by Tif Marcelo
I fill the small stockpot with water and turn on the burner. My heart calms as the humidity increases in the truck. My fingers fiddle and reach, curl on instinct, slicing apples into thin pieces, and I relax.
Yogis like Ally have their Zen on the mat, where they find their drishti, their gaze, in a simple, still pose. Cooks like me have it in the ready stance, our fingers inch deep in spice or sugar. Undeniably, I reach my own level of catharsis, of both surrender and utter control.
By the same token, I can tell when something changes. The spirit leaves my body, and I’m brought back to reality with my heels firmly planted on the floor. It’s this instinct that makes me turn toward the window now.
Jasmine has a frown across her face and her hip cocked against the counter. Below her, from the outside looking in, is a man in a white chef’s jacket.
My stomach twists. I thought we had at least a day before we attracted the restaurant’s attention. “How can I help you?” I ask.
“Miss, I am Chef Ritchie of True North Cafe.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Chef.” My feet keep me a step’s distance away from the window. The water in the pot behind me has begun a slow, rolling boil. “We’re the crew of Lucianna.”
He nods, and the creases on his forehead deepen. My choice to withhold my name doesn’t sit well with him. “You’ve parked very close to my front door, and you’ve taken up our parking spaces.”
Jasmine reaches up for our blue waterproof folder, stuck to the ceiling with Velcro. It’s where we can grab it at a moment’s notice, for times like this, when we have to fight for our right to be here.
I follow up with my spiel. “We have a mobile food truck license, Chef, and the city of San Francisco allows us to park in open spaces not occupied by a parking meter, handicapped spot, and lines that delineate between spaces. We have followed all those rules, sir.” I tuck my hands into my apron, not quite a chef’s jacket, with today’s polka-dot frill. Still, my chest puffs out from under it. The man is old enough to be my father, and he is slightly intimidating with his icy stare.
You have positive control over your hands and your tools.
Nonna’s words straighten my spine as Chef Ritchie mulls over my flippant answer, his jaw clenching. He’s probably wondering how he can get a copy of these rules, and if there’s a loophole to work around. His lack of a comeback lets me know I have bought us some time, until he figures out he can appeal to have all trucks a specific distance away from his front door, up to a whole block away.
“If you don’t mind, Chef, we open in less than an hour and we have a full menu to prepare.”
He executes a sharp nod, though unconvincing that he actually agrees, and marches back into the restaurant. Once I know he is out of sight, I ask Jaz, “So how long do you think we have before he gets everything filed?”
“A week, max. If he even knows where to go.”
“It’s something. Enough time to look around for someplace new. Or convince him somehow to let us stay if we get enough customers.”
“I doubt we’d want to stay, would we? I have yet to see a group of people walk by. My bad—there was a crew of senior citizens that passed us with their walkers.” She points across the street, where two ladies wearing wide-brimmed hats step out in textbook speed-walking fashion, arms pumping for their daily cardio stroll. Except they aren’t speedy at all.
Beyond that there’s nothing except for the slow pace of the suburbs of a concrete jungle. It’s so quiet that something else is screaming at me.
Opportunity.
Truth—there are no other food trucks parked within a half mile of me. The people here aren’t overwhelmed with choices. We—Lucianna, this lemonade stand of a food truck—will be the big thing here. I have this zone all to myself. And what did Drew say? This is the time to go big. This is all on me.
“Actually, Jaz. I think we should fuck the fear.”
May 19
Dear Drew,
I’m fucking the fear!
Twin Peaks was the key to it all. What you said meant more than you could ever imagine.
I’ve got to run, but wanted to email to let you know I can’t stop thinking of you. I’m sorry it took a couple of days to respond, but I’ve been swamped. Give me a day or two to settle into this new gig? Then I’d love to pick up where we left off.
And, Drew, thank you.
Love,
Camille
14
DREW
“What do you mean you don’t have any restrooms?” A woman wearing ripped jeans and a Bay Area University hoodie stands at the doorway of True North. She shifts her feet, then crosses her legs together. “Isn’t this a restaurant?”
My poker face is one second from cracking under frustration. Resting my hand on the back of my grimy neck after an early morning’s work, I straighten. Despite the long days, nights have rewarded me with insomnia rather than sleep, my mind catapulting itself from one restaurant project to the other and then to Camille. Always to Camille.
So I’m in no mood.
“We’re closed.” I yawn, midanswer. “Renovating, as you can see from the banner.”
“Please? I’m desperate and almost next in line for the food truck outside. Otherwise I’d go someplace else.”
I’m supposed to decline all requests for the restroom, but the woman’s face is twisted in pain.
My resolve breaks. I can’t send her away. Been there, done that, and there isn’t another restroom for at least a half mile down the street. “We only have Porta-Johns. You’re welcome to use one.”
“Thank you so much.” She nods gratefully.
“Behind the sheet, then out the door.” I wave her to the area that used to be the wall separating the dining room from the kitchen. Before she disappears behind the curtain, I say, “Be careful!”
