It was my birthday, apparently the restaurant found out, and the waiter set down a dessert I had not ordered. "It's on the house." On the house. I asked which house. He smiled like I had made a joke. I had not made a joke. Someone was paying for this dessert, and I needed to know whom to honor. He gestured vaguely at the walls. "The house. The restaurant. It's free, man." Nothing is free. Someone always pays. Tonight, the building itself was paying. I stood. I bowed to the restaurant. To the beams. To the kitchen door. To the neon sign of a cactus wearing a hat. The waiter watched me do all of this, holding his tray, and said: "...I'll tell the owner." TELL HIM. Tell the lord of this house that his hospitality has been received and recorded. The dessert was fried ice cream, which should not be possible, and was. The house had not only paid — it had defied nature on my behalf. I have since written a review of five stars. I addressed it directly: "To the House: you honored a stranger on his birthday. The cactus sign guards a generous hall. NOBUNAGA." The owner replied: "Thanks Nobunaga!! Come back soon!!" Two exclamation points each. That house and I are bound now. The dessert was free. My loyalty was not. They purchased it forever, with ice cream they set on fire.