A thin beam of sunlight shined through my car window, breaking up the damp, gray layer that had clouded the sky all morning.

My dad and I were cruising down East Beltline as the rain finally stopped. I rolled down my window and felt the air; it seemed as though it had a constant hovering drizzle about it.

I craved soup.

My line of sight grazed over Knapp’s Corner, scoping out potential options. A modern, metallic-looking grey building caught my eye.

Vibrant, red letters stood out against the granite colored walls, reading out “Kitchen 67: A Michigan Bistro.”

We considered it for a minute and pulled into a parking spot.

As soon as my dad and I walked in, a frenzy of activity greeted us. It was the perfect combination of modern and cozy; a bar lit up with blue lights lined on one wall, while a synthetic fire mimicking a chimney place was placed across the room.

Pops of colorful contemporary furnishes made the interior look like high-end restaurants only seen in movies. My eyes were dazzled by the twinkling glasses hanging from beams.

I would have thought Kitchen 67 to have come from the future, had it not been for the contrasting undertones of the architecture on the other wall.

An arch painted adobe beige gave me a view of the inside kitchen. Black wire in loose spirals were used for lamps to hang from the top of the arch, and I suddenly felt like I was in an old-fashioned house waiting for a homecooked meal.

We were ushered into a booth, comfortably tucked away into the nook of a wall. Our friendly waitress smiled brightly as she took our orders: white chicken chili for me (to fulfill the soup cravings) and honey BBQ ribs for my dad.

As I watched the rain start up again outside the wall-sized windows that lined the exterior of the building, a tray of bread rolls and cinnamon cream butter was brought out to us.

The bread rolls were freshly made– still hot and soft to the touch.

I carefully made a lateral incision and smeared on the butter with my knife, being careful not to hold the biscuit too hard, lest the softness squish under my fingertips.

The first bite brought warmth to the very insides of my veins; no cold, rainy weather could have chilled me then.

The cozy side of Kitchen 67 was shining through now, the electric fire crackling with true, burning flames.

Both my dad and I were thrilled when we saw our meal come out.

His ribs, craftily laid out on a crisp, white plate, had BBQ sauce slathered all over it. My chili radiated warmth and had basil sprinkled liberally on top.

The chili was delectable. Pearly, white beans fit in neatly with the chicken; the chili broth itself had just the right amount of spicy kick to keep the flame in me ignited. I could taste the whispers of basil, shadows of herb mixed in with the rest of the masterpiece.

My dad offered a piece of his ribs to me, and I gladly accepted. Juicy, tender meat was complemented perfectly by the sweet, tangy sauce. I let my dad have a spoonful of my soup in return– which he savored happily.

When we finished our meal, I was sad to leave.

Kitchen 67, with its duality between classic homey and clean-cut modern, had given me the warm hug I had been looking for in the midst of the autumn rain.

Even after I walked back outside into the 60-degree fog, the fireplace within my heart still burned.