The room
A lake bay, not a warehouse lane
Suite 5 faces Main Street glass. The wheel sits in the back so grind dust does not blow onto the plate. The plate itself is a short strip of winter rye over a frozen-then-thawed mat we built to mimic Erie-side aprons, not a generic range carpet.
What you hear first
Harbor wind on the glass, then the wheel. We keep the radio off during a sit. If a plow goes by, we wait — the floor shakes enough to lie about camber crown.
Shoes stay on. Buffalo golfers arrive from the lot in winter boots more often than spikes. We have a tray for both. Bring the ball you actually play in 716 weather; the barrel mix is only for warm-up that does not count.
What you will not find
- A wall of heads still in plastic
- A “one bounce for every player” poster
- A Tuesday desk — the wheel is cold those two days
- A lesson plan pretending to be a grind
The plate and the paper
Every counted swing leaves a stain we photograph against a steel ruler. Camber crown is marked in millimetres of rise from leading edge to mid-sole. Trail relief is a second mark. You leave with a sheet, not a slogan. If the stain is dishonest — a lunge, a guest swing — it is crossed out in hazard yellow.
The bay holds two people at most: you and the grinder. A third person can sit on the bench by the window. No gallery. Lake-effect golf is already loud enough.