Read Online Heloise and Bellinis by Harry Cipriani - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harry Cipriani
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phrases.
Fortunately, he woke up at that point. His pasty mouth immediately reminded him of the previous night’s menu: beef stew and lyonnaise potatoes. And the bottle and a half of cabernet he had drunk was still gurgling in his stomach. He got up for a drink of water and to slow his heartbeat. His heart continued to pound even after he woke up from the nightmare.
He couldn’t get back to sleep, so at six o’clock he went out for the morning papers. By seven o’clock he had already downed five cups of coffee and was beginning to feel better, but he knew his day was ruined. He waited until the cleaning people came at seven-thirty and then began to go over the previous day’s receipts. Business was good. The Beirut bar was probably the most profitable after the ones in Venice and New York. The odd war that had been going on for years brought a great many people to Beirut—newspapermen, curiosity seekers, gunrunners, and a host of tourists as well. They crossed the Atlantic on War-Express charter flights for the excitement of experiencing a bombing. The main thrill of the tour was that you could buy the return ticket only in Beirut a few minutes before the return flight. There was deathly suspense in the air until the very last moment. And this last-ditch atmosphere substantially increased people’s willingness to spend. People who had money were happy to spend it all—who knows, they might die at any moment. People who didn’t have any money cheerfully used up all their credit on the assumption that death would cancel all debts. So the cash register rang and the lOUs mounted rapidly at Harry’s Bar. Harry was not too worried about the lOUs: his sister Karmel was a fine lawyer, and her specialty was bad-debt collection.
The doors of Harry’s Bar opened about ten o’clock in the morning. There were several different phases of a day at Harry’s. Kitchen activity was the main thing in the morning. The dining room was often empty then, and it was normal to hear the sounds of pots and pans and the rapid remarks the cooks exchanged as they got things ready for the day A customer wandered in from time to time. At that hour they usually ordered coffee or orange juice.
About eleven o’clock that particular morning—and it wasn’t the first time—-a tour leader opened both doors to show the dining room to a couple of dozen men and women who were visiting sanctuaries of all the religions. Harry’s Bar was one of them. More than once Harry had thought of installing a holy-wine fount by the door so that these pilgrims could dip their fingers and make the sign of the cross.
The regular customers usually turned up at eleven-thirty; they were the ones who boasted that they had attended the opening eight years before. A table was set aside for them every day Harry referred to them as the senators. They were not people whose presence attracted attention, but you noticed at once if they weren’t there. As the day went on, the small room, fifteen by thirty feet in all, began to take on a life of its own. This may have been the inmost secret of Harry’s Bar. It was the human spirit that dominated the place, but within the boundaries Harry laid down. They were the boundaries of civility, which had been passed down to Harry by his father, who had learned them from his grandfather, who in turn had tried to grasp everything his great-grandfather taught him.
Waves of feeling constantly rolled across the room and met without colliding, because they arose from the heart of what was best in people. Harry perceived the leitmotiv of this equilibrium as the enduring sound of a balanced and well-tempered harmony
If anyone or anything upset this harmony, Harry intervened at once. It wasn’t always easy, but things always got straightened out in the end. The life force came from everywhere: from the kitchen, where the cooks were under constant pressure; from the bar, where the waiters were attentive but relaxed in serving the
Fortunately, he woke up at that point. His pasty mouth immediately reminded him of the previous night’s menu: beef stew and lyonnaise potatoes. And the bottle and a half of cabernet he had drunk was still gurgling in his stomach. He got up for a drink of water and to slow his heartbeat. His heart continued to pound even after he woke up from the nightmare.
He couldn’t get back to sleep, so at six o’clock he went out for the morning papers. By seven o’clock he had already downed five cups of coffee and was beginning to feel better, but he knew his day was ruined. He waited until the cleaning people came at seven-thirty and then began to go over the previous day’s receipts. Business was good. The Beirut bar was probably the most profitable after the ones in Venice and New York. The odd war that had been going on for years brought a great many people to Beirut—newspapermen, curiosity seekers, gunrunners, and a host of tourists as well. They crossed the Atlantic on War-Express charter flights for the excitement of experiencing a bombing. The main thrill of the tour was that you could buy the return ticket only in Beirut a few minutes before the return flight. There was deathly suspense in the air until the very last moment. And this last-ditch atmosphere substantially increased people’s willingness to spend. People who had money were happy to spend it all—who knows, they might die at any moment. People who didn’t have any money cheerfully used up all their credit on the assumption that death would cancel all debts. So the cash register rang and the lOUs mounted rapidly at Harry’s Bar. Harry was not too worried about the lOUs: his sister Karmel was a fine lawyer, and her specialty was bad-debt collection.
The doors of Harry’s Bar opened about ten o’clock in the morning. There were several different phases of a day at Harry’s. Kitchen activity was the main thing in the morning. The dining room was often empty then, and it was normal to hear the sounds of pots and pans and the rapid remarks the cooks exchanged as they got things ready for the day A customer wandered in from time to time. At that hour they usually ordered coffee or orange juice.
About eleven o’clock that particular morning—and it wasn’t the first time—-a tour leader opened both doors to show the dining room to a couple of dozen men and women who were visiting sanctuaries of all the religions. Harry’s Bar was one of them. More than once Harry had thought of installing a holy-wine fount by the door so that these pilgrims could dip their fingers and make the sign of the cross.
The regular customers usually turned up at eleven-thirty; they were the ones who boasted that they had attended the opening eight years before. A table was set aside for them every day Harry referred to them as the senators. They were not people whose presence attracted attention, but you noticed at once if they weren’t there. As the day went on, the small room, fifteen by thirty feet in all, began to take on a life of its own. This may have been the inmost secret of Harry’s Bar. It was the human spirit that dominated the place, but within the boundaries Harry laid down. They were the boundaries of civility, which had been passed down to Harry by his father, who had learned them from his grandfather, who in turn had tried to grasp everything his great-grandfather taught him.
Waves of feeling constantly rolled across the room and met without colliding, because they arose from the heart of what was best in people. Harry perceived the leitmotiv of this equilibrium as the enduring sound of a balanced and well-tempered harmony
If anyone or anything upset this harmony, Harry intervened at once. It wasn’t always easy, but things always got straightened out in the end. The life force came from everywhere: from the kitchen, where the cooks were under constant pressure; from the bar, where the waiters were attentive but relaxed in serving the
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