fruits it eats.
Tarte tatin of apple and pear with walnut brittle ice cream , 14 euros. It talks to the bushes and flowers through the seeds it devours.
Valrhôna chocolate tartlets with cherry sorbet and Mon Chéri , 15 euros. It whirrs along in the perpetual cycle. Harsh winter, either way.
The pianist appears to have found in Levadski an addressee for his noble feelings of pity. In recognition he squints over at him and plays Bridge Over Troubled Water .
Iced “Mozart dumplings” with Amaretto foam , 12 euros. The piano player’s button eyes flash contentedly during some bars of music, as if there weren’t a care in the world. But, my God, it is true: a person who knows music can never be unhappy.
Tiramisu with basil foam and baked raspberries , 14 euros. My mother was in the habit of happily saying. She did not say it to me or to anyone else, but to herself, sighing deeply down at me.
The savory alternative: A selection of local and imported cheeses with nuts and grapes, 15 euros . I too was once no higher than a dining table. What about Beethoven, I could have asked her, how could he be happy as a deaf man?
Levadski orders the chocolate cake. In a matter of minutes it arrives. His memory of it is different. That is, if he remembers it at all. Levadski sinks his fork into the fragile shell of his slice of cake and notices that he feels hot and dizzy. As if a sticky sweet claw were rummaging inside his chest, soft as butter. Suddenly he is a boy, sitting in a church in Lemberg during the midday prayer service. Whimpering, he is sitting on a hard pew, letting the tears roll freely down his stony face. He doesn’t dream of wiping them away. He is sitting in the Catholic church like in a jewelry box. He is here to cry in safety until he is exhausted, until he is totally cleansed and free from care. Madly in love, he believes he will die, become crippled and impoverished. Levadski bathes his young face in tears and in self-pity. “Oh Lord, we confess, we are sinners. We are all sinners before you,” the priest mumbles. Levadski blows his nose. “And do not turn away from us,” the priest prays. Covered in tears, the little martyr looks up towards the ceiling. The Holy Spirit is directly above him, frozen, soaring in perpetuity. Levadski imagines that this dove also has an eye on him, he cannot be lonely, and he cries all the more. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, we pray of you, Holy Mary, we pray of you.”
With a sense of elation, Levadski once again turns his attention to his slice of cake. This madness must have gotten into him on that day of the church service. What was the girl’s name again? Dunia? Apolonia? Seraphina? Could well be. Not even a name any more. Just these palpitations. What’s in a name anyway?
A corpulent gentleman with white combed-back pomaded hair throws his napkin on the table with a dull thud. He wants to pay. He pays and leaves.
“She is in Cyprus playing bridge,” an older waiter whispers to a younger waiter in passing.
“Good for her,” the young colleague exclaims, without turning around. A tiny piece of silver foil is stuck to his striped trousers. When he turns the corner with a laden tray, the foil is snatched away by a gust of air and washed up beneath one of the tables.
Levadski’s eyes wander around the room. The great-aunts sat over there with me, sometimes mother joined us. Over there, where a young couple are toasting each other with champagne glasses filled to the brim. How deeply they look into each other’s eyes – disgusting. The world surrounding the two is a gently rippling lake, and they themselves are a boat adorned with flowers. A sinking one. An embarrassing one. A moving one. The only possible and genuine boat at this moment in time. Any second now the young man will notice the waitress’s calves and destroy the pastoral.
We sat over there, as well, in one of the window niches. The blue-cushioned seating areas must have only recently sprung out of
Tarte tatin of apple and pear with walnut brittle ice cream , 14 euros. It talks to the bushes and flowers through the seeds it devours.
Valrhôna chocolate tartlets with cherry sorbet and Mon Chéri , 15 euros. It whirrs along in the perpetual cycle. Harsh winter, either way.
The pianist appears to have found in Levadski an addressee for his noble feelings of pity. In recognition he squints over at him and plays Bridge Over Troubled Water .
Iced “Mozart dumplings” with Amaretto foam , 12 euros. The piano player’s button eyes flash contentedly during some bars of music, as if there weren’t a care in the world. But, my God, it is true: a person who knows music can never be unhappy.
Tiramisu with basil foam and baked raspberries , 14 euros. My mother was in the habit of happily saying. She did not say it to me or to anyone else, but to herself, sighing deeply down at me.
The savory alternative: A selection of local and imported cheeses with nuts and grapes, 15 euros . I too was once no higher than a dining table. What about Beethoven, I could have asked her, how could he be happy as a deaf man?
Levadski orders the chocolate cake. In a matter of minutes it arrives. His memory of it is different. That is, if he remembers it at all. Levadski sinks his fork into the fragile shell of his slice of cake and notices that he feels hot and dizzy. As if a sticky sweet claw were rummaging inside his chest, soft as butter. Suddenly he is a boy, sitting in a church in Lemberg during the midday prayer service. Whimpering, he is sitting on a hard pew, letting the tears roll freely down his stony face. He doesn’t dream of wiping them away. He is sitting in the Catholic church like in a jewelry box. He is here to cry in safety until he is exhausted, until he is totally cleansed and free from care. Madly in love, he believes he will die, become crippled and impoverished. Levadski bathes his young face in tears and in self-pity. “Oh Lord, we confess, we are sinners. We are all sinners before you,” the priest mumbles. Levadski blows his nose. “And do not turn away from us,” the priest prays. Covered in tears, the little martyr looks up towards the ceiling. The Holy Spirit is directly above him, frozen, soaring in perpetuity. Levadski imagines that this dove also has an eye on him, he cannot be lonely, and he cries all the more. “Holy Mary, Mother of God, we pray of you, Holy Mary, we pray of you.”
With a sense of elation, Levadski once again turns his attention to his slice of cake. This madness must have gotten into him on that day of the church service. What was the girl’s name again? Dunia? Apolonia? Seraphina? Could well be. Not even a name any more. Just these palpitations. What’s in a name anyway?
A corpulent gentleman with white combed-back pomaded hair throws his napkin on the table with a dull thud. He wants to pay. He pays and leaves.
“She is in Cyprus playing bridge,” an older waiter whispers to a younger waiter in passing.
“Good for her,” the young colleague exclaims, without turning around. A tiny piece of silver foil is stuck to his striped trousers. When he turns the corner with a laden tray, the foil is snatched away by a gust of air and washed up beneath one of the tables.
Levadski’s eyes wander around the room. The great-aunts sat over there with me, sometimes mother joined us. Over there, where a young couple are toasting each other with champagne glasses filled to the brim. How deeply they look into each other’s eyes – disgusting. The world surrounding the two is a gently rippling lake, and they themselves are a boat adorned with flowers. A sinking one. An embarrassing one. A moving one. The only possible and genuine boat at this moment in time. Any second now the young man will notice the waitress’s calves and destroy the pastoral.
We sat over there, as well, in one of the window niches. The blue-cushioned seating areas must have only recently sprung out of
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