It was once upon a time in 1930's Boston.
It was a typical Massachusetts winter with relentless snow that already covered the streets and continue to pour down in a mad flurry. Some folks toiled with shovels outside their doors while others hurried through the streets clinging tightly to hats and scarves lest they be blown away.
Most stores were closed due to the weather but the pale yellow lights that spelled SHAPIRO'S DINER continued to shine; a beacon for exhausted passerbys to take refugee from the snowstorm and order a bite to eat.
If they could pry open the heavy front door, they'd find themselves in a busy room that swirled with commotion: the fragrance of bread baking in the ovens, the sound of plates and silverware clattering noisily against each other, customers and service boys trying to talk louder than one another, and the background radio broadcasting the spine-tingling show, The Shadow,
Just a regular night at Shapiros!
Ruth Shapiro had secretly hoped that the foul weather would have kept customers at home. She wanted to spend her evening curled up on the old sofa with a mug of tea and library book. But tonight of all nights they had to stay open?
Damn and double damn. No Jane Eyre for tonight!
Hair wrapped into a bun and sweater covered with a big white apron, Ruth worked frantically to keep the ongoing stream of customers satisfied. Her cheeks glowed red with enthusiasm as she turned over pieces of fried chicken in a vat and then examined a bubbling pot of tomato soup.
The door separating the dining area from the kitchen quickly clattered shut.
"Two potato salads and a pastrami sandwich with extra tomatoes!"
The words flew out of Shalom's mouth breathlessly before he slapped the written order down on the counter. Then he dashed out again to take the next batch of orders. Ruth loaded everything onto an enormous steel tray and began serving food.
Her last order was for a small small robust woman with a coif of white hair under a brown wide-brimmed hat. She wore several gold chains around her neck, numerous rings on her fingers, and enough perfume to be detected four tables away.
For crying out loud, Ruth thought in disdain. When it rains, it pours. When it snows, it storms.
Mrs. Goldstein, Boston's most reputable matchmaker, had the noblest intentions for all the eligible young men and (especially) women in the community. To Ruth she was a mild if not constant irritation. The young lady had grown weary with lectures on dressing modestly yet stylishly alongside makeup, selecting appropriate jewelry, and personal hygiene.
Damnit, she spent her work hours in a restaurant. What was the point of getting a perm?
Nevertheless, Ruth set Mrs. Goldstein's order down on her table with a forced grin. It was always potato salad with a rye roll, two hard-boiled eggs, and Coca-Cola with no ice.
Mrs. Goldstein's eyes brightened when she recognized the brunette holding her tray. "So tell me, Ruth." She rubbed her glittering fingers together with anticipation. "What did you think of Morris Stein?"
The young woman's lips pursed up with concern. Whenever engaged in a social battle, a Jewish woman could brandish her tongue like a weapon. But Ruth could not bring herself to chastise Mrs. Goldstein so she stated her opinion without hesitation.
"I don't like him", Ruth said at last.
Mrs. Goldstein blinked twice revealing heavy half-moons of green eye-shadow smeared over her lids. "Not like him! Are you sure?"
"Quite." Ruth was about to turn away and handle the next customer when she felt Mrs. Goldstein rest a firm hand on Ruth's elbow.
"Ruthie, sweetie," Mrs. Goldstein crooned in a sugary voice. "Just listen to me for a minute. Morris is a successful businessman and smart. You'll be taken care of and that's what a nice girl like you deserves after slaving away in that hot kitchen all these years. Did you even think about that? You'll never have to work this hard again in your life."
"Hard work's not my concern," Ruth insisted as she took a step backwards to shake off Mrs. Goldstein's grip. "It's Morris' attitude. He took me to a vaudeville show in Manhattan and lost his temper when the usher accidentally misplaced our tickets."
Mrs. Goldstein huffed indignantly. "So?"
"Morris began yelling and threatened to report it to the manager. I was embarrassed to be seen with him in public."
Ruth exhaled sharply through her nose to calm herself down. Then she folded her arms across her chest and looked at Mrs. Goldstein.
"Is that how a young man these days is supposed to behave? By getting some poor usher, who probably struggles to make ends meet, fired from his job?" Ruth shook her head in disapproval.
"Maideleh, everyone has a temper. Everyone has their quirks and problems," Mrs. Goldstein said soothingly. But Ruth would not be detoured from her opinion.
"If a man's got to lose his temper then let it be over something worthwhile," she said with a decisive conclusion. She excused herself and went back into the kitchen.
Shalom had just gotten the next batch of orders out when the telephone near the stove rang sharply. Ruth propped it to her ear so she could talk while beating a bowl of eggs.
