The Rosenbaums

On a sunny late afternoon takeout run, my dad took a shortcut to The Burger’s Priest. We drove

through some neighbourhood streets and he took a wrong turn, landing us in front of a strange-looking accounting firm nestled in the corner of a small parking lot.

“Papa, didn’t that used to be a restaurant?” I asked, pointing from the passenger seat,

“It was. I think it closed ‘cause of COVID,” He said, focusing on his three-point turn.

“I always wanted to go there,” I mumbled, looking at the firm through the back window as it shrank away in the distance.

“The food was pretty good for a while. They cheaped out ten years ago and… it just wasn’t the same.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Yeah, me and Maman went there when we moved into the house. We went out with the Rosenbaums.”

“You guys went out with the Rosenbaums? When?”

“Yeah, we started eating out with them before Julie was born. Around… two thousand and two? They came over and introduced themselves while we still had the moving truck in the driveway.”

We pulled into the Burger’s Priest parking lot.

“Why don’t you talk to them anymore?”

“I’ll tell you later,” He grumbled while opening his door.

I unwrapped my cheeseburger and picked it up, grease dripping on the dining room table.

“So,” Papa began through his chewing, “Thomas was asking me about the Rosenbaums.”

“Hoo boy!” Maman said excitedly. “What’d you tell him?”

“Well, I wanted to wait ‘till we got home so he could get the whole story.”

“Go ahead then, I’ll be here to correct you when you mess up the details.” She said with a loving smirk.

“Alright, here we go!” He wiped his mouth with a napkin. In a movie trailer voice, he went, “The year was two thousand and two.”

“Two thousand and three,” Maman interjected through a full mouth.

“The year was two thousand and three. We just moved in, didn’t even finish unpacking, when the Rosenblaums crossed the street and waved at us.

Jean gave us a nice hello while Michael reluctantly lagged behind. They welcomed us into the neighbourhood and quickly told us about our next-door neighbours: the McRoberts on the right, Maria and Orlando on the left. They invited us out to dinner, and since we didn’t know anyone, we accepted.

They took us to some old Greek restaurant in Vanier called… uh…”

He turned to Maman.

“What was it called?”

“I don’t remember,” She said nonchalantly, shrugging her shoulders.

“You don’t remember?”

“What, is it my job to remember things now?” She insinuated, raising an eyebrow.

“Nonono. It’s not.” He turned to me to avoid her glare. “Point is, it was some Greek restaurant that they went to all the time. Now, Jean would order gyros and pita and whatever else, you know, Greek food? But Michael, every time we went there, would order chicken fingers and fries. He would never order anything else! Jean rolled her eyes as if by habit and then remembered we were there–”

“The look on her face when she realized!” Maman spat out, giggling with the rest of us.

“They were the stiffest conversationalists, always talking about the same old things – the job, the house, the weather – and every time Jean would try to talk about anything else, Michael would steer the conversation back to just the worst kind of small talk.”

“So like you guys at family reunions?” I remarked.

“Sure, but they kept inviting us to these boring dinners, same conversation, same chicken fingers and fries. And the food was just okay.”

“I thought you liked it?” Maman asked, worriedly confused.

“Well, I liked it in front of them! Anyway, we were getting sick of them and that restaurant, so we suggested a new restaurant: Porky’s, where that accounting firm is now. At first, Michael objected, as he always did, but not just because he was boring; they were Jewish– are Jewish, so they didn’t eat pork. Porky’s didn’t just serve pork though, and I had to explain it to him. He wasn’t too thrilled about it anyhow; Jean urged him on, whispering something in his ear like he had just lost an argument earlier that day, and he begrudgingly agreed.

Porky’s was actually pretty full for a new restaurant, and Michael hated it. His Greek restaurant was always so empty and dull that any real life surrounding his meal was hostile to him. I ordered a steak, Maman ordered a beef wellington, Jean ordered salmon–”

“And Michael,” Maman interjected, “Michael ordered–”

“Chicken fingers and fries!” They said in unison, laughing and smacking the table.

“And he didn’t even like it! Whined about it at our next dinner, back at that Greek restaurant. We had a couple more awful dinners there until Julie was born, so we could make excuses for a while. Eventually, we had to go back. By that time, Dara was born, so we got to have some new small talk about being parents. We brought Julie to the restaurant; they didn’t bring Dara.”

“I’m telling this part!” Maman called dibs. “The look on their faces when they saw Julie was like a bride seeing her husband-to-be in jeans! They didn’t mention it, at first anyway, and they stopped looking the moment they realized we noticed. We had a normal, boring dinner as usual, chicken fingers and all, until Papa–”

“Op, op, op. Uh uh. You said it.”

“You definitely said it.”

“I remember it being you.”

“The words came out of your mouth!”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No.”

They looked at each other for a moment.

“Regardless of who said it,” I mediated, “what was said?”

“One of us,” Maman started with a head tilt towards Papa, “brought up that they didn’t bring Dara. They went-”

“Hold on, I’ll be Michael,” Papa chimed in, cleaning his glasses, straightening his posture and deepening his neutral form to embody the role.

“‘We left her at home where she’s safe,’” Papa said with a nasally tone.

“Safe from what?” Maman played along.

“‘Well there’s all these diseases just floating in the air!’, and Jean would try to steer the conversation away but Michael would wave her away like she was a child.”

“We argued that having Julie outside often actually made her immune system stronger, but they were having none of it.”

“‘You’re endangering your daughter! That’s completely irresponsible! You should not be taking care of a child!’, he stood up and slammed the table while he said it, and the whole restaurant went quiet and stared at him. He wasn’t embarrassed though! He stood there like a very judgy statue.”

“A waiter came over and told him to sit down, but he just grabbed his jacket and left. Jean left some money, gave us a hurried apology and followed her crazy husband.”

“And then?” I asked.

“Well that’s it,” Papa responded. “Julie started crying because of Michael, so we left too. Never had dinner with them again.”

The next morning, as I left the house for school, I saw Michael across the street tending to his lawn. He was always so particular about his lawn. I swear I’ve seen him use a magnifying glass and scissors to cut the grass. He glanced at me, then looked away with that judgmental glare of his.

When I got home from school, I caught him peeking through his blinds. He’s always spying from his living room window as if he knew some secret agents were on his tail. His eyes retreated indoors, cowardly as ever. Twenty years later, he still had that glint in his eye my parents saw, that stubborn look as if he knew the answer to every question, the consequence to every action, or the best meal at every restaurant: chicken fingers and fries.