A quick and easy stop for crispy tostadas. Or juicy maduros. More than two dozen diners go by this name, but this one checks all the boxes. It has a cobalt blue façade. Good color, eye catching.

The door’s been propped open with a folded corner of the doormat. The last light of the day creeps in low. My ankles feel warm. Damion will be here any minute.

The jukebox hums. Vihuela ends on a bright metallic note. It’s hard not to appreciate the economy of printing—27 dishes on the first half spread of the menu.  

A toddler in the next booth screams. He’s not the only one, though. I crane my head up to find a woman on the verge of a meltdown. Her shrill voice jolts you out of an imminent food coma. Female hysteria: helps you digest.

The waitress waits until I slowly pull away from the undulating chestnut locks on TV.

Where’s Damion?