Midnight Hauntings: The Real Story of Steak and Solace Served Up at the Pacific Dining Car

The Real Story of Steak and Solace Served-up at The Pacific Dining Car
In 1921, the spiritual landscape of downtown Los Angeles changed with the addition of the Pacific Dining Car at 1310 W. 6th Street. Fred and Grace Cook (or Lovey as she was known) rented a plot on the outskirts of town and plopped down a remodeled, train dining-car upon it. For a quarter, they would serve up the best steaks you’d ever sink your teeth into—along with a side of compassion for every person they came across.
You see, prohibition had just begun. People needed a place to let loose and socialize—to commune with others of like mind and circumstance (which, as far as the Cooks were concerned, was everyone). After the end of WWI, the U.S. was experiencing the sharpest recession ever encountered, and yet it was unprepared for the inevitable Great Depression that ensued in the coming years. If you needed a meal but could not afford one, Lovey would feed you with the rest of her staff—along with an encouraging word and a pat on the back. If there was food left over after that, well, it would be sent over to the mission. It was in these early years that the real legacy of the Pacific Dining Car began—the haunted one.
It’s true that sometimes buildings and land are haunted, but mostly it is the people. In times of deep trauma and emotional turmoil, the unquiet spirits left behind seek places to be fostered in love—to be aligned with those who understand or in hopes of communicating their story and unfinished wishes. Over the years, the Pacific Dining Car has been the perfect place to find those of like minds. No doubt, the diverse set of clientele were attracted to the Pacific Dining Car by the steaks, the white tablecloths, and the five-star 24-hour service provided during the recent decades, but they were also drawn in by a collective consciousness of love and safe harbor. Each broken heart was soothed, and every restless mind was shown a little mercy with each and every meal.

My Dining Car Story
In 1995, I was introduced to the downtown location of the Pacific Dining Car. It soon became referred to as “the Car” by my friends and family. My maiden voyage of breakfast at the Car unfolded one morning at 4 a.m. I happened to be with two of the most haunted people I had ever met: the “Crystal Lady”, as I affectionately called her (she owned a little witch supply that carried candles, incense, crystals and other curios); and my friend Gail. Unlike most early morning customers, we weren’t shuffling in for a late-night breakfast, but gathering sustenance for the fourteen-hour day ahead at the Los Angeles Gift Show at the convention center. The Crystal Lady had invited us to join her that day. Two things happened for me that morning. In addition to drinking ridiculously good coffee that kept me coming back for almost three decades, this fine-dining establishment was lit up with paranormal activity, like stars in the night sky. As a spiritualist and empath, I was used to spirits speaking to me, but walking into the Car, the voices and the haunted patrons were next level.
Audrey, the hostess, sat us at a little table for three in the Northern Pacific room, where along with other magnificent art of previous decades was a 1940s painting of a little red-haired girl holding a bunch of leaves in her apron and standing in a grove of trees. Olive, as I later would call her, spoke to me that morning; it was as if her essence leapt off the canvas to wave hello. The other ladies at the table felt it as well, and we laughed and chatted about it until breakfast arrived.
Along with the delivery of our three cups of joe, the server dropped on the table, a basket of fragrant, warm mini-muffins and freshly shaved creamery butter from the large, salted butter block they kept in the back. I ordered the breakfast steak (a perfectly sized, cooked-to-perfection piece of filet), avocado-scrambled eggs, whole wheat toast, and a side of hollandaise. Though my food orders may seem high maintenance to some, me and my discerning palette have never had to send back a breakfast at the Car, this one being the first of more than 300 served me since that day.
The early 90s was the beginning of a profound spiritual awakening for me. I was communing with the multi-dimensional world twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. I lived and worked as a spiritualist and resident manager at the historic and famed Robertson bungalows in L.A. and did not get much sleep. I would be awakened from dreams, nightmares, and other visitations in the wee hours from the many real and interdimensional tenants residing there.
On the morning of my second visit to the Car, I was pulled out of sleep from a particularly grievous dream and compelled to get in my vehicle and take a drive to the restaurant. Although it was downtown L.A., I always felt safe during my 3 a.m. visits, and I was joyfully greeted by the valet. One of the night-shift waiters, Jaime, remembered me and obliged my usual order of a single cup of coffee and a three-hour stay.
I walked in with book in hand and red, tear-stained eyes, and was sat in the Northern Pacific Room in full view of Olive. The spirit connected to the painting could clearly see my pain and began to chat with me and make me laugh. I was glad to have the book as a ruse to explain my giggling. Then, Olive’s spirit began to psychically show me the old layout of the original car, including a counter with chairs and the many people who had sat there eating a meal fit for a king, at least that is how the welcome environment had made them feel. For a moment, while they ate, they experienced everything being right with the world. They were distracted from world war, recession, prohibition, and the struggle to find work at the time—troubles that seem to plague every generation.
Being an empath was taking its toll on me, and I was beleaguered by the world’s problems, in addition to my own. The spirit that night wanted to make it clear to me: No matter what, everything moves forward. So why not laugh?
From then on, I spent many a late-night snack, early morning breakfast, afternoon luncheon or high-tea, and an occasional nightly dinner at the Pacific Dining Car. I wrote my first two books there and read many others. I’ve been there with friends, family, and clients—and some nights spent solo (though never alone, with the Car’s nurturing staff and the company of the many spirits who’ve been dropped off along the way). Occasionally, I would find a ghost ready to make its journey into the light, and I was grateful to assist. I was honored to be their final confessor in this realm, or their bridge to the other side.
Over the years, I got to know Audrey, the hostess, quite well. She reminded me of my mother, who coincidentally had the same name. My mother died the year famed interior designer Tom Hamilton implemented a full interior redesign of the Car. They moved Olive to the wall in the women’s bathroom, for which she was disgruntled. That was a hard year all around. I didn’t really like the new look of the restaurant, and I had many chuckles with Olive about it. But the most fun was had at Audrey’s expense: Every time I would come in, I would make mention of how unhappy Olive was about being put in the bathroom. Audrey would wince at the thought of ghosts being present and then retort, “Oh Tracee!” …As if I were kidding.
As did many restaurants during the pandemic, Pacific Dining Car struggled with the obvious lack of business (and many other things unknown to the public) resulting in the restaurant’s closure, subsequent dismantling, and auctioning off of its possessions. Somehow, Olive called out to me.
I stumbled upon the restaurant auctioneer company and noticed the Pacific Dining Car name. I was deeply disturbed at the news but felt a kinship with all the others who were flocking to the auction to preserve a tiny piece of the PDC history. I picked up some vintage glassware and some beautiful brass sconces. And of course, as Olive would have it, I won the auction for the painting of her likeness. She now presides over my living room in a place of honor. It wasn’t until the day I brought her home that I asked her name. Her response, Olive, made me see for the first time that she was holding an apron full of olive branches and standing in an olive grove.
Currently, an application has been filed with the city of Los Angeles to gain historical designation and preservation landmark status for the Pacific Dining Car, and several investors are waiting for the opportunity to restore all that was abruptly taken apart after the restaurant closure in 2020 (its 99th year). No doubt, the boundaries of Los Angeles are historically haunted by many things, from the original native tribes who were traumatized and mistreated to the many hardships of the settlers who came to lay claim to a new land and prosper. This little patch of downtown L.A., at Witmer and 6th, holds the need for (and the promise of) new life. The spiritual building blocks of compassion are waiting to be restored—then served up with a side of steak.
For information updates: https://pacificdiningcar.com/historicpreservation-next-step/