During his lifetime, the tzaddik had owned a tavern on the outskirts of Tzfas. Situated on the mountainside overlooking a glorious valley, the location of his business could have not have been any more scenic. Many Yidden would frequent the tavern to rest their weary bones and enjoy a hot drink as they stared out the window and marveled at the breathtaking beauty of Eretz Yisrael.

The money the tzaddik’s tavern earned was enough to enable him to sit and learn in peace and plumb the depths of the Torah’s secrets.

One Erev Shabbos the door to the tavern swung open and a group of Arabs entered. They were local workers who would travel to Tzfas from a nearby village every morning. They sat down around a table in the corner of the room and scowled in the tzaddik’s direction.

“Pheh!” An Arab spat at the hot tea handed to him. “Do you think we are mere peasants?”

“I apologize. Let me bring you something a bit stronger.”

The tzaddik left and returned with large pot of fresh, steaming hot coffee.

“This is also worthless to us!” the Arabs growled. “Bring us something stronger.”

The tzaddik understood what the Arab visitors wanted — araq, an alcoholic drink. “I usually don’t serve drinks like that at this hour,” he explained. “It is almost Shabbos and often when araq is served some patrons take a little longer than usual to leave.”

“You don’t think we can handle a little alcohol?”

This time it was the biggest Arab in the group who spoke. He was a tall man with a large belly and wider shoulders than anyone in the room. “We slaved like dogs the entire week. We deserve a good drink!”

“It has nothing to do with whether you deserve it or not. As I told you before, tonight is—”

“Aha! Maybe you think we won’t pay you in full, eh? If that’s the case I promise you, by the life of my goat Ali, that we’ll pay for every drop of liquid we consume in this inn!”

“I’m sorry, but closing up my shop and getting home in time to prepare for Shabbos is my utmost priority.”

The giant Arab rose from his seat and towered over the tzaddik. With one swipe of his long arm he whacked the coffee pot out of the tzaddik’s hand. It soared through the air and shattered against the wall with a loud crash. Pieces of glass flew through the air and black liquid splattered over several tables and dripped onto the floor.

“You need to work on rearranging your priorities.” The Arab brute breathed heavily through his thick black mustache. “In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t anyone else inside this tavern except for us and you. I think it’s in your best interest to make us happy, don’t you agree?”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha Jr., Issue 738)