the gamepaper
one sheet, a few folds, and suddenly it's a tiny gamepaper.
ask at the counter
printed both sides, folded into the little paper booklet everyone learned to make in school. eight pages, one game each, and a full page on the back to colour in. buy anything at all and it's yours, pen included. eight pages of nothing useful — exactly what you need: tic-tac-toe, dots and boxes, hangman, sudoku, scrambles built entirely from this menu, and a crossword where every answer is hiding somewhere in this café. one ink, cheap paper, blue like everything else we own. the back page keeps score, runs its own classifieds, and carries eight stamp circles. leave your number and email at the counter and the stamps live online too — eight of them and the next cookie is on us. unfold the whole thing and colour the café instead; you're sitting in the illustration.
“no screens. no wifi. no winners, unless you’re petty about it.”