“Poppa Sal?” Nick asked.
“Oh yes, a visiting chef, from what I have heard.” “Is that right?” Nick laughed.
“He’s kind of cute,” said Shelly as she waved back, prompting the visiting chef to walk toward their table.
“Hiya, son,” he said.
“Son?” Shelly hiked an eyebrow.
“Shelly White, my dad, Salvatore Harris,” Nick introduced
them.
“Well, I guess this morning musta gone well, huh, son?” Shelly
gave Nick a look. “He tells me everything,” Sal said.
Shelly smiled. “To tell the truth, Mr. Harris, this morning was a train wreck,” she said, taking a sip of water from her glass.
An anxious expression appeared on Sal’s once-smiling face.
“Then I must have missed something in the story.”
“Hey, Poppa Sal, may I ask, what the hell are you doing here?”
Nick asked.
“I thought I’d try out one of my recipes over here and Joe said it would be okay. What’s it to you?”
“Are you a chef, Mr. Harris?” Shelly asked, putting her water glass back on the table.
“Please call me Sal. And no, I’m not. Just a retired insurance exec who likes to cook. Anyway, I’ll make myself scarce. Got work to do in the kitchen. And if I were you, I’d order the special.”
“We just ordered the special, so let’s see how good you are,”
Shelly said as Sal walked away.
“I’m very good, my dear,” he yelled back.
“He’s adorable,” said Shelly. “Reminds me of a friend of mine at UF.”
“UF?”
“The University of Florida. The Gator Nation. Your dad sorta reminds me of an older version of a dear friend of mine, Barry, who runs the School of Pharmacy and heads up the biochemistry lab. Incredibly brilliant man.”
“Just sorta?”
“Well, Barry’s gay.”
“That wouldn’t be my dad, but I’ll take the comparison as a
compliment. So you went to Florida?”