After a long hard night, all you want is a little love, a little sweetness, a lot of comfort. You want something to smooth out all of life's sharp edges. So you head to the Shangri-La Diner on Cherokee Street, plunk down your sorry ass in a comfy vinyl booth and order a pot of coffee and the crème brûlée French toast. Then you sit back and look around the happy little psychedelic cave you've stumbled into. The swirly patterns on the walls. The paper lanterns and beaded curtains hanging from the ceiling. The decapitated Barbie on the counter next to the cash register (and oooooh, the homemade Hostess cupcakes). The oldies music on the stereo soothes your aching brain. (It's been proven: There's nothing better for a bad morning-after than the Beach Boys. Or the Beatles. Or Al Green, on Sunday.) Best of all is the French toast: soft brioche soaked in heavy cream, topped with a sweet, crunchy crust of brown sugar. At least that's your best guess — owner Patrice Mari is happy to sit and chat with you about anything under the sun except her recipes. She shouldn't worry. Crème brûlée French toast wouldn't taste half as good anywhere else.
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