O’Neill & Chapin sat in one of those cozy commercial groupings that had sprouted along the road, this one a well-shaded segment just past the center of Ojai but several miles before the turnoff to Marge Schwinn’s ranch. The shop was a miniscule, shingle-roofed, clapboard cottage dominated by live oaks. The boards were painted forest green, and the store was fronted by five feet of cobblestones running from the earthen curb to Dutch doors painted creamy mint. Gold leaf lettering across the front window proclaimed:

O’Neill & Chapin, Purveyors of Fine Paper and Pigments. Est. 1986.

Behind the windows were dark, oak shutters. A sign leaning against the slats said:

On a buying trip in Europe. Back soon.

I checked out the neighboring business. To the right was the candlery, also shuttered. Then Marta, Spiritual Counselor and the Humanos Theosophic Institute. To the left was a one-story office building faced in river rock: chiropractor’s office, a notary public–cum–insurance broker, a travel agent specializing in “nature-friendly excursions.” Next to that, in a sunnier spot, sat an adobe cube with a wooden sign over the door.

Celestial Café.

Gold stars danced around the edges of the signs. Lights flickered behind blue gingham curtains. It was nearly 3 P.M. and I’d fed neither my brain nor my gut. Times like this, I supposed, organic muffins and herbal tea wouldn’t be half-bad.

But according to the blackboard mounted above the open kitchen, the café specialized in country French food—crepes, quiche, soufflés, chocolate desserts. Real coffee, Lord amighty.

Some kind of New Age sound track—tinkly bells, flute, and harp—eased out of speakers set into the low, wood-beam ceiling. More blue gingham covered half a dozen tables. A woman with elaborately braided gray hair wearing a buckskin jacket over a crinkly, pink dress sat enjoying what looked to be ratatouille. No server was in sight, just a pasty-faced, heavyset, white-aproned woman wearing a blue bandana over her hair cutting vegetables in the kitchen. At her elbow was a six-burner Wolfe range, with one flame aglow under a cast-iron crepe pan. Fresh batter had just been poured into the pan, and the cook stopped cutting long enough to grab a towel and take hold of the handle. Tilting deftly, she created a perfect disc that she slid onto a plate, then topped with creamed spinach. A dash of nutmeg, and the crepe was rolled and placed on the counter. Then back to the vegetables.

The gray-haired woman got up and took the crepe. “Beautiful, Aimee.”

The cook nodded. She looked to be forty or so, had a squashed face and downturned eyes. The hairs that had peeked out from under the bandana were light brown and silver.

I smiled at her. Her face registered no expression, and she continued chopping. I read the blackboard. “How about a mixed-cheese crepe and coffee?”