Walking down the street, one is greeted by the aroma of freshly baked cinnamon rolls wafting from Mello's Bistro. But upon entering, the place is virtually empty. A waif-model-turned-waiter is polishing glasses at a back table. He doesn't bother looking up as I enter. Looking around the dining area, posters of Pele and Beckham adorn the walls. A dog-eared copy of The Communist Manifesto sits upon a nearby counter. A Flock of Seagulls plays low on the stereo. The room's meditative quality is disrupted only by the muffled commotion coming from next door at Damone's Bar. It sounds like a biker gang has just pulled up out front. I think I'll wander over there.
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