“Newcomer charms entire town – a young chef brings fresh ideas to the table” “22-year-old opens his own restaurant – and takes off running” “Courage, passion, flavor: The way Eric S. cooks”

The wall behind the bar was lined with neatly framed newspaper clippings, slightly yellowed with time. Headlines from the early days. Proof that once, things had been different.

Eric had put them up himself. Back then, just over two years ago, he’d been proud. Truly proud. Those articles were more than decoration. They were a visible piece of his dream, a reminder that, at one point, everything had seemed possible. Motivation for him, for his small, young team. A message that said: Look at us. We belong here. We’re going somewhere.

But not everyone had welcomed the young entrepreneur’s success. Especially the older, more traditional crowd in the small town had seen him not as a rising star, but as a disruption.

A youngster with too many ideas, getting too much attention, too fast. That made people suspicious.

And so the rumors began. Quiet at first, then louder.

“He doesn’t even cook himself.” “Daddy must’ve paid for all of this.” “Probably just frozen food back there.”

At first, Eric had laughed it off. No success without jealousy, he’d told himself, and honestly? A part of him had even enjoyed the attention. If people talked, it meant they noticed you.

But over time, the words began to leave marks.

And then came the blow.

A supplier he’d trusted turned out to be a fraud. A large order, paid in advance, never showed up. No ingredients. No money. No wiggle room. The pantry was empty. The business account nearly too.

And suddenly, the rumors sounded like confirmation.

Naive, they say. Too young, too green, no clue how the real world works. Of course it wasn’t going to last.

Most guests simply stopped coming. Regulars faded. Reservations dried up.

Eric was left with debts, half-stocked fridges, and a dream that was beginning to fray at the edges.

He stood there now, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the bar. His eyes resting on the old headlines, lost in thought.

The kitchen was clean. The mise en place was ready. But it was lunchtime and barely a table occupied.

The sounds in the restaurant were muted: the soft clink of cutlery and china, and somewhere in the background, Jana, his waitress, polishing silverware and charger plates.

Then: the soft chime of the front door.

Eric glanced over his shoulder, curiosity flickering in his eyes. A new guest?

He straightened up. For a moment, the headlines and whispers faded from his mind.

Someone new. Someone who clearly didn’t know the place. Not yet.

He smiled, almost out of habit, but not without warmth.

“Welcome,” he said quietly. „Table for one?”