“Whaddya mean you’re having another double espresso?! What’s the matter with you Al?!”
“I dunno, something’s gotten into me, and the coffee is pretty good here.”
It was all my fault as usual. Having left a rather brilliant but harrowing movie – Victoria – we needed something to take the edge off. The cinema bar told us it was closing: “Well, we are in London after all and it’s almost midnight, so that makes sense” said my droll companion.
We walked out onto the festival type crowded streets of Soho wondering where to go, when it occurred to me. There really is only one place for such a moment. “Bar Italia” I said, “Let’s go there.”
Like a homing pigeon I found my way easily. Perhaps 20 years have elapsed since I last visited but on walking past the jovial heat-lamp-lit tables outside, I was relieved to see absolutely nothing had changed. The large screen at the back relayed football; even the waiters looked the same.
Miraculously two stools appeared free at the counter top. I quickly commandeered them whilst Al did the honours in the queue. Reaching for one seat nestled up close to another on which sat an elderly gent in animated conversation with a distinguished looking waiter, my hand was seized. “You’re trying to touch his ass?” Roxano, the latter, asked.
“No! No! I just need to grab the stool next to him!” I said laughing.
“You will see, it is as hard as a rock.”
Conversations with Strangers 