They felt foreign in his hands, these cool metal symbols of the luxury he’d spent so long trying to escape

When Chaim Zev walked through the door followed by eight bochurim, he felt for the first time what it meant to be the man of the house. Here was his table, there was his wife, and these boys were his official guests.

Just a few months ago, these guys had been his friends and equals. But since his engagement, things were a little different. They hadn’t been surprised when he’d been snatched up by the wealthy Alex Weiss — after all, Chaim Zev was a rosh yeshivah’s son and the best guy in Rav Aryeh’s yeshivah — but still, landing the shidduch of the year had made Chaim Zev seem a little distant from his crowd.

Now that he was past the awkwardness of the engagement and stiffness of the sheva brachos week, Chaim Zev wanted to be part of the chevrah again. He knew Perri would be a willing hostess, even though eight hungry bochurim could sound intimidating to a girl who’d gotten married a month ago and had barely finished settling into her apartment in far-off Yerushalayim.

But Perri had risen to the occasion admirably. Ten delicate plates graced the brocade tablecloth, their gold trim glinting atop matching chargers. Perri had skillfully twisted the linen napkins into the set of napkin rings Tante Leichu had given as a wedding gift. With fresh flowers towering from a matching vase, the table looked just like her mother’s back in Boro Park.

Chaim Zev wasn’t used to linen napkins and wasn’t quite sure what he’d do with his, but he couldn’t deny that the table looked eminently Shabbosdig.

The boys lifted their eyebrows a little when they saw the table, but sang Shalom Aleichim decorously. Kiddush was a little funny — Chaim Zev almost felt like he was playing Shabbos Tatty — but once they got past the challah, the atmosphere was comfortable again.

Perri had prepared two types of fish — gefilte fish with some sort of red sauce plus sweet and sour salmon — and had garnished each plate with green stuff. Chaim Zev wasn’t sure why regular fish and carrots wouldn’t do, but they said marriage meant working on your middos, so he figured he could handle the red sauce. Goldman and Fine were digging in, at any rate.

But what was this? Perri was coming out of the kitchen again, holding a huge tray. When she put it down on the table, Feingold smiled wide.

“Sushi!” Lieberman whooped appreciatively. “Wow, there’s even tempura here.”

Chaim Zev had never gotten this close to sushi before. He knew it had something to do with raw fish. He also knew it didn’t belong on a Shabbos table. But he kept quiet. Shalom bayis and all that. Besides, the guys seemed to like it.

The meal went on, course after course, and the eyebrows kept going up. Chaim Zev knew this wasn’t exactly his mother’s menu, but he didn’t know enough about food to understand why Lieberman and Feingold kept kicking each other under the table.

After dessert, he escorted his friends out of the apartment, then came back in and closed the door.

“That was some meal, Perri,” he said warmly. “You’re an amazing cook, and everything looked so nice.”

“Thanks, it was fun!” Perri bubbled as she carefully stacked the stemware near the sink. “I can totally do this every week!”

It was only on Sunday morning, when Chaim Zev was hanging up his jacket before first seder, that he realized something wasn’t quite right.

“You had to see what she served, that Weiss girl,” he heard a voice from the other side of the coatroom. Chaim Zev stood very still.

“Not just gefilte fish. And not just salmon. Gefilte fish, plus salmon, plus sushi! And it was good sushi. I think I know where she ordered it from.”

“Forget about the food. I mean, don’t forget about it,” said another voice. “It was totally sick — Cornish hens and minute roast on a regular Shabbos. But you had to see the table. The napkins! The serving pieces! And these gold chargers!”

“I don’t know if Chaim Zev realized what he signed up for,” the first voice laughed. “Pas b’melach, huh?”

Chaim Zev knew he’d have to phrase his words carefully. Perri surely didn’t realize how mired in gashmiyus she was. On their dates she had talked with fire and passion about the Israeli families she’d met during seminary, how beautiful she’d found their Spartan lifestyles, how life in Yerushalayim without the distractions of luxury really helped people achieve a higher level of Yiddishkeit. And Chaim Zev knew she’d meant it.

It was funny; in a way, Alex Weiss had that same genuine admiration for Torah. For all that he was a savvy businessman, he’d seemed to shrink next to Tatty at the l’chayim, offering Tatty a seat, using the most respectful tone when asking “the mechutan” to speak, introducing his friends to Tatty with real humility. It was as if the tough negotiator and brilliant business mind had disappeared. Maybe he wasn’t used to dealing with roshei yeshivah.

But now they were far away from Alex Weiss and the big stone house in Boro Park, and Chaim Zev had to help Perri see the disastrous effects of her upbringing. Chas v’shalom, that she and Chaim Zev should cause jealousy or hurt feelings, or make people feel bad because they had beautiful chargers or anything like that.

“Perri,” he started gently that night, after she’d cleared away the steaks and asparagus spears. “I was thinking … you know, when we were dating, we talked about living here, and how it’s much easier to grow in ruchniyus when you don’t have all the distractions of America.”

“Right,” she agreed. “I see it already. You know that organization I signed up for, the one that sends volunteers to cancer patients? So yesterday, when I was in the children’s ward, I met this amazing family. It’s so sad, they have this little girl in the ward, and when I was schmoozing with the mother, I realized she lives right near us. You could tell how special she is — living on almost nothing.… I was thinking maybe we could invite the husband and kids for a Shabbos meal, if the mother has to be in the hospital for Shabbos again. What do you think?”

“I … uh — that’s so nice that you were volunteering at the hospital, Perri,” Chaim Zev fumbled for a minute. “Look, if you want to invite them, it sounds like a really nice mitzvah. I’m just thinking … maybe … we should modify the menu a little.” Now back on steady ground, the purpose of the whole conversation, he forged ahead more confidently. “I don’t know if these people are so used to all the red meat we Americans eat.”

Perri nodded, although she looked a bit puzzled.

“And,” Chaim Zev plunged onward, “those chargers — I’m thinking maybe we should put them away for now. L’maiseh we’re a kollel couple, you know what I mean? I wouldn’t want to make anyone feel jealous or uncomfortable or anything.”

Perri looked confused. But Chaim Zev came from a house of Torah learning. His father was a rosh yeshivah. Her father was just a businessman. Chaim Zev seemed to be very sure of how a kollel couple’s Shabbos table should look.

Silently, she handed him the stack of chargers, and he stowed them inside the highest kitchen cabinet, the one that almost touched the ceiling.