Ben's Bakery and the Hanukkah Miracle Read online

  “I won’t be that late,” Adam had said, exasperated.

  “Just in case the apology goes really well, Coach!” Andreas had said, to the enjoyment of the rest of the team. If it’d been their ice, Adam would have given him half a dozen suicide sprints; as it was, he could give them when they got back home the following week.

  The walk to Ben’s shop was both pretty and depressing. The sky was clear of clouds, not that Adam could see the stars, and fellow pedestrians hurried along, wrapped up tight against the cold that seemed to smell of a mix of gasoline and midnight air. Cars whizzed by, narrowly dodging the random people who jay-walked across the street in defiance of blaring horns, and Adam heard snatches of Christmas music pouring out of business doors as they opened in brief moments.

  Adam huddled in his coat as he hurried along, until he saw the twinkling white-and-blue lights of the bakery across the street. The lights were a cool and welcoming oasis in a sea of Christmas indulgence, and something in Adam felt set to rights just seeing their glow. There was only a single candle lit on the electric hanukkiah, apart from the shamash shining in the center, even though there were multiple stars shining in the sky.

  The lights were on, even though Adam couldn’t see any customers. Adam could see Ben, too, moving slowly around the room, as if he was sweeping the floor. Maybe he was. Every so often, he’d look up at the clock or the door, and then go back to his work.

  Adam’s heart did a tiny flip.

  He’s looking for me, he realized with wonder.

  Adam crossed the street at a jog and hurried up to the door.

  Inside the shop, Adam saw Ben lean his broom against the counter, before walking over to the door.

  Adam broke into a grin, feeling the rush of pleasure flow through his chest. It was better than stepping out on the ice to the roar of the crowd, better than watching the kids on his team score a winning goal, better than sitting at the table in his mother’s kitchen to a plate of crispy fried latkes—

  Adam’s heart did another little flip as Ben reached up to the door...

  ...and flipped the sign from Open to Closed.

  “Câlice, non,” groaned Adam, the Quebecois curse slipping out before he could stop it.

  Through the glass, Ben let out a gasp. He fumbled with the door, unlocking it with several echoing snicks before he pulled it open.

  The rush of warm air that brushed over Adam’s face had a familiar scent to it – not the sweet, yeasty odor that he’d noticed that morning, but something much earthier that hit his gut like a stark reminder.

  Ben’s hurried speech, words tripping over themselves in his rush to apologize, was nearly as warming as the air. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you with my lights shining on the glass. And I threw the lock on you! Talk about uncharitable. Come on in, you must be freezing, I swear I think it’s going to snow again tonight, you can smell it on the air, can’t you?”

  “Latkes,” said Adam.

  Ben huffed a laugh, his startled face easing into something smoother and more relaxed. “Yeah, those too.”

  Adam flushed. “I – uh, wasn’t sure the invitation was still good. After I said – well. You know.”

  Ben shifted, still hanging onto the door. “The invitation’s good. I wasn’t sure you’d want it to be.”

  A gust of cold air whipped down the street, straight down Adam’s neck. Ben must have felt it too; he wrapped his arms around his torso and shivered.

  “Get in here before you freeze to death, at least we can be indecisive idiots where it’s warm.”

  Adam stepped into the shop as Ben shut the door behind him, throwing the locks again.

  “I’m not locking you in,” he assured Adam. “Just keeping everyone else out.”

  “I forgot you close early.”

  Ben shrugged. “No reason why you should remember. I’m almost done out here, and then we can go into the back. Less tempting for people who want to come in, if we can’t be seen.”

  “Yeah,” said Adam.

  Ben resumed his sweeping while Adam looked around. Now that he was inside, Adam could see the signs of the bakery already in the closing-down process. The tables were pushed against the wall, chairs upturned on each one. The lights were dimmed, and the coffeemaker had been unplugged and cleaned out. Even the glass case for the treats was cleaned out, though there was a large pile of shrink-wrapped items that would surely be sold half price the next morning.

  “Shove to the back, mister,” said Ben cheerfully, tapping Adam’s shoes with his mop. “And don’t step on the wet parts.”

