The birthplace

Leningrad is always Leningrad, for this I love it, even stories in it happen somewhat to the depths of Leningrad.
This could only happen in this city.
A few days ago I wandered around Peter, remembered my hungry but happy student time of the 90s, took a breath and looked into a small Georgian restaurant.
Inside half-dark, five or six tables in total, one of them was a fun, dull company: three guys and a couple of soul-painted girls: toasts with a Georgian accent, loud laughter and a little bit of matta. A normal restaurant company.
In the remote corner was a old man sitting on a stick, I was at the next table, and here was the whole restaurant audience.
A little cute Georgian came, accepted my order, and at this moment a fun company together with rust, issued another, already very loud mat.
The old man nodded his head, rose heavily, relying on his stick and slowly beat toward the company.
The waitress, apparently pleased with what was happening, looked at me and lowered her voice to a whisper, said:
He will calm them quickly.
And indeed, the old man bowed over the noisy table, apologized, for disturbing and said something else.
Suddenly the company was replaced. The boys and their painted girlfriends snugly picked up all their plates with bottles and quickly went to another table, and the old man took their place.
No one has roasted like a horse, and no one has roasted as much.
I was stunned by the effect produced by this noble old man and realized that the waitress knew something.
Ele waited for his “Hachapuri-Machapuri” and quietly asked:
What old man is this?
The Georgian, pretending to wipe my table, whispered:
“We don’t know his name, but he always goes here, about once a week. He comes and goes by taxi, retirement, says, allows. He refuses snacks, orders only tea with milk and cakes.
He always sits at that table, and if there is busy, he waits until people leave and then still sits there.
And sometimes, when the visitors at “his” table start to behave a little badly, like these, he approaches and politely says, “Sorry, you could not behave a little quieter? Once upon a time, where this table was, there was our bed. My mother died in the blockade and...”

The waitress took a towel and decidedly headed toward the kitchen, wiping her eyes on the way.