Every Home Needs A Balcony. Rina Frank

from recipes she had picked up over the years. “The salad is a recipe I got from Ruth, my friend,” she said, “and I always make my own mayonnaise.” She didn’t understand how you could make your own mayonnaise, rather than buy it in the grocer’s shop.

      The mayonnaise salad she ate with the small slices of baguette was so delicious that she was no longer annoyed at not being allowed to live with the man in a separate apartment.

      Without asking, his father poured her a glass of wine, and they all said, “L’chaim.” The man asked her if she liked the wine, and she said, “Very much,” although she had no idea how to tell if a wine was good or not.

      And again, Laura came in to collect the salad-soiled plates, and she didn’t know if she should get up to help; as the man didn’t stand up, she didn’t either. She thought later that she should have helped, and at dinner she did stand up to clear the table in spite of the housemaid, which in retrospect salvaged her reputation in his parents’ eyes.

      Luna saved a portion of everything she had served for Laura, who ate her meal in the kitchen.

      And again, Laura came in with a long stainless steel carving dish containing tender veal, which his father carved and his mother served out. Two small bowls, one with peas and the other with potatoes and onions, arrived alongside. The man piled her plate with generous portions of everything, as if suspecting that she was too shy to help herself; the veal was the most delicious meat she had ever eaten in her life.

      She made a point of chewing everything carefully, as per her sister’s instructions, and most important—but really most important—not to forget to eat with her mouth closed. With every bite, she repeated over and over not to forget to keep her mouth closed. It’s very difficult to chew with your mouth closed. She didn’t say a word, worried that if she opened her mouth, she would forget to close it again when she was chewing. In any case, she was quite shy about saying anything, so she sat there, meekly listening to those who were wiser than she. This too was in accordance with her older sister’s orders to avoid making embarrassing gaffes in the home of a bourgeois family abroad, one of the pillars of the Barcelona Jewish community.

      “Would you like to have some more garlic?” His mother interrupted her closed-mouth drill.

      “No, why?” she said uneasily.

      “Because I don’t cook with garlic. Alberto doesn’t like it, but I know that Romanians eat a lot of garlic.”

      “Bulgarians, too,” added his father. “It’s just that I hate garlic.”

      “Does your mother cook with garlic?” Luna asked.

      “Yes, a lot of garlic,” she said. “My mother starts her morning with three cloves of garlic. For her blood pressure.”

      “It’s healthy, garlic,” said Luna, “and really good against high blood pressure. I, personally, like garlic.” Later, with time, she taught Luna how to introduce garlic surreptitiously into her cooking without her husband noticing it; after all, good meat really does need to be cooked with some added garlic.

      “Alberto has diabetes, so nothing we eat contains sugar.…” His mother continued to share the family secrets with her.