I watched him as he was making the vegetarian pizza. He smiled to me when he added a gentle touch to the dough.
He put the pizza dough right in front of me. He was now moving to the rythm of the music playing on the radio. He was humming, adding one vegetable at a time.
Nice, He said. Wonderful, he continued. This will be a treat for you; he smiled and gave me a wink.
Finally. I was alone eating the pizza. It was just me, outside. Listening to the birds. Glaring at the sun. Sitting on the grass, in a historic park, behind a museum.
My second bite. It tasted more pineapple than the first. Not sure why, but I started to think of broccoli and that I had never tasted broccoli on pizza.
The third bite was different. I tasted a mix of vegetables. Spinach. Tomatoes. Peas. Olives, and some Parmesan. Not sure why, but I started to think about a friend of mine who told me that I should never let the truth destroy a good story.
The fourth bite was making my eyes blurry. The garlic and the chili pepper, I thought. Maybe it was, but I was still thinking about the quote from my friend.
Is that what makes a good story teller a great one?