As all New York transplants to the great city of Los Angeles eventually learn, though some more quickly than others, it is a perfect place. Pete Campbell gets it immediately. There are oranges you pick right out of the tree. It’s 75 degrees and there is snow on the mountains. You can go to Canter’s and get coleslaw right inside your pastrami on rye and no one decries it as some kind of deli abomination; you’re in a place where even sandwiches can seek reinvention. There are pretty blonde real estate agents who will flirt with your better-looking coworkers, eventually sleeping with them in two or three episodes, as plot complications demand. There are sunglasses to perch atop your head and call attention to your receding hairline and lush sideburns, sweaters to drape over the shoulders of your polo shirt because you don’t need a sweater, silly, it’s 75 degrees. There are refugees of suburban failure, a continent away from their discarded families, strutting around in new plaid pants, trying to forget exactly what they lost on the East Coast. There are no bagels worth a damn.
It is a perfect place. Have an orange. Stay awhile.