People often ask what I mean by ‘star adjacent.’ It means that a man once drove past our restaurant in a car with a tyre, and I took it as a sign. It means that our bread was once praised by a cousin of an inspector.
The honest answer is that we have never been inspected, and I live in constant fear that we might be. Each night I check the dining room for a stranger with a notebook. Each night I find a pigeon. It is a lonely vigil, and it has driven me to extraordinary levels of tidiness, which the staff find unbearable. We do, however, have excellent bread.
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