Ben's Bakery and the Hanukkah Miracle

by Penelope Peters

  Ben laughed. “Got you to come back, didn’t it? Anyway, either they’ll show up tomorrow with American cash in hand, or not. I gave ‘em a good story about their trip, anyhow. I could use the good mojo.”

  “Guess mojo is about as Jewish as donuts,” said Hank wryly, right before he shoved a twenty into the tip jar.

  “Aw, Hank,” said Ben, pleased. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “No, I don’t,” agreed Hank. “See you tomorrow, Ben. Thanks for the bagel.”

  “See you tomorrow, Hank,” said Ben. If he’d been hoping for a respite to fill the case with more things, hope was dashed as Hank left and four more customers came trooping in out of the cold, stamping damp boots onto Ben’s welcome mat and bringing a rush of chilled, damp air.

  Ben put on his best smile. Guess that mojo’s working already, he thought to himself, and got back to work.

  THE LOBBY TO THE SKATING rink was only vaguely warmer than it was outside, likely because it was also packed to the gills with people checking into the tournament. Adam left most of the team sitting on the benches outside while he went in to collect their badges and schedules. It might have been cold for Boston, but it was downright balmy for Montreal, and the boys didn’t mind the snowfall, either. They were too busy trying to scoop up enough snow for snowballs to throw at each other.

  “Try not to hit anyone else,” Adam had warned them, fully aware that telling them not to throw snowballs at all was a lost cause. He caught the glares from a few passing pedestrians, who no doubt disapproved of his laissez-faire style of parenting/coaching, but whatever. They were good kids. Most of the time.

  “Name,” said the woman behind the folding table.

  “Adam Bernard, coach for the Montreal Penguins,” said Adam.

  The woman scanned the check-in sheet. “First time here?”

  “As a coach, yeah. I came as a player ten years ago.”

  “Well, I don’t think you’ll find that much has changed. There’s a cell phone policy now – all electronics have to be in the locker room during ice time, both practice and games. That goes for coaches, too.”

  Adam was used to such rules, and even understood the need for them. Still, every time he left his phone in the locker room or turned it to silent during a game gave him a knot in the back of his head, a tiny little worry that this time, one of the nurses might have to reach him. Mssr. Bernard, I am so sorry, it’s your father...

  “Makes sense,” said Adam, even though the words grated. It wasn’t as if he could answer in any other way.

  “Adam Bernard! There you are, I’ve been waiting for you all morning.”

  Adam recognized the voice immediately and tried not to cringe. The woman clearly recognized it too, given how her eyebrows went up into her bangs. Adam could see how she glanced between him and his papers, trying to figure out how that voice knew him by sight.

  “Hello, Nilsson,” said Adam politely, turning to the suited man who had appeared next to his elbow. “Good to see you again.”

  Hugo Nilsson grabbed Adam’s hand in a shake, pulling him in for a strange, bro-like hug. It felt more like punishment, given the way Hugo hit Adam’s bicep. “What’s it been, three years? What’s a guy have to do to get you to reply to an email once in a while? How’s your dad?”

  Adam’s stomach twisted. “He’s fine, he’s doing great,” said Adam, feeling the anxiety in his gut. “Sorry about the email, it’s been really busy the last few months—”

  “It’s fine, it’s fine,” said Nilsson, waving it away. “You’re here with your kids, right? I saw tape of the final from last season – fantastic stuff, Bernard, really exciting.”

  “You saw the game?” Adam couldn’t keep the incredulousness out of his voice. What the fuck is the supervisor for the Junior Hockey Leagues doing watching the final from a pee-wee hockey game? he wondered – but then, remembering the email, didn’t really wonder at all.

  Nilsson leaned in. “Bernard. You really think I wouldn’t, when I’ve been trying to get you on my payroll for the last two years? You tell me. You think your kids can go all the way this year, too?”

  “Maybe,” said Adam cautiously, but it was hard to concentrate. Dammit – I thought he’d have given up on me long ago. If he’s still keeping tabs on me... “It was an older team, though, and a lot of my players aged out over the summer. I’m kind of starting from scratch.”

