A blood sport in the coffee house
FORMIDABLE and grand on a hilltop in Camden, the glass-fronted Prompt Corner chess café dominated the approach to Hampstead. It was springtime in England, one year before Bobby Fischer’s conquest of the chess world. I walked into the café full of confidence, eager to test my new chess skill. All around the sides people sat at tables smoking, watching and playing chess. There was some noise — bursts of approval and dwindling growls of disappointment — but not enough for so large a group. Laughter was aware of itself, and so was conversation.
A short middle-aged guy in a much faded suit sat with patrician remoteness watching a game near the door. I ordered a coffee and caught his eye. Fancy a game? I mouthed silently. He nodded a yes.
