The word that comes to mind when I think of Café Jinx is “simple.”

Jinx is located in a small storefront along Fourth Avenue, tucked among much-larger operations like Bison Witches and the Food Conspiracy Co-op. About six tables occupy the narrow room, and the owner, Dominique Kaufmann-Francesca–the sole employee of Jinx–works behind a small counter. There is only one copy of the menu–two sheets of verbiage on laminated paper that Kaufmann-Francesca says she banged out late one night at the Grill, using what appears to be a typewriter in serious need of adjustment. And if you want to use a credit card, forget it: Cash only, please.

Heck, even the hours are simple, and limited: Café Jinx is open from 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. weekdays, and 11 a.m. to 3 p.m. Saturdays. Beyond those 29 hours per week, forget it.

Oh, yeah, there are a few things that are not simple at Jinx: some of the entrée names. On my first visit there, I had a delicious salad with fresh mozzarella, red onion and roma tomato on a bed of spinach, topped with a tangy pesto vinaigrette. The name of this salad: “A ‘Politition’ I Can Trust, Music I Can Listen to and a Lover That Won’t Drive Me Crazy” ($3.95).

What Kaufmann-Francesca was under the influence of that one crazy night while she tapped away at the Grill, we’ll never know.

Ah, I kid. But here’s the serious scoop: If you’re willing to work within the narrow confines of Café Jinx (in terms of menu, hours and space), then you’re in for a delightful experience.

I first checked out Café Jinx one recent weekday, on the recommendation of James DiGiovanna. Hugh Dougherty and I found the restaurant, then made a quick ATM run after learning that Kaufmann-Francesca does not accept anything but cash. (This is my only semi-serious beef with Jinx; while others may disagree, I consider credit-card acceptance a customer-service issue.) Scanning the hard-to-read menu, I decided on the aforementioned salad, along with an order of huevos rancheros ($3.95), while Hugh picked The Alibi (a turkey reuben with Swiss, sauerkraut and homemade Thousand Island dressing, $4.50, as are all the sandwiches) and a 29 Kisses smoothie (berries, banana and orange juice, $2.95).

The small little diner is comfortable in that stereotypical Fourth Avenue way–folk music played overhead as passers-by glanced in the windows. The walls are painted two colors in the reddish family–a pink and a maroon, before the wall turns yellow behind the counter–and horseshoes make a ring around the room. Fresh flowers adorn every table–a nice touch, indeed. Random knick-knacks, such as a miniature dinosaur skeleton, dominoes, small mirrors and see-through curtains complete the look. Oh, and you won’t be bothered by the sound of a ringing phone–the restaurant doesn’t have one.

Hugh and I enjoyed our dishes. My salad was amazingly fresh–the taste of the tomatoes impressed me (they were almost as flavorful as the kind picked from your own garden at the height of the season)–and the pesto vinaigrette was a nice blend of flavors. The huevos–two eggs, black beans, homemade salsa and a flour tortilla–were solid, yet unspectacular. Hugh scarfed up his sandwich, thus showing his appreciation for it, and his smoothie–I stole a sip–was also a fresh, tasty delight.

Nothing fancy here. Simple, yet very good.

I returned, solo, on a Saturday, and got the Mediterranean plate, called “At 6’s and 7’s” ($4.95); I wanted the bruschetta plate, but Kaufmann-Francesca revealed that she had removed it from the menu but hadn’t had a chance to re-type it yet. No big deal; the plate was a yummy success. Four vegetarian grape leaves, seven cucumber slices, six roma tomato slices, eight olives (pitted), a slice of white onion, hummus, garlic cheese and pita bread all mingled on a bed of fresh spinach, and all of it was fresh and delicious. I washed it down with a peaches and cream smoothie (peaches, orange juice and yogurt, $2.95); it was delightfully different, as the yogurt made the drink more tart and less sweet than your normal smoothie.

After finishing my meal and paying the bill, I asked Kaufmann-Francesca–a Minneapolis native who’s called Tucson home for three years–the question I had to ask: What in the heck happens if she gets sick?

She smiled. “I can’t get sick,” she said.

A simple answer. How appropriate.

This article appears in May 20-26, 2004.