Early the next morning, Nick rattled a couple of cups getting his favorites out of the cupboard.
“Late night, son?” Sal asked.
“Yes, and it was a very nice evening.”. He poured coffee from the glass carafe for the two of them. “You know, Dad, her eyes are just as blue as Mom’s.”
“I know. But how was the meal?”
Nick smiled. “It was great. But you owe me like sixty bucks.” “Whine, whine. Did she like it?”
“Yes. She specifically made a point that I tell you it was wonderful.”
“Then you can have her over, and I’ll cook something just as
spectacular.”
“She’d love that, but let’s not push it. I barely know her. A little time is in order.” Nick brought his fork to the eggs his dad had prepared.
“Just tell me when,” said Sal. “You are so right about those eyes.
And that body is not bad either, son.”
“You’re a pig,” Nick retorted. “Back off, Poppa Sal.” “Oh, you like my pseudonym?”
“I didn’t say I—”
“All great chefs have to have a great name, you know,” he
interrupted.
“And Poppa Sal was the best you could come up with? Really?”