Biscotti
by KJ Hannah Greenberg

 

 

My feet dangled over the edge of the bench. It had been planted in the cement by the municipality. Oddly, it faced the street traffic, not the trees behind it.

 

Laya had gone for our car. She always claimed she didn’t mind my limits. I still wonder; husbands ought to be gallants, not cripples.

 

We had had a nice brunch at the new bistro that offers the sorts of foods that we enjoy. It features enough salads that it satisfied my need for greens and coffee strong enough to give Laya a smile. Besides, their cheesecake was among the best I’ve tasted, lifelong, and Wife chirped on and on about her poached fish. All in all, the carte du jour suited us and the preparation was much above average.

 

The location, additionally, held to the level of kashrut that is important to us. I was convinced we’d return, repeatedly. At least, I felt that way until I heard and then saw the mashgiach argue with the manager.

 

Simply, the man in charge of the eatery’s compliance with kashrut and the man in charge of its activities were quarrelling, first with words, and then with fists. It appeared as though the latter had tried to sneak some biscotti into the café without first consulting the former. That sort of offense could cost the place its kosher certification.

 

On balance, those twice-cooked pastries were one of the most popular items on the menu. Locals dipped those cookies into lattes. Transplants smothered them with cream and jam. Laya and I had been the odd table out since we skipped those almond biscuits in favor of the decadent dessert made with cream cheese.

 

Regardless, try as we might to pay no attention to the altercation, the men involved windmilled their arms at each other as they moved past our table. Both bumped into my chair en route. After Laya lept to steady me, she shoved a credit card at a waiter, and then half-dragged, half-supported my body to the entrance. Beyond that threshold, we heard more shouting and shoving.

 

The men had moved their dispute outside the restaurant. I could see and hear them even from my position on the municipality bench.

 

Soon, new persons joined that fray. One man, who had silvered hair, was dressed like the mashgiach, except that the new guy, furthermore, wore a bekishe. Maybe, he was the kashrut supervisor’s boss. A second man seemed to be an older version of the joint’s manager. Perhaps, he was the manager’s uncle or father. Likely, he owned the bistro.

 

For a few minutes, the mashgiach’s voice went unheard. Then, suddenly, he appeared on the sidewalk, near my seat, carrying a motorcycle helmet, his chef knives in their dedicated bag, and a notebook. Simultaneously, the combative speech reanimated.

 

I don’t know how or if the issue was resolved. No chef-bearing motorcycle had driven by before Laya brought our car to the ledge where I was perched. Yet, as I carefully folded myself into our sedan, I, heard the voices of the mashgiach’s purported supervisor and of the alleged café owner weaving over and around one another.

 

What’s more, I’m not sure that I would have “taken no notice” of the fracas had I remained able-bodied. Decades ago, my wife regularly cringed and, all the more so, tried to stop me whenever I set out to actualized my penchant for resolving people’s conflicts.

 

Per the present, in contrast, we’ll almost certainly “forget” the incident, and then wait for a few weeks before returning to the shop. For us, like most pensioners, discord takes second place to dessert, except, I suppose, when it comes to biscotti.

 

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