Such was the case now as she sat over lunch at Broken Arrow. The setting itself, with its look of Windsor Castle as re-created by Aaron Spelling, was good fodder, as was the situation—Norman and May conversing sweetly while she and Stan glared at each other over a sea of cut glass. Surely there was enough material here for a week’s worth of entertaining e-mails.
And that was before getting into the food. Flo and Amy had always enjoyed trading descriptions of memorable meals, and the lunch at Broken Arrow was decidedly memorable. The gazpacho was wonderfully piquant; the veal, exquisitely tender; and the apple crisp, quite simply the best apple crisp she had ever eaten—and she had eaten a good deal of apple crisp in her day. Flo had to admit that the meal was worthy of the better restaurants in Chicago and New York.
But since when was this surprising? Food was a prominent feature of life in west Boca Raton. All the senior residences in Boca had noteworthy food: copious, frequent, and lavish in presentation and variety. Food, after all, was interesting. In the elderly Jewish lexicon, it was not just a source of gustatory pleasure and an excuse for getting together and schmoozing; it was a subject for intellectual analysis and debate in its own right, a kind of digestible seminar topic.
“So do you think the potato salad is as good as the potato salad at Don’s Drive-in?” a wife would ask her husband, referring to an eatery in northern New Jersey, where they had formerly lived.
“I don’t know,” he might respond, pausing to ruminate on the question. “This one seems a little grainy.”
“I wouldn’t say grainy, but there’s less mayonnaise. I like mayonnaise in potato salad, as long as it’s not mayonnaise-y.”
“This isn’t mayonnaise-y”
“Did I say it was mayonnaise-y? I said there was less mayonnaise than at Don’s.”
“Don’s was kind of mushy.”
“Mushy, no, one thing it wasn’t was mushy, but it had more mayonnaise”—and so on, with such conversation expanding to take up an entire lunch and, in some instances, many subsequent lunches. In point of fact it was an exercise in critical exegesis like any other, no different in kind from the study of Renaissance portraiture or the metrics of John Milton. No doubt it had its origin in the hair-splitting commentary that Jews had performed for millennia in their reading of the Torah and the Talmud. Add to this natural analytic inclination the fact that most of the residents of West Boca had esoteric dietary requirements—the result of health problems, bizarre taste preferences, and in some cases, the vestiges of religious dietary law—and the intricacy of food-related conversation could become veritably labyrinthine.
Given the importance of food to Jewish seniors, it was logical that the quality of food would increase as one moved up the hierarchy of residences in Boca, supporting the dictum “You get what you pay for.” Where large portions and a varied buffet table were standard fare everywhere, quality of preparation and ingredients marked the vast divide between the lower-rung clubs, where even the non-Egg-Beater eggs were powdered, and the top-of-the-line establishments. Broken Arrow, being at the very zenith, boasted a genuine French chef, trained in both traditional and nouvelle cuisine, who had gotten tired of battling over his second Michelin star and decided to relax in semi-retirement supervising the kitchen in this food-conscious corner on the eastern coast of Florida.
“These people are not chic, but they know their food,” explained the chef to his friends, who enjoyed jetting over for a long weekend to sit on the awninged balcony overlooking the golf course, surreptitiously sucking on Gauloises cigarettes and watching the bizarre parade of orange-haired matrons drive by in golf carts. God forbid he should try to pass off a lesser-quality fish in his quenelles; some irate patron, hardly more than four feet tall but with a very loud voice, was sure to storm into the kitchen with the complaint that she was not paying x amount in club dues to be served gefilte fish.
“The meal gets three stars,” Flo commented appreciatively to Norman now as they sat sipping their coffee over the remains of the apple crisp.
“That’s a great compliment,” said May. “Flo is a gourmet and very critical. She walks out of restaurants if the bathroom is dirty.” Stan Jacobs looked up from under his bushy eyebrows as if to take the measure, or so Flo thought, of an aging Jewish American Princess.
Norman nodded good-naturedly. “My wife was the same way. Not me. My father used to tell us that a little dirt helps build the resistance. When we were small, if we dropped a piece of food on the floor, we’d kiss it to God and eat it.”
