KIBITZING ACROSS THE AISLE
“Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.” ― Leonard Cohen
Hello, Friends,
The news of the past week has been so bleak and my heart breaks for all the lives lost and innocent victims of the war in Israel and Gaza.
I’m of Jewish descent—23andMe says I’m 99.5% Ashkenazi Jewish and .5% Italian (perhaps this explains why I love spaghetti)—but I wasn’t raised in an observant household and I’m not religious. I consider myself culturally Jewish and I’m intrigued by the mysteries and powers of the universe. When I see a heart-shaped leaf on the ground, or a mourning dove stare at me through a window, I like to think it’s a sign or a message from someone somewhere, or a reminder to appreciate life.
I’ve had run-ins with ghosts, listened to psychics augur my future, and I belong to a multi-denominational meditation group that meets on Zoom every Thursday. At the close of each session, we take a minute to meditate/pray for peace and an end to suffering for all people.
When I first started scrolling through my social media feeds earlier in the week, I felt pain and sorrow for everyone brutalized by this war and fearful of the celebration and justification of murder and torture. I don’t know how peace can/will be achieved in all of the bloody conflicts plaguing this world, but I refuse to give up on the possibility that I might live to see it happen.
This past January, my friend Dana and I went out to dinner and had a very unexpected experience with some fellow diners that gave my faith in humanity a boost. I wrote an essay about the events of the evening several months ago, but I thought I’d share it now as a little ray of light in a dark time.
KIBITZING ACROSS THE AISLE
Garlic wafted through the air as I sat on the busy back patio surrounded by couples, dogs, and families perched on teal banquettes. The heavy curtain at my back did little to protect against the night chill and heat lamps were scant. After two years of a global pandemic and a recluse-like existence, many folks had ushered in 2023 with a return to normalcy by going maskless and sitting inside restaurants.
Not me.
Not since the night I caved to peer pressure and removed my mask at the Diana Ross concert at the Hollywood Bowl in August of 2022. At the time, I figured, well, we’re outside, I’m vaxxed and boosted, I’ll be fine. Never mind the 17,000 other people spreading their Covid particles hither, thither, and yon while singing along to “Upside Down.”
Two days later, I tested positive and a nightmarish ten days ensued with fever, chills, body aches, agonizing sore throat, miserable congestion, and pink eye! It took me a while to feel comfortable in public spaces again and honestly, I’m still traumatized. I continue to wear a mask when I’m shopping indoors even though most people have shed their PPE attire for good.
That night, I met my friend, Dana for dinner at the Italian bistro/patisserie, Bottega Louie in West Hollywood in early January to celebrate her belated birthday. I wore a blue blazer under a red plaid wool coat and neck kerchief to stay cozy. Dana, a friend since sophomore year of high school in Syosset, Long Island where I lived for one year, had dressed in a black wool sweater with a turquoise scarf, and, as always, her highlighted blond locks looked salon styled.
She’d started to catch me up on her recent visit to see her folks in New York when an elegant older woman clad in black and rocking a long strand of pearls, hobbled over with a cane to the two-top next to ours. We smiled and she smiled back, before she sat down next to me. The tables were closer together than I preferred social-distance wise, but I liked this woman’s style and friendly demeanor, so I didn’t dwell on it.
A man, bearing a strong resemblance to this woman, joined her on the bench facing the courtyard. I’m guessing he was in late 50s/early 60s with salt and pepper hair and an olive complexion. I assumed he was her son based on the age difference and similar features.
“You seein’ this?” Dana said in her New Yorker way and tilted her head in their direction.
“What?”
“I think they’re together, together.” She gave their table an exaggerated side eye.
I looked over and the woman had placed her head on the man’s shoulder.
“Good for them,” I said, happy to see people out enjoying themselves.
The man ordered champagne for his companion.
Soon our plates of pasta arrived, and we stopped spying and ate our food. Dana mentioned that her chronic back pain had flared up, exacerbated by sitting on the plane. She’d almost canceled our plans because of the pain, but said she was glad that she’d rallied and was excited to be out for a change.
Mid-meal, the man next to us got up and disappeared into the restaurant. His “date” leaned over, clutching an unlit cigarette between her fingers, and pointed at our appetizer plate of crispy Brussels sprouts.
