November 12, 2020
Schwartzman’s
Goldfarb and I were starving. We were sitting at my pool, doing our best not to ruin our appetite with a bag of Lay’s salt and vinegar chips. It was 3:00pm already and Lewberg had not gotten back from Schwartzman’s. Schwartzman’s was a deli up in Pompano which specialized in Montreal style smoked meat sandwiches made famous by the Montreal restaurant whose name they had pretty much ripped off. The NY style pastrami and corned beef which abounded in South Florida could not hold a candle to the smoked meat we had grown up on and the quality at Schwartzman’s quite honestly was as close to Schwartz’s as was its name.
Anyway, Lewberg had hit his shot on number 15 into the water and thus earned the duty of going on the pick-up.
“Fucking Lewberg went for a drink,” muttered Goldfarb. “Keep those chips away from me.”
Goldfarb was likely right. Schwartzman’s was located in a strip plaza right next to a gentleman’s club called The Pleasure Dome. Truth be told, Lewberg wasn’t a big fan of those sorts of establishments but the bar stocked Ketel vodka so he put aside whatever philosophical objections he had in favor of a strong drink.
I was about to curse him too but then he walked into the house. I didn’t hear him or see him but I could smell the delicious combination of smoked meat, coleslaw, and potato salad.
“About fucking time,” said Goldfarb.
“I got some extra karnatzle,” said Lewberg. “Plus I emptied their fridge out of cream soda.”
“Oh baby!” Exclaimed Goldfarb who had already forgiven Lewberg for his tardiness.
Then Lewberg said “Harold, have you been here all this time?”
And Goldfarb said “Where would I go?”
“Just checking. So I went into the bar to grab a quick Ketel and cran…”
Goldfarb turned to me and said “What did I tell you.”
“...and I see this beige Crown Victoria in the VIP parking of the Dome. Right in front of the door.”
“Crown Vic eh?” I said. “Nice. Old school. Just like Harold’s.”
Goldfarb said “The plaza has tons of parking. The guy can’t walk twenty feet? Jesus people are so lazy!”
Lewberg said “Nope. VIP, right in front. But here’s the thing - the Crown Vic had a personalized license plate.”
“What did it say?” I asked.
“Well,” replied Lewberg, “see for yourself.” He pulled out his phone and laid it out on the table. Then he used two fingers to stretch and expand the photo so we could see it more clearly.
Florida plates.
With a name on them.
And the name was:
Goldfarb
Goldfarb took a big bite of his sandwich and then grabbed a napkin in order to wipe off the excess mustard dribbling down his chin.
He said “Can I see that again?”
Lewberg slid him the phone.
Goldfarb said “Looks exactly like my car.”
Lewberg said “I know. Even has your name.”
“This is not good,” said Goldfarb, shaking his head. “It is December 10th.”
I said “What does the date have to do with anything?”
Goldfarb said “My cousin’s daughter, Debbie, is getting married on the 20th. Every relative I have, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, are coming down to Florida from Canada.”
“Is the reception at the Dome?” joshed Lewberg with a smile. “They actually have a great lunchtime buffet.”
“Harold,” I said, “You are overthinking it.”
“I’m not overthinking it. I am thinking it. My entire family goes to Schwartzman’s. They are going to see my car with my name in the parking lot of The Pleasure Dome.”
“This is South Florida,” I argued. “They are going to be eating near the beach.”
Goldfarb said “Have you ever been to Torremolinos?”
“Michener put it on the map in The Drifters,” offered Lewberg, who always surprised us with his breadth of knowledge. “Tourist town on the Spanish Riviera.”
“Yes,” agreed Goldfarb. “Huge tourist destination for the English vacationers. And do you know what these English vacationers like to eat when they are in Spain?”
I knew the answer. Even if I didn’t know the answer, I knew there was only one place Goldfarb would be going with this.
“Fish and chips. They come all the way from Bristol, from Liverpool, from Manchester, in order to eat in English style pubs and restaurants serving the exact food they had just come from.”
“Pompano isn’t Torremolinos,” I argued. Although I knew it was.
“My family will be going to Schwartzman’s at least twice a week.”
“Aren’t there other Goldfarbs in your family?” Asked Lewberg.
