Is This the Place?
But really, is it the same place, that Cosy old-fashioned bistrot we used to eat in Years ago, so many years, one forgets How many.
But surely it was right here. And surely There’s something about the shape. And yet They’ve changed it completely, haven’t they? Or have they? This could be somewhere different.
Here with the tulip lanterns, the tables Covered in sheer white over petticoats of pink, And the walls bereft of those alpine prints, Those stags at eve, that army Of Napoleon retreating.
And the windows no longer draped In grubby lace, and the waiters No longer garbed with aprons but all dressed up In black trousers and white coats. It Can’t be the place. I think we’re mistaken.
But look, over there in the corner, Yes, that is the old proprietor, Still as old as ever, Bending to stick a piece of cardboard Under the leg of the wobbly table. Yes, this is the old place.
Muriel Spark
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