The two have created a haven of elevated sensibility compellingly contrasted by the gritty urban setting.
I shiver with pleasure every time I walk through the door into a small room lit by candles. I prefer to sit with my back to the large window covered with gauzy white curtains at a narrow, white linen-covered table, and a faux, horsehair banquette, so I can look at the tiny open kitchen and bar.
My eye rests on each detail: a heavily framed wood mirror; a battery of pots and pans dangling from a ceiling rack; stacks of old china; a bowl of garden roses; a plate of small red apples; slowly turning ceiling fans; beautiful ridged water tumblers. A large moody oil painting depicts the very place we are, under a concrete overpass where urban debris collects. I pull the curtain aside to get the hauntingly bleak, Hopper-esque view, illuminated by street lights
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