A young girl in fishnet stockings walked by, as in too young for us. Not particularly exotic looking- maybe Italian, could be Jewish. Sometimes you can’t tell.
I raised my eyebrows and looked at old Jack, then indicated the girl.
“No, I like a shiksa,” he said.
“Well, she may be a shiksa.”
“No, I mean a pure shiksa.”
“Oh, like a statuesque Scandinavian type? Tall, blonde?”