We were with a guy who called himself Daytona Dave, although he wasn’t from Florida. He was a local and, since we were surfing in the Ocean Beach section of San Diego, the nickname was either ironic, geographically illiterate, intentionally alliterative, or weirdly demented.
Actually, it was probably “all of the above” because, you know, he was from Ocean Beach.
For a surfer, San Diego is perhaps the nicest city in the United States, or at least was before the California Assembly decided that it was their mission to enact a brace of state laws designed to limit enterprise and innovation and drive the sane to Texas. In those days, the latter months of the 20th century, it had a funky laid-back essence that made one feel as if pleasantly abiding in a Jimmy Buffet or Kenny Chesney song.
Ocean Beach itself was the counter-culture area of a city that was fairly counter-culture itself. Maybe it was counter-x-culture. On a stroll from hotel to surf one would encounter proto-hippies, bikers, semi-employed pool boys [and girls] experimenting with the latest leaves from Hawaii, the occasional 18-window VW Microbus, disreputable musicians who were puzzled to be outside during daylight, and all of the other social detritus from a place where energy is never wasted on anything that doesn’t delight [or dull] the senses.
It was here, along a beach where the surf gang known as the Coronado Gypsies easily co-exists with Marines from nearby Camp Pendleton participating in amphibious landing training, Dave was kind enough to seek permission from the locals to let us spend some time on their waves, as long as we didn’t drop in or cut in line. We were grateful for that, not just because California surf gangs are notoriously territorial, but also because we encountered some wild lefts that day that were in that perfect four foot range with a steady hydrostatic dynamic that left us in the pleasant state of exhaustion.
It also left us hungry, and again this is where Daytona Dave turned up trumps. Before there was Five Guys, Smashburger, In-and-Out Burger, and all of the other meat sandwich places that have popped up over the years since, if you wanted meat, but not a steak, in a sandwich, but not from McDonald’s, and you were in Ocean Beach, there was only one place to go.
During a regular session, a surfer will burn approximately 250 calories an hour while in the water. [You thought it would be more, didn’t you? There’s a lot of waiting in surfing.] We had been in the water for about seven hours, since shortly after sunrise [which is backwards in the Pacific; maybe the only discomfiting feature since part of the fun of East Coast surfing is being in the water as the sun rises from it] and all I had eaten since 6am was a Pop Tart that hadn’t even enjoyed some time in a toaster. [That stuff about surfers being vegan and macrobiotic and all that jazz is largely hype; I’ve never seen a collection of physically active people eat and drink in as unhealthy a manner.] Well, it had been smeared with some Vegemite.
This meant that by 2pm I had burned around 2000 calories and was beginning to feel it. My surf buddy, AJ, is eccentric in his eating habits anyway, and was perhaps feeling it more than I was since his breakfast had been a bowl of lime sherbet covered in caramel sauce. All Daytona Dave could say, prone on his board in the sand, was one mumbled word: “Hodad’s”, Of course, the place of legend. That would be perfect.
However, we weren’t the only ones to think of Hodad’s that day, or any day, as it is so popular that, even if unsure of its exact location, one simply looks for customers literally lined up around a corner, waiting to either eat at a table or order a loose meat staple.
The original site of Hodad’s was just across from Ocean Beach’s primary lifeguard tower, which meant it was a holy grail for the hungry surfers. However, the youngest son of the owners had the opportunity to move it to the center of OB’s action in the main part of town and found that, while it was still convenient to the beach, it was also convenient to every other person, from bankers to parolees, who was hungry. With the move, the mom and pop diner eventually would hire over twenty people to cater to the rich variety of customers.
Here’s an appreciation from one of San Diego’s small, free newspapers:
Hodad’s welcomes you to come as you are – no shoes, no shirt, no problem – a beachgoer’s dream come true. The walls of the burger joint are covered with photos, artwork, road signs, and license plates – everywhere the license plates. Reading the vanity plates is an experience in itself. The street facing wall is open to the outside at counter height. Seating is an eclectic mix of options. Sit at the window counter, high-top or low-top tables, communal tables, an indoor counter, in booths covered with Hodad’s stickers, or even in the front seat of a van.It’s actually best not to wear too much, or at least not wear anything nice, as the burgers are large and sloppy and the milkshakes are large, thick, and sloppy. While we had to wait about an hour on the sidewalk before we could get to the counter, it wasn’t wasted time as we heard about nuance in body art from a couple of tattoo artists who were also waiting; why certain motorcycles are nicknamed “bobbers” from a member of the Hell’s Angels Berdoo chapter, and catch some suggestions about solid investments from a guy from the local Charles Schwab office.
A beach cruiser hangs from one wall. Surfboards, skateboard decks, and lifeguard flotation devices are suspended from the ceiling. Like any good diner, Hodad’s giant wall menu is framed in red neon. An actual street sign stands in one corner. The high-energy diner reflects the fun-loving, casual beach personality of the neighborhood.
In short, it was everything one expects a beach joint to be: A respite during a surfari that offers interaction with all of the other people who find sustenance in a liminal setting, one that emphasizes a place to interact without pre-judgement and in an open and convivial manner. Plus, the burgers are better than anything I’ve ever had at either In-and-Out or Five Guys. There was this place in Circular Quay in Sydney, Australia, though, that made this fantastic thing called an Aussie Burger, but that’s for another day.
We know it's not Thursday, but consider this like Page Six in the New York Post. That section is never on page six of the newspaper. - ed.