It was Thanksgiving in the early afternoon just after leaving the Southland Tales matinee screening at the Uptown Cinemas. (In an otherwise empty auditorium.) We had a few moments before picking up the child at her Aunt’s. Em wanted a glass of wine, I wanted coffee. The Mecca was across the street from the theater, but no . . .

We wandered a couple of blocks. Nothing else open. Back in the car and to the top of Queen Anne. Crawling along the strip, we see “Beer & Wine” in neon. Looks open. That’s how we first stumbled into El Diablo. The room was appointed in what I think of as the mexican style, bright yellows and oranges with dancing devil murals everywhere. The staff seemed knowing, non chalant but also attentive. There was a social vibe I associate occasionally with Los Angeles: a feeling of being within the intimate aura of casual power. One can’t escape the new tech wealth that has settled in that neighborhood and on this holiday morning in this room we were the ones free of the hearth in a populist cafe drinking decent wine and well prepared coffee and deli food among the foreign accents (I’m including New York tones among these) and skin-tight jean-casings on the beautiful, petulant skeleton people. I dug it.