Zarela is buzzing with an uncommon energy.  Bright paper flags hanging from the low stucco ceiling make the place feel like a party.  The margarita machine is hard at work, filling glasses with a luscious green slush that is lovingly chronicled with smartphone cameras.  Half a dozen tables are all occupied, and upstairs another dozen, busy with families of upper east siders.  A small crowd stands waiting to be seated, so you decide to eat at the bar.  Pulling up a stool, you're pleased to find the tile-top littered with baskets of chips and salsa.  You order a beer and some pork.

Cochinita pibil, the bartender pronounces with a funny accent as she sets down a bowl of rusty red stew— pork shoulder and sour oranges in a thin, smokey sauce.  The tortillas are small; it's not clear how these four coins of corn could suffice for such a portion.  So you eat it with a spoon like some awkward but delicious soup.  A glossy green rectangle of banana leaf slowly reveals itself in the bottom of the dish, as if the chef had hidden there some inscrutable photo.  The relish is sweet and then spicy, and you signal for another beer.

Your neighbor to the left asks where you're going after this, which is a bit forward.  Wait, she's asking where you'll go for Mexican after this place closes.  She pokes at her queso fundido and starts explaining her online dating company.  "People are looking for a lifetime partner and great sex," she says easily, with the confidence of a happily divorced baby boomer.  "Do you want to try my margarita?  What are you writing?"  When you say you're reviewing the place, the young couple on your right breaks in with a coincidence: they have a restaurant blog, too.  She is very pretty, and he is discouragingly friendly, and you're sad to understand that they are married.  You discuss hamburgers and he cites cross streets fluently.  She gives a good tip on fried chicken in K-Town.  You exchange web addresses.  Someone taps your shoulder and you turn to find one more stranger.  She is smiling as she whispers that people can see your buttcrack through the front window.  You laugh aloud and pull up your jeans.