T hey” are a collection of men who have frequented the Goldberg home for decades since Sidney and Ethel Goldberg (all names changed) moved into their apartment on West 89th off West End Avenue in 1979. And “they” have been coming to the Goldbergs’ Purim seudah for as long as anyone can recall.

On a regular Shabbos the Goldbergs welcome six to ten regulars to their warm and inviting apartment.

On Purim their home is especially crowded.

There is Moishe the doctor. Though no one is quite sure what exactly he is a “doctor” of the Goldbergs are careful to refer to him as “Dr. Moishe.”

Beryl the baker is also a regular. He claims he was the first person in America to bake an authentic pletzel. He regularly complains that all the other bakeries stole his pletzel recipe.

Milchige Motty moved to Brooklyn years ago to help his brother run the dairy section of one of the larger groceries in Boro Park — hence the moniker. These days Milchige Motty only shows up on Purim.

Yossi Goldberg (Sidney and Ethel’s only son) hadn’t been at his parents’ home for Purim since his marriage 15 years ago. But this year Yossi’s wife wanted to be in the New York area to see her grandmother so Yossi and family decided to spend Purim “back home.”

As soon as the meal began Yossi felt a strong case of déja vu — and this was before he had any wine to drink.

The conversations were exactly the same as they were 20 years ago.

Milchige Motty still refused to sit next to Dr. Moishe and Beryl was busy informing Yossi’s children — and anyone else who would listen — that if he had a nickel for every pletzel eaten in New York he would have been a Donald Trump by now.

Yossi’s son Yanky turned to his mother and innocently asked “Mommy is a pletzel just a pretzel said in a funny way?”

Yossi rolled his eyes as he witnessed firsthand how although their hair had grayed and their wrinkles had deepened the banter was exactly what it always had been; nothing had changed.

In frustration Yossi was heading for the kitchen when he suddenly felt a tug at his sleeve and turned to see Moishe the doctor. Yossi was sure he was going to be subjected to one of Moishe’s diatribes about why no one gives him respect although he is a doctor.

But Moishe did not deliver any discourses.

He simply looked at Yossi and said “The expression on your face says you’ve heard all this before and indeed you have. I know our lives seem predictably boring and tedious and maybe they are. But I want you to know that every year we all hear the Megillah and then come here to eat by your parents. Every year the Megillah begins the same and ends the same — the story never changes — and yet every year everyone comes to listen.

“Every year your parents give me and my friends the chance to conduct our own ‘second reading’ of the Megillah.

“It’s true Yossi that our stories have not changed much over the years. Yet every year your mother and father invite us back and allow us to tell our stories again and again. Who else would listen to us if not your parents? Please remember that before you roll your eyes.”

Yossi suddenly grasped just how fitting the title “Doctor” was for Moishe.

The insight on Purim that Moishe shared with him was exactly what the “doctor” had ordered to correct what Yossi needed fixed.

As Yossi reentered the dining room he realized he’d just heard the greatest Purim chiddush of his life.