A Storm

With nothing left to do, I put away the file. It was nearly lunchtime and I had a plastic surgeon to meet.

The decorator of Las Colimas must have been a great admirer of both early Aztec and late Taco Bell architectural styles. The restaurant was a gaudy mess of bright booths, garish piñatas, and fake greenery.

A resin skull rack modeled after the actual racks, which the ancient Aztecs filled with countless skulls of human victims, crowned the roof of the long buffet table.

Small terra-cotta replicas of arcane relics sat on the windowsills among the plastic fruit spilling from wicker cornucopias.

The setting did not matter. The moment I walked in, the delicious smell enveloped me, and I hurried past the five- foot-high terra-cotta atrocity meant to personify the famous Xochopilli, the Prince of Flowers, which separated the entrance from the cash register. A redheaded waitress thrust herself in my way.

"Excuse me," she said with a smile that showed off her entire set of teeth.