“What is this? Is it salad?” she asked in an accent I couldn’t quite place.
I explained that it was a vegetable with walnuts, fried and seasoned with Balsamic vinegar. She nodded her head slowly and smiled, eyes glassy from the champagne.
When the man returned, they dug into their meals.
“Everyone okay over here?” asked the waiter, a tall and lean guy with a shaved head and actor-y energy.
Our neighbor, halfway through a plate of burger and fries, said in the same accent as his dinner date, “Another hamburger, please.”
“To go?” the waiter asked, jotting notes on his pad.
“For here. Exactly like this.” He held up the burger and took a bite.
Dana and I exchanged wide-eyed glances.
“Guess he’s hungry,” I mumbled.
This man, who I will henceforth refer to as “Two Burgers,” zeroed in on Dana and asked, “Where are you from?” in a slightly interrogative tone.
The interruption took us by surprise.
“Here. Ten minutes away,” Dana said, dismissively and intentionally vague.
“But you were traveling on a plane,” he countered, clearly eavesdropping.
I couldn’t fault the guy for being nosy. In a way he was no different from Dana and me, observing his fellow diners and trying to figure out their story. I, for one, welcomed the banter. I love a good character study and it seemed novel to talk to a stranger after avoiding fellow humans for two years. Dana was more guarded, as is her way, so I jumped in.
“She was in New York visiting family,” I said.
“Where in New York?” he shot back, like a Federal Agent collecting pertinent info.
“Long Island.” Dana shifted in her seat and stretched her back.
“We are from Great Neck,” said Two Burgers with a satisfied smirk, as if he knew he’d spotted a fellow east coaster.
The woman with him picked at his French fries and mooned at us.
He revealed that “they” lived in Holmby Hills and clarified that their house was “across the street from all the billionaires.”
“Are you Jewish?” Two Burgers asked, eyes darting at Dana, then me.
The question caused momentary panic. With antisemitism on the rise, or rather, always hidden in plain sight, not to mention the likes of YE—the musician and Holocaust-denier—tweeting to his 31.4 MM Twitter followers that he would go “death con 3 on Jewish People,” why did this stranger want to know if we were Jews?
While Two Burgers may have seemed benevolent enough, what if he planned to go “death con,” (which isn’t even a thing, but still) on us? Maybe he’d launch into a crazy anti-Jew tirade? That would be scary. What would we do then? I guess we’d complain to the manager and have him thrown out. Or maybe we’d leave because our dinner would be ruined. It was sad to even worry about altercations with strangers, but such is the state of the world right now.
Politesse eventually outweighed paranoia and we both answered, “Yes.”
“We are too. Iranian Jews,” he said.
The silent sigh of relief and spirit of tribalism lasted but a moment before Two Burgers lobbed a follow-up question; “Are you Liberals?”
“Yep,” Dana said, again choosing brevity to avoid an awkward exchange.
“Very extreme liberals?” Two Burgers asked, eyes wide as if he were encountering two beings from outer space.
Based on the word “extreme,” I suspected Two Burgers leaned more to the right and I fretted about getting mired in a political dispute. Everything was so charged these days. If Covid didn’t kill us, a conspiracy theorist with a gun might. In the early days of the Trump presidency, I clashed with family members on the other side of the aisle. I couldn’t wrap my head around how anyone, let alone my own bloodline, could rationalize supporting such a dangerous and morally reprehensible person. There were shouting matches. Words like “snowflake” got tossed around during heated diatribes. Tempers flared and I went through periods of not talking to my closest kin. When the pandemic started, I joined a weekly online meditation group to try to stay calm and “mindful” as it were. Eventually, I managed to reach a peaceful détente with my family by avoiding political discussions. So, when Two Burgers said, “Why are they trying to shrink the middle class?” I erred on the side of evasion.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I said.
“They are saying the government is trying to shrink the middle class. They don’t want to support middle class people like us,” he said as if he too didn’t understand the statement.
I found it amusing that a guy who lived in affluent Holmby Hills and had just ordered two $24 burgers and a bottle of champagne identified himself as middle class. “I don’t think that’s true,” I said. “Democrats passed several bills over the past two years to help support the neediest people and small business owners who suffered during the pandemic.”
