Michael's Pub is packed. The green-and-white-checked tablecloths are jammed so close together that the waiters can hardly squeeze between, and patrons find themselves knocking knees with their dinner companions. No matter. They have come from around the world -- Japan, Italy, France, Scandinavia, South America -- to savor this moment. The random babel of a hundred conversations suddenly turns into an excited murmur as a sandy-haired man in an open-necked white shirt and corduroy trousers saunters in and heads for an empty table. He nonchalantly opens a tattered case and removes, then hooks together, the sections of an antique clarinet. Peering...
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