  “That’s the way of things, even in the big leagues,” said Nilsson sympathetically. “Train ‘em up and then someone offers more money.”

  Ironic, thought Adam wryly. Since that’s what you’re trying to do to me.

  “Can’t wait to see them in action,” continued Nilsson. “You were always amazing on the ice in person. Would’ve liked to have seen what you did with all that potential – but that’s life.”

  “Thanks,” said Adam weakly, just as he felt someone tug on his jacket sleeve.

  “Hey, Coach, Pierre and the rest showed up,” said Tom, one of the older boys on the team. Tom was clearly trying to pretend he wasn’t checking out Nilsson in an attempt to size him up. “We checked in yet?”

  “Not yet,” Adam told him. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

  “This one of your boys?” asked Nilsson. He stuck out his hand to shake. “Hugo Nilsson. Nice to meet one of Adam’s kids.”

  Tom’s eyes went wide. “RedWingCenterTwo-Time-StanleyCupWinner,” he whispered in awe.

  Nilsson chuckled. “What’s your position?”

  “Left wing, sir.”

  “Can’t wait to see you play this week, son.” Nilsson slapped Adam on the shoulders again. “I need to get back to meeting and greeting – but good to see you, Bernard. We’ll talk again later.”

  “Yup,” said Adam, already dreading the conversation with Tom.

  “Wow,” breathed Tom as Nilsson disappeared into the crowd. “That was Hugo Nilsson.”

  “I know.”

  “He won the Stanley Cup twice.”

  “I know!”

  “He’s probably the best center in the whole history of time.”

  “Debatable,” said Adam firmly, turning Tom by the shoulders to face the doors. “Go back outside and cool off, I’ll be right out as soon as I’m done.”

  “I’m never washing this hand again,” said Tom, clutching his right hand to his chest.

  Adam sighed and turned back to the woman behind the table, who handed him a thick, lumpy envelope.

  “Kids,” said the woman, amused. “They just get worse every year.”

  Adam could have agreed – but he remembered his own fanboy moments.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  The lobby might have been chilly, but at least it’d been protected from the wind. The cold bit at Adam’s ears the minute he stepped outside. Most everyone else was hurrying in, but he could see his boys sprawled at the base of the access ramp, huddled into their coats but clearly enjoying the relative openness of being outside anyway.

  “—did not!” Francois exclaimed. “He didn’t even have handcuffs!”

  “He did!” insisted Pierre. “They were hanging off his belt, I saw them! All cops have them!”

  “What cop?” asked Adam, joining them. Snow covered the front of Pierre’s coat, not that Pierre seemed to be bothered by it. Adam tried to brush it off; to his surprise, it didn’t feel cold, or even like snow.

  It felt... powdery. Like sugar.

  “The cop at the bakery,” explained Pierre. “He was going to arrest us.”

  “Arrest you?” Adam frowned, looking at his hand. “Is this sugar?”

  “From the donut,” explained Pierre. “I forgot my American money in the hotel, but the guy in the bakery said they were free, on account of being international customers.”

  “What?” Adam slapped his hands together to get the sugar off. “Are you sure?”

  “There was a cop there, he nearly arrested us!”

  “He wasn’t going to arrest us!”

  “Was too,” insis
ted Pierre.

  “Hold on,” said Adam. “Let me get this straight. You guys ditched the rest of us to go into a bakery without American money, ended up getting donuts for free—”

  “And didn’t even bring us any!” interjected Richard.

  “Stop. Which happened first, nearly getting arrested, or getting the donuts for free?”

  “Um? Arrested? I think? And then the guy behind the counter said the donuts were free, so we didn’t need to be arrested,” said Pierre. “They were really good donuts. You get a free one, too, if you’re a new international customer. You should go. The guy was cute.”

  “Pierre,” hissed Francois.

  “He was! And Coach is single! He could ask him out after he gets his free donut.”

  “That is so crass. He has to buy the donut if he’s going to date the guy. Otherwise he just looks cheap.”

  “Agreed,” said Farida, clearly amused.

  “If he’s going to date the guy, he should be getting the donuts for free anyway.”

