7
CAMILLE
“You left him your email?” Jasmine opens the rig door and surveys the outside, while I tie on my green polka-dot apron. I’ve parked Lucianna at our usual lunch spot, and we tackle the opening procedures as easily as we would plating our signature dish. The stainless steel flooring underneath our clogs rumbles from the generator. Pans are pulled out and placed on the narrow six-burner stove that lines the right side of the truck. Lucianna’s babies—two industrial panini presses that can toast six panini at once—are plugged in and warming on the counter atop the floor refrigerator, freezer, and storage.
My face heats up, remembering Drew’s warmth around me with his chest flush against my back. “It was kind of a last-minute decision. Halfway in between, you know? Something he can reach me with, but not enough for a commitment.”
Jaz turns on the cash register and fingers through the change and bills in the drawer. She presses the on button of the tablet that acts as our credit card terminal, and the screen sings away, signaling the start of the new day. “So let’s get this straight . . . he doesn’t know you own Lucianna?”
I press my lips together and shake my head.
“It’s not like he wants to marry you or anything. Geez, Camille. You pined for this guy through high school, right?”
“Not all through high school.”
“Whatever. So why not see where it could go?”
“First of all, he’s not sticking around. Ready?” I signal at the awning.
She nods, exiting the vehicle.
It’s ten minutes to go time, and instead of focusing on the specials and reviewing the strategy for the day, Jaz and I have only had one theme to our conversation: Drew. From when we met up this morning, as I caught up on last-minute prep at the commissary—our rented commercial kitchen—to while I drove to our usual lunch spot on Eighth and Market streets.
“Him not sticking around might be a good thing.” Jaz grunts, lifting the awning from the outside.
“Okay . . . got it,” I say after I inch the pole up to keep the awning in place. Light pours into the truck, and the cold air rushes in, equalizing the heat from the burners warming inside. “What we had last night was perfect. But more than that? A perfect recipe for a hot mess.”
“News flash, sweetie. Making a mess is fun. It’s thrilling. Had you not made that mistake one day, when you added bean sprouts to your grilled scallops, then your By the Bay panini wouldn’t have been born.”
The line at Eighth and Market greets us with yay, ooh, and finally. I love this spot, and scored it by making a deal with Club 415, the bar adjacent to the truck. The usual parking regulations are a laundry list of dos and don’ts, but Club 415 has its own parking and driveway, which are privately owned. For a small fee paid under the table, it’s mine during the lunch hours.
We wave at our customers, who are sporting their usual patient smiles. Some already have their wallets out, and others their phones for their daily food pic or selfie. Street food aficionados are the types who look for comfort food. They are professionals, urban crawlers, suit and tie wearers, bloggers, and freelancers. Our food is their fuel to tackle that next decision. Lucianna brings some happiness to their day.
“Well, he’s emailed,” I admit. “And I don’t know what to write back. Or even if I should.”
“You don’t want to keep in touch? Then why leave your email in the first place?” She clucks her tongue disapprovingly, though there’s mischief in her eyes.
I’m exasperated, and it’s all I can do to not bury my face in my hands, but Nonna’s lecture—No touching your face in the kitchen—stops me short.
“It’s because part of you wants to, Cam. You like him.”
No doubt, last night with Drew wasn’t all lust. We laughed over old sitcom reruns, talked about high school, about his work. And when I didn’t want to take our intimacy further, he respected it.
The night was perfect. I bite my lip. “He did have those oblique muscles that run right down to . . . you know . . .”
“Cam! Don’t tease me like that right before opening. We won’t be able to talk about it for hours.”
“You didn’t let me finish.” I check my watch. Two minutes. “Last night was an escape, fantasy. This—them?” I nod toward our window. “Reality.”
Jaz rolls her eyes and crosses her arms. She leans a hip up against the counter. “Reality is no good without an escape. My advice? See what he’s all about. I mean, you deserve a little fun. You’ll be an empty nester soon, and then what?”
“Thanks for the reminder.” Suddenly it feels like someone scooped out my insides. Because at the ripe old age of twenty-five, I will be sending Ally—my charge according to the law—off to college. Pride in her accomplishments fills me, sure, but trepidation does, too. Will I be ready for it? Will she?
“Too soon?” She frowns.
“Too early,” I say.
My thirty-second warning timer rings, snapping me out of my thoughts. Jaz inhales deeply. “Ready?” she asks.
“Always.” I take my place in the back and glance at my workspace with my tools and ingredients. Jasmine is right. There’s no decision to be made now. Drew could very well lose interest by the end of the week. I press my hair back into the bun, making sure that not a tendril is out of place, then wash my hands. Though I might not be the one up front taking orders, I am still the captain of this ship.
“Got my game face on. Let’s kick some ass, shall we?” Jaz transforms into the extroverted people magnet that she is. Though she’s got a heavier dose of foundation this morning, there’s no other sign of a drunken night on her face.