  “Sorry,” said Adam reflexively. He winced as he stepped closer to the counter, careful to stick to the dry areas. “I am, actually. Sorry. About earlier. I should have said that first. Right away.”

  Ben’s glance was fleeting. “Not your fault. I’m the one with the blond hair and smart mouth. My mother would be ashamed of me if I was brave enough to tell her.”

  Adam smiled wanly. “You had every right to tell me off. I shouldn’t have assumed you were making sufganiyot as a lark.”

  “To be fair,” said Ben lightly, “I am. Sort of. I mean – jelly donuts aren’t usually on my daily menu. Making them every day for Hanukkah is kind of a lark – just one with personal meaning.”

  “Thought you said you didn’t have them growing up,” said Adam as he shifted behind the counter. Ben was mopping quickly; no doubt energized by the conversation, and maybe a desire for it to be over.

  “We didn’t. It’s more about – trying to connect to my roots, you know? Sometimes I feel like there’s a lot about Judaism I missed, growing up without a large community. Larger than a few other families, anyway. I know the prayers and the major holidays, but the lingo and the details and a lot of other cultural touchstones, I don’t have those.” Ben stood up straight with a huff, leaning on his mop a little. His face was flushed, and he brushed the hair that had fallen in front of his eyes away. In the dim light, it was easy to pretend he’d gotten that way not because of the mopping, and Adam’s heart lurched. “Trying to make sufganiyot – that’s just me trying to figure out what I was missing.”

  “You’re not from Boston?”

  Ben shook his head. “Nope. Came here for college about ten years ago. I was a terrible student, though. I started working here summer after freshman year and just never left. I was even late to my own graduation because I was baking. Lucky I was able to graduate at all, honestly. I almost went back home a few years ago, but—” Ben paused. “Well. I got the chance to buy this place, and I guess... I didn’t really want to go back to be the token Jew in town anymore, you know? At least here, I don’t have to explain to my boss every week why I close early on Friday nights to light candles.”

  Which reminded Adam. “I almost forgot,” he said, almost taking a step onto the wet floor. “You need to light another candle on the hanukkiah in the window.”

  Ben glanced over his shoulder, and then at the floor, which still shone damply even in the dim light. “Shoot. Well, it’ll dry in ten minutes, remind me and we’ll come out. But if I don’t pull the latkes out of the oven now, they’ll burn to a crisp.”

  “Sure,” said Adam, tamping down the automatic unease. “Wouldn’t want burned latkes.”

  “Exactly,” said Ben cheerfully as he dropped the mop into the bucket by the counter with a flourish. “Come on, then, we’ll eat back here.”

  The kitchen was more or less what Adam expected an industrial kitchen to resemble. There was a tall stainless-steel table in the center of the room, with open racks below piled with baking trays, rolls of parchment paper, and silicone mats. Plastic containers were labeled with things like “pastry cutters,” “measuring spoons,” and “cupcake liners.” Along the far wall were three industrial ovens with large windows, and there were two fridges with printed lists of ingredients on the outside. There was a cooktop on the side, too, where Ben had set up a griddle, and Adam could see that one of the ovens was on, with something inside.

 
The smell was a mix of fried potatoes and sugar and jam. It was exactly like stepping into his mother’s kitchen on a Sunday morning. Adam sucked in the scent, holding it as long as he could, remembering the way she’d turn and smile and chide him for sleeping in...

  “Not your mother’s kitchen, I bet,” said Ben cheerfully as he walked into a back room carrying his mop. “Sink’s back here, and a bathroom if you need it.”

  Adam released the breath he was holding and breathed in again, trying to ignore the longing the almost familiar scent wrought. It wasn’t Naomi Bernard’s kitchen. No doubt the people who owned the house now had repainted and retiled and redone everything to their liking. It’d never smell the way he remembered again.

  Adam could hear his mother’s voice in the back of his head. Wash up for supper, cher. “Yeah, thanks, I should.”

