My first visit to Harry's Bar in Rome is forever implanted in my brain. A silver-haired Anthony Hopkins look-alike in a proper white barman's coat standing behind a small, U-shaped bar was slowly, serenely stirring a gin martini, unfazed by the after-work throng shouting drink orders at him. He was the picture-perfect bartender, neither intrusive nor aloof, but friendly, plying his trade at his own speed. Today, two decades later, the curved bar is longer with a polished brass rail for leanin ...

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