The Dinner: Rosita’s, 7210 Woodlawn Ave. NE

The Movie: Crazy Heart at Seven Gables (911 NE 50th St.)

The Screenplate: In Crazy Heart, Jeff Bridges plays Bad Blake, a drunk, broke, chain-smoking, once-great country singer touring bowling alleys and bars in the badlands of West Texas and New Mexico, hoping to earn enough money to buy his next bottle of whiskey. When he makes it to Sant Fe, he submits to an interview by a reporter from the local newspaper. The reporter is played by Maggie Gyllenhaal, who, judging from appearances, should be out–way out–of Bridges’ league.

But Bridges turns on the charm, using lines seemingly plucked from his vast oeuvre of songs, and gets his girl–for a little while, anyway.

The romance is significant, but it’s really just a way into the classic American tale of a talented deadbeat who picks himself up, dusts himself off, and affords himself a fitting final act when everyone else had written him off. This is hardly an innovative plot; what makes Crazy Heart an unforgettable movie is the emotional honesty with which it’s rendered–it never succumbs to cliche, easy as that’d be. Then there’s the superb acting (for the Lebowski nuts out there, Bridges plays Blake like a combination of his Dude and Sam Elliott’s Stranger), a killer soundtrack (Bridges and Colin Farrell, playing a protege of Bad’s whose fame has surpassed his mentor’s, do their own singing), and dialogue that seems like it’s lifted right off a lyric sheet, without sounding corny when spoken aloud.

If Bad Blake were to make a stop in Seattle, he’d undoubtedly play the Little Red Hen, seeing as it’s about the only honky-tonk with live country music in town. And while the Hen’s got food–good food, even–Bad’s Tex-Mex underpinnings (he makes his home in Houston) would likely guide him and his meal allowance across the street to Rosita’s, a neighborhood favorite with swiftly-served burritos and an ample selection of dark liquor.

While there, we ordered an enchilada and a chorizo burrito. Both dishes arrived about five minutes after we ordered them. The portions were more than generous, and the flavor just fine. We washed it all down with a couple tequila sunrises and Bohemia backs, leaving the restaurant fat, happy, and feeling like we wouldn’t need to eat for another 24 hours–a fast that ended up lasting all of 24 minutes once we caved to the buttery lure of Seven Gables’ concession stand.