She’s the third restroom request in a couple of hours. Any more and it’ll circulate it’s open season. Not only will the interruptions be a pain in the ass, but my pop is sure to be pissed.
I pull out my notebook and write in block cap letters: NO RESTROOMS. I tape it right side out on the front door window, patting it down flat.
Still with my fingers on the glass, I can’t help but peer down the line of customers on the sidewalk. Fifteen deep, and it’s been consistent all day. If True North had the truck’s daytime customers the last three days it’s been here, we would still have a semblance of a successful restaurant.
Not that the renovations will be for naught. Once they’re done, customers are going to love the modern design aesthetic inside as well as the view of the Pacific Ocean and the Great Highway outside.
If that truck isn’t there to block it.
There is no way one cannot see that truck. Not only does it have a hideous mishmash design, but it’s also got lights that blink green and red. And the smells—the smells coming out of the truck make my mouth water, make my stomach growl. I’m tempted to jump ship and order one of everything. I’ll never admit it, though, especially to my parents. It’s an unspoken rule. According to my dad, “that damned truck” is off-limits.
The dining room is empty except for a couple reading the newspaper. Mr. and Mrs. Villa, regulars and residents who live a few streets down, are tucked into a corner, still doing their thing every morning: drinking coffee and reading the news. My parents convinced them to stay away during the demolition, a miraculous feat. But as soon as there was space for “their table,” the two reappeared. Because they’re old as sin and have gold lolo and lola—grandfather and grandmother in Tagalog—status, though they’ve never had children, we can’t tell them what to do, ever.
Their table has been moved to the window, away from the excitement in the kitchen, front row to the madness outside. A carafe of coffee, loyally provided by my mother, sits in front of the couple. Mr. Villa, gruff and big bellied, perches his reading glas
ses on the tip of his nose. “So noisy out there. Can’t we do something about that?”
“It’s America, Willie. People are allowed to talk.” Mrs. Villa scrolls through her iPad. Silver chocolate Kisses wrappers litter the table.
“She came all the way here and brought the downtown chaos with her.”
“I’m fine with it,” Mrs. Villa says. “Good to see some people out here. Good for neighborhood business.”
“I agree. The people aren’t the bad thing,” I add. “We want people. But if our customers are expecting a view when they get here—”
Mr. Villa shakes his bald head. “They’re loitering. I don’t get why people these days don’t want to sit. Trust me, Andrew, this is all uso. A fad. And like fads, they go away. Coming into a restaurant to relax over a plate of good food—that is forever.”
The woman who used the Porta-John walks in. She’s wringing her hands, smelling like the lemon hand sanitizer. “Thank you so much. I thought I was going to pee on myself.”
I wince at the visual but nod. “If anyone asks, our restrooms are closed.”
“The restaurant will be open in two and a half weeks, though,” Mrs. Villa says, finally raising her eyes from her device. “The fourth of June. Best Filipino food in the city.”
“Cool. Do you have a social media page?”
“Um, I—” Come to think about it, I don’t have any idea.
“Not yet, but look out for us soon.” Mrs. Villa’s voice is smooth. A real saleswoman.
“Yay. I’ll keep checking in whenever I stop by. Lucianna has the best panini. Out. Of. This. Fucking. World.” At the sight of Mr. Villa’s scowl, she adds, “I mean—sorry. Anyway, gotta get back in line. Gotta get my fix.”
She exits the front door and rejoins her friends in line. She spins to face True North, points back toward us, probably telling her friends about the reopening. But her friends barely notice, eyes glued to the easel chalkboard menu and the shadowed figures in the truck. How many people are in there? Three, maybe four? The panini are coming out quickly, even faster than junky drive-through fast food.
The realization hits that right now True North can’t compete with this attention. I thought my father was overreacting the other day. Now that I’m seeing this monster work its magic, the loyalty of customers who are willing to wait in line, it’s clear True North has to fight fire with fire.
Honest-to-goodness connection with customers.
I find my phone, tucked into one of the only clean corners of the restaurant. It’s been on silent, and I’ve missed an email. My heart races at the possibility it could be Camille. But first things first—I dial my dad’s number.
“Iho,” Pop answers without greeting. The kitchen exhaust whirs like a muscle car in the background. “I’m almost done here. Feel like menudo for lunch?”
“Yeah, Pop, that sounds really good . . . but I’m calling about this truck.”
The exhaust clicks shut. “Let’s hear it.”
“What do we know about them?”
“They’ve been around a little more than a year,” my dad says. “Was downtown for a few months. The chef is young. Their panini menu is homegrown, a fusion of American and Italian influences.”
“Interesting.”
“The word on the street is that their food is good. Really good. Her bread and desserts are all homemade, too.”
“So they aren’t really competition, foodwise.”
“No, but—”
“But I get it,” I interrupt. “It’s insane on our sidewalk. Mr. and Mrs. Villa couldn’t get in without having to sidestep the line. I agree with you. They have to go.”
I hear the satisfaction in my dad’s voice. “So glad we are on the same page.”
“Can they really park here?”
“They can. Fully legal, but we can contest the distance. I’ve already sent the appeal. They say it takes about a week for it to be approved. We’ll hopefully get a full city block of space.”
