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place settings for four.
What’re the chances that the fourth setting is for a hot guy? Many German-Jewish immigrants have lived in the city for years and they know each other. My grandparents know the parents of Henry Winkler, the actor who plays Fonzie on Happy Days. But I’ve dropped like a thousand hints and my grandparents still haven’t produced him.
“Anya, ziss iss Mrs. Bettleheim,” Nény says.
One glance at Mrs. B and I know. Because there’re two kinds of survivors. Some, like my grandparents, seem to have become transcendent with love. Others, well, think Edvard Munch’s painting, The Scream.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, making my voice as gentle as possible to preserve the fragile ash of her being.
Mrs. B doesn’t reply.
“Darling, coffee you vant?” Nény asks.
“Thanks but I’ve already had like six cups today.”
“Vhas?”
“I’ve already had like six coffees.”
“Vhas? Coffee you vant?” she asks. The spout of their pre-1970 percolator trembles over a cup.
“You vant?”
Yes.
All the women in my family should be in Over-Caf- feinated Anonymous. We’re addicted to coffee. We can barely sleep.
~
German cucumber salad luscious with sugar, vinegar, dill. Sauerbraten which disintegrates to shreds at
a touch. Späetzle that oozes with butter. And then our dinner’s main course, which I call “Pressure to Marry.”
“Sveetheart you haf a boyfriend?” Nény asks.
Not since the last time you asked. But I answer po-
litely, “Not yet.”
“You don’t vant to get married?”
“I’m looking for love; you know, like in poetry.”
“A boyfriend can become a husband.” “I understand how it works.”
Dessert is buttery cake under a sugary glaze dotted with nuts.
“Izz Joy and Sorrow cake, Freude-und-Leid-Kuchen,” Mrs. B. says.
“Someday ve haf a cake made only viss joy,” says Granddad.
It looks, to me, like Entenmann’s Pecan Danish Twist. “Hey, remember years ago when you made that Ger- man apple cake?” I ask Nény. “Like American apple pie but more cinnamon; walnuts, raisins and apples in the filling; and the crust like some kind of package. Maybe, someday, you’ll make it again?”
“I don’t sink so,” Nény says.
“Why not?”
“Needs two sets of hands for ze crust.”
“I’d be happy to help you. German apple cake is al- most my heritage—.”
“No.”
“You’ll give me the recipe?”
“I vant you should only do American sings.” She will never give me that recipe.
“Coffee you vant?”
Another coffee and I’ll spontaneously combust. “You vant?” she asks again.
I want.
~
I carry the used plates to the kitchen.
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