Conversation ceased entirely. Service staff paused mid-task. Jake watched from the bar, shaking his head in amazement.
As the Gershwin concluded, genuine applause erupted again. James acknowledged it with a slight nod, then turned to his audience.
"Any requests?" he asked quietly.
The question opened floodgates. Patrons called out favorites: some classical, some jazz standards, some pop songs. James accommodated each with arrangement skills that transformed simple requests into sophisticated interpretations.
A businessman requested "Piano Man" for his wife's birthday; James delivered it with respectful homage to Billy Joel while adding subtle classical flourishes that elevated the familiar tune.
An elderly woman asked for Schubert's Impromptu Op. 90, No. 3, her late husband's favorite; James played it with such tenderness that she wept openly, thanking him afterward.
The atmosphere in the Ivory Room transformed. The invisible barriers between tables dissolved as strangers discussed the music, made joint requests, and shared stories of concerts and memories attached to pieces.
Phillips observed from the periphery, his business sense overriding his initial discomfort: bar sales had increased significantly; patrons who had planned to leave after one drink were ordering second and third rounds. The energy had shifted from polite restraint to genuine engagement.
James played for nearly an hour, lost in the interaction between musician, instrument, and audience. This wasn't performance as he'd known it at Juilliard—formal, technically evaluated, pressure-filled. This was music as communication, as shared experience.
During a brief pause between pieces, the red-faced executive who had mocked him earlier approached the piano, his earlier arrogance replaced by shamefaced sincerity.
"Sir, I owe you an apology," he said, just loudly enough for nearby tables to hear. "My behavior earlier was inexcusable."
James met his eyes without resentment. "No apology needed."