When you walked into Tom Bergin's on a Sunday afternoon, through the front door of the fragrant Irish pub and past the half-dozen people screaming at the Saints game on the bar TV, you were likely to come across the restaurant’s true regulars: white-haired guys, wearing sweaters and ties even when it was a bit warm, having lunch with their families the way you suspect their fathers had with them. It was plain, hearty food enjoyed with maybe a pint of Guinness or a well-made Rob Roy -- the kind of cooking we have mostly forgotten about in Los Angeles.
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