Nicholas Shakespeare is a book critic for the British Daily Telegraph Newspaper. He penned the line…”They failed because they didn’t have a dream”      A nice line that might have gone unnoticed were it not for the French Socialist politician Francois Hollande – who wants to be the next President – and who quoted the words in a speech, proclaiming it to be Shakespeare, assuming it to be William, not Nicholas.

Scholars who knew the Bard’s work backwards were puzzled by this unknown quote  and were soon on the trail of its authorship. It took a matter of a couple of hours before Hollande’s blunder was uncovered, and at the speed of light, the story spread round the wolrd’s press and blogoshpere and the French candidate wound up with egg on his face.

Now – Nicholas Hollande is not sure that he wrote the immortal line either. He is re-reading his books to try and find the quote.

      So Once again, we have a Shakespeare who may not be the author of the works attributed to him. Since Elizabethan times, there has ragged, in literary circles, a debate as to who actually wrote the great works of Shakespeare. Many scholars claim that most of his works were in fact penned by contemporaries Sir Francis Bacon or possibly Christopher Marlow. Short of finding a confession note on a slip of parchment from William; the works will remain Shakespearean.

Politicians will now be a little more careful when quoting Shakespeare in their speeches. But I urge them to relax.     They will be quoting the great man, whether they like it or not;  as pointed out by the Times Theatre critic, the late Bernard Levin in his history of the English language. He wrote:-

If you cannot understand my argument, and declare “It’s Greek to me”, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you claim to be more sinned against than sinning, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you recall your salad days, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you act more in sorrow than in anger; if your wish is farther to the thought; if your lost property has vanished into thin air, you are quoting Shakespeare; if you have ever refused to budge an inch or suffered from green-eyed jealousy, if you have played fast and loose, if you have been tongue-tied, a tower of strength, hoodwinked or in a pickle, if you have knitted your brows, made a virtue of necessity, insisted on fair play, slept not one wink, stood on ceremony, danced attendance (on your lord and master), laughed yourself into stitches, had short shrift, cold comfort or too much of a good thing, if you have seen better days or lived in a fool’s paradise -why, be that as it may, the more fool you , for it is a foregone conclusion that you are (as good luck would have it) quoting Shakespeare; if you think it is early days and clear out bag and baggage, if you think it is high time and that that is the long and short of it, if you believe that the game is up and that truth will out even if it involves your own flesh and blood, if you lie low till the crack of doom because you suspect foul play, if you have your teeth set on edge (at one fell swoop) without rhyme or reason, then – to give the devil his due – if the truth were known (for surely you have a tongue in your head) you are quoting Shakespeare; even if you bid me good riddance and send me packing, if you wish I was dead as a door-nail, if you think I am an eyesore, a laughing stock, the devil incarnate, a stony-hearted villain, bloody-minded or a blinking idiot, then – by Jove! O Lord! Tut tut! For goodness’ sake! What the dickens! But me no buts! – it is all one to me, for you are quoting Shakespeare.

William that is – not Nicholas.

Never did I feel that more than on a hot and balmy August night in the mid 1970’s when I first saw the film “Zorba the Greek”        Now, I am not in the habit of seeing a movie when on holiday but I couldn’t resist the little open air cinema in the town of Heraklion on the Greek Island of Crete.

Little did I realise it, but  that night  I had stumbled onto a minute bit of cinema and political history in the making. “Zorba the Greek” – released in 1964, was adapted from the book of the same name written by the Greek national literary hero Nikos Kazantzakis. Born in this small seaside hamlet, he now lies beneath a modest monument on a hill high above the town.

“Zorba” is one of those late sixties black and white films that looked ancient the day it was released, complete with dancing dots and scratches on the image and something not quite right about the sound throughout the screening.

But no matter – I was here to see the story of a young English bookish character (played by Alan Bates) arriving in Greece to revive the fortunes of an inherited dormant Lignite mine and his belief in himself. He meets Zorba, (played by Antony Quinn) a local character who spies an opportunity of work from this strange Englishman. They form a shaky alliance. Throughout a tortuous adventure of getting the Lignite Mine up and running they form a deepening bond as Zorba teaches him about life, love and most importantly, how to Dance!

The screening of this film, on this night, in this cinema would have been unremarkable were it not for the fact that Greece had just emerged from nine years of military rule by a Junta who seized power in a coup in 1967.

They were a nasty lot – as they always are. Devoid of humour or humanity, they tolerated no opposition. One such opponent, the left wing Greek composer Mikis Theodorakis, dared to speak out against the Junta. As always, this pissed them off greatly – so, like an Hellenic Taliban, they passed a law stating that his music could not be played in Greece – ever again. Theodorakis wrote the score for “Zorba the Greek”; consequently the film could not be shown in Greece.

This night, was the first screening of the “Zorba” in nearly a decade.

The atmosphere was electric. I had never heard such noises in an auditorium before. People were hooting and shouting, clambering over seats, greeting each other with hugs and kisses. Cold beer and Ouzo was handed forward over two rows of seats, friendly insults were exchanged over ten. I had several bottles thrust into my hands during the evening.

