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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=459765" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Restaurant</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Restaurant; trattoria; tapas-bar; <br>weinstuben; sushi; cafeteria; eaterie; drive-by; gastro-pub…<br>what’s in a name? A meal by any other name<br>would smell as good…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">In 1765, M. Boulanger (well named) , a humble<br>soup-vendor, opened an establishment, <br>whose soups and broths he rightly called<br>‘restaurant’, for they were restorative…</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Watch this old French film: its very flickering<br>and jerking seems to give it life: waiters<br>in their long aprons, whisk in and out<br>to serve these terrace tables which we’re watching<br>as that accordeon wheezes, or<br>the barrel-organ evocatively, endlessly, <br>rolls out its sentiments..</div><div style="margin:10px 0">black berets; scarves; thoughtful Gauloise smoke; <br>the girls, neat hair; that simple chic<br>that rich and poor Parisiennes seem alike to share; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">this contented man, almost a stereotype<br>(and yet, he lives a life..) , rather overweight, <br>has evidently just emptied his plate, <br>lights his cigar; complacent? Or, <br>in so civilised a measure, <br>restored to his former self? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">This pair of lovers, evidently<br>having had a tiff, their coffees yet undrunk, <br>talk into each other’s pleadfire eyes, <br>reaching in them for a heart; <br>ah, now she stretches out her hand<br>across the table to seek his; <br>the accordeon plays its triumphant banality: <br>their love, restored..</div><div style="margin:10px 0">See there, at the furthest table, <br>that heavy, bereted, pipe-smoking man<br>who writes intensely; looks up briefly; <br>curtly indicates to that young girl<br>to sit with him, but not to interrupt: <br>isn’t that face familiar, at this Left Bank table? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Is he restoring a familiar world<br>to sing the barrel-organ’s tune; <br>or looking into a nothingness, <br>a being, a becoming, which will<br>in time, shatter all café-table minds, <br>steal waiters from their life of service, <br>yield Calais’s burghers to Hamburg’s faster food? …<br>or will the world read; worship for a space; <br>and then, from black-clad existentialness, <br>restore itself to brighter mental dress? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Café tables, open to the warm Spring air: <br>so old a tune, perhaps; but love is there..</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=459765" data-title="Restaurant de Michael Shepherd" data-description="Restaurant; trattoria; tapas-bar; 
weinstuben; sushi; cafeteria; eaterie; drive-by; gastro-pub…
what’s in a name? A meal by any other name
would smell as good…

In 1765, M. Boulanger (well named) , a humble
soup-vendor, opened an establishme..."></div>
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