"Shapiro's Diner. How can I help you?"
"Ruuuuuuth!" a child's voice bawled from the other end. It took her a moment to identify the foghorn sound on the end as Talia Birnbaum, a 12-year-old pigtailed girl with flaming red hair who would burst into tears if you waved a worm in her face.
So naturally Ruth didn't take the crying too seriously until Talia went on. "Mama's just had her baby and he's kinda yellow in the face! He looks bad! Ooooooohhh! Gotta get Dr. Cohen!" she wailed.
Ruth tugged on Shalom's elbow to get his attention. "Emergency at the Birnbaums. Is Dr. Cohen here?"
Shalom squinted and craned his neck over the other customers crowding the restaurant. "I think he's in the way back. I'll try to reach him but you've got to take care of the counter." She watched him try to push his way through irritated customers to the back booths of the diners where Dr. Cohen was known to take a cup of coffee while chatting with his peers.
Ruth took a moment to pat her damp cheeks with a paper napkin. Her feet ached from hours of standing at the stove and her ears were ringing from the noise. What a night! For a split second she thought about reconsidering Morris' offer and wondered if Mrs. Goldstein would still talk to her after the rude snub.
The thought still hung in Ruth's mind while she attended the new customers who had just lined up at the chrome counter.
There was an old man sitting quietly at one end hunched over in his seat. Judging by his weather-beaten face and tattered coat, Ruth doubted he had any money on him. She hoped one of her brothers or the hired hands could take care of him. After running back into the kitchen to check on a batch of fried latkes, she came back to find the customer still sitting in the same place and now rocking back and forth in his seat.
His enduring presence was starting to grate on Ruth's nerves. They were running a restaurant, not a soup kitchen. Nevertheless, she wiped her hands on her apron and approached him. Ruth laid her palms on the counter-top and looked the man in the eye. "Ready with your order?" she asked him.
When he lifted his sagging head up to hers, Ruth felt the small twinge of irritation in her chest freeze with fear and concern. His eyes were tired and quietly begging for consolation. He was hungry and worse, he was being tortured to sit and watch plate after plate of steaming mouth-watering food be carried out of the kitchen to some other lucky customer who could afford Shapiro's famous brisket and roasted potatoes.
His voice was so soft she could barely hear him. "Whatever you've got that's not too much trouble," he murmured. "Please".
Get off your high horse, Shapiro, she chastised herself . Spend five minutes bickering about some jerk in a suit to Mrs. Goldstein and then snubbing this poor guy? Shame on you!
She tucked her pad of paper and a pen into the pocket of her apron. "Coming right up," Ruth assured him.
Once back into the kitchen, Ruth snatched a spatula and quickly flipped the sizzling brown latkes.
SNAP! ZZZ! ZZZ! CRACKLE! ZZZ!
When the latkes were crisp to perfection, she piled three on a plate and then put together a thick pastrami sandwich. With a second thought Ruth added a piece of blueberry pie that had been sitting out almost purposefully in the last aluminum tin on the work table.
The ragged man's hands nearly shook with joy when Ruth set down the plates before his ravenous face.
"Here you go, sir. Saturday Night Special." Ruth placed a bottle of ketchup next to his elbow and whispered quietly, "On the house".
There was no time to see his reaction because the front door to Shapiro's Diner suddenly swept open with a blast of frigid night air that generously fanned Ruth's cheeks.
Harold Straus and Donny Donowitz burst in and began slapping their arms to get the snow off. Harold was tall and thin as a circus pole with large ears sticking out of a blue hat. Donny Donowitz looked demonic with his stubbly cheeks and deep brown eyes that sparked dangerously as he quickly surveyed the scene.
Instantly, he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs, "EVERYONE, SHUT UP!"
Donny's booming voice had the desired effect when the diner suddenly went quiet in seconds. Forks were still poised in the air and cigarette smoke continued to drift upward from ashtrays but otherwise, no one was talking.
Donny gave an affirmative nod. "Right. Good." He took two steps forward and with a jerk of his head, Donny's piercing gaze was fixed on Dr. Cohen's booth.
"Hey Doc! What the hell are you doin' here?" he yelled while pointing an accusing finger at the unlucky man from across the room. "Thought the Birnbaum kids told ya their Ma's new baby is goin' back to heaven if you don't get off your big ol' ass and do something NOW!"
The young man banged a fist on the table, causing teacups to tremble from the impact.
"All right, all right," Dr. Cohen grumbled. He was a good man but he took his time getting places and tended to shuffle instead of run to his duties. Of all nights to have a baby, Judy Birnbaum picked this one," he muttered under his breath.