“That sounds familiar,” said May, laughing.
“The food is good here,” said Stan brusquely, “but it’s wasted on the likes of you, Norman. You could just as well be eating at a hot dog stand on Coney Island.”
“Well, that’s true.” Norman seemed to give the comment some serious thought. “Nothing ever beat a good Nathan’s frank. But did I hear Stan Jacobs correctly? Has my friend actually something good to say about Broken Arrow? It’s a first, so let me enjoy it.” He turned to the women as he put his arm around his friend’s shoulders and continued, “For all that he spends half his time here, I’ve never heard him do anything but complain about the place.”
“You don’t live here?” asked May
“He lives in a house about two miles away,” explained Norman. “You know, that traditional form of shelter where you have to mow the lawn and take the garbage to the curb? It’s a nice house, too, though he owes that more to his wife than to him. She had taste. Stan’s contribution was the books. He can’t move out; the books won’t let him. They’ve taken over, like a nasty weed. Come to think of it,” Norman added, winking at Flo, “he could use a librarian. It’s gotten to the point that you can’t get to the bathroom without tripping over stacks of poetry that lifting would give you a hernia. That’s why he’s always hanging around here, along with the fact that he has a natural, overwhelming love for me.”
“Let’s face it,” said Stan, smiling at his friend’s teasing, “I’m a schnorrer, and you indulge me.”
“What’s this?” shouted Norman. “Has the refined Stan Jacobs stooped to a Yiddishism?”
“You forget I was the son of a cantor,” said Stan, “and weathered ten years of Orthodox Hebrew school.”
“Yes, but then you washed your hands of it,” protested Norman, “what with ‘Mary romping through the heath’ or whatever that English literature stuff is about. I know you only love me for my food”—Norman motioned to the remains of the meal before them—”but I don’t care. I’ll take you on whatever terms you want.”
“Meshuggener,” laughed Stan, tapping his head and addressing May, who seemed to find the exchange delightful, “and if he weren’t so damn sweet, I’d have nothing to do with him.” They all laughed. May seemed as though she might float away The expression on her face, the way she sat, leaning in a little to listen to Norman’s jokes, the ease and liveliness with which she responded to his quips, made Flo, who had the protective affection toward her friend of an older sister, feel at once charmed and concerned. She did not want May to get hurt.
Stan had stood up and, speaking directly to Flo for once, asked if she was ready for a game of tennis. “I can’t sit still in these clubhouses for too long. What with the food and the atmosphere, I’m afraid they’re going to mount me on the wall like a piece of moderately big game.”
And you’d be more appealing up there, Flo thought to herself, but she got up, too. They’d been sitting for almost an hour after finishing the meal, and she was ready for some vigorous exercise. She was also looking forward to the opportunity of beating the arrogant Stan Jacobs at tennis.
“Let me know if you get tired,” he cautioned as they made their way to the French doors at the back of the dining room. Although the courts were only about a hundred yards away, the club had gone all out in the landscaping, and they crossed a small stream and a little bridge that Flo thought for the life of her was a dead ringer for the bridge in Monet’s garden in Giverny. “Feel
free to call it quits whenever you want,” he continued. “It can get hot out here if you’re not used to it.”
“I’ll be sure to let you know,” said Flo with a mock-earnest smile. She felt a little (but not too) guilty about her bad faith, and was glad that May, who liked to boast about her, had not mentioned that she was the Boca Festa tennis champion, that she played regularly with the club pro, and had even been asked to play in senior tournaments, though the prospect of going into training at her age had not appealed to her.
She beat Stan without much effort in the first set, 6-3, and, as she saw his surprise and the mere grunt that he gave her afterward, she exerted herself and whipped him more completely in the second, 6-1. She would have gone on for a third but saw that he was seriously out of breath and his white hair was matted with sweat. As much as the man annoyed her, she wasn’t about to have his heart attack on her conscience. Instead, she walked forward and stretched out her hand.
