Halfway through the Romanos’ big, stuffed turkey and Mr. Levin’s debate with Mr. Romano about hockey, Marion excused herself. Both bottles of wine were empty, so she headed off to grab more from her cupboard.
“I’ll be right back,” she promised.
“I’m telling you, that Punch Imlach is bad for the team,” Mr. Levin was saying. “Nobsody likes him. Mahovlich can’t stand him. Mark my word sixty-seven will be the Leafs’ last Stanley Cup.”
Mr. Romano nodded sagely. “The players are too old. What is it, eight of them over thirty-six already?”
“Giovanni,” his wife scolded. “That’s not old. Thirty-six is nothing.”
“Yeah, they’re old. What do you know about hockey?”
Mrs. Romano threw her hands up. “You think I don’t hear you talking all the time about Leafs this, Leafs that, Stanley Cup, penalties, whatever? I know way more than I wanna know.”
Mrs. Levin chuckled. “We should have our own ladies’ nights when they’re playing. I hear hockey talk all the time. What about you, Davey? You a Leafs fan?”
“No way, man. Hockey’s, like, an aggressive expression of masculinity, you know? Women are just as strong, and—”
“What are you talking about?” both older men exclaimed, making Sassy laugh. Marion returned just in time with more wine, and a subdued Davey refilled all the glasses as everything devolved into loud talk about how ridiculous the world was today.
Somewhere in there, Mrs. Levin retrieved her dessert from Sassy’s refrigerator then set it down on the table. The plate held a number of delicate pancakes rolled over something sweet, Sassy guessed, then fried to a golden brown.
“This smells wonderful, Mrs. Levin,” Marion said, inhaling. “What are we having?”
“Cheese blintzes,” Mrs. Levin replied, serving them one by one.
Her husband lifted an eyebrow. “My wife thinks these are good for dessert, but me, I prefer them at breakfast.”
“Pah,” she replied, waving a hand at him. “I like them anytime, so there. I didn’t see you stepping in to cook. You got complaints? You make dessert next time.”
Her husband looked contrite. “You’re right, dear. I love your blintzes. They’re good anytime.”
“Wise man,” Mrs. Romano teased, making everyone laugh.
“These are outta sight, Mrs. Levin,” Davey said, licking his lip. “Can I have the recipe?”
“You like to cook?” she asked.
“I do. I’m hoping someday—”
“When do you got time to cook if you’re out on the streets, protesting?”
Everyone stopped midchew and blinked at Mr. Levin.
“Harold,” his wife cautioned under her breath.
“Well? You go to protests, yes? You carry signs and march around, so maybe you got no job so you got time for cooking, yeah?” Mr. Levin shrank a little under his wife’s scowl. “What? I can ask, no? I just wonder about kids these days.”
Davey gave him a wry grin. “I wouldn’t argue with you, Mr. Levin, except I do have a job. I’m a cook at Chez Monique.”
“And he runs the Toronto Anti-Draft Programme,” Sassy put in.
Mr. Levin sat back as his wife served him a second plate of dessert. “Anti-Draft. What is this? In my day, we all went to war. Our fathers went to war. Men went to war without question. There was no anti anything.”
Davey opened his mouth to respond, but to Sassy’s relief, Mrs. Romano jumped in.
“Did you serve, Harold?”
“Sure, sure.” There was a slight flare of Mr. Levin’s nostrils. “How could I not? The Nazis were killing our people. Does a man stay home when his family’s getting slaughtered?” He glanced at Davey. “Thousands of us left Palestine to volunteer with the British Army. We never asked no questions.”
