Two teens with two very different ideas of how to spend Hanukkah learn to work together to save the last Jewish remnant in small town Texas in this cozy holiday romance!
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Betsy Aldredge’s Eight Dates and Nights, which is out October 3rd!
New Yorker Hannah Levin is allergic to exactly two things, horses and tinsel. Unfortunately, she’s surrounded by both this Hanukkah when, thanks to a freak snow storm, she’s stranded in the small town of Rosenberg, Texas, visiting her grandmother, who she hasn’t seen in years due to family drama.
Super lonely, missing latkes and reliable wi-fi, she follows the scent of fried potatoes and wanders into an old deli where she meets the only other Jewish teen in town, Noah, who happens to be equal parts adorable and full of annoying, over the top Hanukkah spirit that he’s determined to share with Hannah, one ugly, itchy Hanukkah sweater at a time.
She makes him a deal, she’ll help him save his family’s deli, which is practically the only Jewish remnant in a town that once had a thriving community of European immigrants, if he’ll leave her to sulk in peace. However, after a spectacularly memorable kiss Hannah wonders if there’s more to Hanukkah, this community, and even her grandmother than she thought.
I stand still in front of the shop and take it all in, as if drawn to the shiny lights, a moth to a flame. No, more like a moth to a menorah.
Blum and Sons Deli. The sign glows in neon red Yiddish-inspired lettering, just like on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. It’s such a welcome sight that I first wonder if it’s a mirage. I don’t remember seeing it before, but the last time I was here I was small and more interested in Disney movies.
Could I be dreaming about Jewish cuisine? Yeah, I absolutely could. To be honest, I’ve had dreams about my mom’s babka before. But in this case, I don’t think I am. To be sure, I lean my head against the window for a second, take a deep whiff of something frying coming from the shop, and then open up the door to the mostly empty deli.
It looks similar to Katz’s or any of the other old-school places in the city that serve pastrami sandwiches the size of a studio apartment. A big case with schmears of cream cheese, lox, white fish, knishes, beets, pickles, and spreads line one wall of the place. The refrigerator case has at least a dozen kinds of seltzer and some other sodas and ice teas. A long counter with red vinyl stools is in the middle of the store. A chalkboard menu overhead. On the other side of the place are small booths with larger tables in the middle. The floor is checkered with black and white tile that is starting to chip like it’s seen better days, just like the store.
The average age of the handful of customers looks like it’s about eighty, and that’s with me bringing down the average significantly.
Before looking up at the menu, I check my phone. Yes! It recognizes Wi-Fi in the deli. This magical, Jewish spot is also a hot spot. It’s like I was meant to find it, just like a fairy-tale cottage hidden in the woods or a wishing well. With a big grin, I sit down at the counter on one of the small round stools and pull out a ridged plastic menu, yellow with age and something that may be a soup stain. It’s well loved, which actually gives me confidence in the place. It’s not some newfangled concept shop that’s just a niche trend or a franchise. It’s not trying to reinvent and deconstruct deli food or create some theme-park version of it. I’m pretty sure it’s the real deal, a place where people got so excited they spilled soup on the menu in the middle of a conversation. Now that I’m here, I’m famished, which might have something to do with the amazing smells coming from the kitchen.
It’s only been a day since I’ve left New York, but it reminds me of how used I am to having a community around me, to having tons of people who just get me, not just one lone horse. Coming to Texas has felt like landing on a new planet where everyone speaks the same language but doesn’t understand each other. Here, the menu alone speaks to me. It says chopped liver, noodle kugel, and other carbs and meats that have sustained my people for generations. Regardless of where we’ve lived in the world, we’ve cooked, we’ve found common languages like Yiddish. We’ve adapted and we’ve longed for what we’ve left behind. This place speaks to that longing, at least to me, who longs for New York, for my family. And I haven’t even had a bite of food yet.
I’m looking at the menu and deciding between potato latkes or blintzes. As much as I love potatoes, the sweet cheese filling and berry topping of the blintz is probably delicious, too. I’m still trying to decide when a boy about my age comes out from the kitchen in a bright blue apron with a menorah on it that says Ready to Get Lit.
I can’t quite place him until he smiles and walks directly toward me with a swagger I recognize. It’s hot-dog boy, and apparently, he’s not just a hot dog, he’s a Hebrew National hot dog, like me. Cute, Jewish, and a purveyor of deli food. It’s almost not fair. If I could design a dream boy, it might be him with his perfect cheekbones and full lips and wavy hair that belongs in a movie about dukes or other romantic old-timey heroes. Who could resist the temptation? Other than me. I can resist a lot.
“Hey, I know you,” he says. “From the general store yesterday.”
