Where the Heart Is

I’m a noticing type of guy. Tonight I notice that although I’m not a zeide, Mendy invited me to sit next to him at the table where the mechutanim and zeides sit.

It’s great being served first. I love the way the eggplant is crispy on the outside and has red little spices all over. The rice is oily and I ask the waiter for the biggest portion. Plus, I get to sit next to the chassan.

I turn toward him. His shtreimel is tall and the points stand straight. How do they make that happen? I love the feel of it, hairy and soft together. The points on top are the best. I lick my finger so it’s clean, and I reach out to touch the shtreimel. Ahh! The fuzz… the hair… But before I touch too much, Mendy turns around quickly. When he sees it’s me, he pats my back.

“Abe, I know you love it, but please don’t touch it.” He looks at my fingers to check if they’re clean. They are. “I told you it’s very expensive, Abe. Almost three thousand dollars.” He looks into my eyes to make sure I understand.