“Good game,” she said. He shook but said nothing.
“I’ve said ‘Good game,’ and now you should say ‘Good game,’ “ she instructed. “Clearly it hasn’t pleased you one bit to lose to me, especially since you expected to win easily, but seeing as you did lose and I played exceptionally well, natural courtesy requires that you say so.”
“I’m sorry,” said Stan, “you’re right. I’m just a bit winded, that’s all. And it was a good game. You’re an amazingly intelligent player.”
“So I’ve been told,” said Flo. “Playing tennis is one of the few things I can say that I do well.”
“I doubt that.”
“Doubt all you please. It’s true.”
“Then we’ll have to play again, so I can get the benefit of one of your few talents,” said Stan.
“Perhaps,” said Flo archly. She was relieved to see Norman and May strolling toward them, and she raised her hand to urge them forward. Flo considered her match with Stan Jacobs effort expended in a good cause if it would assist the happiness of her friend. But having done her part in allowing May personal time with Norman, she now felt perfectly within her rights to head back to Boca Festa.
“So how did the sparring partners do on the tennis courts?” called out Norman as he approached with May on his arm. “Looked to me like she was beating the pants off you.”
“She did,” said Stan. “She’s a damn good player. You should have told me.” He directed this to May.
“I’m afraid I don’t keep up with tennis,” May apologized. “But I could have told you that Flo does everything well.”
“That’s not what she said,” said Stan. “She claims to have very few talents.”
“Well,” said Flo, who felt the discussion had gone on long enough, “if you must know, I’ll give it to you succinctly: I play tennis, I read, I do the Times crossword in ink, I write a good letter, and I know the Dewey decimal system inside out. But that about covers it. Now, May here has a far more useful and extensive array of skills. She cooks and sews, she’s a sympathetic and tolerant mother, and an even better mother-in-law—quite an accomplishment under the circumstances; she’s an excellent and supportive friend, a superb bargain shopper, and she grows the best tomatoes I’ve ever eaten in a planter on the balcony of her condo, in direct violation of club rules—which I take to be a sign of healthy rebelliousness within the proper limits.”
“Really?” said Norman to May. “I hope you’ll save some for me.”
May blushed. “They’re just plum tomatoes. Nothing special. I like to garden, that’s all, and that’s about all I can do here, short of the flowers in the window boxes.”
“I know what you mean,” said Norman. “We had friends who used to complain about it all the time. They used to say how much they envied Stan and Elsa. Stan’s an excellent gardener—his wife taught him, of course, like everything else he can do. He has a wonderful garden in his backyard, though it’s not what it was since Elsa died. She made the best rhubarb pie to boot.”
“Strawberry-rhubarb,” said Stan softly.
“Well, I hate to garden,” said Flo, “and I hate to cook.”
“I never met a woman who hated to garden,” murmured Stan.
“How exciting—now you have,” announced Flo, then turned abruptly. “May, we’ve got to get going. I can feel myself fading as we speak. All I need is to get behind a Lincoln Town Car going twenty miles an hour, and what with the lunch, the sun, and the tennis, I’ll be asleep behind the wheel and Norman will be saying kaddish for us.”
“I wouldn’t like that,” said Norman.
“Then let us go.” She turned for a moment to Stan and, extending her arm in a mock-dramatic gesture, declaimed, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Startled, he took her hand and seemed to be considering what to do with it when she removed it from his grasp, grabbed May, and strode off toward the Broken Arrow parking lot. The liveried attendants quickly brought their car. It was the Escort—Flo’s Volvo had overheated after the South Beach trip and was in the shop—and it looked like a poor relation among the imposing Lincolns, Lexuses, and Mercedes. An attendant helped them in and waved them through the iron-and-bronze-filigreed gate onto the highway.