Then again, at first glance, I don’t look like I stayed up half the night either, or that I got two blisters on my heels from my trek up to Coit Tower. Or that my lips are still swollen from kissing. A food truck is still a restaurant—a mobile one—and customers are the key to its livelihood. They have to love what they see, smell, hear, and taste. And customers are fickle. Social media can quickly turn from friend to foe.
Professionalism is a nonnegotiable. But I would be lying if I said that I didn’t prefer the back. My face need not be posted on Facebook or every foodie blog or photo site.
A honk from somewhere down the street snaps me out of my thoughts, and it brings a grin to my lips. “Yes, there is much ass to kick. Bring it on. Oh, but wait. Smile.” I snap a quick pic of Jaz and the chalkboard menu behind her. With one post, this pic, the tag of our location, and her infectious smile will infiltrate the screens of foodies all through the city. I hope so, anyway.
It warms into an afternoon like any other in my business—a dream. I press meats and cheeses into breads as fast as I can, and Jasmine sells the life out of them. Customers hang next to the window and pretend-peek, and I pretend not to notice how entranced they are. People love to watch. They love to experience their food. The simple act of slathering mayo onto a slice of focaccia is a production, and I become the Food Network incarnate. It’s as if seeing the process fills their soul as much as the food fills their bellies, and I’m willing to give it to them. Their expressions, their awe, and their gratitude when they eat what I’ve made are what fills my cup.
“Hey, that chick looks familiar.” A guy’s voice snags my Zen, and shards of calm scatter all over my workspace. His familiar tone settles into my bones, so I take a peek over my shoulder. The shadow of his broad and large body shields most of the truck’s opening. Colors jump out at me: green and white. “Dude, what are you talking about?” another guy’s voice answers back.
The volume of the first guy’s voice rises to a bullhorn’s level. “Hey, you back there. Drew’s girl. ’Member me from last night?”
I see him in my head before I even need to fully turn around. Blake.
I wince. Of course I remember him. How could one forget the most obnoxious Single-A player I’ve ever met? The one who inadvertently led me back to my high school crush? The said high school crush who I left asleep this morning?
Which makes this situation slightly awkward.
“Damn, girl. What do I have to do to get some service around here?” Blake bellows.
My hands are still on the cast-iron press that’s turning a plain sandwich into a sizzling meatball pesto panini. As the bread toasts, the vibe changes. The guy is relentless, despite Jaz’s polite request for his order. His voice escalates, and as soon as I hear Blake say the word fuck, I’m done.
I turn, Blake the middle of my visual target. The stadium is a few blocks away, but apparently not far enough because I’ve run into him twice in two days. His cologne makes my eyes water, but I paste on a smile anyway, since he looks to have brought a half dozen friends.
“What can I get you today?” I ask, sugaring my question.
“Finally. That wasn’t too hard, was it? Sure hope my man Drew doesn’t have to beg like that or I feel sorry for the fucker.” He smells like he crunched on a bag of mints. Underneath it, though, is the stench of beer. While he’s in what looks like a fresh set of clothes, his eyes shimmer. “What’s good to eat from this shoebox?”
I practice one of Ally’s yogic breaths and imagine patience filling my lungs. I play along in hopes of encouraging Blake to order quickly and get his drunken butt out of here. “I recommend any of the panini on our menu,” I say, glancing at the other customers who are in hearing distance. Jaz moves to the back and picks up where I left off. I hear the spatula scrape the panini off the grill.
“Yeah, yeah. We wanted to check your truck out—people were talking about it at the gym today. But they didn’t say there would be such fucking fine ladies here.” He nudges his friend next to him who, in his baseball cap, is also sporting a sheepish expression on his face. “I want one of you and one of her”—Blake points at Jaz—“and a beer, to go.”
“I’ll have the Super Spinach panini,” his friend interrupts, pulling out his money. The guy’s eyeballs are screaming apologies.
“Naw, naw. I’m not done.” Blake leans half his body into the truck.
“Step back, please.” Jaz’s voice takes an authoritative tone, and she appears next to me, with a finger under the counter. Our wireless panic button. Our security plans are laid down pat, though we’ve never had to go all the way and call the police before. The lines are usually efficient at diffusing problem customers.
“Next,” I say.
Blake isn’t deterred. He puts both hands on our high windowsill. “You’re not gonna serve me? I’m a customer, and I want what I want.” His words, too soft for anyone to hear but me, turn my temperature to high.
“He’s joking,” his friend intervenes, now wearing a weak smile. “Forget the panini. We’ll take two Cokes, please.”
As a business owner, I have the right to refuse service. As a human, I have the right to choose who should be in my bubble. And Blake has lost the right to both. “Next.”
“What?” The friend looks confused, one eyebrow up.
“I don’t appreciate how your friend”—my gaze travels to Blake, who appears amused—“is treating us. So I suggest you sober him up and find another place to eat before I call for security. Better yet, before I jump out of here myself and show him how good he has it being on that side of the counter. Next!” I reel my body back and head to the burners, while Jaz wiggles her fingers and says, “Buh-bye.”
