Illustration by Peter Arkle Share on Facebook Share on X Google Preferred Share to Flipboard Show additional share options Share on LinkedIn Share on Pinterest Share on Reddit Share on Tumblr Share on Whats App Send an Email Print the Article Post a Comment As mayor of Los Angeles, you want to avoid public relations disasters. So when Karen Bass returns to Max & Helen's for her second time in eight days - ostensibly because the professional photo she had taken with owner Phil Rosenthal didn't come out well - she turns down the booth he saved for her. "I was going to get breakfast to go," she tells Rosenthal quietly in the back of the restaurant near the bathrooms. "I didn't want to hold up the line." The line to get into Rosenthal's new diner is eight hours on the weekend, sometimes six on a weekday, ever since it opened Nov. 18. It's the longest wait for a table in L.A., possibly in the city's history. The line, however, is not as obvious as those once photographed at Courage Bagel or Howlin' Rays. Max & Helen's diners do not stretch from 127 Larchmont Blvd. to Pasadena. Utilizing a far more civilized system, the host at the stand in front of the restaurant gives diners an oddly accurate time to return. "The neighborhood has an advantage," says Rosenthal about Larchmont Village. "You can go see a movie. Or fly to New York." Related Stories TV 'Jurassic World: Chaos Theory' Team Relives Final Dino Battle and Giving the Franchise Its Needle-Moving Disability Representation Movies Steven Spielberg's 'Disclosure Day' Trailer Revealed: Director Returns to UFO Genre Max & Helen's doesn't take reservations, partly because Rosenthal fears the slots being sold by bots. But mostly because it's a diner. One created with Nancy Silverton of Mozza, but still, a diner. "The raison d'être for the diner is to establish a sense of community in our community," he says. But because Rosenthal's Netflix travel show, Somebody Feed Phil, is so popular, the Max & Helen's community is quite a bit bigger than Larchmont. "I sat next to a woman the first day who said she flew from Hong Kong to come to the diner," Rosenthal says. "After I said hi to her, I went outside, and there was a couple from Brazil who flew here for this. It's insane. I don't get it. But I'm not knocking it." I'm sitting with Phil in the booth at the very front of the restaurant that he'd saved for the mayor. Which, if measured by the skill of pressing flesh, is a job he's more suited for than she is. I've been friends with Phil, who ran and created Everybody Loves Raymond, for 14 years. In a business so fueled by socializing that it invented the premiere party, Phil is one of the most social people in town. He has a pizza oven for regular screening parties in his living room in Hancock Park. If he eats lunch at home, or at a restaurant with only one or two other people, something terrible has happened. Since Somebody Feed Phil debuted in 2017, conversations with Phil while walking anywhere have become a staccato affair, interrupted by the nicest people telling Phil how much they love his show and Phil telling them even more nicely how much that means to him. I've walked a lot of cities with a lot of people more famous than Phil, and other than teen pop stars, he gets approached the most. Rosenthal's daughter, Lily, is the keeper of the secret phone number. Catherine Dzilenski; Restaurant Designer: Matt Winter Designs Nearly all the diners who have made the eight-hour pilgrimage here are fans of the show. "Ten percent are food influencers who heard about the hot chocolate on TikTok," says his daughter, Lily, who runs the restaurant with her chef husband, Mason Royal. "But almost everybody else, it's like Mickey Mouse is coming to the table." Usually, Phil eats at the ADA-compliant low seat at the end of the counter that's almost always unused. Then he pops up and starts greeting people. This is his favorite part. "Now, I'm Toots Shor," he says, referring to the legendary Manhattan saloon owner who fed everyone from Frank Sinatra to Joe DiMaggio. "I've got a fun place that people seem to like. It's exactly like making a show. We build a set, we cast it, we execute it. People come in. And instead of their laugh, you've got their joy." The challenge is that, with only 40 seats and a few more tables recently added on the street, Phil can't seat his thousands of friends. "I might be losing friends," he says as he eats an omelet Florentine. "But people have been reasonable when you tell them you can't. They see that the wait is hours long. Maybe you don't bother the guy with a 'Can you get me in?' " he explains. Steven Spielberg, for instance, gave him a day's notice and only wanted a table for two. Still, even a small percentage of his friends texting "Can you get me in" is a lot of people. Add to that the industry colleagues he's built up after years of investing in restaurants, eating out in restaurants and taping segments in restaurants, and you've got a potential