Two Weeks After the War
The waiters placed each course on the table without touching it, almost as though they feared coming into contact with the surface. Every time I would thank them for bringing us new dishes, or order an additional beverage for my English-speaking wife, their eyes would glance down at me without any trace of emotion, like they wanted our interactions to be as impersonal as possible.
Clearly, something was amiss. I could sense it in the stops and starts in my conversation with our friend, who, having heard that I was journalist, asked me about my work, only to be greeted by my father quietly signaling as though he’d prefer it if I wouldn’t. Obliging, I’d shift gears by pretending to have been surprised by a particularly tasty piece of food.
“In all my years of coming here,” I said, “I’ve never had such good parsley salad.”
- Excerpted from Israel vs Utopia, Chapter 8