I was taking a friend for a birthday lunch in Brixton, one of London’s foodie neighborhoods. I’d booked the table weeks before, handed over a $36 deposit, submitted our dates of birth, and read the extensive rule book, which warned, “Failure to comply can result in security denying you entry.” A bit severe, I thought, but what high-end restaurant doesn’t make you jump through a few hoops?
Upon arrival we presented our passports for inspection and emptied our pockets of phones, chewing gum, and even tissues, in case they had been soaked in narcotics. As we stepped through an airport-style scanner, we were tingling with excited anticipation. It turns out that it’s almost as hard to enter a prison as it is to escape from one.
