An unnamed woman sits reading a novel by Marcel Proust when, to her surprise, memories of her grandmother flit before her eyes. Superficially, she thinks, her namesake and Proust's high-class restaurant share nothing in common. Her grandmother left Ireland for New York City at just eighteen. Twelve years later, she brought her entire family over the Atlantic after enduring incredible hardship. For that reason, their family prefers stories that are funny. Painful ones belong under the carpet. In 1959, the woman and her mother lived with her grandmother on Long Island. She had owned the house since 1920 and, throughout those forty years, made her mark on every inch of the place. But one day, her nine children have an idea -- they will completely renovate the house. They send her on vacation, her only one ever, for four weeks, and surprise her with it at the end. Needless to say, she bursts into tears when she sees what has happened. But no one talks about it -- as the woman puts it, feelings are for others. The summer after the renovation, the woman's grandmother calls her, her mother, and her aunt into the backyard. She declares that she will build her a summer house in the backyard for her and her friends. Out of nowhere, her aunt emits a cold laugh and dismisses the idea. Her grandmother deflates and retreats inside. It is this memory that arises when the woman reads Proust. In her mind's eye, she sees her grandmother stride into Proust's aristocratic dining room. Is she judging the superfluous people, the waste? Or is she yearning, secretly, for an invitation to join them?