The name implies devilish fun, but our visit revealed a significant lack of Mephistophelian mischief. The sparse group of middle-aged patrons quietly sipped their brews in a setting Satan would approve of: a giant pitchfork-toting devil is painted behind the bar, and faux flames adorn the ceiling of the otherwise lipstick-red rooms. A dance floor (with black light! Ugh!) was empty despite the strains of Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” Indeed.