Kaddish for a Bar

I saw it while I was walking downtown yesterday. I didn’t quite believe it, but I knew that it was inevitable and wasn’t surprised. The venerable Fink’s Bar near the corner of HaHistadrut and King George streets was gone. In its place is a branch of the new and glitzy chain of fast-food eateries that are booming up all over town. A strange sadness overcame me as I gazed in silence at the former watering hole once prized by journalists and diplomats as the finest bar in the Middle East and one of the finest in the world.

Now, why would I mourn the loss of a bar? I am by no means a barfly. I drink only occasionally and then, rarely more than one martini (Grey Goose, extra dry straight up with a twist) or a single malt scotch (old and smooth). But, Fink’s is, or was, no ordinary bar; Fink’s was an institution, part of the colorful history of Israel and the Middle East. It was the tangible connection to history that I miss more than the excellent martinis (more than a rarity in Jerusalem) and the mediocre Middle European food that marked Fink’s.

Fink’s was opened in 1932 by Moshe Fink, a courtly European innkeeper of the old school. Since 1945 the bar-restaurant was managed by the Rothschilds, first Dave and then his son-in-law Mouli. It was under Mouli’s reign at the bar that I came to know Fink’s. It was a tiny place—just six small tables and a few stools at the bar. The decor was old and tacky, looking the same in 2005 as it did 40 years earlier. Framed bar jokes and cartoons displayed humor as old and dusty as the surroundings. There was even one of those glass birds that bobbed up-and-down over a glass of colored liquid—as if praying paeans to the powers of booze. The bar was well stocked, to be sure, but to the untrained eye did not seem any more so than any other neighborhood bar. But, to the cognoscenti, Fink’s was known as a Mecca of mixology. There was hardly a mixed drink that could not be conjured to perfection by the barman. And, if you even mentioned a brand—no matter how esoteric—you would not be surprised to see it on the shelf behind the bar the next time you came by. Solomon, the young barkeep who was the last of a long and distinguished line of those who practiced at the bar, was so knowledgeable about whiskeys that he was a published author on the subject.

Fink’s fame was such that it was heralded by Newsweek Magazine as “one of the best bars in the world,” and it was also featured as one of the best by Time Magazine and Reader’s Digest.
The great and the near great sipped and supped at Fink’s over the years. Its long list of celebrity clientele included Marc Chagall, Leonard Bernstein, Isaac Stern, Paul Newman, Kirk Douglas, and more. But, it was as a watering hole for journalists, politicians and diplomats that Fink’s held real distinction. It is said that a diplomat, politician or public figure who has not been to Fink’s is simply not worth knowing. Legend has it that at the conclusion of the first Gulf War, the crew of CNN called in a reservation to Fink’s from Baghdad. Another story holds that Henry Kissinger was refused service at Fink’s because he demanded that the bar be closed for his exclusive use.

But, putting aside all the glitz and glamour of its customers (though by no means its ambience), for me the real significance of Fink’s is its role in history. It is, no was, a real historic landmark.
In its early years during the British mandate of Palestine Fink’s was an oasis of cordial interaction for the city’s British, Jewish and Arab elite. With the mixing together in the confines and conviviality of the bar of the three sides of the evolving conflict, who knows what secrets were passed or diplomatic initiatives floated under the watchful eye of the Jewish underground spying through the peephole above the door to the kitchen? And, because of its deceptive neutrality, Fink’s was the perfect place to locate a slick hiding the arms of the Haganah from the prying eyes of the British soldiers having a gin and tonic just ten feet away.

After Independence, Fink’s lost none of its cache as a gathering place for the movers-and-shakers who shaped the modern history of the Middle East and, especially of the young State of Israel. The likes of Moshe Dayan, Golda Meir, Itzhak Rabin, Abba Eban and Shimon Peres entertained visiting diplomats and dignitaries under the gaze of the tight-lipped bartender—always a paragon of discretion befitting one who was entrusted with the world secrets and delicate negotiations being discussed in his presence. Treaties and policies were crafted over drinks at Fink’s.

Over the years, Fink’s loyal following began to dwindle as the city and its tastes changed. There were fewer and fewer tourists who sought out Fink’s for its food, though it remained one of the few restaurants in Jerusalem where you could order Goulash soup, chopped liver and melon, homemade herring in Sherry, Tafelspitz and real wiener schnitzel—all authentic but hardly haute cuisine. And, with the advent of the numerous 5-star hotels and their bars, who needed to trudge over to Fink’s for a cocktail no matter how skillfully concocted.

About a year and a half ago (around October of 2004), Fink’s underwent a revolution—it went kosher. Succumbing to the realities of an ever-growing orthodox population in the city, Fink’s retooled its menu and completely converted its kitchen to attract more customers. But, alas, even this attempt at rescuing this temple of tippling was to no avail. The week that we arrived in Jerusalem in July Fink’s closed its doors for the last time. An institution, no, an historical landmark in this land of history passed from history. For months, the chained and bolted entry to the bar stood in silent mourning for its demise. I could deal with that, though sealed and empty, it still stood as witness to all that transpired within its shabby walls.

Then, as I got off the bus yesterday I saw that all remnants of Fink’s had disappeared. Neither plaque nor marker noted what once stood there. Instead a polished and new display case of pastries and light lunches occupied the spot where Solomon and his predecessors ruled the bar and windows brought the light and the street noise into what was once the intimate smoky shadows where history was made not just talked about.

It never ceases to amaze me how this country, seemingly obsessed with history and the redemption of the past, where archaeology is a national pastime, can so cavalierly erase remnants of its recent national legacy. And not just Fink’s is gone; it has joined the likes of the Café Atarah on Ben Yehudah Street where the Palmach (the striking arm of the pre-state Haganah army) met on the mezzanine—now a Burger King, and the Alaska ice cream parlor on Jaffa Road where the leaders of the Irgun conspired and planned their resistance to the British overlords—transformed into a pharmacy. Each of them is gone now and soon so will those who remembered them.

But, time and progress wait for no one and for no place, no matter how good the martinis were.
From now on, as I alight from the number 8 bus on King George, I know that I will look up and cast my gaze on the corner of HaHistadrut Street. And, I assure you, I will not see the glass and chrome eatery of the present, but—at least in my mind’s eye—I shall see the old brown exterior of Fink’s with its heavy metal and glass door providing entry to the warmth, culture and aromas of a time now passed. May its memory be for a blessing.

Shalom from Jerusalem.