“Don’t look,” said my friend Alon. “But the former Shin Bet chief just sat down at the table to our right.”
I gazed intently into my soy latte and then, without moving my head, squinted over in the direction of said table.
illustration by Avi Katz
“All I see is a blur,” I said. “I think I need to get my peripheral vision checked.”
“No, that’s really the way he looks,” said Alon.
Alon is a correspondent for one of the major dailies. I’d called him in desperation on Saturday night because I had a column to prepare and had no idea what to write. Alon knows everyone and everything and I figured he’d be able to slip me a scoop.
“Meet me at 10 a.m. in the Aroma Café on Arlosoroff Street,” he told me. “We’ll brainstorm. And it’s a good place to pick up a tidbit or two.”
The cafe was buzzing at mid-morning. Nearly every table was taken, and at least one person at each table was a familiar face. Over the bar hung a large sign with large letters: “Aroma Arlosoroff: A Quiet Spot For Intimate Encounters.” The morning sun flooded in through the plate glass windows that made up three of the café’s four sides.
“It’s where I meet my most confidential sources,” Alon whispered as we walked through the door. “If you come here, you gotta know how to keep a secret.”
“I see there’s free WiFi,” I said.
“Hey, stop staring,” Alon hissed.
“But that guy over there, surrounded by the paparazzi,”