I am definitely one of the eat-lunchers, as anyone can tell from the impressive collection of fast food wrappers in my garbage can.

But on the day my story begins, I had broken ranks with my fellow slobs and was heading across town to do lunch with my neighbor Lance. It was warm and hazy, and as I drove east toward La Brea Avenue I could almost make out the Hollywood sign behind a curtain of smog.

La Brea Avenue is a hotbed of hipness in mid-town Los Angeles. A onetime industrial street, it’s now dotted with boutiques and restaurants so cool they don’t bother with signs out front. And it was to one of those restaurants, a place called Café Ennui, that I was headed. Only I was having a hell of a time finding it.

I’d driven up and down the stretch between Wilshire and Melrose at least three times and was about to give up when I saw a funky restaurant with a fifties diner table in the window. This must be it, I thought, as I parked my Corolla a few doors down. By now I was a good fifteen minutes late. I dashed into the restaurant, only to find that Lance wasn’t there. I figured he was tied up with a demanding customer. Lance is a salesman at Neiman Marcus, in the designer shoe department. Or as Lance likes to say, “I work in high heels.”

I took a seat at the table in the window and glanced around the restaurant. The place was an eclectic mix of funky tables and chairs. I was surprised to see I was the only customer.

A skinny guy with a shaved head stood behind a counter and shot me an icy stare. Not exactly service with a smile. I waved him over. Reluctantly, he got off his stool and started across the room.

“Hi,” I chirped, trying my best to ignore his look of disdain. “Do you think I could see a menu?”

“Sweetie,” he snipped, “this isn’t a restaurant.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, it’s a furniture store.”

I looked around and for the first time noticed price tags dangling from the tables and chairs.

“This isn’t Café Ennui?”

“Nooo, it’s not,” he said slowly, as if talking to a three-year-old.

“Then I guess you won’t be getting a tip,” I said, with a feeble smile.

He was not amused.

“Café Ennui is over there.”

He pointed a bony finger across the street to a storefront with blackened windows. No wonder I’d missed it. The place looked like it had gone out of business decades ago.

I slid out of my chair and, under the withering glare of my petulant furniture salesman, dashed across the street.

As it turns out, Café Ennui was anything but abandoned. Behind the blackened windows sat a gaggle of people who looked like they’d just stepped out of a Banana Republic ad, sipping mineral water and nibbling on various forms of lettuce. The average waistline hovered somewhere in the low twenties.