Though the customers are sober
Where Desperados are drunk
And crimson candles light the tables.
Next to a stack of logs unlit;
Though sombreros stay nailed to the walls
Above the hatless waitresses in red and black,
And though guitars remain unstrummed
And loud piped music sounds,
The enchiladas are good and hot.
Outside is cold wet November;
Inside is dry warm Mexico.
Further tweaks and an extra line, a very simple line. I think it's time to move on.