On 16 June 1922 it was mechanical mayhem: backstage the automated potato peeler, the whirring ice cream machine, the throbbing Frigidaire, the clanking dumb waiters. On stage - in the new restaurant - the greasy subservience of waiters not so dumb, the glug of poured wine, the unhurried chatter of the first and second class. But it won’t last. By the fifties the drunks have taken over an inebriated silence punctuated by shouts and protestations and calls of recognition to fellow travellers who’ve also fallen off the wagon. A roulette wheel now spins in the corner. But just occasionally here in the rattle of cup in saucer or the stacking of plates or the chink of cutlery or the drag of a chair on the floor a door opens, half opens, to the past, a gust of wind from far back: relics of a soundworld.