Read Online The Matzo Ball Heiress by Laurie Gwen Shapiro - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laurie Gwen Shapiro
Tags: Fiction, General, Humorous, Humorous fiction, Romance, Contemporary, Sagas, Domestic Fiction, New York (N.Y.), Jewish, Jewish fiction, Seder, Jewish Families
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this be?
“There’s a busload of retired Jews from Argentina touring the factory at four. I don’t see how I can lead it seeing as I have ten faxes from irate supermarket managers in Texas to answer.”
“Texas?”
“Our trucking company never made it to Houston, and their customers are already stocking up for Passover.”
“How can I lead the tour if I don’t speak Spanish?”
“Not a problem. They come with a translator from their charter company.”
Vondra and I are between shoots, so the tour happily delays the accumulation of paperwork I was set to tackle. Are all Argentines big on matchmaking, or just the Jewish ones?
“You move to Buenos Aires, we need Jewish women. My nephew is perfect for you.”
“My son…”
“My grandson…”
A Latino-Semitic mix is intriguing, but I can’t stop thinking about my flirtation with New Yorkers Steve Meyers and Jared S.
Tour over, I hail a cab to my place and collapse into my beloved cushiony couch. There’s one message. Heather, Steve Meyers. You never gave me your cell number. Call me ASAP. I have a question I hope you’ll like being asked.
The call plunges me into a rare state of delight. This could be about a date. Maybe he was too uncomfortable asking me out in front of Jared and Tonia. Maybe Steve and Tonia have never had even one date, and Tonia’s simply gaga on him, too. Vondra would put up a confident fight for a man; I should take a page out of her book. After watching a few dozen cars go by out my window, I nervously make the return call.
“Just who I wanted the call to be from,” Steve says. “I had a terrific time yesterday.”
There’s a skip to my voice I haven’t heard in years. “I have to confess I wasn’t looking forward to it before I met you, but honestly, I had a blast.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Listen, I know how busy you are, so I’ll get straight to the point. Would you meet me for dinner tonight? Micro notice, but I’m dying to see you as soon as I can. “
Micro notice? I pause, and think, I’m dateless. I’m horny. “Sounds fun. I’m actually free tonight.”
“Excellent. How about Union Square Café then?”
“That sounds great. But will you be able to get a reservation there on such short notice?”
“Not a problem for me.”
“What, you’re related to—what’s the owner’s name—”
He laughs. “Danny Meyer? No. He may have a restaurant empire, but I’ve got that s on him. We did a segment of Great Restaurants of America there and I’m friendly with the maître d’.”
“More power to you.”
“Would you like to meet at the bar?”
“If you don’t mind, can we meet outside the Union Square Barnes & Noble bookstore?”
“Sure,” he says. “But why?”
“I want to buy my accountant’s book. It’s her first novel. Tax day is coming up and we’re supposed to meet—”
“It would be nice if you had read her book, right?”
“Exactly.”
“What is it about? Should I ask?”
“An accountant in the 1930s who was taught magic by Harry Houdini.”
Steve laughs. “I’ve actually heard about that. I can’t think of the name—”
“Hyman’s Hocus-Pocus.”
“Yeah,” he laughs again. “It got a nice write-up in the daily Times . That’s your accountant?”
“Irma Zimmerwitz. One and the same. She’s sold the film rights already, she’s amazing. But she’s not giving up her day job. She loves numbers too much.” I omit the other half of the truth. I never meet a man inside a restaurant anymore, since I was stood up on a blind date two winters ago. Mr. Mama-the-Cat-lover from Matchmaker.com pales in comparison to the awful feeling of being stood up by the guy I “met” on nerve.com. The no-show’s self-description via e-mail was vague enough (science writer, brown hair, occasionally wears glasses) to make me look inquisitively at every man who entered our coffee bar. I did an image search on the Internet to see what he looked like, but all that came up
“There’s a busload of retired Jews from Argentina touring the factory at four. I don’t see how I can lead it seeing as I have ten faxes from irate supermarket managers in Texas to answer.”
“Texas?”
“Our trucking company never made it to Houston, and their customers are already stocking up for Passover.”
“How can I lead the tour if I don’t speak Spanish?”
“Not a problem. They come with a translator from their charter company.”
Vondra and I are between shoots, so the tour happily delays the accumulation of paperwork I was set to tackle. Are all Argentines big on matchmaking, or just the Jewish ones?
“You move to Buenos Aires, we need Jewish women. My nephew is perfect for you.”
“My son…”
“My grandson…”
A Latino-Semitic mix is intriguing, but I can’t stop thinking about my flirtation with New Yorkers Steve Meyers and Jared S.
Tour over, I hail a cab to my place and collapse into my beloved cushiony couch. There’s one message. Heather, Steve Meyers. You never gave me your cell number. Call me ASAP. I have a question I hope you’ll like being asked.
The call plunges me into a rare state of delight. This could be about a date. Maybe he was too uncomfortable asking me out in front of Jared and Tonia. Maybe Steve and Tonia have never had even one date, and Tonia’s simply gaga on him, too. Vondra would put up a confident fight for a man; I should take a page out of her book. After watching a few dozen cars go by out my window, I nervously make the return call.
“Just who I wanted the call to be from,” Steve says. “I had a terrific time yesterday.”
There’s a skip to my voice I haven’t heard in years. “I have to confess I wasn’t looking forward to it before I met you, but honestly, I had a blast.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Listen, I know how busy you are, so I’ll get straight to the point. Would you meet me for dinner tonight? Micro notice, but I’m dying to see you as soon as I can. “
Micro notice? I pause, and think, I’m dateless. I’m horny. “Sounds fun. I’m actually free tonight.”
“Excellent. How about Union Square Café then?”
“That sounds great. But will you be able to get a reservation there on such short notice?”
“Not a problem for me.”
“What, you’re related to—what’s the owner’s name—”
He laughs. “Danny Meyer? No. He may have a restaurant empire, but I’ve got that s on him. We did a segment of Great Restaurants of America there and I’m friendly with the maître d’.”
“More power to you.”
“Would you like to meet at the bar?”
“If you don’t mind, can we meet outside the Union Square Barnes & Noble bookstore?”
“Sure,” he says. “But why?”
“I want to buy my accountant’s book. It’s her first novel. Tax day is coming up and we’re supposed to meet—”
“It would be nice if you had read her book, right?”
“Exactly.”
“What is it about? Should I ask?”
“An accountant in the 1930s who was taught magic by Harry Houdini.”
Steve laughs. “I’ve actually heard about that. I can’t think of the name—”
“Hyman’s Hocus-Pocus.”
“Yeah,” he laughs again. “It got a nice write-up in the daily Times . That’s your accountant?”
“Irma Zimmerwitz. One and the same. She’s sold the film rights already, she’s amazing. But she’s not giving up her day job. She loves numbers too much.” I omit the other half of the truth. I never meet a man inside a restaurant anymore, since I was stood up on a blind date two winters ago. Mr. Mama-the-Cat-lover from Matchmaker.com pales in comparison to the awful feeling of being stood up by the guy I “met” on nerve.com. The no-show’s self-description via e-mail was vague enough (science writer, brown hair, occasionally wears glasses) to make me look inquisitively at every man who entered our coffee bar. I did an image search on the Internet to see what he looked like, but all that came up
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