The manager of the garage offered me a cup of coffee. “Bo, Yoel,” he said, inviting me in to the office. Asking me how I wanted it prepared, I told him I’d prefer it black, with sugar. The message was immediately relayed to his secretary, who replied sharply “I’m a Yemenite. I know how to make coffee like that.”
A few minutes later, I took a cup of instant Turkish coffee into the garage, to join my father as he spoke to the mechanic about the repairs to his car that were required. To my left stood this vintage 1980s era boombox, which announced itself ever so subtly by serving as a conduit for a local Arab music station.
“You ought to be on Dizengoff, not in a garage” said my father to a woman wearing knee high patent leather boots, who immediately drew up a receipt for the work that was agreed on. The complement was not immediately understood. If it was, she wasn’t taking it. None of us, including the mechanic, was entirely clear.
“You mean on the Mizrahi side of the street?” she replied in Hebrew, handing us our paperwork.