  “I’m totally going there after practice,” said Tom.

  “No one is going there after practice,” said Adam firmly, who had a pretty good idea what had happened. “Except for me, to pay for your ill-begotten donuts.”

  “But they were free!”

  “It was a Jewish bakery, Coach,” added Francois.

  That made Adam pause. He couldn’t remember a kosher bakery in Cambridge from his previous trips. “Kosher? Are you sure?”

  “The guy said it was Jewish. Is there a difference?”

  Adam sighed and ripped open the envelope. “Yeah, pretty big one. Take your badges, go inside, warm up, get on the ice. You’re here to prove you deserve the invite, not to spend it arguing about free donuts.”

  “He was cute, though,” said Pierre, examining his badge. “You should totally date him.”

  “I second the motion,” said Farida.

  “No way,” said Tom, shaking his head. “Coach can’t date the cute donut guy. He’s going to date Hugo Nilsson instead.”

  The rest of the boys began laughing or questioning Tom, while Adam began to regret ever agreeing to the tournament in the first place.

  THERE WERE TWO HOURS marked out for lunch the first day, while the kids ate box lunches and watched footage of games. Adam slipped out halfway through, after checking that he had the right wallet in his pocket. Wouldn’t do to show up and try to pay the guy in Canadian dollars, no matter how cute he was.

  Not that cute matters, thought Adam. I’m not so hard up that I’m willing to let a twelve-year-old find me a date.

  The snow had stopped midway through the morning and the clouds had rolled out, leaving nothing but the crunch of salt and sand on the sidewalks and bright sunlight overhead. It was a beautiful day, the kind that made Adam wish hockey was played outside more often. Most of the main thoroughfare was decked out in Christmas colors: red ribbons and green leaves, bows and bells and snatches of holiday music spilling out of doors as they opened. Adam almost walked right by the patch of white and blue in the bakery window.

  The display wasn’t large – but it was clearly Hanukkah-themed in nature, not a speck of green or red to be seen anywhere. Instead, it was all blue and silver and white, appropriate for any holiday apart from the colorful dreidels scattered inside and the decorations reading Happy Hanukkah!

  I can’t remember the last time I saw a display that didn’t include Christmas, thought Adam. He didn’t realize he was leaning in until his nose hit the glass. He straightened up immediately, hoping no one saw his momentary weakness. Come on, idiot, you’re not five. You can go in and get a cupcake instead of drooling over them. You can even pay for it.

  Before he went in, though, he scanned the window and door for something, anything, indicating kosher. Ben’s Bakery was written in pretty, easy-to-read script. There were the typical stickers indicating acceptance of various credit cards, no-shirt-no-service, guide dogs allowed. Most telling, however, was the time chart listing opening times, which included Saturday afternoons. Instead of the typical official kosher symbol however, the only indication of kosher was the small script by the door, “Kosher-style.”

  Ah, thought Adam, resigned. He’d eaten in enough kosher-style places over the years to know they weren’t always completely off-limits, just that he’d have to ask a few more questions before ordering.

  The bell on the door jingled merrily as he stepped inside. It was blissfully warm and smelled like sugar and yeast. There were a few rickety chairs and tables, but the only customer was a young man with long, pony-tailed hair and a grim expression. He barely gave Adam a glance; instead, he frowned at his laptop as if the device had personally murdered his entirely family.

  At the far end was the display case, Adam could see why his kids had been drawn inside: it was crammed full of delicious-looking treats. Cakes, cookies, donuts, muffins, cupcakes, all beautifully decorated and looking delicious. There was a fancy-looking register, and next to it, three or four jars, one of which was clearly marked “Tips.” The rest were marked with what seemed to be various local charities. All had coins and a few bills waiting inside.

  The contents of the top shelf were what really caught Adam’s attention. Rows and rows of sufganiyot, oozing with bright-colored jam and dusted with powdered sugar.

  Adam’s stomach rumbled.

  “Oh, hello!” said the man popping up from behind the counter. “Didn’t hear the bell, sorry about that. What can I get for you?”