I blush and look down at the menu. Without the costume, he’s adorable, but I’m here for fried potatoes and reliable Wi-Fi, not to flirt with boys, especially boys in my grandmother’s small town who I will probably never see again, if I’m lucky.
In four days, this will just be a memory.
“Doesn’t ring a bell,” I say, biting a lip, suddenly finding their list of appetizers very appetizing indeed. “I mean, I meet a lot of hot dogs.” I give him my signature deadpan voice, the one that says I’m not interested in what he’s selling. Other than deli food. That is of great interest to me.
“Do I need to get my costume on again?” he says, “Because I’d really rather not. It’s itchy, if you must know the truth. I should have sprung for the pastrami costume. I think it was organic cotton, unlike the polyester I wore the other day. You live, you learn.” He leans on the counter; yeah, either he’s overly friendly or he’s flirting. It’s hard to tell in this place where strangers actually talk to each other for fun on a regular basis.
I look up at him, and he’s giving me a sardonic grin.
“No need.” I push my hair behind my ear. “Yeah, I was the weirdo who waved at you, but it was one of those things where I thought you were waving at me and I was just being polite. Let’s just say mistakes were made. Won’t happen again.” I purposefully glance back down and bite my lip to stop myself from smiling at his Texan accent and sincere, wide-eyed expression.
While Abby’s mom may have a thing for lumberjacks, it turns out I may have a thing for guys with access to deli food, not that I am going to let myself go there. My stomach may be the way to my heart, but I can feed it myself, thank you very much.
“How about I wave at you now for real, if you’ll tell me your name and we can start over?” he says with a lazy grin.
The dude has several different kinds of them, and they are all cute, if you’re into that sort of thing, which I’m not because I usually prefer broody to beaming.
“Wait,” he says, still smiling, “do you only wave at people in costume? Because I may have other costumes out back. I was a Jedi for Purim, I’ll have you know. I slayed.” He laughs at his own joke but stops when I just raise an eyebrow.
“Nope. That’s fine. I’m good. No costume needed. I’m just visiting,” I say. “I’m Hannah,” I add, practically as an afterthought.
“Well, Just Visiting Hannah, I’m Noah Blum. And I live here in scenic Rosenblum. In fact, it’s even kind of named after us. We used to be Rosenblum. Someone shortened it a couple generations ago. Now we’re just Blum. Blum where you’re planted! That’s the family motto,” he says, pointing at the sign on the door. He must be one of the sons in Blum and Sons.
I glance back at the storefront and frown. Something seems off. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Yes, we have the best matzah ball soup in three counties, maybe four if Ira Cohen’s finally retired, if that’s the question,” he says, bringing over a small dish of pickles for me. Little does he know he’s speaking my love language. Pickles are one of my favorites. They’re all about potential. They start out a cucumber and, by sheer will and patience, transform into something much more complex and tasty. Unlike people, pickles are praised when they become more sour and a little salty. I should have been a pickle. Then I would be appreciated for who I truly am.
I clear my throat but take a pickle. It’s chilled and satisfyingly fresh, crunching in half when I bite into it. It’s sour, but not too sour, just how I like them.
“Good to know. I hope Ira Cohen has a very nice retirement. However, my question had more to do with the gnome in the window.” I gesture with my hand, which has already picked up another pickle, as his eyes follow mine.
“Oh? Mordechai? I’ve had him for years. No, not really. I think I got him last year from a craft market or something, but he looks ancient. What do you want to know about my gnomie? Get it? Like homie? But a gnome?” His deep brown eyes twinkle at mine, reminding me of the lights in the store, and of the Hanukkah song—“One for each night, they shed a sweet light.”
Noah seems to shed a sweet light wherever he goes without even trying, but I’m okay in the dark, thank you very much. So I shake my head and try to get back on topic.
“My question is, what makes a gnome Jewish? Is it a new thing that I’m missing? Like Elf on the Shelf? Do all Texan Jews have a Gnome in the Home? Does he spy on you and report back to someone whether you’ve done your Hebrew homework? Or skip synagogue?” My eyebrows knit together as I try to figure it out. It’s a small thing, but I have to know.
Noah holds up a finger for me to wait a second as he goes to the window and takes Mordechai out, dusting him off a bit with the corner of his apron. “Look at his long white beard. Doesn’t this scream rabbi to you? Can’t you see him staying out late debating one line of Torah with his gnome rabbi friends? And then the rabbi’s wife will get annoyed, but she married a Torah scholar on purpose, so she’ll just take it out on her challah by kneading it extra hard. Somehow they make it work.”
I shake my head and pick up a pickle, crunching down on it. “Clearly, you have an active imagination. I was just wondering, although now I want challah. And more pickles.”
