Our apartment is old-fashioned, with a kitchen that’s not eat-in but only for cooking, a too-big dining room, a butler’s pantry (where a butler is supposed to be plating our food), and a cozier ‘breakfast room,’ where we end up eating most of our meals.
The table in the breakfast room is beat-up and small. Its surface is chipped, and its chairs bear the chew marks from when our late dog Barkley, a Chesapeake Retriever, was a puppy. When it’s set for four, the place-mats touch. For all these reasons, it’s the place we prefer to dine in with our friends.