Read Online Murder Can Cool Off Your Affair by Selma Eichler - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Selma Eichler
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lagging a short space behind him, looking guilty. And well she might, I thought.
As always, the little man—he was five-three on his tiptoes—was impeccably dressed, tonight in lightweight gray wool pants, a gray-and-white tweed sport jacket, and a red tie with charcoal-and-white polka dots. His black shoes, I noticed, were so highly polished that in a pinch they could double as a mirror.
Pop and I stood there appraising each other for a second or two. Then he nodded sagely. “All in all, you’re lookin’ very fine, Desiree. You maybe got a little fatter since I last seen you, though.”
“Pop!” Harriet exclaimed, her face suddenly redder than my wig.
Pop turned to her, shaking his head sadly. “You don’t understand, Harriet. This is A-okay with me. Who wants a woman she should have these skinny little ribs poking out all over her like a chicken?”
“Uh, would you like to come in for a drink?” For some reason I felt obligated to extend the invitation. (But where-oh-where was a little hemlock when you really needed it?)
“No thanks, Dez,” Harriet put in quickly. “We have reservations, and we’re in danger of being late as it is.”
Going down in the elevator, Pop elbowed Harriet aside in order to stand next to me. “My Frances, may she rest in peace, was no lightweight, either,” he told me. “She was zaftig, like you. You know what zaftig means?”
“Yes, I know what it means.” I may be a (nonpracticing) Catholic, but remember, I was married to Ed Shapiro, my wonderful late husband who died five too-short years into the marriage. Besides, you pick up your share of Yiddish expressions just living in New York.
Anyhow, Pop was insisting, “Zaftig is a compliment. Honest.” And Harriet was glowering at him. “All right, maybe I shouldn’ta used the word ‘fat’ before, but I meant it in a good way. Okay?” He poked me in the side.
“Okay,” I muttered.
“See? Desiree isn’t mad at me,” he advised his daughter-in-law, “so you don’t have to give me no lectures later.”
Her only response was a deep sigh. But I’d have bet anything she was clenching her teeth.
The Oriental Palace was a nice, quiet little restaurant. Not exactly elegant, but softly lit and attractively decorated. What’s more, the food was unusually good without being exorbitantly priced. And in spite of that earlier hamburger, I found I was now hungry enough to enjoy it. But then somebody managed to ruin my appetite. Which is a pretty tough thing to do.
This somebody wasted no time in critiquing the meal. The egg rolls, he sniffed, were greasy. The spareribs, he grumbled, were fatty. And the dim sum were so heavy that they “already are sitting there like lead in the bottom of my stomach.” Nor did he restrict his complaining to Harriet and me. It wasn’t long before he called over our waiter, who, planting himself alongside Pop’s chair, didn’t utter so much as asyllable during the cantankerous little man’s entire diatribe. In fact, the waiter—the small gold bar on his shirt said “ JIM ”—was actually beaming. I figured he either (a) had a very limited understanding of English or—and this is where I came out—(b) wanted us to think he had a very limited understanding of English.
At any rate, when the second course arrived, I steeled myself for more of the same. Happily, though, we got through it with a minimal amount of bitching, Pop making only mild mention of the wonton soup’s being on the watery side.
But then came the entrees we were sharing.
As soon as we were served the shrimp with black bean sauce, Pop frowned at his plate and demanded that Jim explain why there weren’t any beans—“no American beans, anyways”—in the bean sauce. The perpetual grin still in place, Jim hunched his shoulders and signaled to the hostess, who, aware that at least a half dozen pairs of eyes were staring in our direction, promptly offered to substitute another selection.
“No, it’s all
As always, the little man—he was five-three on his tiptoes—was impeccably dressed, tonight in lightweight gray wool pants, a gray-and-white tweed sport jacket, and a red tie with charcoal-and-white polka dots. His black shoes, I noticed, were so highly polished that in a pinch they could double as a mirror.
Pop and I stood there appraising each other for a second or two. Then he nodded sagely. “All in all, you’re lookin’ very fine, Desiree. You maybe got a little fatter since I last seen you, though.”
“Pop!” Harriet exclaimed, her face suddenly redder than my wig.
Pop turned to her, shaking his head sadly. “You don’t understand, Harriet. This is A-okay with me. Who wants a woman she should have these skinny little ribs poking out all over her like a chicken?”
“Uh, would you like to come in for a drink?” For some reason I felt obligated to extend the invitation. (But where-oh-where was a little hemlock when you really needed it?)
“No thanks, Dez,” Harriet put in quickly. “We have reservations, and we’re in danger of being late as it is.”
Going down in the elevator, Pop elbowed Harriet aside in order to stand next to me. “My Frances, may she rest in peace, was no lightweight, either,” he told me. “She was zaftig, like you. You know what zaftig means?”
“Yes, I know what it means.” I may be a (nonpracticing) Catholic, but remember, I was married to Ed Shapiro, my wonderful late husband who died five too-short years into the marriage. Besides, you pick up your share of Yiddish expressions just living in New York.
Anyhow, Pop was insisting, “Zaftig is a compliment. Honest.” And Harriet was glowering at him. “All right, maybe I shouldn’ta used the word ‘fat’ before, but I meant it in a good way. Okay?” He poked me in the side.
“Okay,” I muttered.
“See? Desiree isn’t mad at me,” he advised his daughter-in-law, “so you don’t have to give me no lectures later.”
Her only response was a deep sigh. But I’d have bet anything she was clenching her teeth.
The Oriental Palace was a nice, quiet little restaurant. Not exactly elegant, but softly lit and attractively decorated. What’s more, the food was unusually good without being exorbitantly priced. And in spite of that earlier hamburger, I found I was now hungry enough to enjoy it. But then somebody managed to ruin my appetite. Which is a pretty tough thing to do.
This somebody wasted no time in critiquing the meal. The egg rolls, he sniffed, were greasy. The spareribs, he grumbled, were fatty. And the dim sum were so heavy that they “already are sitting there like lead in the bottom of my stomach.” Nor did he restrict his complaining to Harriet and me. It wasn’t long before he called over our waiter, who, planting himself alongside Pop’s chair, didn’t utter so much as asyllable during the cantankerous little man’s entire diatribe. In fact, the waiter—the small gold bar on his shirt said “ JIM ”—was actually beaming. I figured he either (a) had a very limited understanding of English or—and this is where I came out—(b) wanted us to think he had a very limited understanding of English.
At any rate, when the second course arrived, I steeled myself for more of the same. Happily, though, we got through it with a minimal amount of bitching, Pop making only mild mention of the wonton soup’s being on the watery side.
But then came the entrees we were sharing.
As soon as we were served the shrimp with black bean sauce, Pop frowned at his plate and demanded that Jim explain why there weren’t any beans—“no American beans, anyways”—in the bean sauce. The perpetual grin still in place, Jim hunched his shoulders and signaled to the hostess, who, aware that at least a half dozen pairs of eyes were staring in our direction, promptly offered to substitute another selection.
“No, it’s all
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