The tables at B (op. cit.) are trays of pebbles drowned in clear epoxy.
Sadly, these are communal tables, so if you head off to the nicest-ever crip washroom, when you come back you find yourself tactically surrounded by office ladies. “Oh, I’m sorry. Were you sitting here?”
On the other hand, the plasma screen runs movies with English same-language subtitles, further revealing the folly of such. (Plus they’ve got their aspect ratios wrong.)