In my Jewish summer camp, they gave an award every week for the most ruach, or spirit. Noah seems like he’s suffering from too much of it, and yet, I’m still stifling a smile, which I try hard to contain. I will not be charmed by him or his gnome, or this town, for that matter. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to eat. I have to give in to temptation sometimes, and right now the food is a safer temptation than Noah.
“Um, can I get some of that soup and maybe a knish, too?” I ask, making an impromptu decision and closing my menu.
He looks at me a little funny but nods. “Hope you’re hungry,” he says before dashing back into the kitchen. As he does, I take the opportunity to take a couple of selfies, pictures of the deli menu and decor, and text them to my friends and even my parents.
Yeah, I’m still super annoyed at them, but texting is easier than calling when I don’t have much to say other than kvetching about how they made me come here while Josh gets to hang out with a cute girl and they get to check out restaurants or movies, or whatever they’re doing in the city alone without me and Josh.
A second later, my dad texts back. Put the jalapeños and hot sauce in the matzah ball soup.
I text back a green-faced emoji, indicating that the idea makes me sick to my stomach, but he responds right away. Trust me.
I’m rolling my eyes, but when Noah comes back with my soup and knish, I see what he means. They’re huge. Each matzah ball is the size of a snowball and there are three of them. The knish is the size of my outstretched hand almost.
“Everything is bigger in Texas. It’s cliché, but it’s true,” he says, giving me a huge spoon as well. “Anything worth doing is worth doing in Capital Letters. I did try to warn you. . . .” He shrugs and pulls out condiments from under the counter including, mustard, and horseradish. “But far be it for me to discourage a paying customer. Just don’t let my grandfather see you. He hates when people waste food, and I doubt you can put this all back. No offense.”
I nod. “This is a weird question, but my dad said I should ask for jalapeños and hot sauce. Is he joking? Or is that a code word so I can get the secret menu? Like a speakeasy for Jewish food?”
Noah shakes his head. “We haven’t changed the menu in decades. This is a traditional, old-school deli. No avocado toast here.”
From the back, I can hear someone else coming through the swinging doors from the kitchen.
An older man wearing a yarmulke comes out and looks at me closely over his glasses. This must be Noah’s grandfather. “Who did you say your dad was?”
“I didn’t, but he’s David Levin. He used to live here in Rosenblum when he was younger.”
The man put his towel down and laughs loudly. “Davey! Now a history professor in New York, right? Of course, right. He practically lived here during high school when his mother got the horses and didn’t have as much time to cook, not that she was much of a cook anyways. Oy . . .”
“Zayde!” Noah admonishes his grandfather, his cheeks turning red. Good, at least I’m not the only one embarrassed tonight.
“It’s true whether I say so or not. Just don’t tell Sarah I said that. Okay? She’s a nice lady. She does good work with those horses.”
“She makes good pancakes,” I say meekly.
“I’m sorry,” Noah mumbles as his grandfather putters into the kitchen. “He thinks because he’s old he can say whatever he wants.”
“I can say whatever I want,” his grandfather says from the other room.
“He’s adorable,” I say as his grandfather comes back with a jar of something and a dish of something else. “Jalapeños and hot sauce for the Yankee,” he chuckles. “Be careful with those,” he says as I hesitate. “I think your dad invented the combination on a dare.”
“Did he lose the dare or win it?” I ask, putting a tiny bit of each in the soup, and yeah, it does add a nice kick, but I like most of my Jewish food bland as my Ashkenazi ancestors intended it. I can’t imagine my boring dad being so daring either, but there’s probably other things I don’t know about him when he lived here, too, especially what went down between him and my grandmother—and why he left.
I’m still contemplating my dad’s secret, daring hot-pepper-flavored history when I take a gulp of soup, which must have had too much hot sauce. “Ouch!” My mouth is burning and I’m waving my hand in front of my face. I gulp down water, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it makes it worse, spreading the heat everywhere. Noah brings over a piece of challah.
“Definitely lost the dare.”
“Eat this; it will help.” Noah glances at his grandfather. “This is why we stick to the menu, Zayde,” he says over his shoulder.
I nod and take a big bite of the soft, slightly sweet bread. He’s right; it’s much better than water. “I think I’ll stick with the knish,” I say, pouring some regular mustard on it and taking a bite, enjoying the soft potato filling with the slightly crusty exterior. “Mm. This is good!” I put a hand over my mouth so he doesn’t see me chewing and talking at the same time.
He looks so proud of himself, I have to add after swallowing, “I mean for Texas.”
At this point, the few older gentlemen in the deli are eavesdropping with interest. It’s another thing that makes me feel like home. Next, they’ll start complaining about their sciatica, or telling me about their grandchildren. All par for the course at synagogue, or the JCC where we belong.
