If one of us-I can’t remember who-hadn’t made a comment about the decline in service, we never would have known each other for regulars. We had one of those I-think-this-belongs-to-you moments, like around the baggage carousel at an airport. Poor thing, she looked no end of harried. Until, that is, our waitress mixed up our drink orders-his was a Shirley Temple, of all things-set them down in front of us, and moved on before either of us could say a word. He’d brought a book, too, used it as a shield, just like I did. So I opened my book and, with the empty eye of the horn staring back at me, waited for the waitresses to finish running tabs and rushing out the stragglers, so they could begin to accommodate the new patrons, some of whom were still waiting outside in a line that stretched halfway down the block. It was here or the bar and the bar, all the way in the rear, beset by the noises of glass and ice and money changing hands, was out of the question. But it was Friday night, and the name on the bill-the crossover hit, the Grammy nomination-was the sort that grabs people who don’t usually go out for jazz. My usual table was further back, against the piano-side wall, under the big black-and-white photo of Charlie Haden. I met him at one of the city’s high-end jazz clubs, at the second set of a two-set evening, at a small round table pushed so close to the stage I could have touched the claw foot of the piano bench, the bell of the horn waiting on its stand.