“But they are smuggling girls across the border and selling them into slavery,” he said, making a dramatic topical shift.
“Have you been watching Fox News?” I asked, keeping my tone jokey, rather than chiding.
He grinned sheepishly. “I just don’t understand it,” he said. “Why are they letting people in at the border who sell women into slavery. I care about women.”
I shook my head and shrugged, while, Dana, desperate for an out, started talking to the two men dining on the other side of us.
“How’s the pizza?” she asked.
“Very good. It is better than Trader Joe’s,” said the tall middle-aged man with a boyish, side-parted haircut, and dressed in a patterned sweater. He had an accent similar to Two Burgers.
“I don’t think that’s a ringing endorsement,” I chimed in.
A laugh erupted from his companion, a petite, dark-haired younger man with a beautiful floral scarf draped over his shoulders.
“Try a slice.” The older man held out his tray of vegetable pizza.
“Oh, no, thank you,” Dana said with a giggle. “That’s so nice, but I’m already full and we have to get dessert.”
“Don’t order dessert here,” he warned, “it’s too expensive.”
I wanted to say, “this place is literally famous for its pastries,” but instead I said, “We’re celebrating her birthday, so we have to get dessert.”
“Make sure to tell them it’s your birthday, then you will get it for free,” he said.
Before long, we found out that this couple lived downtown near the original Bottega Louie location but liked to come to West Hollywood for a change of scenery. “The pizza is really the best deal on the menu. Whatever we don’t finish, we take home,” said the older guy. “And I order the 9oz glass of wine for us to share. Good value.”
He had it all figured out.
During this side conversation, we lost track of what was happening at Two Burger’s table.
Our new downtown friend explained that he worked as a tour guide and would be heading to Dubai the following week.
“Can I get your card?” Dana asked. “I’d love to go on a tour like that.”
“The tours are for Persians only,” he said with regret, as if this wasn’t the first time he’d had to explain his Persians-only policy.
“You should talk to him.” I pointed a thumb at Two Burgers.
Since no names had been exchanged by anyone, I made an introduction of sorts and told Two Burgers that the man on the other side of us led travel tours for Persians only.
Mr. Tour Guide stood up and said something in what may have been Persian to Two Burgers. With the roar of noisy chatter on the patio and the clink of glassware, I’m not sure Two Burgers heard the words, which might explain why he nodded and seemingly ignored Mr. Tour Guide.
Mr. Tour Guide sat back down, dejected.
“How sad that Lisa Marie Presley died,” Dana said, glancing at her phone.
“Lisa Marie Presley has died?” Two Burgers raised his eyebrows in shock and set down his forkful of cake.
“Yes, she had a heart attack,” Dana said.
“Why did I not hear this?” he asked.
“Probably because you were watching Fox News,” I said and laughed.
He laughed too and said, “I love Hannity, I can’t help it.”
Under normal circumstances, I’d have some strong words to say about Hannity and Fox News and the way the network stirs up fear and panic or the ridiculous soap boxes that anchors like Tucker Carlson had spouted to keep their viewers in a constant state of fear and paranoia. Carlson had famously launched into a tirade about a redesign of the M&Ms animated characters and complained that “woke culture” had forced the Mars company to make the green M&M character less sexy by replacing her gogo boots with sporty trainers. It sounded like an SNL skit, but it wasn’t. Ironically, Sarah Huckabee Sanders, the Republican governor of Arkansas said in her SOTU speech that the dividing line in America is between “crazy” and “normal.” Is it “normal” to lust after an M&M character? And speaking of crazy, what did Two Burgers think about Marjorie Taylor Greene, the Republican representative from Georgia suggesting that Jewish space lasers were responsible for the California wildfires in 2018? Didn’t he find that incident terribly offensive as a Jew?
I could’ve asked him these questions, but I was too busy marveling and delighting in my good-natured interaction with a Fox News-watching Republican. The fact that Two Burgers had a sense of humor and a desire to make sense of some of the rhetoric he’d been hearing surprised and heartened me. Perhaps he’d made a calculated choice to veer towards subjects that weren’t very incendiary. Obviously, I didn’t support shrinking the middle class or selling women into slavery. Maybe he considered us mishpocha (family) because of shared Jewish lineage. Whatever the reasoning, that night, everyone abandoned the flamethrowers to have a good time.
