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ordered, if what was served to them was satisfactory. When they answered that they were pleased with the service, that whatever they were served was good, he went on to say, “I hope that from now on you won’t pass me by.” He then took the opportunity to introduce himself. Actually, he had already introduced himself and told them his name. He had introduced himself earlier so he would be able to talk to them. He was introducing himself now to assert his position.
    Now that he had joined them, he thought it would not be inappropriate to say a few words. He began telling about himself: that he was new here in Palestine and in Jerusalem, that it had never occurred to him that he would come here, certainly not to live. “But,” he continued, “having come here, I wanted to set up a café like the one I had in Berlin. At first, I thought I would open a café in Tel Aviv, a dynamic city, teeming with action. But when I saw the cafés there, which are half out-of-doors, I decided against Tel Aviv. For I, dear sir and dear madam, see the café as an enterprise that should offer refuge from the street rather than drag the street along with it. In Tel Aviv, coffee drinkers sit outside, as if they’re drinking soda, not coffee. With your permission, madam, and yours, sir, let me say a few words on the subject of drinks. Every drink has its place. Wine loves a fine room, furnished like a parlor with chandeliers that light the room as well as the wine in the goblet. Your eyes are fixed on the goblet, and its eyes are fixed on you. Being gay and jubilant, you bring the goblets together and sing out, ‘ L’hayim .’ Tea loves grayish yellow walls and a low ceiling. It inhabits its cup like a mandarin ruling his domain. Cocoa loves a cloth embroidered with roses and butterflies, with cake alongside the cocoa and cream topping them both. Beer loves an old, dusky cellar with oak tables, heavy and bare. A cocktail is at home anywhere, asking nothing of those who drink it. It sits watching with sadistic pleasure as people clamor for an illicit drop whose mother doesn’t know who its forebears were and is even unsure of her own daughter’s genealogy. And so on, with every sort of drink. Each one has its place. Coffee is foremost, with a special place named for it. Whoever comes for a cup of coffee comes to relax, to be refreshed. There, in Tel Aviv, you sit on the street, drinking, without knowing what you are drinking, engaging every passerby, arguing, shouting, contending, though no one can be heard, while a small, dark Yemenite crawls about applying the tools of his trade to the assorted footwear. He alone, I would say, is of any consequence. While he shines a man’s shoes, the fellow’s head could be switched with someone else’s, and neither of them would notice, in the general commotion, that head and shoulders are mismatched. Even here in Jerusalem, all is not well. It’s hard to find a good spot and hard to find waiters. You’re forced to hire waitresses. I don’t deny that waitresses have something waiters lack, but they’re impatient. They don’t have the patience guests deserve. There are guests who don’t know what they want, and a waiter must know what to suggest and how to use hypnosis sometimes to make them think it was their own idea to order as they did. Not only do waitresses fail to help a guest, but their brash manner confuses him. I stand by in silence. If I speak up, the union will be after me. If you will permit me, sir and madam, I would like to tell you what happened to me here in Jerusalem. I once threw a waitress out of my café. I won’t claim I was one hundred percent right, but surely ninety-nine. Picture this: I am standing and talking to her, and she yawns in my face. I yelled at her and said, ‘Take your rag and get out.’ As soon as she left, her friends stopped working and followed her, declaring that they were on strike. I laughed and said, ‘Strike, my girls, strike. Such meager