A Renegade and A Gentleman

The move was deemed culinary suicide, but Yves sniffed out its unctuous potential. He looked beyond the battered and weary façade, the grubby lace curtains, the tiled floors with decades of grime in the cracks and the tables devoid of linen. He saw a place where he could satisfy the belly, not satisfy the ego; a place to put your elbows on the table and get armpit-deep in dinner.

It wasn’t about being perfect, but being itself.