The Lenses That Rated Everything

Leander has worn his new smart lenses for three weeks, and he cannot imagine life without them. Wherever he looks, a small row of stars appears. The café on his corner has 4.6. The bench outside his office has 3.8.

At first, the stars feel like a gift. He never waits in a bad queue. He has not eaten a disappointing meal since the lenses arrived. Everything he chooses is, according to the numbers, a good choice.

This week he is visiting a city he has never seen, for a conference. On the first evening, he stands outside his hotel and looks up and down the street. Every restaurant glows with stars. He picks the one with 4.9 and walks straight there.

The food is fine. The room is full of people looking at their own small screens, or, like him, at nothing. Leander realizes that he cannot remember the last time he picked something because he wanted it. He simply follows the highest number.

The next evening he is tired and hungry, so he switches the lenses off and walks. Without the stars, the street looks plain. Some shops are dark, and others have no sign at all. He feels a little nervous, like a man who has lost his phone.

Then he smells something warm, a mix of garlic and fresh bread, coming from a narrow doorway. There is no rating and no menu in the window. "If I wait for a number, I will walk right past it," he thinks. He goes in.

Inside, there are only six tables. The cook waves from behind the counter. Without asking what he wants, she brings him a bowl of soup. It is the best meal he has eaten in months.

When he pays, the cook asks, "Are you going to leave us a review?" Leander laughs. "No," he says. "I'm going to come back tomorrow, and the day after that."

The next morning, he leaves the lenses in their case on the hotel desk. He walks out into the street, turns left for no reason at all, and follows his nose.