12 November 2026
Thursday. A dress code, since nobody else will set one.
Black tie is always correct. A dinner suit says: I was invited, I accepted, I have come to be served. Chef’s whites say: I intend to help in the kitchen, which I find presumptuous but flattering. A butcher’s apron says: I have read about you, and I want you to know it. I have seen all three this month and approved of every one.
Shoes must be closed. My floors are concrete and unforgiving and I will not have a guest wobbling about in sandals when they ought to be concentrating on the menu.
Arrive a quarter of an hour early. The gamesmasters like to do the lockers and the rules and the little speech before the door closes, and I like my guests to have heard the speech, because it is the only part of the evening I do not attend either.
Hats are permitted. Toques are not. There is only one toque in this establishment, and it is on my hook.
— B., your host
