Gladys, who has waited on them for years, had earlier filled me in on what she knew about Feigenbaum and Kizerman. They're both in their mid-eighties. Feigenbaum was formerly an accountant, Kizerman in mail order. Both are long-time-widowers. During their married days, they lived in Skokie, and met through their wives, who played mah-jong together. They bowled on the same B'nai Br'ith bowling team.

Feigenbaum is confined to his electronic chair because of his weight and varicose veins; he also suffers from gout, which hasn't slowed down his appetite. He lives in an apartment at The Wrenwood. Not long after his wife died, Kizerman moved in with his plastic-surgeon son Gary and his family, who have a four-bedroom condo at The Barry Apartments on Sheridan Road.

Gladys's story is she married an Irishman, who worked at Bethlehem Steel and who deserted her maybe thirty years ago, leaving her with two young kids. She brought up the kids by herself, waitressing full time. Her son Tony is now a cop, her daughter Beverly teaches kids with disabilities in Lawndale. I wish I had ten Gladyses working at Rappaport's. She's always on time, completely reliable, no crap about her. She's Polish — maiden name Rostenkowski — but she's been around Jews so long by now she's practically Jewish herself. She probably knows as many Yiddish words as I do. She smokes, but only in the alley behind the restaurant. If she ever needed me for anything, I'd be there to help without hesitation. I think she knows it.

I don't hire college kids or people in their twenties as waiters. Their minds aren't really on the job. Where their minds are I don't pretend to know, but a customer the other day told that me in L.A. if some young person tells you he or she's an actress, you reply, "Oh, yeah, at what restaurant?" I hire older women, the occasional gay man, to wait tables. They stick around, are pleased to have the job, aren't dreamy. My busboys, mostly Puerto Ricans and some Mexican Americans, come and go. I've had good luck with my two short-order cooks, Juan Diaz and José Esposa, who have been with me for a two-and-a-half and four years respectively. Impossible to run a deli these days without knowing a little Spanish. I've learned just enough myself to get by.

Five weeks ago, a rainy Tuesday, Feigenbaum and Kizerman fail to show for lunch. They're not there again on Thursday. The next week they don't show either. I asked Gladys what's the story? She doesn't know. Maybe one or the other is in the hospital. Guys in their mid-eighties, they could crap out at any time. I started checking the obits in the Trib. Nothing. One day I called The Wrenwood to see if Mr Morris Feigenbaum was still a resident. He was. I hung up before they asked if I wanted to be connected to his apartment. Maybe it was Kizerman who was ill. I wasn't about to call his son's apartment. I mean, what's it my business?

Then the third week, a Wednesday, Kizerman walks into the restaurant alone. He takes a booth. The booth isn't in Gladys's station, but I arrange for her to wait on him anyway. He orders a corned-beef on an onion roll, coffee, nothing more. Half an hour and he walks out. I'm at the register, and when I ask him how're things going, he mumbles, "They've been better."