“Nope. Just me. My dad was an only child. All my relatives are from my mother’s side. I’m the only Goldfarb. In fact, I’m the only Goldfarb I know.”
“Except for the guy in the VIP parking at the Pleasure Dome,” I said.
“Maybe he won’t be there again,” said Lewberg hopefully.
“Yeah, maybe,” I said.
But we both knew that was wishful thinking.
The next day, we squeezed into Lewberg’s convertible at around 12:30 and headed to Pompano. The three of us had all put on long pants for the occasion. Goldfarb had exchanged his usual slides for a pair of sneakers and one of us, I won’t say who, might have even been wearing cologne. We parked across from Schwartzman’s and walked to the Pleasure Dome. It was, as Goldfarb had argued, only a few metres away. As we had feared, the beige Crown Victoria was parked in the VIP spot. The doorman, who was marking up a program for the nearby Pompano dog track, asked, without looking up, for $2 for parking. Goldfarb, showing remarkable restraint, pulled out two dollar bills and handed them to the doorman without making an argument about having to pay for free parking.
“Can you tell me who owns that beige Crown Victoria over there?” I asked, pointing to it.
The doorman said “I don’t think I remember.”
Then Lewberg, in a move so deft it was hard not to assume he had performed it dozens of times before, snatched the bills right out of the doorman’s hand and replaced them with a twenty.
“I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday,” he said with a smile.
“I like this dog in the seventh,” said the doorman. “Same name as my first wife, Mildred. She could run like the wind.” He circled the name on the program then looked up and said “New owner. Bought the place last month. For another $20 I can tell you his name.”
The doorman had a pretty good sense of humor.
The Dome was very dark, very smoky, and was playing very loud music I suspected was also used on Guantanamo Bay prisoners. It had a long bar and a buffet set up in the back. There was nobody on the stage and, save for two women I presumed to be dancers sitting at the bar who were busy on their phones and sharing what looked to be a plate of nachos, we were the only people in the entire place. The dancers looked up, I want to say briefly, but it was even shorter than that, when we walked in but then went back to their phones and nachos. In other words, pretty much like any other bar we had ever been in.
The waitress, who already looked like she was counting the hours remaining in her shift, came and took our orders. Goldfarb had his diet coke. Lewberg his Ketel and cran. And I, knowing better than to order a Guinness in a place like this, ordered a Bud Light I knew I would not drink.
When she came back with our orders, Goldfarb asked if we could see the manager.
She said “Hey, I don’t make the prices. But I don’t blame you, $15 for a freakin’ Bud.”
Goldfarb said “No, no, the prices are fine. We just wanted to ask him about his car.”
“Oh, ok hon.”
Two minutes later a man came out. I’m not sure what we were expecting but he was tall and lanky with a full moustache. He was wearing a vest with a huge Lonestar state belt buckle. He looked a little, actually a lot, like the actor Sam Elliot who, amongst other things, played a cowboy in The Big Lebowski. Later, in the car ride back, we would all agree he looked like a cowboy. What he did not look like was a Goldfarb.
But, that is who he was. Oscar Goldfarb. Those were the first words out of his mouth when he came to our table and shook our hands.
The second words were “I’ll take $50,000 for the car and I’ll throw in my Waylon Jennings Greatest Hits CD”. Then he winked and said “Truth is, that sonabitch has been stuck in there for two weeks.”
Goldfarb said “I’m not so much interested in the car as I am the license plate.” He took out his wallet from his pocket and removed his driver’s license. “You see,” he handed Oscar Goldfarb his license, “my name is Harold Goldfarb.”
And Oscar Goldfarb said “No shit. Look at that we are mishpocha,” which was maybe the way Jews from Texas pronounced it.
“Yes,” answered Goldfarb, “and as mishpocha,” Goldfarb delicately pronouncing it, “I wonder if you could do me a favor.”
“Anything for a landsman,” said Oscar Goldfarb.
“Well,” continued Goldfarb, “my family from Canada is coming to Florida next week.”
“Canada,” exclaimed Oscar Goldfarb. “I heard it was colder than a witch’s tit. You couldn’t get a pack of wild horses to drag me there.”
“Well yes,” said Goldfarb tiptoeing through the cliché landmines. “There is a family wedding.”
“Mazal tov,” said Oscar Goldfarb.
