We were the first to arrive at Agavia 53, the cozy narrow slice of a restaurant perched on a hillside. The waiter, a young energetic man, said we could choose wherever we wanted. He led us up the stairs to show us the four floors, each with only a couple of tables. We chose the fourth. It opened onto a breezy patio with a view of the darkening city. We ordered our drinks and then our meal, which the waiter had to retrieve from the first floor. Eventually the restaurant filled and other groups arrived on the fourth floor, so he and a woman waitress brought up more trays, their smiles diminishing with each trip. As the evening deepened, the wind picked up, the lamps swayed and the shadows shifted. The night turned cold and the waiter brought us blankets. The food warmed us and the glasses of pulque, a Mexican mead made from the agave plant, loosened us. The night took on an otherworldly atmosphere. Our hair blew, our talk became louder and our laughter began to sound more like cackling, as our table slipped its moorings, lifted off the patio and drifted out over a glittering city. (Photo by a sculptor at neighboring table).