There it was, a faded sign, a pitch-dark eatery. We were the only patrons
After a day on the rock, we followed a path of steps hewn into the mountain, down into the Jewish quarter, hoping for supper. Tall houses shadowed each other. There it was, a faded sign, a pitch-dark eatery. We were the only patrons.
We put in our orders and waited. Something else was on the menu. The brother’s story. While the proprietor was mixing and serving behind wooden doors, his brother walked in and fell on a seat.
“I come here because there’s a shiur nearby, and if I go home,” he pointed outside, “I’m going to get comfortable on the couch, and I know myself, I won’t come back for the shiur. This is how I make it work.” Honesty and soup.
He’s a policeman, he told us, manning the fronts of Gibraltar. It’s a duty-free zone, a slip between continents where people try this and that, a huge gambling industry. Lots to keep a cop busy.
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