Inside smelled of firewood, roasting meat, and spilled beer. Drones painted the restaurant around us as a squat, wood-beamed room with a long wooden bar and roaring fireplace, where a bard plucked at a lute over the cackle of laughter and clatter of forks. Eight dancers twirled around each other in the center of the room with quick hops of their stockinged legs or flourishes of their skirts, each holding a domed silver platter. The few dozen guests slung tankards of ale and wiped their beer-slick hands on skirts and aprons. Stepping through the front door into this fantasy had made us a part of the play—probably the drones painting us as background characters—as me and Yusuf now wore dark tights and loose, white pirate shirts under velvet vests.

“Nice gams,” I said, eyebrow-arching at his legs.

“I feel like a brown Robin Hood.”

We dodged the dancers, sat down, and Gwenhwyfar herself made an appearance at our table, at least according to the wooden nametag that was pinned to her green corset. When we told her it was our first time here, she practically cackled in excitement. She’d spent years researching medieval feasts, she said, and folk dances and courtly love lyric poems, all to create this homage to the lost art of hospitality. With a scan of Hassan’s citizen card, we ordered some food and cider. She dipped into an elaborate curtsey that made my knees ache and spun away with a ripple of her skirts. I mean, I’d been a waiter to pay my bills, but if she ran the restaurant as a performance piece, more power to her.

I say “restaurant” with some sarcasm because food in this world is absolutely revolting, and this is coming from a non-food snob who’s survived for weeks on canned tuna and microwaveable rice because I’m broke. The great minds of this Earth had long ago solved the world hunger crisis by creating machines to 3D-print cubes of algae-based synthetic protein and fiber mixes. Food is a necessity, not culture—it’s like flavoring air—plus we were in England anyway, which is not exactly celebrated as a land of gourmands.

Cuisine here—and I say this with a mouthful of salt—uses spices and neuro-stimulating chemicals to fool your brain into thinking you’re chomping on paella or curry and not semi-firm mushcubes.