Katie poked at her Sicilian Citrus Scallops. She’d come all the way to Africa and chance had led them to an Italian restaurant. The chef, sick of the pressures of owning a restaurant in Rome, had come to Dakar. He’d built a restaurant with twelve tables that could seat barely forty people, and set about serving up southern Mediterranean cuisine.
The food was excellent. Her appetite wasn’t.
In fact the only one who appeared to have a hearty appetite was Anton, presently devouring a deep bowl of fresh-made pasta with meatballs and red sauce. Maybe nothing bothered him. The other three military people were eating, if not as eagerly. Or maybe they’d seen so many worse things that this was mild.
She, Michelle, and Isobel hadn’t really touched their food.
For her? Each time she thought she w
