Three place settings take up most of the tiny kitchen mesa.

“So nice of you to attend,” Ms. Meyers says, placing a bottle of salad dressing on the table. I’m surprised when there’s not a label with the Spanish translation for “salad dressing” on the bottle.

Sophie does an exaggerated curtsy. “Gracias, Madre.”

Ms. Meyers cracks a smile, and I see that Sophie knows how to work her mom. “De nada, mi hija.”

I wait for Sophie to sit, then slide onto the chair beside her, panicked that Ms. Meyers will expect me to speak Spanish during the meal. The only words I remember from Spanish Club are “dog” (perro), “rooster” (gallo), “hamster” (hámster) and “Be quiet!” (¡Cállate!), because Señorita Rioux yelled that at least twice each meeting.

“So glad to have you here, David. You’ll get to enjoy my signature salad.”

“I love salad.” As long as it doesn’t have cucumbers, radishes, tomatoes, green peppers or weird frizzy lettuce.

“Great.” Ms. Meyers lays her napkin in her lap, and I do the same. “And a veggie omelet. And Sophie’s strawberry-rhubarb pie for dessert. She’s quite a baker, our, um, my little girl.” She pats Sophie’s hand.

Sophie smiles but gives an eye roll as soon as her mom turns her head.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Ms. Meyers says, grasping the edge of the silver foil covering the salad bowl. “Come.”

Sophie answers my puzzled look with a whispered “Eat.”

I nod.

Ms. Meyers whips the foil cover off the bowl.

I take one look and feel like I’m going to vomit.

The bowl is loaded with weird frizzy lettuce, cucumbers, green peppers, mushrooms and sliced beets! And the beets are bleeding onto the rest of the salad.

While I choke down a few bites to be polite, I wonder if Mom’s hands touched the beet I’m eating.

The veggie omelet is okay, but Sophie’s strawberry-rhubarb pie is incredible—sweet and tart with a buttery, flaky crust. It’s even better than Bubbe’s Jewish apple cake.

I eat two slices, and Ms. Meyers wraps up another slice in foil for me to give Dad when he picks me up.

“How was dinner?” Dad asks when I slide into the car.

“Okay,” I mumble, guiltily wiping crumbs off my lips and shoving the empty silver foil wrapper into my pocket.