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- Bill Elwell, the colorful owner-operator of Van Nuys burger stand Bill’s Burgers, has died at the age of 98.
- The burger cook maintained his stand for 60 years, sometimes alongside multiple exes. Rules were strict — cash only, no substitutions.
- “He was really one of the last to do food in his own unapologetic way,” said one L.A. burger restaurateur of his legacy.
William “Bill” Elwell, the humorous and occasionally ornery owner of a legendary burger shack in the San Fernando Valley, has died at 98, prompting an outpouring of admiration and memories from burger aficionados and restaurateurs who were inspired by him.
Elwell, who founded the Van Nuys burger stand Bill’s Burgers in 1965 and worked there continuously for 60 years, died on July 21. Over the course of decades he became as much of a draw as the burgers themselves.
Elwell seasoned and seared beef patties on his stand’s original griddle, which he believed dated back to the 1920s. Characterized as “gruff,” “cranky” and “grumpy,” he proudly ran the 10-by-20-foot stand with strict rules (cash only, no substitutions), and he could often be found ribbing his customers.
“Is McDonald’s closed today?” he’d regularly yell. “Why is everyone here? Go down the street!”
Another signature phrase sits at both the top and bottom of the menu: “You can’t have it your way, this is not Burger King.”
Allen Yelent, owner of local burger chain Goldburger and a Bill’s customer since childhood, said Elwell embodied the best entrepreneurial spirit of the Valley.
“Bill’s, for me, represents what I love about small business and what makes small business really beautiful in L.A.: the same person cooking the burgers literally every single day,” Yelent said. “Everyone can say they got a burger from Bill.”
Sandwiched among tire shops, lighting stores and factories, Elwell’s shack fed the Valley’s industrial workers just as readily as food lovers who’d make a visit to Bill’s a burger pilgrimage. Yelent, a San Fernando Valley native and resident, said Elwell epitomized the “absolute worker mentality, worker ethic of the Valley that I grew up in.”
William Clement Elwell was born in Ventura on Nov. 23, 1926. He served in World War II and worked in a variety of trades, including as a cab driver and at a linen company. He purchased the Van Nuys stand for $2,500 in 1965, before the block’s sidewalks were even paved and only a dirt path led to the building.
Elwell and Bill’s Burgers saw innumerable changes through the decades. At one point the stand was called Bill & Hiroko’s, named for Elwell and his then-partner, Hiroko Wilcox, whom he’d met while bowling. She worked the burger shack with him alongside one of his five ex-wives, Sharon Elwell. Bill Elwell told The Times in 2014 that one of his exes quipped: “We get along fine. It’s him we can’t stand.”
According to an obituary written by his family, which was published in the Ventura County Star, the burger icon is survived by his son, James Elwell, and his daughter, Charlene Morris, along with eight grandchildren, 12 great-grandchildren, three great-great grandchildren and multiple nieces and nephews.
On Tuesday morning, the first full day of business since the news of Elwell’s passing spread widely over social media, Henry McComas was the first customer in line. The filmmaker moved nearby six years ago and visits the restaurant at least once a week, he said, often on his walks through the neighborhood.
“The first time I met Bill, he was very busy over the grill, and such a professional and so focused that you didn’t know if you could talk to him,” McComas said. “He came up to me and started a conversation, telling me how great his burgers were, but he took a raw patty and some of the beef and ate it in front of me and said, ‘This is how good the meat is.’
“And I was hooked ever since.”
On Sunday, when McComas heard of Elwell’s death, he made a point of visiting Tuesday morning right as the restaurant opened, thanking the staff for their continuation of the business. He wants Bill’s Burgers to continue for years to come.
“Bill’s legacy means so much to the Valley,” McCormas said. “It really is a staple. My hope is if the family wants to continue the business that they do, because we’ll be here for their burgers.”
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The legendary burger man occasionally threatened retirement or selling the business, as he told The Times he’d considered in 2020 during the pandemic. But Elwell said he hoped that even if he did, Bill’s Burgers would continue without him. One staff member told The Times that they would like to personally continue the restaurant in Elwell’s honor.
Yelent of Goldburger previously ran an Instagram account dedicated to posting burgers he’d enjoyed. The very first picture was of Bill’s. Dated Aug. 12, 2014, he captioned it, “Bill and Hiroko are inspirations.”
They remained an inspiration as Yelent grew his empire from a pop-up to multiple stands.
“They worked super hard,” he said of the duo. “They touched their product every single day. They were always completely and utterly devoted to what they were doing, and the city responded well. I want to have even a small fraction of the legacy that Bill’s created in L.A.”
Yelent, who grew up in Chatsworth, found himself at Bill’s Burgers multiple times during childhood, especially through the stretch of years his father operated a TV repair shop nearby. In adulthood, he rediscovered it and found Bill’s to be even more inspiring than his earliest memories of it.
More recently he’d found one of Elwell’s grandsons working at the burger stand, taking orders at the window while Elwell still manned the flat-top grill.
Bill Elwell has been flipping burgers at his Valley stand for 49 years. He doesn’t want any more business, but try telling his patrons that.
Heavy Handed owners Max Miller and Danny Gordon also grew up in the San Fernando Valley and frequented Bill’s Burgers. As they began their own burger business, they turned to some of the restaurants that shaped not only their own tastes but the region that raised them. Bill’s, they said, represented “frozen-in-time Valley spots” and “a taste of what the San Fernando Valley was” before they were born.
“He was really one of the last to do food in his own unapologetic way and stick to his guns when it comes to how he serves, how he runs his business and how he operates personally within the space,” said Miller.
Miller, who attended high school in Van Nuys, would often vie for one of the coveted counter seats overlooking the grill.
Both have tried to emulate Elwell’s “quiet showmanship,” most often seen through him slapping American cheese onto the patties, as if casually but accurately flinging a playing card from a deck of them.
“To me, it’s sort of the West Coast version of Di Fara Pizza in Brooklyn: the old man going at his own pace, not really giving you the time,” said Gordon. “He was just doing his thing, and you’re there for that experience. It’s a kind of restaurant that you don’t see many of anymore. It’s definitely a bummer to lose [Elwell]; he was a legend.”
Like Yelent, Colin Fahrner also ran a burger Instagram account before launching his own restaurant, but he never posted a photo of Bill’s — probably, he said, because his visit predated the social media account entirely.
It was, Fahrner said, the kind of old-school L.A. burger operation that inspired him to launch his restaurant, Yellow Paper Burger, though Bill’s perfectly griddled burgers come wrapped in white.
“There’s other places that do it, but I feel like he really stuck to it for the long haul,” he said of Elwell. “I think it’s also a reminder: All these legacy places are closing. Don’t wait to go to these spots, because they can close any day or the owner can pass away, or whatever might happen … Now is the time. These places are not going to be here forever.”
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