Thursday, September 19, 2019

The shopkeeper makes the affogato in reverse, at least compared to other places that I've ordered it. First, she draws a shot of espresso into a wide paper cup. Once that's ready, she plops the scoop of cinnamon gelato that I've requested onto the center. "A good choice," she says. "Cinnamon complements coffee well." She speaks to me in Hebrew-accented English, as she does to all the customers and to all the other workers. When not speaking to her, the workers talk among themselves in Hebrew and Arabic, and the shopkeeper switches to fluent Hebrew if a customer insists. But it's her shop, she's the boss, and apparently she likes English best. I sit outside, alone at the one unoccupied table. A woman with a pistachio cone sits on a bench a meter or so away, deftly catching the drips before they can hit her elegant clothes. I gesture to her, inviting her to join me, but she declines. Once I get up, though, she dives onto the table's other chair, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser and nabbing a blob of gelato as it falls. I nod at her and smile. Now that I'm leaving, she smiles back.