"Come on, move it!" Harold Straus ordered him.
Without even letting the doctor get his coat fully on, Donny and Harold seized him by the shoulders and proceeded to drag the good doctor our. Despite the situation, it was surprisingly comical, to watch Dr. Cohen sputter with bewilderment at his harsh treatment while Donny kept yelling at him to shut up.
"And ya'd better see whatever's wrong with the little pipsqueak before I really get mad and then you'll need a damn good dentist to fix your teeth!" Donny punctuated his threat by slamming the door noisily behind them. Once they were gone, the gawking customers went back to talking-though much quieter than before.
"Well," Mrs. Goldstein huffed indignantly. "I never!"
She saw Ruth smiling at the door and took the opportunity to speak her mind again.
"I'm not saying Donny Donowitz is a bad man," Mrs. Goldstein began to say.
Oh lord, here we go again, Ruth though.
"…working in a barbershop while other folks have the good sense to be ambitious…to do things with themselves," Mrs. Goldstein ranted on.
"I've heard Rabbi Markus say that he's honest and hardworking. Now I suppose you could use those attributes to cut hair but why does that young man have have to pick fights with those Catholic boys? Is he trying to start a pogrom right here in America? Sounds like a no-goodnick to me. Either we're shortchanging the rabbi's salary or Rabbi Markus needs better glasses because let's face it: that Donowitz boy is a wild animal."
Ruth was mortified to notice Donowitz Sr. sitting in the next booth. While the barrier of a held-up newspaper concealed his existence from the matchmaker, it did not prevent his ears from hearing her remarks.
"Mark my words, that boy means trouble." Mrs. Goldstein shook a finger in the air. "And the things I've heard about him and the local girls. Oy vey! A real Casanova, that one. I've seen the way he smiles and flirts with them everywhere like bees around a honey hive. Doesn't he have any decency?"
"There will be no buzzing in this restaurant," Ruth announced.
"Good for you, Ruth. Stay on your toes around him," Mrs. Goldstein nodded proudly. At last, the matchmaker paid for her meal, gathered up her things, and left...though not without reminding Ruth to reconsider Morris and his Manhattan prospects.
Once Mrs. Goldstein was gone, Sy Donowitz put down his newspaper. Ruth approached his table with caution.
"Can I get you another glass of tea, Mr. Donowitz?" she offered.
"Yes, thank you Ruth," he nodded politely.
She waited until she had returned with his hot drink to continue talking. "Sorry about that," Ruth apologized while putting down the tea. "Mrs. Goldstein shouldn't have spoken about your son that way."
Sy shrugged and folded up the newspaper. "Oh, I don't think Donny would care one way or another what that fuddy duddy woman thinks of him. And frankly, neither do I." His eyes twinkled with good nature. "It's not worth getting ourselves into knots so let's just forget the whole thing."
"Donny called Mrs. Goldstein a 'fuddy duddy'?"
"No, that's what I called her. What he called her, I don't dare repeat in public."
Ruth suddenly laughed. That was Donny Donowitz for you! Whether praised by Rabbi Markus or scorned by Mrs. Goldstein, the wise-cracking loudmouth son of Sy Donowitz was not a hypocrite or a two-faced flatterer. With Donny, what you saw was what you got. And if you didn't like it then he'd just say "screw you" and tell you to take your business elsewhere.
Twenty minutes later, Shalom burst out of the kitchen with arms flaying in excitement. "I just got off the phone with Dr. Cohen. Mrs. Birnbaum's going to be fine! And so is her baby boy!" he beamed happily.
Voice after voice of customer's remarks rang up with delight. "Mazel tov! Mazel tov!" came the chorus from the crowd, followed by a round of applause.
"Mr. Shapiro says in honor of the occasion we're having pie on the house tonight!" Shalom yelled to the crowd. More cheering followed.
With silent thanks for Judy Birnbaum and her child, Ruth went to work on cutting pies with more enthusiasm than before.
Suddenly remembering their silent customer, Ruth made her way over to his end of the counter with certainty that he wouldn't turn down a second helping of dessert. But when she got there he was already gone. Ruth didn't recall him exiting the diner unless he had chosen to slip unnoticed out the back door during the night's wild fiasco.
Can't blame him for avoiding the wrath of Donny Donowitz, she mused. Though if Sy's son is going to blow a gasket then well….let's face it. He may be a fighter and swear to kingdom come but Donny sure cares about other people-
Ruth stopped stacking up the old man's dirty dishes when she found something tucked under his plate, causing her breath to grow short and a soft swirl of emotions to stir within her heart.
A silver dollar winked smartly under the diner's yellow lights.