Behind closed wooden shutters on the ground floor of a nondescript hotel on Hayarkon Street in Tel Aviv, an authentic Victorian bar works its magic.
The hands of the clock pointed to six, the hour when all the world’s drinkers come out to refresh body and soul with the help of a magical glass. Wise foreigners call it “happy hour,” whereas in the White City of Tel Aviv, hardly anyone honors its sanctity. We were walking down Trumpeldor Street on the way to Hayarkon Street and the seashore, when a neon sign attracted our attention. “Imperial...
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