But once you sat long enough, the pattern emerged.
Warmth was tiered.
The older couple in designer cashmere got lingering recommendations, stories about vineyards, extra smiles. The table of tech investors got laughed at even when they were dull. A woman in a tailored cream coat sent back her martini twice and was treated like royalty. Two men in wrinkled jackets at a corner table waited eleven minutes for water.
The machine worked.
It just had no soul.
Then you saw her.
She was in her late twenties, maybe younger, with chestnut hair pulled into a tight ponytail and the kind of face that would have looked bright if exhaustion had not lived under her eyes. Her name tag read NORA. Her uniform was spotless, but her shoes were worn at the edges. You noticed details because you had trained yourself to, and because there was something about the way she moved that did not match the rest of the room.
She was quick, but not frantic. Polite, but not false. Tired, but still present.
When she reached your table, she didn’t do what the hostess had done. Her eyes took you in, but they did not harden.
“Good evening, sir,” she said. “Can I start you with something to drink?”