Dana, though more reserved, was amazed at the friendliness and camaraderie of both sets of neighboring diners. “This is like being in New York not LA,” she said.
That may have been true. New Yorkers were known to be more direct and not afraid to talk to strangers, but I’d always found people in LA to be friendly. Then again, I’m an extrovert and will talk to anyone at least for a minute or two.
The news of Lisa Marie Presley’s passing struck a real chord with Two Burgers. He said he’d worked in the fashion industry and the food business and had met “every celebrity.” “Madonna, Lady Gaga, you name it. Lisa Marie, she was the only one that impressed me. There was something very special about her.”
The woman beside him patted his shoulder and leaned over towards us, beaming. “This is my son,” she said.
I kicked Dana’s shoe under the table.
“That’s your mom?” Dana asked.
“What did you think? She was my girlfriend?” He peered over his shoulder at his mom who’d just closed her eyes to take a catnap.
“The champagne makes her fall asleep,” he said.
“We’re not here to judge,” I said.
Our waiter popped by to take our dessert order and, as he dashed off, Mr. Tour Guide shouted after him, “It’s her birthday.”
Meanwhile, Two Burgers opened one of two Bottega Louie pastry boxes sitting on his table, which contained eight sugar-coated beignets. “You must taste this puffy cake they make here. It is the greatest dessert you’ve ever had.” He placed one on my bread plate.
“You sure?” I asked.
“Yes, I have plenty,” he said.
I sliced it down the middle and creamy chocolate oozed out. It tasted delicious, airy, and not overly sweet. Was it the best dessert I’d ever had? No, but very tasty. And how lovely of this Fox News-watching man to share his dessert with us.
When our lemon tart showed up sans candle and no birthday fanfare, I reciprocated by cutting off a small piece for Two Burgers, who admitted it was “very good.”
The checks arrived and though our dessert wasn’t free, despite Mr. Tour Guide’s best efforts, I was touched and impressed by the generosity of everyone that night. Even with high interest rates, natural gas bills on the rise, and a spike in the price of eggs, frugal Mr. Tour Guide kindly offered us some pizza and Two Burgers shared a beignet with extreme liberals. And after being so terrified of germs during Covid, we’d let our guards down and broke bread with strangers. I couldn’t remember that ever happening to me in a restaurant before.
Once the checks were paid, Two Burgers and his mom bid us adieu. Mr. Tour Guide and his date asked if we’d take their photo and they, in kind, offered to take one of me and Dana.
As I stood up and slid between the tables, I heard diners behind me shouting, “Your coat! Your coat is touching the candle!”
I whipped around and the back of my coat bumped the glass candle holder off the neighboring table and made a loud crash.
“Is she on fire?” Dana shrieked.
The concerned diners shook their heads. I gathered the shards glass into a little pile with my foot so that no dogs or children would step on it. Mr. Tour Guide’s date, the slight man with the beautiful scarf, offered some reassuring words: “I’m from Vietnam and in my country, they have a different take on breaking glass. It means you will have good fortune and happy times.”
“They break glass at a Jewish wedding too,” I said, though in that case, the custom symbolizes the destruction of Jewish temples and creates a momentary pause from the happiness to reflect on what’s been lost.
He nodded and smiled.
With that, the four of us exited the restaurant to Santa Monica Boulevard where neon signs lit up the bars and cars whooshed past. Dana and I chuckled at the unusual confluence of events that had just transpired. Was it a one-off, a momentary blip of luck, like gazing up at the sky just in time to witness a meteor shower? Or a happy sign of things to come like the young man predicted? Or did the broken glass punctuate all that’s been lost? I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.
Thanks so much for reading. If you enjoyed this piece, hit the ❤️ button or leave a comment. I always love hearing from you.
Aw, Hilary, I so enjoyed this. I think this was a wonderful thing to share in these times. Two Burgers was really stressing me out for a minute there, but I'm really glad that in the end you were able to break bread and find common ground in dessert.