Saturday, August 29th, 2020

My table at the Sabbath cafe doesn’t have the icons that we scan for menus. That’s OK. I know what I’m getting. The shakshuka is consistently good. There are slight variations each week. Often, the eggs are under the tomatoes. Today they’re on top. They’re firmer now than before. The sauce is savory, with just a touch of sharp heat. The server puts the tray down safely this time. The skillet’s handle faces away from me. I don’t have to spin the whole thing around to avoid getting burned. She also brings out a glass of water in addition to my iced coffee. That’s welcome. It’s even hotter today than it has been. A young woman in a black shirt walks across the patio. Several customers try to catch her attention. She doesn’t work here. The servers do wear black t-shirts, but the logo is small and only on the front. It’s easy to make that mistake. When a real server comes to her table, the woman points to the other customers who had called out to her. The server makes the rounds to them next. On my way home, I see neat piles of books where the give-and-take bench had been. I look through them. Travel guides in Hebrew for trips to Italy and Paris rest atop an SAT workbook and an annotated paperback of Paradise Lost. Several volumes of an old matched set of hardcovers are stacked next to them. I open the one on top, but the back cover is facing upwards. I can’t tell what it is. I don’t dig further. I check the time on my phone. The cleaner is arriving soon. I hurry home.