My friend Toni just stopped by my coffee shop table to remark on how nice it is to hang out in a spot that pipes in a Beethoven trio. She's right. of course, but it triggered the memory of a more complex venue. I was sojourning in central London; you could get great bread from an Italian bake shop down in Soho. Walking home with a fresh score, you'd pass the coffee shops that were juicing up the morning lineup with--through the open windows--a strong dose of Mozart.
You'd also pass the hookers who, apparently having failed to make their nut for the night before, were still out there in their black net stockings trying to cadge their own trade.
Fresh bread, stale hookers and Mozart: my, that takes me back.