Tuesday the Rabbi Saw Red

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"What do you mean you're not interested?" George Chernow, short, square, and now choleric, glared his indignation at his daughter. "I've been selling Lubovnik the Caterers insurance for years, the least you can do is let them bid on the job." In a voice loud enough to penetrate to his wife, who had retreated to the kitchen and intended to remain there, he continued. "One hand washes the other, don't it? I sell insurance and they sell catering, all right, you don't buy catering every year, but if I'm marrying off a daughter, so the next time I see Morris Lubovnik about his coverage and he asks me about the wedding. I'm supposed to say we didn't ask you to bid on account my daughter wasn't interested? And don't try to tell me I don't have to tell him,” he added, and then answered: "A wedding is something you can keep secret?"

"Because I know the stuff he does, and I can't stand it." His daughter. Edie, turned her head aside and gave a stylized shudder. "Yech! The greasy chicken soup, the oily knishes, the chopped liver mold—"

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