It's 1969, and I am fresh out of college, staying in the Old City of Jerusalem, hanging out at Uncle Moustache's cafe. The Lark Hotel finished its restaurant with murals, water dripping in a cavelike atmosphere, and the owner thought it would be so cool for a nightclub-disco.

With three partners, I Opened Malchomcha, Votre Place, Your Place. The Arab police visited us, so I asked them "…where can I get my liquor from?" A wise move as a policeman's "cousin" owned a wholesale liquor establishment and the baksheesh he got was one of many reasons we had zero trouble from Arab teenagers.

We were on Latin Patriarchate Street, Jaffa Gate, and from day one people lined around the block. Clients were a mix of expatriates from all over, including Hebrew University students, Armenians, Ethiopian Coptics, tourists and plenty of Israelis.

I ran the door. A San Francisco friend air-expressed tapes of the hottest music. The super good-looking partner's job was to make sure every girl got to dance and encouraged the guys to drink beer. Free heavily salted popcorn. Turkish coffee. We were the first guys to bring pizza to Jerusalem. Safe. No drugs. Fun.

I closed at 2 a.m., walking to the Turkish steambath for a wash. Afterward stopping at the Kotel for prayer. Then walking home, stopping at an Arab bakery for pita with two eggs and spices, baked in a giant oven. Breakfast for others on their way to work, but for me a bedtime snack.