Smoking, miraculously, was still allowed; the blue haze drifted into the branches of the trees that hung motionless above us, festooned with strings of coloured light bulbs. The fragrance of Jasmine was strong in the warm night air. A slow hand-clap began; signifying the audience’s demand that the film begin. There was no time table in this sort of establishment.

The unseen projectionist began his magic.

The lights in the branches dimmed, but instead of the noise dying down, it increased; with whistles and cheers and shouts as the first black and white frames  flickered on the screen.

Then, like an unexpected drop in the wind, there was a few moments of silence suddenly replaced by the first chords of Bouzouki music that echoed on the open air walls.

Well! – The entire cinema audience erupted in a cacophony of screams and whoops and applause for the music they had been denied all those years.

I doubt I heard more than a dozen words of the film that night. When there was just dialogue, the audience talked and gossiped but when there was a single musical note, the audience’s enthusiasm knew no limits.    Old women dressed entirely in black sat with cheeses, olives and breads in their skirt laps, ferociously eating, toothlessly laughing at the film; men stood in the space between the seats and screen, arms on each others’ shoulders, dancing in the traditional Greek style mimicking the actors in the film.     Young girls and boys, under the cover of the festive excitement, stood in little groups by the trees, secretly seducing each other.   All manner of winged insects populated the beam between projector and screen.

But it was the music that everyone had come for.    As Zorba and the Englishman danced away their woes on the beach after the disastrous end to their venture, so too did the good people of Heraklion -  in that little open air cinema, dance away the last vestiges of a Junta’s ridiculous ban of a composer’s music.

Before anyone could believe it; the film was over.

As the lights came up, half the audience was already out the door carrying their party atmosphere out into the sleepy town.     Some stood around talking enthusiastically.   I soon found myself part of a group who insisted I joined them for food and drink.    I eventually crawled out of a taverna as dawn inched up over Kazantzakis’s tomb wondering where  my hotel was.  Despite my thumper of a headache I felt so good that I had experienced such a magical moment in a cinema.

“As I see it, there are two kinds of people in this world; People who love delis, and people you shouldn’t associate with.”   - Damon Runyon

You cannot talk about Miami Beach without mentioning, perhaps the most famous Miami Jew to have settled on the beaches; Wolfie Cohen.  He breezed in from Illinois in ‘47 and set about opening his first Deli; Wolfie Cohen’s , a one storey corner restaurant on 21^st & Collins with a menu no Jew or Gentile could argue with for a thousand miles around.

The original Wolfie's servicing the "Snowbirds" who came down from the frozen North to Miami Beach where they enjoyed their retirement in warmth.

On the opening day, Wolfie gave away the food for free, thousands of pastrami and corned beef sandwiches were woofed up till it was gone.  Nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd; and Woolfie’s name took off.

A few years later, Wolfie opened another up in North Miami Beach “Wolfie Cohen’s Racsal House”.  This was an all together bigger, brasher venture catering to largest Jewish community outside of New York City.  Parking for 250 cars, seating for 420 people and the queue would stretch half way round the outside of the building.  Nobody minded, the food and atmosphere was worth the wait.   Some said that Wolfies was “built with a queue”

Slide into one of the red leather booths or red-topped chrome counter stools and you would be met with a bowl of sweet bread rolls and jars of pickle which you were free to eat whilst perusing a menu that offered every imaginable Jewish delicacy; comparable to anything New York had to offer.   They didn’t make sandwiches, they would serve you a pound of corned beef or chicken and accidently slap some bread around it.  The Turkey legs came with a pile of Mash that was a mile high.  Breads and cheesecakes were made fresh daily in the back of the Deli as fast as they were being eaten out front, 24 hours a day.

Frank Sinatra and his buddies used to dine there after performing down in Miami Beach, as did Jackie Gleeson, Cassius Clay – the stars mingling with the locals and the tourists, attracted by one of the best roadside marquees in America. Standing 45 feet high and visible from 8 blocks away, The Rascal House motive had become a classic with a changing weekly slogan like “If you can’t find your mama, she’s in our kitchen doing the cooking”  and testifying to the informality of Wolfie’s; “The only thing that needs to come dressed is our chickens!”

After fifty five years the original 21^st Street Wolfie’s finally closed its doors.  The shock of 9/11 reduced the flood of tourists to a trickle, and there just wasn’t enough from the local, shrinking elderly clientele to keep the 24 hour operation going.  The new, young visitors to the beach didn’t appreciate the six egg omelettes filled with a half pound of cheese; slaw and pickles.  They couldn’t get out of bed in time for the early bird breakfast special, a dollar 99, with streaky bacon, eggs over-easy, potatoes, sour cream, bread rolls and endless coffee.  The early bird special dinner was the saviour of so many old,  living or just surviving on a dwindling budget.

The Early Bird Special ensured that every seat was taken in Wolfie's Pic: Barry Lewis

The last stragglers of an era were dying off.  The Spencer Tracey, Jackie Gleeson, Judy Garland and Katherine Hepburn photos from the “Celebrity Corner” were auctioned off to regulars and the menus appeared on eBay.  So, without much fanfare the restaurant was gone.

There were protests and nostalgic press articles; promises from the new owners that the spirit of Wolfie’s would remain, but eventually the wrecker’s ball swept that all away.    They are not bad people who did this.  Certainly history is not safe in their hands, but as Runyon said, it’s probably best not to associate with them.