Arnon Grunberg



The other night I tried to get a table at Bar Pitti. It was a balmy evening. The outdoor space was packed and inside it was rather crowded as well.
I went to the bar, after a while a sweaty man asked me: “What do you want?” “I’d love to have a table for two,” I answered.
“You have to talk to the manager,” the sweaty man said.
“But where’s the manager?” I asked.
“He’s somewhere here, you will see him -- you can’t miss him.” I walked around a bit. I asked a waiter: “Are you the manager?” The waiter said: “Are you waiting for a table? You need to go outside, you cannot stay inside.” “But I need to see the manager,” I said.
“Not tonight,” he mumbled. He was sweaty as well.
I gave it one more try.
I approached another sweaty man with all my charm and youth. “You must be the manager,” I said.
Deep down I knew that there was no manager at Bar Pitti, there were just a couple of sweaty men.
This one didn’t even bother to answer.
My friend and I went to a French bistro where there was a manager but no air conditioner. I counted my blessings.

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