Off the beaten track, it doesn’t advertise, and the sign announcing its presence is almost invisible. You have to know the Alhambra is there in order to find it. The owner and maitre d’ is a little man whom the customers call Kamil. His name is Louis, his parents brought him to America before his eyes were open, and one of his brothers is a full professor at Columbia, but he likes to put on an act. When I brought Ceil Gorski into the place around 8:30, he smiled hugely at me and bowed halfway to the floor. “Salaam alekhim,” he said solemnly. “My pleasure, Mist’ London.” “Alekhim salaam,” I intoned, glancing over at Ceil while Louis showed us to a table. Our waiter brought a bottle of very sweet white wine to go with the entree. “I was bitchy before. I’m sorry about it.” “Forget it.” “Ed—”
