Sqirl, at the height of its fame, was one of those places where tourists, particularly from New York, came to both understand and misunderstand Los Angeles. They waited for fat, airy slices of toasted brioche, loaded with soft ricotta and rainbow-striped with jams. They treated all kinds of hangovers with sorrel pesto rice bowls and found themselves wondering who they might be if they wore supple canvas jackets, got more sun on their skin, ate more farmers’ market fruit.