“Me too,” I say slowly. “Your Spanish is really good.”
“It’s my mom’s first language,” Eitan says, setting down the menu. “Her family moved to Mexico from Poland in the 1930s.”
My shoulder twitches. Why is he being so calm? Then I realize. He’s doing the gentlemanly thing of pretending that almost-kiss didn’t happen. Like we’re just two friendly acquaintances.
“My family’s from Poland too,” I offer, wondering how long we can fill up this table with words that skirt around the awkwardness of our last encounter. “What about your dad?”
“He’s Moroccan Sephardic. His first language was Ladino.”
Well, at least this I can talk about. Maybe this whole pretend-it-didn’t-happen strategy is onto something. “I don’t know any Ladino.” I cross my arms and lean into the table. “My great-grandparents spoke Yiddish, but they wanted my grandparents to assimilate, so they didn’t really speak it at home.”
His whole face brightens. “I know a few Ladino words and phrases. But only a few. My dad was obsessed with the U.S., so he only wanted to speak English. Hence the musicals.”
“Cheers, kids!” Carrie plops down two flutes of something bubbly.
“Thank you, Carrie.” I pick up my flute.
“L’chaim.”To life.Eitan clinks his flute to mine. I get out a hoarseL’chaimin response.
“Saludozos.” He clinks his flute to mine again. “To our health. Now, you officially know one Ladino word.” He grins, the left side of his mouth spreading farther than his right into something lopsided and gorgeous.
I want to smile back. I want to sink into this moment and forget what happened outside the theater. Maybe friendship is all Eitan can offer, and maybe friendship is enough. It should be enough.
My thoughts are buzzing too loudly to think properly, so I drown them with a sip of champagne. It’s…delicious. I hold the glass back and examine it. “Are you sure there’s no alcohol in this?”
“Bone dry, I’m afraid,” Carrie says. “And remind me, do either of you have any allergies or dietary restrictions?”
“I don’t eat meat,” I say.
“Me either,” Eitan parrots. I remember what he said about putting his dad on a whole food, plant-based diet. This is good: another piece of neutral, common ground to work with.
Carrie blows out a raspberry. “Wish I knew that before we broke out the filet mignon! No matter, the chefs will eat it later. Do you eat fish?”
We both nod.
“Great, we’ll just have you taste the salmon and the risotto.” She disappears.
“So.” I clear my throat. Friendship. Beggars can’t be choosers. “How is it traveling as a pescetarian?” I ask.
“Depends on the country, but eating fish makes a big difference. I did accidentally eat pork in Spain once because my Spanish friend interpreted ‘I don’t eat meat’ to exclude pork and chicken.”
I snort. “I miss bacon egg and cheese bagels with every fiber of my being.”
“Is that your desert island food?”
I tilt my head. “I could pick any food? And have no repercussions?”
“Yeah, but you can only eat one thing for the rest of your life.”
I suck on my teeth. “Yeah, definitely bagels. Or burgers.”
“I’d take curries,” Eitan says. “They’re versatile and nutritious. Delicious.”
“Okay, but you can only take one style. Which one are you taking?”
“Oof, that’s tough. I’m partial to Thai green curry. Or dal.” He taps his chin. “I’ll say dal.”
I nod. “Yep. You were definitely meant to be a pescetarian.”
