Before we eat, I mount the stairs to wash my hands.
There is a Moroccan mother—her Hebrew accent is distinctively Moroccan—with a brood of children near the washing station. Mom’s eyes are painted in blue eye-shadow and her glue-on lashes were a bit on the goopy side. She wears skin tight jeans, and a scoop neck blouse that leaves little to the imagination. Leopard print high-heels round out the wardrobe. Her hair is doing that scary Amy Winehouse thing.
You get the picture.
Anyway, Mom is getting her kids to wash their hands with soap and water. Every once in a while she gives one of the frisky pre-teens, a light swat, saying “Maher, maher!” Hurry, hurry.
I wait patiently for the kids to clear away so I can ritually wash my hands before eating bread.
But then Mom sees me, and she orders her children to step back.
“Clear away, clear away, the gentleman needs to wash.”
The kids, hands dripping with soap, all stepped back a few paces and looked at me with round, moist eyes.
Mom motions for me to step forward.
I say in Hebrew, “No problem, let your children finish cleaning their hands.”
“No, no, yours is more important, please, sir.”
Yup, she uses the formal Hebrew word, “Adoni.”
I wash and Mom carefully tears off a paper towel and reverently hands it to me.
I say the b’racha, the blessing.
And Mom answers “Amen, amen, v’amen.”
Mom makes eye contact with me and gives me the sweetest most lovely smile I have ever seen since, well, since Shirley Temple dazzled American audiences in the depths of the depression.
I exchange a long look with mom. I can’t thank her because between the time you wash and say the b’racha, and the time when you eat the bread, one is not allowed to speak.
To show my gratitude, I give a formal little bow of the head.
I feel like Mr. Darcy in Pride and Prejudice.
Mom bows her head too. Bows her head lower than mine.
And in that moment I no longer see the blue eye shadow, the false-eyelashes, the saber-like nails lacquered red as a Chinese vase, no longer see the unfortunate hair and heels.
I feel ashamed of my previous harsh judgment for now all I see a fine Jewish woman who loves Torah and Judaism, a worthy descendant of the four biblical matriarchs, Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel and Leah.
A few minutes later, I eat the best meal of my life.
