A night at a dystopian dinner party, eating like it’s the end of food
In the front room of the restaurant called only “egg,” a mother and daughter suck on ice cubes made of algae. “Delicious,” they say. A man in the corner spots his friend across the room, and covers his mouth as he chews a snack shaped like a monster’s fingernail. A graying couple in matching neck scarves request the nonalcoholic drink. It’s brown and fizzy, served out of a jug. “Like kombucha,” the bartender says. The couple nods warily. They’ll drink it, they guess.
The people are here to eat, but, with little insight into the meal they’re about to consume, they’re in no rush. The lighting is bright, and the cocktails are, if not plentiful, at least available. Later in the evening, they’ll move into the back room, trying to scope out…
