The front entrance of The Topaz was a portal between the gray emptiness of the cold city and a temporary Shangri La for those allowed in. A set of semi-circular stairs came up from a small foyer to a waiting area with rich, inlaid marble flooring. Black stripes emanated from a massive “T” in a star-like pattern. The waiting area was large and comfortable with couches against the curtained windows.

Two dozen patrons waited for tables that did not exist. It was prime dinner time on Thursday night. Only a fool would waltz in without a reservation. Fools there were, I saw them like I had almost every night since we opened. I gazed through them. They stared at me.

My impeccable black tuxedo, gold cummerbund and white wingtips were the trademark, my posture and slick black coif finished the look. Yes it was I, the owner, standing at attention atop the huge “T” in the floor. What could possibly hold such a man motionless while his world roiled with action behind him?

Alberto DiSibio alit the top step.