You pull up and some kid in cutoffs and a ratty T-shirt asks for your keys and paperwork, then points you to your seat at a tattooed picnic table near the bushes. It looks like the electricity isn’t working inside; there’s a shelf of tools and an old microwave that you imagine is caked inside with melted cheese. But what this grungy garage lacks in decor is more than made up for by the business’ speed and service, and an earnestness that tracks back to old-time Austin, when you knew the guy who worked on your car because you probably once kicked him out of your band.
