Backstory: A night at the open mic opera

He sits next to a grouchy older man who keeps asking people to stop talking: "We came to hear them, not you!" Cruz whispers, "He's a regular."

Chantal Roché, a French compatriot of Rortvedt's, enters the room. She makes her living as a singer – everything from opera to Sinatra – performing at private engagements and, on off nights, at places like The Westgate. I introduce myself and Ms. Roché takes my hand as if she knows me, confiding: "People tell me all the time, I sound like Edith Piaf.... I don't know if it's helping my career, because I can sing in English, French, Spanish, Italian, and Arabic. I usually do the popular Italian arias."

When Roché sings, her vibrato commands attention. She came to the US "a long time ago" when she was a mom raising kids. But in her 40s she decided to pursue a lifelong dream. She sold her skincare business, had some headshots taken, recorded a CD, and transformed herself into a singer.

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Cafe Bassam is one of the only places in San Diego where people still smoke cigars indoors and opera has been on the menu for a decade. Rortvedt says the place reminds her of Europe.

"In France and Italy, especially, there are cafes all over where you can go in and hear singing, hear opera.... I come here, and I feel like I'm home," she says.

Young people passing by, peek in, hear the booming voice of Luigi Luevano, and decide to stay for coffee.

Mr. Luevano has an impressive vocal range, although he has never had a lesson.

More than just an opera singer, Luevano is an entertainer, and people come as much for his singing as his comedy. Though he is the main attraction at Bassam's, anyone can stand up and sing, and a woman from the San Diego Lyric Opera steps up to join him. "This is my ex-wife," he says. She rolls her eyes. Then he walks toward a young woman sitting alone and extends his hand. "And this is my next wife." She blushes as he sings to her in Italian.

A pretty young woman in a long gold skirt sings next. By day she's an artist, at night, a singer who has trouble hitting the high notes and tends to go flat. But the crowd is generous.

Then Jef Olson, a tall, slim singer who resembles a young Art Garfunkel, takes the microphone and fills the small room with his haunting, melancholy voice.

When it's Luevano's turn again he signals to his accompanist that he wants "Solamente Una Vez" ("Only One Time"). "Solamente" ends, and he starts up with an Italian song that translates to "Tell Her I Love Her," making a show of loosening his tie – black with white polka dots – before hitting the high note.

Luevano also sings on Friday nights at La Dolce Vita, a small Italian restaurant in the chic suburb of La Jolla. The night I'm there, Olson and Roché are also singing. At one point the owner, Enzo Castiglione, begins playing the bongo drums. Olson, Roché, and Luevano decide to sing "O Sole Mio" as the finale. Their voices fill the room; everyone stops chewing, jaws hang open.

"That's what's so fun about open mic opera," says radio host Murphy. "Darned if you don't find some of those singers, who may not have the most beautiful voices, somehow convey the sentiment the composer was looking for better than anyone else. They aren't trying to win a contest or contract," he says. "They just want to make music."

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