There is a restaurant in Toronto. Its entrance is announced only by a simple unadorned wooden door, varnished to a beautiful shine but without paint, hidden beside dumpsters and a fire escape. There is no sign, no indication of what lies behind the door. If you do manage to find the restaurant, the décor is dated and worn—homey, if one were to be generous. The service is atrocious; the proprietor, a grouch. The regulars are worse: silent, brooding, and unfriendly to newcomers. There is no set menu, alternating with the whim and whimsy of the owner. The selection of wine and beer is sparse or nonexistent at times, and the prices are outrageous. There is a restaurant in Toronto that is magically hidden, whose service is horrible and whose food is divine. This is the story of the Nameless Restaurant.

There is a restaurant in Toronto. Its entrance is announced only by a simple unadorned wooden door, varnished to a beautiful shine but without paint, hidden beside dumpsters and a fire escape. There is no sign, no indication of what lies behind the door. If you do manage to find the restaurant, the décor is dated and worn—homey, if one were to be generous. The service is atrocious; the proprietor, a grouch. The regulars are worse: silent, brooding, and unfriendly to newcomers. There is no set menu, alternating with the whim and whimsy of the owner. The selection of wine and beer is sparse or nonexistent at times, and the prices are outrageous. There is a restaurant in Toronto that is magically hidden, whose service is horrible and whose food is divine. This is the story of the Nameless Restaurant.