It was a relic of a bygone age.
A surviving leftover of when a man was defined by class.
The café had the audaciousness to remain unchanged, whilst the businesses around it went through one transformation after another to compete in an ever evolving world.
Its tiled floors and walls had borne witness to a million conversations and the same monotonous menu.
Joe Chandler had tried hard to suppress the grimace as the plate of unappetising pie and mash was placed in front of him, swimming in a gravy of mushy peas. By the smirk on Miles face he knew he had failed, or more likely, Miles was well used to his reaction.
The café was a favourite of Miles', as was the lacklustre meal.
When Miles would knock on the door frame of his office and ask "lunch?" Chandler would always nod, knowing full well where they would end up.
As unappealing as the café was to Chandler as a decent place to have lunch, it did, however, hold a special place in his heart.
It was the place where he had found salvation. It was where Miles had sat him down, all those years ago and not only offered him advice and acceptance, but the start of a friendship. A friendship based, not on who his father was, or how useful he may be as he rose through the ranks, but on mutual respect and understanding and the fact that Miles was starting to like him.
For a lonely man, whose mapped out career was falling around him in tatters and with no one willing to stand by him, it was a unique experience.
And for that, he would always follow Miles to this dreary café and eat the detestable pie and mash, because it was where Miles had wanted to come. Just as Miles would choke down, admittedly with much complaint, sushi rolls, as they sat in Chandler's office late at night going over their most recent case.
It was just what friends did.