The first thing that hits you—besides the smell of perfectly charred sourdough—is the sheer scale of the place. It’s a real-deal fire station from the 1890s, so the ceilings are higher than your expectations on payday. You half expect a dalmatian to trot past with a side of chips. Instead, you get exposed brick, vintage fire poles (sadly, no sliding allowed), and a bar that looks like it once parked a fire engine.
I’ll be honest: I spent the first five minutes staring at the ceiling, mouth slightly open, like a tourist who just saw the Eiffel Tower for the first time. It’s that kind of room. You feel small in the best way, like a kid in a giant’s kitchen.
