One good thing about Shabbat ending at 8:30 and you’re going to be picked up at 8:45 for the ride to the hospital; you don’t have much time to dwell upon all the things that could go wrong while they are supposedly making you better.

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Been there; done that. That laconic response could signify a general lack of enthusiasm for the event and the location now under consideration. But even if the first-go-around was reasonably satisfactory, one might not see any particular advantage to a do-over. Consider our situation. Months ago, we had traveled all the way out to Ein Kerem two times, once for the pre-op appointment and again for the ‘ishpuz’ (where you’re technically admitted, even if you don’t stay there for several days), all with the best of intentions. We thought those formalities were over and done with and the procedure to eliminate the need for my catheter would take place without a hitch, except that a few days later, certain gentlemen – who shall remain nameless – started a war, causing us to spend quality time stretched out in Barbara’s office (a/k/a the mamad) instead of the hospital bed, as we had anticipated.

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Prelude

The four months between when your procedure was supposed to take place and when the folks at the hospital actually got around to yanking out your catheter, did it seem that the days went flying by, or did the time just drag on? Actually neither. These days, I get up in the morning, say my prayers, ending with the shir shel yom, so that I’m clear that it’s Monday, Tuesday, etc., in effect, a new day for me and a reminder that I recited that same psalm a week before, and what did I accomplish in those intervening seven days? I consider the day over and done with when I say goodnight to my wonderful wife, turn off my nightlight, and settle into bed. Whatever I did or didn’t do after I got up, it’s on me. Each day takes the same amount of time, so, as far as I’m concerned, there’s no faster or slower – just better spent or the opposite.

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There is rarely any advantage to having adoring fans overstate your abilities. I keep reminding folks that I am a decent cook but not a chef; that I like my wine, spirits, and coffee but I’m not, by any stretch of the imagination, an expert in imbibation – if that’s a word. On the other hand, if people take you too seriously, at least they won’t forget about you at critical moments. As in: friends of ours were zipping around The States, and Shoshana wound up in Teaneck, NJ, our old stomping grounds, just in time to pick up a copy of the Jewish Link Summer Food & Drink supplement to their Shavuot edition. She gave her copy a quick perusal, then thought to herself, This is more than I need, but I’ve gotta bring it back for Fred, which she did. And therein is the beginning of a story, which will unfold, providing that you have a modicum of patience and a little bit of time.

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One Size Does Not Fit All

and what’s sauce for the goose may not be sauce for the gander – whatever that’s supposed to mean. There are principles, there are generalities, but they don’t always work, just as the clothes that fit me ten years ago are a wee too tight around the waist these days. What am I hinting at? A few articles ago I was waxing rhapsodic about the value of home ownership, and that works most of the time for most people. But, as I am implying, not always. Consider, if you will, the situation faced by our friends, Michael and Tehilla, when they had no choice but to sell their apartment and revert to renting, all of which I will explain below – as well as what it has to do with alleged topic of this article, something about fine dining.

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The invitation we received for dinner was somewhat unusual, but nothing to write home about. What happened once we got there was……well, I’ll get to that in due time. Just hold your horses.

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At last, a ‘Word of the Day’ that I can use in an article. In fact, the one I’m working on now. Every morning, Barbara’s phone gives her a different word, most of which none of us has ever heard of, many of which became archaic three hundred years ago. In fact, one may wonder, are they making these up? The word of the day on May 5, 2026 was ‘clowder,’ described as referring, among other things, to a herd of cats. Let me check this out. Does anybody else in Ma’ale Adumim, in Israel, or anywhere else on this blessed planet have the formidable two volume set of The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary – complete with magnifying glass so you can read the tiny print – anybody in addition to David Brownstein and myself? I pulled mine down, and, sure enough, there is a brief reference to ‘clowder’ as a variant of ‘cludder,’ probably related to ‘clutter,’ as in a mass of stuff, which might include a herd of cats.

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Yom Haatzmaut is, what, in two weeks? I need to contact Jeff and June and make sure we’re getting together.

Some habits die hard; some you never want to let go of. For eighteen years – with a few exceptions caused by temporary unavailability, epidemics, or wars – we and the Glazers, longtime friends from Teaneck, have spent quality time together on this notable day of the Israeli calendar. It just wouldn’t be the same without them. (And again, the lack of an index to posts about previous occasions is unfortunate.) When the four of us first arrived here, we began going to barbecues at friends of our friends in Rosh Haayin, which tradition continued until, out of the blue, the man and his wife were no longer living together, and we were left to fend for ourselves. Jeff picked up the slack for a few years at their home in The Gush, and then, by mutual consent, we would meet at a restaurant somewhere in Jerusalem. The dairy restaurant Piccolino was our venue of choice, until we had a better idea. One of the bands in which our friend Arvin plays the trumpet started performing at the First Station every Independence Day. Why don’t the Casdens and the Glazers meet up there, have lunch at a dairy restaurant, and mosey over to the bandstand in time to hear the music? That worked for several years, but not this year—for reasons we can only assume has something to do with ‘the situation.’

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Me: I accept the fact that he has ended at least a dozen wars…

Other guy: A dozen? That’s more than I remember.

Me: If you count the ones he doesn’t usually mention, like the Crimean War, the Franco-Austrian War, and the War of Roses. But what I was getting at was that I should also get some credit, if not for ending the current situation, for at least postponing another round of fighting. And that took some planning.

Other guy: This I gotta hear.

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This is important. We just got a message from Dr. Rubin’s office. He wants you to come in either this Thurs. or Sun. Like any good card-carrying hypochondriac, I immediately went into full panic mode. Any time a doctor tells you to come in to see him A.S.A.P, something must be wrong, and I spent the next few days, often lying awake in my bed at 3AM, imagining the worst, because that’s what good hypochondriacs do whenever they get the chance. (It’s cancer. You have only six months to live…) We would find out the truth on Thursday when we would see the good doctor, but until then, in the immortal words of Alfred E. Neuman, What me worry? Damn right, I will.

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