About a year after we opened, a guest sat down at one of our tables and shared something we have never forgotten.
Long after the fire engines left, her father worked in this building. He was in the leather trade, like so many of his neighbors in the district, and the table where she was sitting stood exactly where his desk used to be. As a girl, she would sit across from that desk while he worked.
Then she told us one more thing. One of her father's clients was Japanese, and his last name was Oya.
Some rooms, it seems, remember.
