I had dinner with one of my Dutch publishers and his daughter in an Italian restaurant where I used to go when I was a teenager.
The same Sicilian man was still managing the restaurant, a bit greyer, more mellow, but he was easily recognizable, it was him.
The pasta was decent, the evening was balmy, I had this slight desire to be impish, and then the daughter said to the father: “You talk to each other as if you are a gay couple.”