  Ben stowed the mop and bucket into a narrow cupboard and quickly gave his hands a wash, drying his hands on a towel before tossing it into a basket tucked under the sink. He grabbed a set of potholders and pulled open the walk-in fridge. The door was clearly heavy, and Adam could hear the fans whirring away, as well as the rush of chilled air that felt marvelous in the slightly warmed kitchen.

  Ben reappeared again, carrying tubs of sour cream and what looked like applesauce. “Well, go on, don’t wait for me. I have to lay out our dinner.”

  The back room was narrow, crowded tight with the industrial sink and more shelving holding every size and shape of cake pan Adam didn’t know existed. The top shelf was full of loaf pans, each bearing a date scribbled on the end from about two months prior. Adam wondered what they contained. Along the far wall was another shelving unit full of nothing but baking sheets and tins and pans of every shape and size. The stack of muffin pans alone was taller than his head.

  Ben was just pulling out a tray from the oven when Adam returned. He could hear the soft hum from the oven’s heating unit. When Ben shut the door, it made a sucking sound.

  “Pull up a stool,” he said cheerfully, nodding to the two stools that were tucked under one end of the stainless-steel table. There were already two places set: two plates, two forks, two knives, two glasses of water, and two empty wine glasses with a bottle in between. “It’s not great wine, but I thought maybe you’d want a little? It’s not Manischewitz, anyway.”

  “Thank GD for that,” said Adam seriously, which made Ben laugh. His eyes widened when Ben set the tray down on the counter.

  The tray was enormous – Adam doubted it’d fit in his suitcase, much less his oven at home. Every inch of it was covered in some form of fried potato: shredded, mashed, white, orange, plain or with specks of green and purple. Adam had never seen so much variety in a tray of latkes in his life. “How many latkes did you make?”

  “About three dozen. There’s five recipes represented here, with two additional variations where I added things in.”

  “I can’t eat that many latkes,” said Adam, staring at the offering.

  “Well, you probably won’t want to,” said Ben wryly as he shucked his pot holders and sat next to Adam. “I’m not entirely sure the eggplant one worked.”

  “Eggplant?”

  “Don’t worry about masking your horror,” said Ben with a laugh. “My mom was pretty horrified too.”

  “Mine would be rolling in her grave,” said Adam without thinking.

  Ben bit his lip. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.” Adam paused. “I could say the blessing.”

  Ben’s eyes twinkled. “I do know it.”

  “I didn’t doubt it,” said Adam honestly, before launching into the Hebrew. Ben was smiling when he finished and reached for his fork.

  “Wait,” said Ben, resting his hand on Adam’s arm. It was a warm, comfortable weight, and Adam went very still, hoping Ben wouldn’t be inclined to move his hand away. “You’re my traditional-latke guinea pig, remember. We have to do this systematically. And you have to be totally honest with me, okay? If it’s terrible, you tell me.”

  “So don’t worry about your feelings?”

  “I wasn’t really worried you would,” said Ben, which for some reason, didn’t sit well on Adam’s shoulders. “Okay, where do you want to start? Sweet potato, or eggplant?”

  “Potatoes,” said Adam immediately. He pointed at what appeared to be a perfectly normal, classic shredded potato version. “That one.” Maybe if he was lucky, he’d be full by the time they got to the eggplant.

  “Nana’s recipe? Not a chance,” said Ben. “I know you’re gonna like those, and I want to save the best-tasting version for last.”

  That’s so it tastes better when you kiss good-night! shouted the chorus of pint-size hockey players at the back of his head. Adam ignored them.

  “My dad always says, hardest job first,” continued Ben. He plopped a strangely limp and purple-dotted pancake on Adam’s plate.

  Adam stared at it, blinking.

  “You okay?” asked Ben. “Something in your eye?”

  “Nope,” said Adam, still blinking. He cut into the latke with the side of his fork.

  The eggplant latkes weren’t completely terrible – but they were so far below the par set by the other samples that Adam didn’t mind giving them a thoroughly negative review. The sweet potato latkes were good, as were the versions where Ben had added onion and chives and cheese.

