Photo by Tibby Rothman

Gail Simmons, getting ready

There's a thicket of limo drivers waiting for passengers at LAX's Terminal 3 on the first day of March, their suits as anonymous as uniforms. Alone, "Passenger Simmons' " ride stands out.

The sole woman, she has positioned herself a cool 10 feet from her colleagues, her height -- she's tall -- made taller by patent-leather heels. And she has eschewed her peers' tired garb for a pair of narrow-cut black slacks and a cropped black trench coat. Finishing the look is a sleek ponytail.

Even Gail Simmons' driver is chic these days.

Culinary expert Simmons, introduced to mainstream America via Bravo's hit Top Chef and then given her own show, Just Desserts, is in Los Angeles to promote her newly released memoir, Talking With My Mouth Full. From the airport she'll be driven to a tony Beverly Hills hotel, where the lounge is afloat in screenplays, and matzo ball soup will run you $12.

Nanette Gonzales

Dean Martin used to drink here.

They ran out of beer the last night the Hamburger Hamlet in West Hollywood was open. They ran out of a lot of things in the final hours on Dec. 19, after 51 years in business.

The original Hamlet, a rarity at which African-Americans were hired as waitstaff in the still-segregated '60s, stood just a few doors down from the Whisky A Go Go. But this one, nestled above Sunset Boulevard where Doheny splits from the Sunset Strip, is the one most commonly referred to as "the original." Sure, there's one in Pasadena, and one off the 405 in Sherman Oaks, and a new 24-hour one at the Viejas Casino in San Diego County.

But this was the Hamburger Hamlet -- 51 years has a habit of changing the definitive article into the definite article. It was one of the few places where Old Hollywood gathered with any frequency. Most famously, Dean Martin ate and drank here freely -- until word got out and the Hamlet had to shield him from those who would disturb his pickled decline.

Ted Soqui

Slocum in his kingdom

Heavy lies the head that wears the crown, especially when said metaphorical crown goes with the title Eastside Tomato King.

Cameron Slocum could be dealing modern furniture or hustling to create and sell his own avant-garde artworks -- things the 53-year-old has done before -- or he could have sought out any number of other financially fruitful and moderately stable endeavors that match his robust energy and bohemian-raconteur personality.

Instead, he has chosen for the last few years to farm full-time on a plot of land in notably hilly Lincoln Heights, just a few miles from downtown L.A., and sell his top-notch raw produce and prepared-food products to restaurants, stores and farmers markets around Los Angeles.