Thee Sirlee Scunck

Write about a pub, hotel, inn or tavern... Who stays there? What's the food like?

The resthouse wasn't what it had been, after all this time. It was asymmetrical, of mismatched building material and paint, the oldest parts leaning slightly as their foundations settled crooked. A sign hung from a porch rail, large enough to read clearly from the far side of the crossroad. It featured a snarling skunk on it's back, cradling a bottle of wine, and advertised: "SEESNAL PHOOOD/STRONG DREENK/WARM BEDS"
The proprietors had, over the centuries, expanded the place, replacing what burned with stone, replacing rockfalls with cast concrete. Windows which blew out twice in a generation were never replaced again, simply covered over with a bug screen. Their expansions had been made with each subsequent owner's best sense, which was rarely symmetrical or neighborly to the slowly-expanding highways.
As a result, Thee Sirlee Scunck crowded it's corner of the crossroads, encroaching on otherwise perfectly serviceable paths. Merchants complained, but much like it's ancestral owners the resthouse sat where it had settled, it's odd angles pervading an attitude which said: "I'm dug in here and quite happy, thanks. If you want me to move you'll have to move me yourself."
Of course, nobody dared actually plan such a thing. The family that had owned the place since time immemorial was as well known for their unwelcoming demeanor as their excellent hospitality. The exterior aesthetics aside, the rooms were always clean and comfortable, the food always tasty and just what travelers needed. And even though they were the only accommodations within a days travel, they never gouged their clientele for coin. To anyone who'd stayed there before, the ill-tempered service was simply part of the place's charm.
At this time, the owner and proprietor was "Pa" Tokven. Though rumors about his ancestry abounded- he was built like a Bear- his Mask, and the Masks of his four daughters, matched the sign in front to a tee. His wife, though also sturdily built, was rarely seen. She was frequently away, hunting and scavenging foodstuffs or trading for them in town. Pa tended the bar and did all the cooking while his daughters kept the place clean.
The furniture was homey and mismatched, but well cared for. The wood shone with polish, the stones in the hearth were kept carefully clear of soot and other stains. One of the Old Skunks (as they were lovingly called, long after they were too dead to object) had been wise enough to replace the floor of the common room with fitted cobbles, the better to keep it clean. The finer guest rooms featured carpets, the cheaper ones simple thatch. The beds were stuffed with warm, clean cotton and felt like heaven to anyone this far out in the sticks.
The menu was simple, but hearty. Pa's kitchen followed the seasons in perfect sync. In winter, crusty bread and scalding hot broth greeted travelers frozen to the bone. In spring, fresh greens refreshed those making due on the road with months-old trail rations. Summer brought with it brightly colored fruit salads. But the best time of all to visit Pa was in the autumn, when the harvest came in. Though the plates were simple, every night was a feast of roasted squash and meat and potatoes. The fare was perfect for chasing away the chill and anxieties of oncoming winter.
It was an odd-looking jumble of a place, and it wasn't what it had been. And it was perfect.

Type

Pub / Tavern / Restaurant