Mother and son are in the kitchen of her immaculate two-story apartment, banging dishes and arguing happily about whether to use the food processor to grate the root vegetables for the latkes. “Use a box grater, Ma,” says Greenspan. “That’s what they did in Roman times!”

            “The Maccabees didn’t have electricity,” says Marilyn Springer as she assembles the machine.

“They had God on their side!” yells Greenspan, deftly reorganizing his mother’s counters as he calibrates the ingredients for the three-course meal.

Greenspan is a charismatic man, with a big, low-slung presence and a loud personality that can distract you (is it a diversionary tactic?) from his considerable intelligence. His high decibels (“Too many Slayer concerts as a kid”) come in handy in the Foundry’s clattering, cramped kitchen. And even in his mother’s serene place, the bluster seems part of a familiar routine.

As Springer stirs the bowl of grated root vegetables—the carrots, russet potatoes, red onions and roasted beets turning a gorgeous deep mauve in her bowl—she adds a little egg, a little flour. “I don’t know what your recipe is,” she says, reaching for more flour.

“Ma, it’s a latke!” Greenspan shouts.

Last week, my two married sisters took me out to dinner with their husbands.  We went to this fantastic French restaurant that was just above my price range, though probably within everyone else’s. Based on my experiences, one thing’s for sure: hangin’ with married couples is a blast!  But during the 90% of time when it wasn’t a blast, my mind had the opportunity to wander.

As the couples discussed travels and pop culture, my imagination traveled to a place where each restaurant diner had a life story that was completely arbitrary though individually spectacular.  The drunk guy at table 2 must’ve been celebrating his promotion at the chair-making factory (from desk to executive), while the woman wearing sunglasses must have recently had laser-eye surgery to correct a misbehaving cornea.  My mind continued the game as I focused on a particular blond sitting with a guy.  They both seemed to be in their early to mid twenties and I was about to create a story about them when I realized that the blond looked familiar.

No, we never had a “fling.”  But I realized that I did get her number one night at the September JCafeLA event.  She was cute…not too cute, but cute enough (if you think this girl is you, trust me it’s not).  Anyway, I was about to call her when I got a strange feeling in my stomach – it was the lactose intolerance that’s always triggered when I’m about to make a poor decision.  So I trusted my gut and didn’t call the young beauty.

Fast forward to the French restaurant.  A smile took over my ponderous stare as I thought about that chick at this fancy restaurant with some guy who might as well have been me.

So what’s the point of this completely random story?

The point is I saved a good $60 plus tip!  Thanks lactose intolerance - you’ve done it again.

(Illustration by Carl-Christian Frey)