corner, where a small stage was set up with music stands and an amplifier.
I stood hesitantly in the doorway, wondering if I should seat myself at one of the few remaining empty tables. I looked toward the back, where a waitress was bustling out of the kitchen with a tray of food. She smiled and called out something incomprehensible, pointing in the direction of one of the tables. Within seconds a handsome young busboy showed up holding a booster seat and a wooden high chair. He set the booster on one of the chairs and lifted a charmed Ruby into the seat. He then flipped the high chair over, took Isaac’s car seat from me, and settled it snugly between the bars of the overturned high chair.
“Cool!” I said. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Babies babies, everywhere babies!” he said with an accent, pointing around the room. There were, indeed, quite a number of infants and small children in the place.
“You need menu?” he asked.
“Sure, that would be great.”
He hustled off, returning after a moment with a menu and a glass of water for me, and some crayons for Ruby.
“Mama?” Ruby piped up.
“Yeah, honey?”
“I love this restaurant. This is the goodest restaurant I’ve ever seen.”
“Even better than Giovanni’s?” Peter and I have been regulars at our neighborhood Italian restaurant since before Ruby was born. Giovanni and his brother Frederico taught Ruby to say
ciao
before she even learned how to say “hello.”
She paused for a moment. “No. Giovanni’s is the goodest. This is the gooder.”
“I’m glad you like it. Let’s see what you think of the food. How about I order you a felafel sandwich and some french fries?”
“Fel fel like Daddy gets me at Eata-Pita?”
“The very same.”
“Yummy.”
The waitress, a petite brunette with a nice smile and two of the deepest dimples I’d ever seen, bustled over to our table. Quickly realizing that Hebrew wasn’t going to go very far with us, she asked for our order in almost unaccented English. I ordered Ruby’s felafel and a platter of various Middle Eastern salads for myself.
“Excuse me, miss,” I said to the waitress as she finished writing down our order. “I’m looking for a guy named Yossi, darkish hair, about twenty or twenty-two years old?”
She looked at me curiously. “What do you need him for?”
“I’m actually trying to track down a friend of his, a young Hasidic girl named Fraydle. She works for me.”
The waitress paused for a moment, as if she were about to tell me something. Then she said, “There aren’t many Hasidim who come here. Nomi’s is kosher, but not kosher enough, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t, but I decided it wasn’t important.
“There’s music tonight, isn’t there?” I asked.
“Every Wednesday and Monday. Look for your friend tonight. They all come in to hear the music.”
I thanked her and scanned the room. There were lots of young men with Yossi’s short haircut. There were even a few wearing similar brown leather jackets. None of them looked familiar, though.
The truth was, I didn’t have a lot of faith in my ability to recognize Fraydle’s Israeli, even if he should walk into the room. Eyewitness identification is notoriously unreliable. When I’d been a federal public defender I’d represented people in cases where every single eyewitness had provided a detailed description of the perpetrator—each one completely different from the others. One person would insist that the bank robber had blond hair and was six foot two. Another would swear that a Filipino dwarf had committed the crime. More than one witness usually meant that my client had a fighting chance. The real problem was when there was only one. It was virtually impossible to convince a judge to let me present expert testimony on the problems with eyewitness identification. Even if the judge did let me put a couple of scientists on the stand, juries never could get beyond their reaction to the
I stood hesitantly in the doorway, wondering if I should seat myself at one of the few remaining empty tables. I looked toward the back, where a waitress was bustling out of the kitchen with a tray of food. She smiled and called out something incomprehensible, pointing in the direction of one of the tables. Within seconds a handsome young busboy showed up holding a booster seat and a wooden high chair. He set the booster on one of the chairs and lifted a charmed Ruby into the seat. He then flipped the high chair over, took Isaac’s car seat from me, and settled it snugly between the bars of the overturned high chair.
“Cool!” I said. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Babies babies, everywhere babies!” he said with an accent, pointing around the room. There were, indeed, quite a number of infants and small children in the place.
“You need menu?” he asked.
“Sure, that would be great.”
He hustled off, returning after a moment with a menu and a glass of water for me, and some crayons for Ruby.
“Mama?” Ruby piped up.
“Yeah, honey?”
“I love this restaurant. This is the goodest restaurant I’ve ever seen.”
“Even better than Giovanni’s?” Peter and I have been regulars at our neighborhood Italian restaurant since before Ruby was born. Giovanni and his brother Frederico taught Ruby to say
ciao
before she even learned how to say “hello.”
She paused for a moment. “No. Giovanni’s is the goodest. This is the gooder.”
“I’m glad you like it. Let’s see what you think of the food. How about I order you a felafel sandwich and some french fries?”
“Fel fel like Daddy gets me at Eata-Pita?”
“The very same.”
“Yummy.”
The waitress, a petite brunette with a nice smile and two of the deepest dimples I’d ever seen, bustled over to our table. Quickly realizing that Hebrew wasn’t going to go very far with us, she asked for our order in almost unaccented English. I ordered Ruby’s felafel and a platter of various Middle Eastern salads for myself.
“Excuse me, miss,” I said to the waitress as she finished writing down our order. “I’m looking for a guy named Yossi, darkish hair, about twenty or twenty-two years old?”
She looked at me curiously. “What do you need him for?”
“I’m actually trying to track down a friend of his, a young Hasidic girl named Fraydle. She works for me.”
The waitress paused for a moment, as if she were about to tell me something. Then she said, “There aren’t many Hasidim who come here. Nomi’s is kosher, but not kosher enough, if you know what I mean.”
I didn’t, but I decided it wasn’t important.
“There’s music tonight, isn’t there?” I asked.
“Every Wednesday and Monday. Look for your friend tonight. They all come in to hear the music.”
I thanked her and scanned the room. There were lots of young men with Yossi’s short haircut. There were even a few wearing similar brown leather jackets. None of them looked familiar, though.
The truth was, I didn’t have a lot of faith in my ability to recognize Fraydle’s Israeli, even if he should walk into the room. Eyewitness identification is notoriously unreliable. When I’d been a federal public defender I’d represented people in cases where every single eyewitness had provided a detailed description of the perpetrator—each one completely different from the others. One person would insist that the bank robber had blond hair and was six foot two. Another would swear that a Filipino dwarf had committed the crime. More than one witness usually meant that my client had a fighting chance. The real problem was when there was only one. It was virtually impossible to convince a judge to let me present expert testimony on the problems with eyewitness identification. Even if the judge did let me put a couple of scientists on the stand, juries never could get beyond their reaction to the
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