Short Story: A Memorable Spaghetti Dinner
I was sitting at a table in a small unprepossessing Italian restaurant in the Sheepshead Bay area of Brooklyn. Being an insecure type, I sat with my back to the wall, as usual, when three nattily dressed gentlemen of Italian appearance entered and approached me. “This table is our table. . .” the nattiest of them said to me softly and not impolitely. Maybe because of the gangster movies I had seen, I considered it best not to dispute the fact. If I were younger, I would have yielded with a humorous face-saving remark, such as “I thought tables were fungible.” If I were much younger, maybe even argued a bit, and perhaps I would have remained much younger for eternity. But fortunately I was not so young and life had taught me a certain prudence. “No problem,” I said. “I’ll sit somewhere else.” I reached a hand toward a plate of spaghetti and meatballs that had arrived immediately before the three gentlemen – to take it to a table less in demand. [Larry Lefkowitz]
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Jewish Fiction