14 January 2027
Thursday. A party of five arrived tonight from one of the bars on the next street, singing. They were turned away at the front desk, kindly and completely.
I would normally side with any guest against the management. Not tonight. A guest who has been drinking cannot appreciate the menu, cannot read a place card and, I am told, cannot be trusted near the cutlery. My dinners are to be taken with a clear head, or not at all.
There is a pleasing irony, which I note only because nobody else will: my guests’ trouble always begins with a big night out in Northbridge. That is the story. In real life, the management insists the big night out must come afterwards.
I approve. Come to dinner first, sober and curious. Then go and celebrate surviving my hospitality as loudly as you like. The bars will still be there. So, sadly for you, will I.
The singing party rebooked for next week. I have set them a table and hidden the wine list.
— B., your host
