Moments part 1

We used to spend those summer nights in Soho, in small, obscure Thai restaurants, lit solely by straw coloured candles, drinking rice wine and eating coconut ice cream. Then there were the nights we would go in less populated areas of London, walk down poorly lit alleyways to get to this Turkish place, something in between a den and a beer garden, increasingly often to the excitement of the large moustache-wearing owner. He would take us to his rooftop terrace, which was dimly lit by a few colourful glass lamps, and contained the most curious, but aesthetically pleasing assortment of objects. There were about seven large bean bags, circled around a tall shisha which was already being prepared, many chests made of dark wood, piles of newspapers from the 70s and a reasonably impressive collection of books. As soon as we sat down, always on the same spots, the Turk would rush down, as much as his weight would allow him, only to come back with a tray of steaming hot Turkish coffee served in these impossibly delicate little cups. I always had found it amusing how that tiny white ceramic object looked in the large hairy hands of the Turk. I think the first time he ever handed me one of those delicate cups he looked at me and said my eyes had the color of the coffee.