On the Sabbath Ki Tisa when the Jewish People lose their patience, build a golden calf and murder 3,000 stiff-necked Jews, Dr. Michael Cohen, a newcomer to Bak’a, meets Abutbul as they reach for the same piece of rugelach.
“Please, you first,” says Abutbul from the right side of the Kiddush table.
“No, no,” says Cohen. “I just want something special for my kids.” Amy and Joel cower behind their father, as they do every Sabbath when he drags them to one of the twenty-five neighborhood synagogues for Kiddush.
“You drink the Golden Calf?”
Cohen smiles. He has no idea what the man is talking about. He scoops a handful of chipsfor Joel and grabs an isolated rugelach for Amy, which she stuffs into her mouth whole.
“Moroccans,” he whispers to the kids.
“Can we go home now,” asks Joel.
Cohen feels a meaty tap on his shoulder. He turns around. The man is standing there, almost on top of him, his hand stretching towards Cohen’s chest. His first reaction is to push him away.
“Abutbul,” says the man.
“Cohen. Dr. Michael Cohen,” he says, taking two steps back, nearly trampling his kids. “We live over there.” He points to the three storey house on Bethlehem Road diagonally across the street from Tikvatenu Synagogue.
“You come visit?”
Michael doesn’t know if Abutbul is asking about the past, inviting him for lunch now or for some future event.
“I slaughter morning of the Seder. Bring the kids. You surgeon, no?”
“Chiropractor,” Cohen says, realizing as soon as he’s finished pronouncing the four syllables, each with its own Hebrew lilt, that the guy probably doesn’t know what that is.
“Good,” says Abutbul.
Cohen takes a sip of wine from the flimsy paper cup he has been holding in his left hand. “You’re...
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