An ancient man walks across the back patio like he doesn’t want to break his own merchandise. His are bones made of heirloom calcium and galvanized steel by an older god who didn’t cut corners or outsource the work to Taskrabbit gods. There’s an unofficial mayoralness to his arrival. You can tell he’s come here through many iterations of America, many presidents and their varying levels of sanity and impulse control. By now, the sacrament of his body is at least 10 percent Tobey’s corned beef hash, his DNA a genetic Slinky of skillet bacon.
He appears to have been military, probably served in the Vietnam War or the Civil War. The young woman patiently helping him to his table (she’s at least 60) loudly tells the server—and all of us—that he is 102 years old. We nod and smile in respect. He successfully sits (hero knee bones do it again!) and looks happy as a man who outlived his enemies. My 4-year-old son throws something on the floor—a toy, a pancake, my will to go on—and playfully barks something managerial (“Dad! Pick it up!”—which he always says with a Brooklyn patois, I have no idea why or how). The man smiles and laughs at our little scene like it’s the best 37,254th day of his life.
Perched on a mesa, Tobey’s 19th Hole is his kinda place. From here, the grass spills forever until it collides with distant trees and frames San Diego’s majestic, underfunded Downtown skyline. A jumbo jet slows on descent directly overhead, like a movie scene that’s trying too hard. This place—his place—with its unmatched view is one of the last affordable eateries in one of the least affordable cities in America.
To understand Tobey’s, you have to understand the historic everyperson charm of Balboa Golf Course. World War I ended in 1919. Flappers were dipping the chiffon of gender norms in kerosene. Jazz was carbonating the culture’s bloodstream. The war’s need for better machines funded the assembly lines of the auto industry, so horses’ time on roads came to a rapid end. With new car-based freedom came the untethering of Americans to their homes. Exploring the city and returning at a reasonable time was no longer a huge pain in the ass. Day trips were not only easier, but a new hobby. And so we got the rise and feasibility of large places to gather as a group (parks, museums, concert halls, auditoriums, golf courses). More than anything, though, after four years of war we had some pent-up play in us.
Professional sports weren’t really a thing in the US yet, but they were teeing up. The first dreams of “going pro” were being hatched. And golf, at least back then, was a sport for people of a more common musculature. A sport where drinking highballs and smoking Chesterfields and socializing about Amos ’n’ Andy and “commies” were part of the rule book. The PGA was formed in 1916, and the postwar economic boom funded golf courses all over the US. Between 1920 and 1930, the number of golfers in the country doubled to 500,000.
By the time Balboa opened in 1919, San Diego had three courses: San Diego Country Club (founded in 1897, near the modern-day site of the Old Globe), Coronado Country Club (1906), and Point Loma Golf Club (1914). Balboa, however, was the first city-owned, municipal course open to the public. Built for $1,845 (about $35,000 in today’s money), it wasn’t pretty to start—called “the rock pile,” the fairways were made of dirt, and greens were oiled sand. But it broke open the local floodgates on the sport. Slammin’ Sam Snead, renowned for the most technically perfect golf swing in history, would eventually set the course record here in 1943: a 60 (12 under par), which still stands.
He probably celebrated with a beer and a club sandwich at Tobey’s.
In 1934, the city granted its first food concession permit to Chester and Lois Tobey, who opened a hot dog stand here on top of the mesa, about 100 feet above the course’s two most crucial holes—the first and the 18th. Ninety-two years later, the place looks and feels like it’s been here that long.
The adjacent clubhouse, lined with photos of club champions and icons, wooden curios filled with old trophies, has a historical ghost-townness to it. Through the double doors lies Tobey’s—now owned by the fourth generation family member, Chris Tobey, a great grandson. The day-to-day soul of the place is Dalia Parsley, who’s worked here for 30 years and runs the joint.
Tobey’s is not a diner, but it’s got big diner energy. Diners are open all hours of the day and night, whereas Tobey’s is only open for breakfast and lunch. It closes somewhere between 5 and 6 p.m. (the city requires they close when the golf course does)—which is a light crime against humanity. With that epic view—the sun setting over the skyline—I propose a city charter requiring Tobey’s stay open for an hour after sundown. And that we’re all mandated to gather here at designated intervals.
The tables here are formica. No artisan was burdened in the making of them. The décor wasn’t made by a designer who studied under the designer who designed that famous restaurant with the emu-feathered lamp and tables made of recycled Priuses. The chairs are the metal-boned, vinyl- cushioned stalwarts of every illicit card room and bingo hall. Any modernization efforts seem to stop at adding a couple TVs. Tendrils of a plant wind their way across the overhang between the bar counter and the dining room. A wall of framed photos depicts generations of Tobeys through the ages.
A round of golf at Balboa is only $39.50 for locals with a resident card ($29 for seniors), which makes it one of the most affordable and accessible courses in history. And so the crowd at Tobey’s tends to be a grand mix of people who have not yet upended the earth and shaken all its money free—college kids, entry-level workers, people from industries not properly appreciated (teachers, nonprofiters, off-duty cooks, military, childcare heroes), people who are smart with their money, and long-timers navigating the disbursement of their life savings while trying to have a little fun.
People like those at the table near us, who give off a hard days’ work vibe as they share a decent amount of light beer—served in police siren-blue Bud Light pitchers (Tobey’s does have some local craft beers like Stone and AleSmith). People like the elderly couple by the window sharing a Suntide mimosa, staring at the view, giving the impression that a good portion of their love was conjured in those seats. Tobey’s also has cocktails, like a bloody mary and a vodka cran.
For breakfast, the corned beef hash and eggs is a good choice, the cured meat minced and crisped and tossed with the tater shreds—next to the ever-dependable two eggs over easy. White-bread toast arrives with that perfect light-brown sandpaper crisp. No one knows how to toast white bread like a diner (or diner relative). It’s not house baked rye or ciabatta or brioche evenly spread with a compound butter of thyme, citrus zest, and activated charcoal that’s been blessed by Nancy Silverton. It’s the thin supermarket toast that built America, with the delicious yellow stain where a pre-cut pad of butter clearly lived its utilitarian life before it melted and left a shadow, like a butter beauty mark.
Chicken-fried steak, and biscuits and gravy are breakfast staples. The chili has those large-format shredded cheddar pieces grated and hermetically sealed before arrival at the place of business. For lunch, the club sandwich is just about perfect. I’d argue that artisanal bread has no place in the club sandwich arts; the architecture requires thin-sliced white bread with ample squish for proper mouth-cramming. No one wants your rosemary sourdough in this.
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Is there some wrongheaded instinct in us that looks at Tobey’s and thinks, “Oh, man, if only we could add some badass wallpaper and tassels and statement art, and turn that patio into a fern circus listening bar with fire features and negronis—something to do justice to that view?” Or, “If only they had central air conditioning or the desire to use it, or a fan or two?” Or, “Maybe just some mood lighting and a single negroni?”
There is. And that would ruin everything. The magic of Tobey’s is the family, the Dalia, the socioeconomic welcome mat of an honest club sandwich on humble white bread and the only reasonably priced drink within 600 miles. A place where an ancient man can feel at home and enjoy the view.
