Continuing in the Hemingway vein...
You enter into a room, dark not with secrets, but with the sad pretense of importance. Large flashing screens adorn the walls, and they cast shadows upon the barbed wire tattoos and drug mart make-up. The faces are hopeful with the promise of the afternoon quesadillas. The beer is boring, no grappa here, but the prices are low. One wonders not about the signora serving your poutine, but about the very premise as to whether this could ever be called poutine.
You exit into the large parking lot, and head towards someplace else.