Florence Burningham had spent nearly every waking hour of her twenty-seven years surrounded by the clatter of kitchenware, the hiss of steam, and the comforting aroma of browned butter. By the time she'd scraped together enough funds to open her own café—a snug, brick-fronted establishment tucked between a cobbler's and a laundress's on 77th Street—she'd baked ten thousand biscuits, whisked a hundred thousand eggs, and memorized the finicky palate of every grocer, constable, and boardinghouse matron north of 42nd.

In the spring of 1875, her café opened with a fanfare of flyers and a menu so proudly hand-lettered that it made the society pages.

Then one April night, as Florence was rolling up the oilcloth tablecloths and humming "Swanee River," the fire started. She never learned exactly how—perhaps a spark from the coal stove, perhaps a careless flick of a match by the newly hired dishwasher, or, as the policeman suggested with sly sympathy, perhaps a business rival's grudge gone criminal.