The restaurant is inside Crown casino.

Someone told me that the bill in highest circulation in Australia is the $100 because of the vast amount they keep on site at Crown. And appropriately, everything is gold.

Before tonight, I’d only seen it from a distance. From the train I’d gazed at its towering form, its oversized signage and the flamethrowers that punctuate its walls. They serve as a warning: the house always wins.

We’re seated by the window with a view across the river to the office workers illuminated at their desks, to my past self going by in a train carriage.

Of course my martini is flavoured with celery seed and the waiters scramble out of my way as I walk through the tables. Of course they push my chair in for me.

Of course the doors are hidden to disorient and the chalk extract enhances the champagne’s flavour. Of course the wine is older than I am and I eat the crispy pig’s ears against my better judgment.

Of course there are pineapples slowly rotating on a spit and the ice cream is made at the table with liquid nitrogen.

Of course the paté looks like a mandarin. I don’t know what else I was expecting.

As we eat, the fireballs rage outside our window. They blush our faces orange, but we are shielded from the heat.

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