The restaurant is long in form, like a railroad car, and about half again as wide. One enters to a small bar on the left and then further along beyond the bar, a plush banquette along the entire right wall with tables and chairs opposite. Small tables and chairs on the left side of the room. The waiter had taken the order, which included a whole fish charred. Service was languorous but no one minded, it was late into the evening. The guests at the table for four were chatting quietly when the two on the banquette side looked up at the unexpected sight: in complete regalia, including helmet, boots and thick black uniform a fireman, crowbar in hand marching toward the kitchen in the rear. A single man on a mission. No siren, no other signs of distress, nothing smelled as if it were burning [because at that moment of sighting, everyone sniffs the air]. And that was it. He never returned down the aisle, and after a bit more delay the fish appeared lightly charred and exceedingly tasty. One of the diners who has lived in the City for more than a decade, and has a lifetime of eating out and eating well said, it was a first time ever event in his book.