19 August 2027
Thursday. I spent the afternoon listening to my own voice, which is a pleasure I recommend to nobody.
My story is told aloud in the locker, and so are the hints, through speakers that carry every word into the cold. On George Street the guests may choose to hear it in Simplified Chinese. I have the menu cards in both languages to match and I consider it the most hospitable thing I have ever done.
A guest last month was hard of hearing, and her friends passed every word along to her, quietly, like waiters relaying an order to the kitchen. She did not miss a thing. I found it so efficient I nearly applauded, which would have given me away.
There is a great deal of reading at my table. Notes, labels, menus, clippings. Most of a party should read English with ease; in Sydney, the narration helps, but the written word stays mostly in English, and I will not apologise for my handwriting.
Tonight’s recipe, in the margin: a velouté, which is French for a sauce that listens.
— B., your host