Norman and Stan stood where they had been left, looking after the two women. “Delightful!” Norman declared happily. Stan said nothing. It was unusual for Stan Jacobs not to make a summary comment, but Norman was too content to probe, and the two men sauntered back to the clubhouse in search of a New York Times and a cold beer.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ALAN NEWMAN COULD HEAR HIS WIFE ON THE TELEPHONE WITH his mother in the other room. When Carol spoke on the phone, she always yelled, so it was no problem picking up the conversation. He had once asked her, while she was in the throes of a high-volume conversation with one of her friends, to “please speak in a normal voice,” and she had replied tersely, her hand spread over the mouthpiece, “This is my normal voice.” He had not seen fit to raise the subject again.
He could hear her now, excitedly pumping his mother for details: “How many dates? Three?” Carol’s voice grew even louder. Norman Grafstein had been her idea. She had done all the legwork. To see the thing coming to fruition this way, and to have it happen at a distance, was a stupendous feat—better even than getting Wendy Wasserstein as the keynote speaker for the Hadassah luncheon last year. Alan sensed that Carol’s pleasure would only have been increased had the whole thing been more arduous and taken place in some even more remote locale—had she set up, say, a trappist monk with a nice Jewish girl in the outer reaches of Mongolia.
“Have you had him to dinner yet?” Carol had entered into phase two: planning the capture. “You must have him to dinner, May. You cook so well, you’re a natural in the kitchen. The way you bustle around—wear the pink apron with the macrame—it’ll make him realize what he’s been missing.”
There was a silence for a moment. May was obviously explaining her disinterest in catching Norman Grafstein in the way Carol had in mind.
“Don’t be silly!” Carol’s voice grew irritable—and louder, if that was possible. “Of course you want him to pop the question. You want to live alone in that little condo for the good years you have left when you could be gallivanting around the best Boca club, jetting to Europe twice a year, and taking weekends in New York? I know Norman Grafstein’s type. Men like that know how to live. Don’t give me that you don’t want a commitment. What woman doesn’t want a commitment? And don’t give me friends. Your friends are there for you because they don’t have a man of their own. You let Norman slip through your fingers and, believe me, one of them will snatch him up before you can blink an eye.”
Listening to Carol’s authoritative pronouncements made Alan feel vaguely uneasy. Clearly he had been snapped up and must therefore have appeared to his wife to be hot property. This came as news to him. It made him wonder if he had assessed his own worth properly and possibly sold himself short. The thought, however—a momentary twitch of vanity—passed quickly Carol’s notion of value
was so rarefied that no one, short of one of her equally yenta-ish friends, would have been privy to his qualities. Since he saw no advantage in having one of them over her (indeed, within her circle, Carol was acknowledged to be the best), the notion that he was worth more than he thought quickly dissipated. If anything, Carol had produced the value-added effect. By choosing him, she had greatly enhanced his resale worth. Were she ever to leave him, she would be able to say in good conscience that he would thereafter be advantageously viewed as Carol’s ex.
It was strange for Alan to hear Carol speak to his mother about catching a husband. May, married at nineteen to the most dour of men, was unlikely to have an interest in the commodity aspects of marriage. And yet the conversation did not appear to be flagging.
“Lila Katz?” he heard his wife scream. “She’s dating that vantz, Hy Marcus? Well, she could do worse. Give her my congratulations. You take Norman with you to the wedding. And make him dinner tomorrow night. Something substantial. Use lots of butter—worry about his cholesterol after you’re married. I’m going to be expecting both of you up here for Passover. You want to say a few words to your son? He’s dying to talk to you. Alan! Alan!”
Alan lumbered to the phone. He always felt that his own conversation with his mother, which circulated through a number of standard questions and answers, was particularly leaden and superfluous after Carol’s spirited exchanges.
“Hi, Mom. How’re things going?”
His mother’s voice was surprisingly animated, more surprisingly in having weathered conversation with Carol. “I’m fine, Alan. I’m feeling well, knock wood. How are the children?”
“The children are fine. Adam has his school play next week.” There was an awkward pause. “We’re having a cold snap here, so you’re lucky to be where you are. Business is the same. Carol’s been redecorating the den.” He could think of nothing more to say and, impetuously, decided to break from the expected pattern of signing off. “I hear you’ve been seeing quite a bit of Norman Grafstein,” he offered shyly.
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