Then somehow we wound up with the amazing Marc as manager and eating at Cafe Santa Monica. I remember I was away for a weekend or two and when I got back, everyone was raving about this place - their mediocre food, the disturbing old crying lady with the bible, and the cute underage wait-chick with the surprising number of children. They sure did appreciate our business, though, even if it took them two hours to burn the wrong food items and carefully deliver them to the wrong people. And we had the joy of one long table (or on a particularly populous evening, three tables in a C-shape) right in the middle of the restaurant, around the weird lamppost.