  Dammit all, Pierre’s right. He’s cute, thought Adam. The man was young, with tousled blonde hair just long enough to curl a bit at the ends. He had blue eyes and freckles, and there was a patch of flour or powdered sugar on the side of his cheek that looked like he’d tried unsuccessfully to brush it away a few times. He wore an apron with Ben’s Bakery stitched onto the breast.

  No way could this blue-eyed, blond kid be Ben. Even if he was cute enough that Adam wondered how he was going to figure out his name.

  “You have sufganiyot,” blurted out Adam.

  “Yeah,” said the guy, eyes going wide. “Raspberry jelly and lemon cream today.”

  Lemon cream?!? thought Adam, almost horrified. Oh, no. What if there wasn’t a Ben? What if the kosher-style was more style than kosher?

  “And I can see by your face that I’m going to have to do some convincing,” said the guy with a grin. He probably didn’t have a clue what was involved in making a proper sufganiyot. “Tell you what, I’ve got a buy-one-get-one, if you’re going to try the raspberry.”

  Adam heard the snort from behind him, coming from the direction of the man at the computer.

  “I already owe you something,” said Adam, pulling out his wallet. “My kids came in this morning, you gave them free donuts. Which I’m pretty sure weren’t actually free, since there was also a cop in the store, and they didn’t have any American money on them.”

  The man at the computer started to mutter. “Oh, for—"

  “Oh!” said the guy, eyes going wide. “Well, that’s just good manners. I don’t hold with arresting kids because they forgot their wallets at home.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Adam. “But I’d still like to pay for their donuts.”

  “Take it,” muttered Computer Guy. Adam glanced over his shoulder with a frown, but Computer guy didn’t even look like he was listening in.

  “Not necessary,” said the kid behind the counter.

  “Benny,” warned Computer Guy.

  Wait, he is Ben? Adam glanced back at Computer Guy before looking at Ben again. Huh.

  Ben didn’t miss a beat. “Hush, you,” he told Computer Guy, with all the fondness one could have for a long-time customer. He turned back to Adam. “I’ll tell you what. You can buy a raspberry sufganiyot, have the lemon cream for free, and if you hate it, you can pay for the donuts this morning.”

  There was an impatient huff of breath from Computer Guy.

  “Sufganiyah,” said Adam automatically, already decidi
ng on his course of action. “Sufganiyot is the plural form.”

  The impatient huff of breath turned into a snort of laughter.

  Dammit, Adam, you idiot, he’s trying, Adam scolded himself. Don’t insult the guy.

  Ben blinked. “Oh, okay,” he said, clearly a little surprised at the correction, but not particularly upset. He quickly plated up two donuts and handed them over. “Now take a bite of your one lemon cream sufganiyah so I can ring you up proper.”

  Adam picked up the sugar-coated donut and gave it a cursory look. It was soft, maybe half the size of a cream-filled donut that he’d get at one of the chain places, but he could smell the yeast and sugar and something sharper, too – probably the lemon.

  “Kosher-style,” he said, eyeing the donut.

  “Oh, sure,” said Ben, nodding as if he heard Adam’s request for clarification every day of the week. “Everything’s kosher dairy, from certified kosher suppliers. I don’t use any meat products at all in anything. Definitely no lard, I promise. I just don’t bother with the official certifications myself.”

  Adam gave a sharp nod; he’d heard the answer enough to be able to tell when it was legit, and Ben sounded legit.

  The donut looked like a sufganiyah fresh from his mother’s fryer, right down to the little bits where the dough had stuck to the fingers of whoever’d dropped it in the oil, creating little points like a star. Just looking at it was like hearing his mother’s laughter and yelps as the oil bubbled, turning out donut after donut for her hungry son and his teammates. The burst of raspberry jam on his tongue, tart and full of seeds, faint memories of summertime warmth on skin chilled from the indoor ice rink.

  Maman would never have used anything other than raspberry in her sufganiyot. Adam never wanted anything else, either. The idea of a lemon cream filling was the complete antithesis of every sufganiyot he’d ever eaten.

  Sorry, Maman, thought Adam as he opened his mouth to take a bite. At least he’d honestly be able to say he hated it so he could pay for the rest of the donuts.