A chatty panhandler once reported to Eve that Chester had come to California as a prospector in the 1880s. This was malarkey, of course, but Eve liked to believe there was some truth to the tale. She could just picture the old goat sitting by his campfire on the banks of a crooked crick, tinkering with the roasting of his beans, the granularity of his grind, the rapidity of his boil—until his brew was without flaw. So when he finally hit pay dirt, rather than recline in a claw-footed tub, he bought this corner, built this pot, and set about doing the only thing the Good Lord had ever intended him to do.

And what the Good Lord intended for others was their own goddamn business.

•

SURE, AT FIRST GLANCE Chester’s style of commerce seemed a little crackers—Eve would give you that. But all you had to do was spend three bucks in an Automat to see that he was onto something. Because when all was said and done, no slinger of hash was going to master the subtleties of a lemon meringue pie and a tuna fish sandwich.

But on the corner of Pico and Sepulveda? There was no hint of the half-assed. Not in Chester’s paper cup. With its caramel color and smoky aroma, his coffee was incontestably good. Indisputably good. Unassailably, incontrovertibly, indismissably good.

Come to think of it—you could make a similar claim about the donuts at that donut shop in the shape of a donut over on La Cienega!

In fact, if the Mayor of Los Angeles had any sense, he would immediately establish a new ordinance requiring that every purveyor in the city limits sell no more than one item and that he sell it from a shop in the shape of his merchandise. Like orange juice from a great orange orb, or whiskey from a bottle as tall as the Eiffel Tower. With that simple reform in place, thousands of Chesters from across the country would hear the call. They’d pull up stakes, load their wagons, and head west to this city, which not only approved of but applauded their cranky, intolerant artistry.

—One, please, Eve said to the girl in the window. Unsweetened.

—That’ll be ten cents.

—Keep the change.

With coffee in hand and a few minutes to spare, Eve crossed the lot to take up residence on the solitary bench by the curb.