredded lettuce, onions, and a thick slice of tomato. The burgers are decendant from your typical grease pit family tree (but turned out better than expected).
There are also roast beef versions of the pastrami sandwich, available with gravy, au jus, or BBQ sauce, although it seems sort of ridiculous to order them since at The Hat, you brain defaults back to pastrami. The cold sandwiches on the menu are sort of pointless to me. I always wonder who orders them. Onion rings, wet fries (covered in brown gravy) and potato salad round out the menu.
For good or bad, the Hat hasn't changed a whole lot. Even with a line, the service is still relatively speedy; condiments still come in squeeze packets, and there are the silver napkin dispensers and tubs of the flourescent yellow chili peppers. Just recently, the chain began accepting Visa and Mastercard (the prices are more expensive, too) but the food remains a constant. read more