18 September 2025
Thursday. I have written out the kitchen rules and pinned them to the freezer, in the hope that somebody will read them in a better light than the one I provide.
One. There is no smoke in my kitchen. A smoky kitchen is a badly run kitchen. My guests may breathe freely, asthma and all, and so may my sauces.
Two. There is no crawling. Guests walk upright, as guests should, from the locker to the table.
Three. The lights go out. Sometimes completely, sometimes in flickers, like a candle that has heard bad news. I find it atmospheric. Anybody troubled by flashing light should choose a gentler dining room, and I will not take it personally. Much.
Four. There are buttons, one press of which brings a gamesmaster to let a guest out. The rest of the table carries on without them. I think of it as leaving before dessert, which is rude but legal.
Five. The cameras are always on. Someone is always watching my guests more attentively than I ever do. I am usually at the shops.
— B., your host
