Steaks in Midtown

Its late on a cold Friday night and I find myself alone in a restaurant in midtown. My grandchildren have left after visiting me for the week, and they insist that this place serves great steaks. After checking that the meat is kosher, and ordering a steak, I eaves drop on the conversation around me.

A tall thin woman with a heavy French accent is drunkenly arguing with two young men. The men seem to hate Russia and hate communism (I can infer from these opinions their thoughts on Judaism). The french woman pushes back in broken English. The men regurgitate news headlines and anti-soviet talking points, which clearly seems to anger the woman.

The waiter brings over my steak, swimming in a pool of butter. Every time this woman, who I have now deduced is named Simone, mentions France, the two suits role their eyes. Their words are swimming in condescension.

"It isn't the Russians who send you food; America created UNRA," they graciously remind Simone. They tell her of all the condensed milk they are sending Europe, almost as if they are expecting a thank you.

They are not so much talking to each other as at each other. I cut my steak and listen - not daring to engage. I already know what these men will think of me. I chew my steak. Snow gathers outside.