Booreat smells of catsup. Booreat bleeds steak sauce. The stone seems warm an inch off contact, but those who heed the pulsing temptation Booreat emits will be quickfrozen by a touch of its walls.
Seasoned executives of restaurant chains come to worship here. They bring layers of darkly sacramental onions as offerings for the reclusive Demon Theibal, the ones from the "no onion" hamburgers, sandwiches and steaks.
Enter through the door and the way quickly changes from stone to a hundred food fall through galvanized ductwork, leading to the hood over the canola oil frying vat in which Thiebal lounges.