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Authors: Alan Isler
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and the vulgarity of the third point to my friend. But for Hamburger, vulgarity is not inborn. It is rather a mask he put on years ago to protect himself from who knows what dangers and that has now grown into his flesh. It is clear that Hamburger is motivated by integrity, not malice. Besides, he is not native born, and he has never shown any interest in word-games, let alone poetic composition. Another point: he was with me when the first charade was slipped under my door. And besides all this, I like him.
No. I quit the search. If I recover the letter, so; if not, so. Hie arma repono.
sitting with us when Hamburger came in and joined us at the table. Lipschitz was there, too. What were we doing, you will ask, sitting with Lipschitz in the first place? A matter of simple courtesy, a token of civilization. When Blum, the Red Dwarf, and I arrived, Lipschitz was already at the big table, alone, with not one of his toadies in evidence. He looked at us, we looked at him: a standoff. He indicated his table. Naturally, we joined him.
Goldstein signaled to Joe, who shuffled over with Hamburger's regular, coffee with a dollop of whipped cream.
"The Barbra Streisand, Joe, heavy on the sauce."
"Come again?"
"You heard."
"You got it."
There were raised eyebrows. The Barbra Streisand is a mixture of finely chopped raw pike and carp, delicately seasoned and artistically pressed into the shape of a fish. A pimiento-stuffed green olive serves as the eye, a wavy sliver of green pepper as the gills. The sauce combines crushed cucumber, yoghurt, and a dash of English mustard. So far, so good. But Goldstein, for whatever reason, has listed this dish on his menu, along with the Elizabeth Taylor and the Shelley Winters, under the heading "Diva Delights."
"So, Hamburger," sneered Lipschitz, "you've gone completely over to the other side?" He flicked his tongue between his lips, darting his reptilian eyes at us for approval.
Blum tittered.
"Meaning?" said Hamburger ominously.
"Every day is ladies' day for you?"
"Food is a matter of gender now, bubble-brain?"
"Bravo!" said the Red Dwarf. "Stick it to them, the lickspittle Zionist hypocrites." He turned to Lipschitz. "On your kibbutz a woman can't eat a Tony Curtis?"
"From what I know of Tony Curtis," said Blum, "many of them did."
"For God's sake, Blum," I said.
Lipschitz, sensing that he was in the minority, licked his lips nervously and said nothing.
The tension was broken by the arrival of the Barbra Streisand. We all stared at it.
"Beautiful," said Goldstein. And in fact, so it was. But honesty compels me to record that there was something inexplicably outre about it, something frivolous and unmanly. Ridiculous, of course, but the Barbra Streisand is to the Tony Curtis what a snifter of creme de menthe is to a glass of vodka. "So eat," said Goldstein. "Enjoy." We watched Hamburger in a silence broken only by the click-clack of his knife and fork, until the fish shape was no longer recognizable.
"Well?" Goldstein wanted to know.
"Not bad, Goldstein, not bad."
A flurry of signals to Joe and our cups were refilled.
"Talking offish reminds me of a story," said Goldstein. "A Jew goes to his rabbi, it's just before Purim. He says, 'Rabbi, what am I to do? My wife refuses now to keep kosher. You want kosher, she tells me, you got to get yourself a new wife.' Wait, this one's a scream."
"How many times, Goldstein?" said Hamburger wearily. "How many times?"
Goldstein sighed.
We watched Hamburger until he was finished, his knife and fork neatly lined up on an empty plate. He wiped his lips fastidiously with his napkin, looking up at us under angry brows. "Well, what are you waiting for? You expect me to go to the powder room?"
Goldstein, knowing nothing of recent events at the Emma Lazarus Old Vic, and anxious, no doubt, to achieve a mood of
bonhomie, turned to Lipschitz. "So tell me, Nahum, how's the play coming along?"
"We're managing," said Lipschitz curtly.
"He needs a
No. I quit the search. If I recover the letter, so; if not, so. Hie arma repono.
sitting with us when Hamburger came in and joined us at the table. Lipschitz was there, too. What were we doing, you will ask, sitting with Lipschitz in the first place? A matter of simple courtesy, a token of civilization. When Blum, the Red Dwarf, and I arrived, Lipschitz was already at the big table, alone, with not one of his toadies in evidence. He looked at us, we looked at him: a standoff. He indicated his table. Naturally, we joined him.
Goldstein signaled to Joe, who shuffled over with Hamburger's regular, coffee with a dollop of whipped cream.
"The Barbra Streisand, Joe, heavy on the sauce."
"Come again?"
"You heard."
"You got it."
There were raised eyebrows. The Barbra Streisand is a mixture of finely chopped raw pike and carp, delicately seasoned and artistically pressed into the shape of a fish. A pimiento-stuffed green olive serves as the eye, a wavy sliver of green pepper as the gills. The sauce combines crushed cucumber, yoghurt, and a dash of English mustard. So far, so good. But Goldstein, for whatever reason, has listed this dish on his menu, along with the Elizabeth Taylor and the Shelley Winters, under the heading "Diva Delights."
"So, Hamburger," sneered Lipschitz, "you've gone completely over to the other side?" He flicked his tongue between his lips, darting his reptilian eyes at us for approval.
Blum tittered.
"Meaning?" said Hamburger ominously.
"Every day is ladies' day for you?"
"Food is a matter of gender now, bubble-brain?"
"Bravo!" said the Red Dwarf. "Stick it to them, the lickspittle Zionist hypocrites." He turned to Lipschitz. "On your kibbutz a woman can't eat a Tony Curtis?"
"From what I know of Tony Curtis," said Blum, "many of them did."
"For God's sake, Blum," I said.
Lipschitz, sensing that he was in the minority, licked his lips nervously and said nothing.
The tension was broken by the arrival of the Barbra Streisand. We all stared at it.
"Beautiful," said Goldstein. And in fact, so it was. But honesty compels me to record that there was something inexplicably outre about it, something frivolous and unmanly. Ridiculous, of course, but the Barbra Streisand is to the Tony Curtis what a snifter of creme de menthe is to a glass of vodka. "So eat," said Goldstein. "Enjoy." We watched Hamburger in a silence broken only by the click-clack of his knife and fork, until the fish shape was no longer recognizable.
"Well?" Goldstein wanted to know.
"Not bad, Goldstein, not bad."
A flurry of signals to Joe and our cups were refilled.
"Talking offish reminds me of a story," said Goldstein. "A Jew goes to his rabbi, it's just before Purim. He says, 'Rabbi, what am I to do? My wife refuses now to keep kosher. You want kosher, she tells me, you got to get yourself a new wife.' Wait, this one's a scream."
"How many times, Goldstein?" said Hamburger wearily. "How many times?"
Goldstein sighed.
We watched Hamburger until he was finished, his knife and fork neatly lined up on an empty plate. He wiped his lips fastidiously with his napkin, looking up at us under angry brows. "Well, what are you waiting for? You expect me to go to the powder room?"
Goldstein, knowing nothing of recent events at the Emma Lazarus Old Vic, and anxious, no doubt, to achieve a mood of
bonhomie, turned to Lipschitz. "So tell me, Nahum, how's the play coming along?"
"We're managing," said Lipschitz curtly.
"He needs a
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