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There is a restaurant in Toronto. 

Its entrance is announced only by a simple, unadorned wooden door, 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 a restaurant in Toronto that is magically hidden, whose service is horrible, but whose food is divine.

This is the story of the Nameless Restaurant.

Find out more at Starlit Publishing!

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