The sign says “DREAMBOAT.” It glows quietly above a ten-seat counter. White tile, chrome trim, and an orange floor that hums like a memory. There is no booth. No jukebox. No overt reference to the past—only suggestions.

A micro-diner, they call it. Breakfast, lunch, dessert. Wood-fired, plant-based, precisely executed. The food reads simple. It is not. Neither is the coffee. Nor the cocktails.