19
“Sir, please accept our deepest apologies for the shell in your crab salad,” Gino said.
He clasped his hands together and bent over, bowing in apology to a table where a portly man in a blue sport coat clenched a knife and fork angrily.
The entire restaurant was looking at him. A car horn blared outside and a semi truck breezed by, shaking the windows.
“I paid a lot of money to come to your little restaurant,” the man said. His face was red. “And I didn't come here to eat shells!”
“We’re very sorry,” Gino said.
“Who are you?” the man asked.
“My name is Gino Mariano and I'm the manager here. Trust that your meal is on us. We've got a new cook and—”
“So I'm paying for his training, eh?”
“Her training, sir.”
Across the restaurant, through the service window, a female cook with a
