Sometime in the mid-Eighties I was taken to a strange, out of the way restaurant in North London called Dick Turpin's. It was in a townhouse, and there were only a couple of tables.

The waitress changed outfits between every course, sometimes appearing as a ballerina, sometimes as a cowgirl. There were no menus. Food appeared and was taken away, very good wine was poured, champagne was offered, as were racing forms, a deck of cards.

At one point a fellow with dark hair and sad eyes wandered in, took a guitar down from the wall, sat down on a broken wooden chair, played a few melancholy pieces, then disappeared. He wasn't performing, just sitting, having a glass of wine with a guitar in his hands, but each note was clear and simple as crystal. Perfect.

Turns out it was Julian Bream, who lived next door. Late in the evening the waitress slid under the table and offered to tell our fortunes by examining our ankles. It was that sort of place.

Brian Cullman is Journal of the Plague Year's West Village Editor. (And Music Editor.)

The New York Times Obituary for Julian Bream.

Melancholy Gaillard (John Dowland) ::: Julian Bream

Little Prelude (Bach) ::: Julian Bream

Cordoba (Albeniz) ::: Julian Bream

Serenata Española (Joaquim Malets) :::: Julian Bream

Semper Dolens (John Dowland) ::: Julian Bream

Fantasia (John Dowland) ::: Julian Bream