By all accounts, my grandfather was a saint. Or rather, being Jewish, I should say he was a mensch. Born in 1914 outside of Miskolc, Hungary, he survived the Nazis and the Communists, came to America in the late 1940s with my grandmother and aunt, where they settled in New Jersey, then Connecticut, and eventually, as older Jews from the east coast tend to do, in Miami Beach. Through it all he was a loving, wise, and deliberate man, in possession of the gentlest of temperaments, who never raised his voice or lost his patience. In all the years of my life, the only time I ever saw him get angry was whenever it came time for me to tell the waitress what I wanted when we were at Wolfie Cohen's Rascal House.