By Adam Brownstein
I have three children, and all of them were born in the month of June. If I even glance at my wife during the month of September, there is a high likelihood that another human will arrive the following summer, so she and I tend to sit apart during High Holiday services.
Celebrating three birthdays at this time of the year is further complicated by Mother Nature. The 45 days that make up the second part of June and July is tsuyu season in Japan, and that means rain . . . all the time. We wind up spending long stretches of time indoors hoping for a sun break. Of course, arguments about screen time quickly escalate when the outdoor alternatives to iPads become puddles, not parks.
Three years ago in July, amidst rain and birthday cake(s), my wife and I started to get serious about building a house in Tokyo. The first step in the saga amounted to visiting a handful of design & build companies to assess style, quality, budget and other things I had no idea about (having never built a house before in my life). The first meeting with each prospective builder involved the same ritual. Green team followed by a video of the marriage of aesthetics and the ability to withstand large earthquakes. The whole bit was capped off by the sales person in charge requesting us to write down our name, email, phone, budget, time frame, blood type and other particulars useful to their CRM system. From there the rep would dutifully call us each week to gauge our interest.
But there was one sales guy who had a different approach. He skipped the phone entirely, and instead sojourned to our house each Saturday to hawk his wares. Beyond showing up and offering some SWAG, he offered nothing in the way of a pitch strategy. Just show up, ring the bell and ask “are you ready to buy?”. His ill-fitting suit and slightly chauvinistic demeanor only added to sad mystique. Indeed, whether he knew it or not, he was the World’s Worst Sales Rep.
At the other end of the spectrum is a 90 lb woman and a quarter ton of everything bagels. So begins the story of the Best Saleswoman ever.
Back in the 90’s I enjoyed a stint as a bakery manager with Noah’s New York Bagels. The name of our company was striking, given we were based in the Bay Area. Most of the young people hawking sesame mit schmeer didn’t know Houston St. from the Hudson River. But our teams did understand what it meant to be hamische and decent. We were obligated to drop off onsold bagels at nearby food banks each evening after work, and prior to being sold out to EBITDA machine, we would often bake a bissell too much to ensure we could donate.
One day in between the breakfast and lunch rushes our assistant manager, Mary, yelled to me that I had a phone call. I paused my work counting the inventory of ACME smoked belly lox and Essex Street pickles to saunter over to the phone. Mary extended the receiver to me and commented that it was a nice old woman on the phone.
The woman at the other end of the line was the legendary Mickey Tillman. Mickey was the maternal grandmother of my dear friend, Steve. She wasn’t legendary like, say, Muhammed Ali, but she was one of those people who brightened your day each time she entered the room. Blessed with a diminutive, vibrant frame and an energetic glance, Mickey was an internal optimistic. She was a widow for many years, but she never played the victim. I don’t think she ever really understood the idea of retiring or slowing down.
A few years after my mother died, my own midwestern yenta grandmother (MYG?), Lucille,had dabbled with the idea of moving out to California to be closer to all of us. She constantly kvetched that she didn’t know a soul west of Halstead.
“I have no friends where you live, Adam. And that’s nicht gut!” she would quip. “I’ll just be a burden to you if I’m around.” (oy the guilt!)
Mickey didn’t really know my grandmother all that well, but she herself had made the brave leap from Milwaukee to Mountain View a generation earlier. She knew what it meant to be a stranger in a strange, hippy-dippy land. And more than anyone, Mickey actually worked hard to convince my bubbeleh to give the Golden State a whirl.
“Mrs. Tillman!” I beamed. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your phone call???”
“Oh Adam dear, please cut that out and call me ‘Mickey’,” she retorted.
She went on to explain that she was hosting her monthly Hadassah luncheon in a few days time and that having a lovely spread from Noah’s Bagels would surely be a real crowd pleaser. Per that, I put together a proposal of enough seedy bagels and smoked fish to feed a small army of little old yentas. Along with this I extended a discretionary discount given Mickey’s status with my family.
“Adam that is SO kind of you!” offered Mickey. “I really appreciate it! In fact, I’ll be around your neighborhood later this afternoon. Would you mind if I stopped by the bakery to say thanks in person?”
“What an honor that would be, Mrs. Tillman!” I exclaimed. “If you are able to make it, you can have a raspberry rugelach on me!”
Little did I know that a trap had been set, and I had just walked into it.
True to her word, Mickey showed up at our Menlo Park bakery a little after three that afternoon. I took a break from whipping up a 5 gallon batch of hummus to sit down and enjoy a coffee with her. We chatted idly about Grandma Lucille and the merits of chocolate vs. cinnamon babka.
It all started from there . . .
“Now Adam, I’m so grateful for you taking the time to put this spread together for us at Hadassah.”
“It’s no problem at all, Mrs. Tillman!”
“And what a nice gesture to provide a great deal for us. As you know, we have a pretty tight budget when it comes to catering.”
“Of course, Mrs. Tillman!”
“Now, everything looks in order here. But I DO need to ask, if you can do something on the price of the actual bagels. You know as part of my role on the planning committee I need to be a bit of a schnorrer. I don’t want to put you in a tough spot. But ANYTHING you can do would be appreciated by all of us at Hadassah.”
At this point, Mickey’s cheerful gaze turned somber. An awkward silence fell on our little table, and I began to harbor a vision of 100 Mickey Tillman’s without as much as a mini bagel to eat at their luncheon . . . staring straight at me. I knew what I had to do.
“Would you excuse me for just a minute, Mrs. Tillman?” I demurred.
“By all means, my dear,” she answered.
In our small bakery office I placed a call into Noah himself.
“Let me get this straight, Adam,” Noah outlined. “A little old bubbeleh who’s been kind to your family for ages is asking you for a deal?”
“Yes, Noah.”
“And everyone who attends this Hadassah luncheon will know it was our bakery who provided the bagels?”
“That’s right, Noah.”
“Well, Adam. What would the Talmud say about this kind of situation?”
As if it were Yoda asking, I did, in fact, search my feelings.
“We should give them the bagels for free, Noah.”
“CORRECT, boychik!” Noah exclaimed. “Now go and make a mitzvah!”
I returned to the table where Mickey was waiting. With a smile on my face I shared my decision to donate the bagels for free.
“Oh, Adam! I couldn’t possibly ask you to do that!” chortled Mickey.
“Really, Mrs. Tillman. It’s the right thing to do.” I resolved.
“I knew you were a mensch, Adam, dear!” she said, taking a last bite of rugelach.
With that she gave me a hug and the address of the luncheon. And like all legends, she disappeared into the sunlit after.
Years later, when I sat at the foot of Bill Keadle (perhaps the real best sales person in the world and certainly the best sales coach) I realized what had happened with Mickey Tillman.
She had not only appealed to my sense of decency, but she had also used powerful imagery of fussy Hadassah members to cause me to act. I had been played like a Stradivarius, and the best bit was I was so happy as a result.
The Tokyo Yenta 