The beer on tap is “craft.” The $13 cocktails – whose ingredients might as well be listed in Klingon for its ease of readability – are poured by mixologists wearing bow ties and newsboy caps. For some indescribable reason, there’s olive oil powder on my dessert plate. Then there’s the burger. The building I’m eating in is covered in white subway tiles, filled with community tables carved from reclaimed wood and decorated with mason jars.