Saturday, August 15th, 2020

A man sits at the first table inside the patio at the Sabbath cafe. He greets everyone who comes in. “Good Sabbath! Good Sabbath! Welcome to the days of the Messiah!” He smokes a cigarette and sips at a glass of water. He occasionally launches into a further monologue about the Messiah. He has a deeply guttural accent. I can’t understand anything more. As I enter, my usual server calls out to me in English. “Hello! How are you doing? Sit anywhere.” I sit and scan the icons for the menu. I decide to get the shakshuka rather than my usual Israeli Breakfast. Another server, who I’ve never seen before, approaches my table, brandishing his tablet. He speaks to me in English. Maybe he heard the other server talking to me. Maybe she told him. Maybe I just look like an English speaker. A third server brings my meal soon after I order. She says something to me that I can’t make out, but I understand her gestures: The skillet is hot. Don’t touch it. The shakshuka -- eggs covered with sauteed onions and tomatoes and cooked with dark, savory herbs -- is excellent. As I pay, I hear the man by the entrance talking to a server. I can’t see which one. The server speaks quietly. The man jingles some coins and asks what he can get for seven shekels. The server goes back inside to check. When I get up to leave, the man is gone.