The two stalk away, first speaking briefly to their friends, who also exit the line. My heart sinks as other potential customers leave with them. A headache starts as I mentally count the sales we could have made. Twelve dollars, twenty-four, thirty-six, forty-eight, one hundred and twenty-two . . .
“Don’t worry,” Jaz says, sensing my rise in panic. “We did the right thing. They’re not the only customers around here.”
While the rest of the shift is without incident, my head still hurts after the awning’s lowered for the afternoon. What I did was bad. I stood up to a loudmouth jerk, true, but by doing so I brought public attention that might undo Lucianna’s squeaky-clean reputation.
Jaz reads my thoughts despite my best efforts. While counting our sales for the day, she says, “Being on this side of the counter doesn’t mean we have to take their shit.” She doesn’t take her eyes off the money. Every dollar, nickel, and penny is precisely counted and categorized, exchanged for higher bills. Every bit of it is used for food, gas, essentials. “I would have done more than yell. Thirty-two ounces of Orange Crush to the face, maybe.” Jaz shrugs, then gives me a sidelong glance. “But, man, did those phones come out.”
I shrug back, hoping that with this response I have downplayed what we both know are the potential consequences. “It’ll blow over. With how fast the Internet goes, it’ll all be over by tomorrow.”
“You’re probably right. Besides, our customers love us. They love you.” She wraps the bills with a rubber band, sticks them into a black fabric money envelope, and hands it to me. “We did good today.”
“They really loved the cannoli. We’re going to have to bring it back next week.”
“Everything you make is excellent.” She loops her arm around my neck. She smells like the truck—smoke, garlic, and oil—and she was next to the window the entire shift. I probably stink, and it makes me more grateful she hasn’t yet let go.
“Thanks, Jaz.”
“Tell Ally I hope her interview went well. She’s cool. Talks in her sleep, though.”
“She used to sleepwalk, too. Creative minds. They work overtime.”
“Like someone I know. I mean, I bet you haven’t stopped thinking of Drew.” The way she says his name is wistful and needy.
And while I really haven’t been thinking of him, all caught up in our fiasco, the mere mention of his name sends my heart to running speed. “Whatever. Today was proof. I don’t have the headspace.”
“Oh, honey. It’s not headspace you need. It’s heart space.” She slings her messenger bag across her body. “I have to go. I’ve got a coffee date across the street.” She winks.
“Really? With who?”
“Some guy from the business school.”
“Wait, this isn’t the IT guy . . .” I rack my brain for his name. I love Jasmine’s sense of freedom, and her willingness to embrace fun and risk. I can’t lie, at times I live vicariously through her adventurous spirit.
“Nope. That was Nick. This one’s Carson. It’s our first date.” She winks. “But yeah, no more up-front customer service for you. You and your unwieldy temper.”
The silence is deafening when I shut the rig door, and after a moment to compose myself, I sit on a folding stool, log into my phone, and type my password slowly.
Nonna, if you are up there right now, please spare me the utter humiliation of my wrongdoing.
I open Lucianna’s social media app, taking in the big red number. I have about a hundred notifications. Which means someone has tagged me at least one hundred times by name or by picture.
No.
I scroll down. And scroll. And scroll. Photos of Blake, palms up in surrender, my profile barely hidden by the truck’s awning. Faces of people around him in obvious horror, dotted by others who are doubled over in laughter.
My heart hammers in my chest as I read the comments.
@foodlover: Looks like someone made @Lucianna mad. Get it girl. Set ’em straight. #Girlpower
@foodido: I was in line behind this loser! He deserved everything that came at him.
@princessfoodie: @Lucianna is this a joke? Who treats customers this way? Spartans, to boot! #Block
@pickymommy: You’d better believe I’m not paying another cent to this truck. #Block
And more.
My stomach plummets. How will I spin this? This is supposed to be my forte, this communication with customers. In our business, we need it to survive. Now I’ve screwed it up.
I put my face in my hands and growl. What the hell do I do?
I take two deep breaths and throw myself onto my feet. I do what I know will calm me down, what will help me think. My fingers turn on the press and pull out Gruyère and cheddar from the fridge and two slices of ciabatta from a cupboard. After greasing the grates of the press generously with butter, I layer cheeses onto one slice of bread. My mouth waters when the pungent smell of Gruyère hits my nose, when the bread browns and cheese escapes from the sides and sizzles on the pan. With a spatula, I push the cheese right up against the bread, every bit of it delicious and crunchy. None of it should be wasted.
While I plate my panini, Nonna’s words come to me: Unless it’s burned to a crisp, there’s a way to save it.
She was right. I have to take these burned edges and gather myself together. For Lucianna, for Ally, and for me. The only choice is to flip this situation around.
May 14
Drew,
Do you really want to know what I’d love? I’d love it if you had friends who weren’t jerks. What is it with that asshole Blake?
I stare at my words, the beginning of a bitchfest I’m dying to let go. But my pointer finger and the last bit of my conscience denies me the satisfaction. It presses the delete button on my phone until every letter is erased.