Stepping into the vestibule of a true neighborhood landmark feels like a transition between two different eras of Michigan history.
I still remember the way the heavy glass door would catch the light on winter afternoons, promising a refuge of warmth and the intoxicating perfume of baking yeast.
There is a specific cadence to the way the flour dust settles on the worn linoleum floors, a silent witness to the decades of hurried lunches and slow Saturday mornings…