“Here’s what I see. People willing to stand in line. They’re relaxed, on their phones. Taking pictures. Customers are doing the advertising.”
“What do you think we should do?”
“We have to pump up our social media presence.”
A guffaw trails its way into my ears. “We’re already on Facebook.”
“But did you use it to spam? Or did you have actual connections with customers? Because social media done right can lead to lifelong customers. I mean, social media has to be taken seriously, managed by someone who has the time and experience.” Camille’s words flow from my lips.
I could kiss her and her genius brain right now.
“What’s your suggestion?”
“I’m not an expert either, but at a minimum we should advertise through every online outlet possible: Twitter, Facebook, Instagram. Post pictures of what we’re up to. Give them sneak peeks of the improvements. How about bloggers? Food bloggers can help spread the word for us.”
“Would you be willing . . . to help me with this? Along with the reno?”
“Yeah . . . yeah, Pop. I would. I can get started on it, and maybe delegate it as time goes on. If you trust me with it.”
“Of course, iho. Of course I trust you.”
I feel both relief and apprehension. Normal for us is usually being at odds, our conversations consisting of one-upmanship. We play the roles of the righteous father and the silently stubborn son. Now that he and I have agreed, I’m not sure how to end the conversation. Thank goodness my father does it for me.
“I will be there in twenty minutes with food. See you.”
“Later.” I hang up. In that short conversation, another ten people have joined Lucianna’s line. I get a good view of the backs of people’s shirts, since they’re leaning against the restaurant’s windows.
These customers aren’t there just to eat. It’s as if their taste buds are the last of the senses to be satiated, and by then, they’re primed to love it.
Whoever is behind that operation knows what the hell they’re doing. True North is going to have a hell of a time competing with them for attention.
My phone alerts me I have an email to read, and all my thoughts melt away when I see who it’s from.
Camille.
May 19
Camille,
I’m glad you are having a better day than me. The project I’m working on—helping with my dad’s business—was going well. Except a monkey wrench has been thrown into the mix. The only thing saving my ass with my dad is your advice on social media. But what if I can’t deliver? What if it doesn’t work? My pop’s counting on me.
I know. You’re thinking: stop vague-mailing!
I could sure use a Camille fix. But I’m patient.
Drew
15
CAMILLE
May 20
Dear Drew,
You already know the solution, soldier. Listen to your own advice.
Fuck the fear.
Love,
Camille
P.S. I suppose a little texting won’t hurt.
The turnaround is everything but miraculous. We have customers—more than we imagined, hungry, and with money in hand. Stuck in the city’s suburbs, next to the gloomiest beach in North America, parked down the street from the sleepiest restaurant in San Francisco.
Somehow, we did it.
Or, our customers did. Some of our loyal customers made the drive from the Financial District, which is as big a deal as going from Earth to Venus. We also attracted the attention of the local residents, grateful to have a food truck in walking distance of the beach.
We sold out twice this week. The hit, as Jaz has always claimed though I didn’t believe until now, is the homemade bread. These new customers—stay-at-home parents, grandparents, retirees—are nostalgic for it. And a smal
l increase in price this week, a meager twenty-five cents per panini, went unremarked upon.
The timer on the stainless steel countertop rings, signaling for me to check my yeast prep. Leaning over the bowl of the industrial mixer, I breathe the sweet and heady scent. A slight layer of foam has formed on the surface, and bubbles pop as more yeast is activated by the sugary warm water.
My phone dings, telling me I have a message. I ignore it. Measure twice. And it still never hurts to double-check, Nonna always said. I speak my coveted handwritten ingredients out loud, measuring flour on the kitchen scale before pouring it into the bowl. My voice echoes through the commissary. Rare, because this place is usually bustling, with room for five other operations.
Landing a commercial kitchen—a licensure requirement—in the city is as tough for food truckers as it is to find a parking space. A private commercial space is pricey, so we’ve only got two options: a commissary, which is a shared commercial kitchen space, or a restaurant that’s willing to rent out their kitchen on their off hours. I slid into this spot at Just Like Home Kitchens as one of my food truck friends got out of business. Situated in the Mission District, less than a mile from my apartment, it’s amazingly clean and offers commercial parking. Bonus: my kitchen mates aren’t out to take me down. We’re respectful of our designated areas. Five sets of burners, prep areas, sinks, and refrigerators fill this warehouse, and while areas are separated nicely, when all of us are in here at once? It’s like being at a Justin Timberlake concert.
Another ding sounds. I should have silenced my phone before I started. I can be distracted when I cook, can juggle the ingredients and an open flame without a problem, but when I bake in bulk, I must enter another level of concentration.
After all the ingredients are in the mixer, I turn it on and watch the machine do its thing. Experience tells me the dough will be done mixing in about five minutes, so I take the time to clean up, wipe down all of my counters, before I tend to my phone. Using light coming through the warehouse windows, I angle the camera so a romantic view is taken of the mixer as a focal point with the warehouse as the backdrop. After the click of the camera, I apply a black-and-white filter. Not bad.