“Thank you,” said Goldfarb. “And the family all love to go to Schwartzman’s.”
“The brisket is to die for,” said Oscar Goldfarb.
“It is,” said Goldfarb. “The thing is, I also have a beige Crown Victoria and my name is also Goldfarb, and so with your car and its plates parked out front they might get the....”
Oscar Goldfarb held up his hand. “Say no more. You don’t need your family thinking that you are spending the day getting, how should I say, getting the wrong type of naches. I will park in the back. I could use the walk.”
“Thank you, Oscar,” said Goldfarb. “I really appreciate it.”
“Are you kidding. We Goldfarbs gotta stick together. Let me get you another round of drinks. Maybe you want to meet a couple of the ladies.”
“Thanks Oscar,” said Goldfarb. “We’ll have to take a rain check. Another time. We have a tee time this afternoon.”
“Well I envy you. I schlepped my sticks all the way down from Jacksonville and haven’t had a chance to play yet. You guys hit them straight. Hell, I’m going to move the car now. Better safe than sorry.”
Since we were already here, we decided to have lunch at Schwartzman’s. Goldfarb and I had tuna, but Lewberg, who embodied the ‘when in Rome’ life philosophy, loaded up on smoked meat.
“Well, that was easy,” I said.
“Yeah, nice guy,” said Lewberg.
“Maybe too easy?” Questioned Goldfarb.
“Sometimes things work out Harold,” I said.
“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” he said, helping himself to half of Lewberg’s sandwich. “Hey, you think he was angling for a golf invite?”
“I think he was just being polite,” I said.
“Would be a fun guy to play with,” Lewberg said, “and the place was empty. He might have a window for 9 holes.”
Goldfarb said “Yeah. Wouldn’t hurt to ask.” He got up and I held up my hand and said “You know what Harold, I’ll go, you stay here and pay the bill.”
And Goldfarb said “Fair enough. It is the least that I can do.”
So I went back to the Dome, paid the doorman another $2 for not parking, allowed my eyes to adjust to the light, and found Oscar Goldfarb behind the main bar. The two dancers were still on their phones. This time they did not even look up.
“Hey partner,” he said, “you forget something?”
“We just thought we would invite you to join us for golf this afternoon.”
“Well that’s mighty kind of you. But I have a contractor coming in this afternoon so I have to stay at my post. Doing some big renovations for the grand re-opening. My turn to take a rain check.”
I said “Ok. Anytime.”
Lewberg and I didn’t really know Goldfarb’s cousin Debbie but Goldfarb didn’t want to go alone so he scored us an invite to the wedding anyway. It was at the Four Seasons on the beach in Fort Lauderdale and Harold had promised us killer apps and an open bar. Lewberg, in a moment of graciousness, said yes without even asking if they were going to stock Ketel. Goldfarb, looking better than he had in years, was in a tux. In addition to looking good, he was feeling good.
“Five days in a row,” he said. “At least one member of my family ate at or picked up food from Schwartzman’s five days in a row.”
“No sign of the Crown Vic?” I asked.
“Nada. Parked all the way in the back. I checked it out myself.”
“Oscar did you a solid,” I said.
“Damn straight,” replied Goldfarb as he adjusted his tie. “Jesus, I look great! For once a family function which doesn’t blow up in my face.”
Lewberg and I, though the invitation said black tie, were in sports jackets. Truthfully, we were looking pretty good too. Goldfarb was not lying about the pre-ceremony appetizers. We all basically made a meal of the lollipop lamb chops after positioning ourselves in the exact spot where the wait staff came out of the kitchen. They had set up chairs and the chuppah right on the edge of the beach and it really was beautiful. We told Goldfarb we would watch the ceremony from the back row but we slipped out and had a drink at the hotel bar instead. The drinks weren’t free but we were spared 45 minutes of aisle marching, endless vows, and readings in Aramaic, Hebrew, and English.
We snuck back in just as the groom stepped on the glass and was greeted with a chorus of l’chayims.
It was also at the exact same time the small prop plane, dragging an advertising banner, like the type which routinely dotted the skies above the beach, appeared above our heads.
Everyone looked up at the same time. I had to admit, it was a catchy banner.
“Goldfarb’s Strip Club: Let our talented dancers show you what mazel really is.”
The end.