Restaurant Sound Bath

No. 4

Jan 26, 2026

The week ended with me sitting in the basement of the restaurant in the pitch black. Three quarters of the way through service, while packing up someone’s chicken soup to-go, a bright flash caught my eye, or rather got caught in my eye. A migraine was descending, preempted by auratic circles of blinding light. I have medication that sometimes works so I took it and sequestered myself, hoping that it would do what it occasionally does - lift the migraine out of my body. While briefly visually impaired, with my grey scarf wrapped around my face and head to block out any slivers of light, I - like a bat uses echolocation to see in the dark - started using the sounds that permeated from restaurant to basement to understand what was going on above me.

Easy to identify were Henry’s rushing feet traveling from kitchen to front room, and back again. Then came Marco’s slower, more bouncy stride, curving towards the bar to gather dishes. A dull scraping of chairs being dragged meant a table for two was transitioning to four. After many minutes of frenetic scurrying, I heard broom bristles across terracotta tiles. Someone was sweeping the whole kitchen. This is how I knew things were under control. A full sweep only happens when we are not drowning, when someone has time on their hands. An energetic reset.

Morning quiet.

Sound baths are deeply immersive, meditative experiences. Their goal - through the colliding tones of singing bowls, gongs, tuning forks, cymbals - is to shift the body and mind into deep relaxation, promoting physical and mental well-being. In my migraine haze, I felt as though I was immersed in a restaurant sound bath. The daily chorus of pots, playlists, clanking plates, tumbling silverware, spoons scraping bowls - though not always relaxing, does give rise to a sort of flow state. You get swept up in the needs and momentum of the day. Your body falls into a set of motions memorized. You get outside of yourself, by widening the aperture of need to more than just your own. Your actions are for the collective group of people within the walls of the restaurant. I think this is often the point of meditation, to get outside of your ruminating self.

We ritually interrupt the quiet early morning on Nostrand with the clanking of our rising metal gate as it retreats into its shell, like a snail. This time of year - the only time I’ve ever known as a restaurant owner - the day begins with the click on of the heaters. A benevolent beep that makes you want to trust them all over again, though they have never adequately stood up to a twenty degree or below day.

Once inside Henry turns on the oven and the fan roars back to life. Then it’s time to test the ticket printers. We tried to purchase the majority of items in the restaurant used, which for has worked out well for the most part. It requires some chutzpah to purchase griddles, ice machines, work tables - all from restaurants that failed - with the belief that yours won’t be one of them. Or maybe failed isn’t the right way to put it. That their life cycle came to its natural point of conclusion. Either way, much of our equipment and furniture had a life before us, including our ticket printers. They have a sort of screeching sound, like what I imagine the first printer ever created may have sounded like - straining to give you the information you need, a bit reminiscent of a fax dial-tone. There must be a more elegant option available, but we’ve yet to get around to it. It’s the restaurant sound I hear most in my dreams.

As long as the apple fritters are on the menu there will be fryer oil hitting the pot first thing in the morning. Cold oil cascades into the rondeau with a gurgle and a thwap, as though lethargic. The particles begin to gain speed as they warm up, converting heat into energy, quickly bouncing around with less resistance. The tempered fritter dough is met with a hiss as it enters the oil; water evaporating. Hiss, flip, hiss, then quiet. This hush, an indicator that the fritter is cooked all the way through. Simultaneously, there is the repetitive splat of elastic dough on metal sheet pans, as Henry lays logs of pizza bianca dough down to rise.

We mix the fritter glaze in a secondhand large bowl, who, in its past life, appears to have been the victim of BB gun target practice. It is covered in tiny little dimples. When you run it through the dishwasher, the rinse cycle sounds like a rainstorm, with the water droplets ricocheting off the uneven aluminum surface. Sort of beautiful. Whooshes of steam escape the oven every twenty-five minutes with fresh loaves now ready to become sandwiches.

Then service begins and there is the crunch of crusty bread being sliced, giving way to a doughy center. Plates thumping down on metal tables. Clank of stacking ceramic mugs. When the pace picks up, all the sounds coalesce into one general - most of the time - joyful cacophony. The music crescendoes. I often can’t tell if the music is controlling the energy or vice versa.

Sounds slow and become wet towards the end of day. Water runs to clean dishes and wipe out the multitude of sinks. There are splashes of hot vinegar water on the floor to mop up the grime of the day. The hot water spigot gurgles, enabling my closing cup of tea.

I remember a quiet week or two before opening. The contractor’s work was done. The equipment was in-house but not yet plugged in. No low-grade hum of modernity. No staff. No press. Unknown and unknowable. The silence before a space reanimates.

We’re starting to take on catering and private events! Reach out to us at barkercafeteria@gmail.com if you’re interested!