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By Root 613 0

I’d like to know. No. I’d rather not know. But that reminds me, your behaviour, there’s something I have to ask you. We’re going to my parents for Shabbat dinner on Friday night, you’re not getting out of it this time. Oh, I know it’s a big imposition, you have to wear a suit, but my father always has the very best single malts there just to please you. Oh, I forgot. The new maid served it with ice in your glass last time you came. Off with her head, eh? The truth is I could cut out my tongue, because I was once foolish enough to tell you my mother simply cannot stand whistling at the table. You don’t do it here or anywhere else. Never, never. But sit down at our family table on a Friday night and before we have even finished the gefilte fish, you could be auditioning for The Ed Sullivan Show or something. So this Friday at the table will you please, please, please not whistle ‘Mair-zy Doats’ or ‘Bongo, Bongo, Bongo, I Don’t Want to Leave the Congo,’ or some idiot tune by Spike Jones. You find that funny? Something to laugh about? Well, fuck you. My father is still waiting for the results of that biopsy, and if it comes back positive I don’t know what I’ll do, I think I’ll die. Where was I?”

“Sixteen is where you were, with a pigtail.”

“That was the year of my Sweet Sixteen dinner dance at the temple. I wore a white taffeta dress from Bergdorf Goodman, with matching gloves and silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes. My father took one look and his eyes filled with tears. Mr. Bernard and his wife came to the dinner, and so did the Bernsteins and the Katanskys and —”

“What did they serve?” I asked, my smile menacing.

“Are you being sarcastic?”

“I’m interested.”

“In anything that means something to me? Yeah, sure. And you never laid a hand on one of your shiksa so-called actresses and you didn’t drink a drop last night. Right? Wrong. Well, for your information, it was catered by Monsieur Henri, no expense spared. He was a Sephardic Jew from Morocco, but not one of your greasy ones. He was extremely polite. Very sophisticated. Introduce him to a lady and he would kiss her hand, without actually touching it. Then it turned out his only son was an epileptic, and it broke his heart. He began to drink and his business went downhill. Don’t give me that look. Spare me. I know it doesn’t interfere with your work. Not yet anyway. In fact, in your case, I would say it’s your work that interferes with your drinking. No reaction? What do I have to do to get you to crack a smile? Stand on my head? Take off my panties in Eaton’s window? Something that young actress you’re so fond of, that Solange woman, could never do. I’m told she doesn’t wear any and I’m looking at the guy who I’m sure could confirm that one way or another. Yes? No? Never mind. Back in those days Monsieur Henri’s business was burgeoning and he catered a lot of affairs that weren’t even Jewish. Old families in Westmount who wouldn’t have a Jew, even one as cultured as my father, in one of their clubs booked him for their daughters’ coming-out parties and all sorts of events that make the social column in the Gazette. Oh, look at you. Impatient already. I’d better stick to the point, eh? Or you’ll soon tell me you have to go to the toilet urgently, taking your newspaper with you, but I happen to know you’ve already been this morning, and how. So next time would you remember to spray, that’s what it’s for, you know. Look at it like this. Not every bottle is to drink from. No smile as per usual. No ha ha ha. You don’t think that was witty. Only you can make jokes. Okay, okay. Tara-taratara. The menu. We started with foie de poulet, served in a cucumber canoe, and surrounded by sour-pickle slivers and flower petals. My Aunt Fanny didn’t know what they were, and ate them all, it became a family joke for years. My father would take us to dinner at the Café Martin, there would be a vase with flowers in the middle of the table, and he would wink and say, ‘It’s a good thing Aunt Fanny isn’t here.’

“At my Sweet Sixteen boys dressed like Bedouins went from table to table with