  “Would you believe I found a recipe that called for actual bacon?” said Ben. Most of the latkes were gone, as was a good portion of the wine. They’d slowed their progress considerably, and to Adam’s surprise, there were barely a dozen latkes left. “Actual pork bacon. In a latke. And it was still labeled a latke! I don’t like leaving negative comments on recipes, but for this one I nearly almost did. Until I saw she’d been blasted already. No point in adding more fuel to the fire.”

  Adam snorted. “My dad went to a sandwich shop with some friends once. He couldn’t order anything: every single sandwich on the menu had bacon on it.”

  Ben giggled. “Oh, no.”

  “And he’s allergic to eggs, so no mayo. And no bacon. Or ham, or cheese, which left... well. Not much. He ended up getting a slab of chicken, a seriously sad piece of lettuce, and two plain pieces of soggy white bread.”

  Ben laughed out loud; the sound echoed in the kitchen. “Oh, wow. I thought about using turkey bacon, but I wasn’t sure how kosher you were.”

  “As much as I can,” admitted Adam. “So thanks for not.”

  “Another time, maybe.” The idea of another time made Adam’s heart race a little. Or it could have been the way Ben’s shirt stretched over his abs when he reached to pick up the wine bottle. “More?”

  “Just a little. A fingerful.” Adam’s head wasn’t spinning exactly, but he still had to walk back to the hotel and appear sober for his kids. “You said you baked in college?”

  “I’ve been baking my whole life. My nana took care of me after school, and she was a baker. She taught me, which was good, because neither of my parents can boil water without burning down the kitchen.”

  “What do they do?”

  “Wandering minstrel economics professors. Took a while to find a place where they could both get tenure and stay put, you know? A university would want one of them, but not the other, so up we’d move to the next university town. I think they were always hoping to go back to a larger city, with an actual Jewish congregation, but.” Ben shrugged. “Never worked out that way. Mom got tenure when I was nine, and Dad was promised it the next year one town over, and they were tired of moving.”

  Adam took a sip of his wine. “That was the part I hated most about playing, all the moving around. My dad was settled in his career by the time I was born.”

  “What’s your dad do?”

  Adam hesitated. “He’s retired now, so not much. Gets up, playing bingo with his friends, sits in the garden a lot.”

  “Nice,” said Ben, which was surely just being polite, because Ephraim Bernard’s schedule was honestly the most bori
ng day Adam could think of having.

  I don’t have to tell him. I’m not going to see him after this week.

  “He was a rabbi,” Adam blurted out.

  Ben choked a bit on his wine and brought the glass down with a clatter. “Wow,” he said, coughing. “Guess you do know about eggplants in latkes. I thought rabbis were like the Marines – they don’t retire, they just move to the back of the line.”

  Adam smiled. “Sort of. Dad’s... not really well.”

  Ben nodded. “Sorry to hear that. At least you still have him.”

  Adam tried not to wince. “Yeah.”

  The conversation lagged; Adam concentrated on his next sip of wine as long as possible, just so he didn’t have to make up an excuse why he didn’t want to talk about it. For Ben’s part, he seemed only vaguely uncomfortable with the silence, first fingering his napkin nervously, and then reaching for the final selection of latkes.

  “Well,” he said, “only the classic version left. My nana’s recipe, remember.”

  Adam remembered. The latkes looked delicious – exactly as crisp and brown as he remembered having as a kid.

  To his great delight – they tasted even better. The inside was moist and soft, flavored with potato and oil, salt and onion. The exterior was crispy, almost burnt at the edges, and the powdered sugar clumped in the holes and were sweet bursts on his tongue. His mother’s latkes had always been good, but they’d never retained their crisp after sitting on the table. They’d never offered the burst of oniony flavor while Adam ate them. They’d been good, but...

  He could see Ben watching him avidly, waiting for an opinion. Instead of saying anything, though, Adam just reached and speared two more pancakes with his fork.

  Ben grinned. “Thought you’d like them.”

  “These are amazing,” said Adam through a mouthful of latke. He covered his mouth with his hand quickly. “Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing when you like something,” Ben scolded him, and heaped the last two latkes on his plate. “Here, you finish up – I’ll go wash the tray.”