Boro Park residents did a double-take when they discovered Aharon Granevich-Granot in a waiter’s uniform at a local pizzeria. Was Mishpacha being downsized? Did he need more cash to marry off his kids? Or maybe after being fired three times in one day, from Mendelsohn’s Pizza, Bagels n’ Greens, and Goldberg’s Supermarket, he should just stick to writing?
“It can’t be … No way! What they really fired you from Mishpacha? And you started working here at the pizza shop?” The three Yidden surrounding me couldn’t believe their eyes. “What happened?” they asked pityingly.
“Downsizing” I answered tersely heaving a heavy sigh as I concentrated on wiping down the tables. “Salary cuts. It’s not that I won’t be writing anything at all anymore but … it’s not what it was. So … you want olives or mushrooms on your pizzas?”
They were upset. They were used to reading my articles in our English weekly. They were used to my photo peeking out at them from all sorts of weird locales. They never dreamed I’d be serving them at Mendelsohn’s Pizza on Eighteenth Avenue in Boro Park.
“You’re like … serious?” they asked again.
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