On a stretch of La Brea populated by antiques shops and vintage clothiers—the same block as Pink’s—is a hole-in-the-wall cantina so unassuming, you could drive by it for years and never take note. The interior, with its long bar, rough-hewn lumber, and narrow dance floor, has the feel of a honky-tonk. Most customers are Mexican, but the $5 cover at The Plaza buys something few Latin nightclubs dare offer: female impersonators in sequined gowns lip-synching to frenetic cumbias and heartbreaking rancheras. You can find a more elaborate drag show; Monday nights at Micky’s in West Hollywood have approached tourist-attraction status. But there is an earnestness to the Plaza—a catharsis, really—that comes with being gay in the most macho of cultures.