The other day my friend Dani and I went out into the crisp Tel-Aviv night for a refreshing walk, having spent the whole day indoors studying.
Strolling down King George street, we were lured down a narrow passageway by the sound of Frank Sinatra crooning “Fly me to the moon”….not your average club song. The music led us to one of those hidden treasures that everyone hopes to find. The passageway opened up into a garden; an exquisite flower of a bar called “Par Derriere”. We stood there dumbly, taking it in, when a waitress timidly asked us if we wanted to be seated at a table. Her question jolted us back to reality.
“Hell yes, we’d like a table!”
(ok, I didn’t actually say the hell part but I was thinking it)
Ordering was easy. Fondue. Melting cheese and wine and butter. The holy trinity of decadence. All the ingredients of happiness dipped in bread. Dani, who hails from Australia, erupted into squeals of excitement when she saw an Australian Shiraz on the wine list. So we ordered that too.
The fondue arrived in it’s fondue pot. Our waitress, concerned for our fondue-experience, worriedly checked the pot every couple of minutes to make sure the flame underneath hadn’t gone out. At one point, she announced that the fire was too low to maintain the proper heat. Rushing back from the kitchen, she knelt down and fiddled with the pot, replacing the defective flame with a fresh one, while Dani and I smiled stupidly. We’d had a lot of wine and butterwine cheese by then.
Finally the waitress got back up from her kneeling position by the fondue pot.
“I think it should be fine now.” she said, giving it an affectionate pat.
“You are like The Fondue Whisperer” I said to her.
She smiled but I don’t think she knew what I was talking about.