A
few advertising circulars lay on the white sofa. Yanky turned the pages absentmindedly until his gaze focused on an ad for a milchig fish restaurant.
“What do you want with restaurants?” Tzvika gave him a quizzical look. “Just yesterday that rich guy what’s-his-name, Goldenkrantz, gave you a feast fit for Shlomo Hamelech.”
“What do I want with Goldenkrantz and his feasts?” said Yanky. “I’d rather pay for my own meal than feel like a chesed case.”
Tzvika’s eyes opened wide “A chesed case? That’s a good one. Don’t worry —Goldenkrantz didn’t feel a dent in his pocket from that meal. You don’t realize what kind of rich we’re talking about. I’m just a minnow in the pond compared to him. To him, paying for a spread like that is like throwing a coin to the beggar by the Central Bus Station.”
