The June sunlight curls its fingers through an arched window past a jade curtain, dapples its magic across the surface of a spindle-backed chair, resting its early evening light upon an exposed brick wall.
Two toddlers color while their parents exhale over cocktails.
A pair of iron sconces capped with globe lights and a smoky aged-look mirror stand sentry.
The place feels like a kind of Colonial tavern with a little haunted New Orleans flavor, appropriate for plotting the overthrow of a tyrant.
Two other parties fill the otherwise hushed and empty dining room.
We peruse menus and set them down. A server attempts to whisk them away, saying our food will be here shortly. We have not requested anything yet.
We retain them, place our order a few minutes later, and wait.
A food runner arrives at the toddler table. Heads are shaken. The runner moves to an adjacent group of diners. She’s refused again only to emerge at our side with bread and dip.
“I’m still learning the table numbers,” she says.
The sunlight shifts, now searing the father’s tired eyes like some comic book hero’s laser beam gaze. He walks over to an arched window, tugs futilely at the drapery, but the narrow panel gives no relief.
Welcome to dinner in the upper room at Café YaYa.