We’re seated at a high table between a swanky bar and fancy bowling alley that was designed in Hungary. A child at the table next to us is busy with a pizza. Another toddler has his hands on his ears. We’d do the same—the music is too loud. It’s 9.30 pm and bedtime for the kids. 

The steward who serves us is rash. He insists we try kung pao chicken before we have made our choice. This dish rings a bell since minutes ago, he had dumped a plateful on our table after the guests next to us sent it back, screaming, “We are vegetarian.” Are we reading too much into it? Throughout our meal, he opens the side drawer of a cabinet into the back of our chair, without apology or excuse.