But if Noah notices the eavesdroppers, nothing seems to dim his optimism, which is rather annoying. Until he looks around the mostly empty deli and his shoulders fall, a similar look to the other day when he was in the hot dog costume with the platter of samples. “If only we had more customers. I’d say tell your friends, but that wouldn’t do much good, would it, city girl? No one’s coming to Rosenblum for soup. Jalapeños isn’t going to solve that. This place is dead, and I’m not just talking about the elderly customers.”
One of the older customers shoots him a disapproving look and tsks loudly.
“I didn’t mean you, Mr. Saperstein!”
Mr. Saperstein grumbles loudly to his friends, but Noah ignores him and picks up my discarded bowl and takes it to the back, then starts cleaning the counters furiously. The other customers, all three of them, are standing up and saying goodbye to Noah’s grandfather, who has come out of the kitchen to kibitz, or chat, with them.
I must glance over nervously because Noah just chuckles. “They’re practically like uncles to me. Don’t worry about it. They love to have something to complain about. They’ll talk about me the whole way home, and they’ll love it. I’m sure their grandchildren are much more successful and respectful. I think one is in med school already. I can’t compete with that,” he says with a pained look that disappears as soon as I spot it.
“Good luck with that hip replacement, Irv. Have a safe trip, Sol. I’ll see you next week?” Noah’s grandfather says.
“God willing, we’ll see you next week, Abe,” Sol says, hugging them all, as Noah walks around and pulls all the blinds down, then turns the sign on the door to Closed.
I put down money, not waiting for the check, and stand up to go, able to take a hint. “My grandmother is going to be picking me up soon. Thanks for everything. I’ll see you around?”
“You can’t go yet!” Noah’s zayde Abe says, packing up something in a bag. “You loved the knishes, and you’re going to need a taste of home at Sarah’s. Lovely woman, can’t cook, which is why your dad was so skinny . . .”
“You already said that, Zayde,” Noah says, but rather than annoyed, his eyebrows are knitted together as if he is worried. He tries to get his grandfather to sit down, but the older man waves him off.
I’m about to say thank you again when Abe pulls a couple framed photos off the walls randomly. “Wait, wait,” he says. “This, here, that’s your dad when he worked here one summer.”
“Wow, he never mentioned that,” I say, poring over the photo. It’s faded, but he’s right, my dad is there, wearing a Nirvana shirt and an apron with the store’s logo on it, and one of the flannel shirts I’d taken from him. He’s got his arm around the other guys in the photo and standing in front of what looks like a huge pile of potatoes.
“That’s my dad,” Noah says, pointing to the guy next to my dad. He’s got a Houston Astros baseball hat on and a smile not unlike Noah’s. They both look pretty proud.
There’s a lightness about my dad I haven’t seen in a while thanks to all the papers he’s always grading and exams he’s always writing, never mind the pressure to publish books and do research. This version of my dad is younger, yes, but more carefree and with more hair. It makes me wonder why he left this place that made him happy once upon a time, and what changed.
“We were on the news that year for creating the biggest latke in Texas, second biggest in the country. So much attention we got. You wouldn’t want to eat it, though. It wasn’t crisp enough, so not cooked all the way through. It was a waste of food, and I hate wasting food, but it drove a lot of customers here, and I donated some of the proceeds to the food bank, so it worked out. . . .”
“You should do that again,” I say with a look around the empty deli, but Abe brushes me off.
“Do you know how long it took to peel so many potatoes? I was a lot younger then; we all were. Less arthritis, more energy.”
He takes the photo and places it back on the wall where it was. “You tell your dad we were asking about him. He’s a mensch, that one, or he would be, if he visited more. Tell him we’ve noticed.”
Ouch. The Jewish guilt is strong with that one, so much so that Noah mouths “sorry” to me, but I shake my head. It’s okay. I’m fluent in Jewish guilt, too, which is exactly how I ended up in Texas visiting my grandmother in the first place. All my parents had to say was to remind me of the mitzvah of honoring the elderly a couple of times until I gave in and agreed to go, but that didn’t mean I had to be happy about it.
Abe shuffles off back to the kitchen, leaving me and Noah alone. I feel as if I should offer to clean up or something, but that would be weird. I’m just a customer. And just visiting. And just not interested in forming any connections here. After all, I’m literally only here for a few days.
I take one more look around this special place with special people. It would be a shame if it didn’t survive, but there’s nothing really I can do in the few days that I’m here, so I say thank you one more time, grab my bag of goodies, and give an awkward wave to Noah before heading out. The door shuts behind me as my grandmother’s car rolls up to take me away from the pickles, and any chance to spend more time with Noah or his gnome, which is probably for the best.
