“I looked expectantly to the window but there were no plates lined up. Instead Scott, the young, tattooed sous chef, passed me a sliver of tomato. The insides were tie-dyed pink and red.
"A Marvel-Striped from Blooming Hills Farm," he said, as if I had asked him a question.
I cupped it while it dripped. He pinched up flakes of sea salt from a plastic tub and flicked it on the slice.
"When they're like this don't fuck with them. Just a little salt."
"Wow," I said. And I meant it. I had never thought of a tomato as a fruit----the ones I had known were mostly white in the center and rock hard. But this was so luscious, so tart I thought it victorious. So----some tomatoes tasted like water, and some tasted like summer lightning.”