"Hello! Come in. I'm just finishing up my prep work."
Amy unlatched the bungee cords that were holding the slow cooker filled with gravy on top of her cooler. "Good morning. I can't wait to start this adventure. I've never been inside a food truck before." She held up the cooker. "This is the gravy. Not sure if you have space to put it on a counter or if you want to transfer the gravy into a pan to keep warm on the stove."
Brooke nodded to her right. "We'll figure something out. Adaptation is the hallmark of food truck chefs."
The atmosphere inside the truck was like a foodie's bat cave. Stainless steel appliances and counters lined both sides of the narrow alley running down the center of the truck. There was an empty space where the faulty deep fryer must have resided, next to the stove. A narrow door at the far end allowed easy access to the huge, mobile smoker that was pumping brisket-scented smoke into the market's parking lot. With the door shut and window cover still latched down it was a bit dark. A smidgen of claustrophobia perked up Amy's pulse.
When she stepped back out of the truck to retrieve her cooler, Amy took a deep breath. The tight working quarters would be better once some sunlight was allowed into the space. She hefted the packed cooler onto the landing above the steps and called into the dark kitchen space. "Do you want me to keep the pudding samples and polenta cubes in my cooler?"
Amy stepped back into the truck. Brooke tilted her head from side to side as she sized up the cooler. "I have some space in my fridge, so let's see how much we can fit in."
She opened the appliance's door and frowned. "The light didn't come on." Brooke grabbed one of the single-serving sized containers of mustardy potato salad and wrapped her hands around it. "This feels barely cold enough." She scowled as she stared at the interior of the appliance. "Something is wrong with this now! Un-freakin-believable."
Amy rushed to the chef's side. "I have quite a few ice packs in my cooler. We can put them in here to try to keep it cool."
"Thank you. That's a great idea. There's a thermometer on the middle shelf, so I can see if it gets too warm to be safe. For now everything is still okay, but I'll need more than your ice packs to keep it cold throughout the day."
Amy's footsteps boomed in the truck as she trotted back to the cooler. She stacked the ice packs in her arms and rushed back to the unresponsive refrigerator. As she opened the door an electrical outlet on the wall caught her attention. She pointed at the unused sockets. "Is it supposed to be plugged in there?"
Brooke's ice blue eyes widened. "It is!" She leaned over the stainless steel counter in front of the outlet until her forehead touched the wall. "I see the cord. Can you help me slide the fridge out so I can reach it?"
"Absolutely!"
Brooke used her toe to flip back the non-skid mat that lined the walkway. The path was clear, so now all they needed to do was move the refrigerator forward. Amy copied Brooke's technique of leaning sideways across the counter to get a hold on the back corners of the appliance.
"One, two, three," Brooke said.
Amy took the cue and pulled. The industrial refrigerator was heavier than she had expected. Even without the mat to catch on, it only moved a few inches from their combined effort.
"Hang on," Brooke said. "I think I may have something that I can grab the cord with."
Amy adopted a wide-legged, seafaring stance as the truck swayed while Brooke jogged toward the cab. She rummaged around behind the driver's seat and pulled out a long-handled ice scraper. When she returned to the refrigerator Brooke hoisted herself onto the counter beside it. She leaned over and maneuvered the scraper into the dark space where the cord had fallen.
"Got it," she said as she slowly sat up. The plug was pinned against the side of the appliance by the grooved, flat end of the scraper, which normally broke up ice on windshields.
Once the potentially disastrous crisis was remedied, Amy transferred stacks of her pudding shots into the happily humming refrigerator. As she was finishing the task one of the truck's other employees reported to work. Amy recognized her as the second cook who helped prepare orders, but she didn't know her name.
Brooke paused from her task of slicing boiled red potatoes for home fries, to replace the French fries which could no longer be made. "Hey, Lara." She nodded at Amy. "This is Amy, our sidekick for the Melee. Amy this is Lara, my right hand woman."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Amy said. The truck's signature headgear, a blue bandanna, covered all of Lara's short hair. But the uniform's red, short-sleeved T-shirt didn't cover the tattoos on her biceps. One was a whisk, and on the other arm was a depiction of a spatula. Food themed tattoos? Amy liked her already. "I'm delighted to work in your truck for a few days."
"It's nice to have you here." Lara set a clear to-go cup of iced tea on the counter next to the cash register. She looked at Brooke and shook her head. "I stopped inside the market for my tea this morning, and old man Estie was across the aisle talking to the guy who owns Fleetwood Chicken Farm. The crank was droning on and on about how women couldn't make good barbecue so that red truck should just admit defeat now. Ol' Harold was so caught up in his sexist pig rant he didn't even realize I was standing a few feet away from him."
Brooke shrugged as her knife sliced through a potato and whacked the acrylic cutting board, mimicking the sound of a hyperactive woodpecker. "Did you expect any other type of behavior from him?"
It sounded like the ladies from Brooke's BBQ had dealt with the white haired, self-proclaimed barbecue king of Kellerton before. Amy spoke up. "He was one of the judges in the sidekick competition. They gave competitors all of the judging sheets after each round. I saw one woman start crying when she read his notes about her pound cake. He doesn't seem to be very nice."
"Naw," Lara said as she grabbed a package of bacon from the resurrected refrigerator. "He doesn't just seem to be a jackass, he truly is one. I'm surprised he only made one person cry during the competition. More tears were probably shed behind closed doors. I used to work for him, and believe me, he is a piece of work. He takes arrogance to astronomic levels."
"It sounds like you moved up by coming to work with Brooke."
Lara nodded as she arranged the black pepper-edged slices of bacon on the griddle. The truck instantly smelled like breakfast. "Absolutely. I can actually touch the smoker and cook things here. At Estie's the only thing any woman can do in the kitchen is make salads or cornbread. Even the dishwashers there are male since, according to the old man, only that variety of human has the muscles to scrub pans well enough. The chauvinist pig would go ballistic if a woman even touched the door handle on his precious, custom-made barbecue pit."
"I'm surprised four out of the five sidekick finalists are women since he was judging." Amy shook her head. "He sounds kind of crazy if he doesn't think a lady is fit to do anything more than make side dishes."
"Luckily there were two other judges who weren't gender-biased. I'm just glad customer votes will decide the winner this time." Brooke stowed a plastic tub full of the sliced redskin potatoes in the bottom of the refrigerator. "I'm his ultimate enemy—a woman who owns a barbecue restaurant. I think he hates competition even more than women."
Amy knew Mr. Estie had an ego the size of Texas, the state where his style of barbecue originated. His arrogance projected loud and clear as he wrinkled his nose every time he was tasked with announcing a winner in an elimination round. Looking back, she realized the snobbishness increased when the name was a woman's. "So you're a double threat to him. If he's so great, why would he worry about competition?"
"Because he enjoys crushing people." Lara whacked her long, metal spatula on the flat top grill like she was smacking a bug. "It's his hobby."
Brooke wiped her hands on the front of her red half apron. "I could talk all day about how awful Estie is, but it's time to open."
Two hours later Amy loaded her luggage cart back up with the empty cooler and slow cooker. Her samples were all gone, snapped up by curious customers. Th
ere were many "yum" and "delicious" comments coming from the crowd as they slurped the pudding shots and speared the crispy gravy-covered polenta cubes with toothpicks. After she handed out trays full of samples, Amy circled back through the crowd asking people their opinion. It was a great way to dial in her recipes to optimal deliciousness, but she wasn't the only one trying to drum up loyal fans before the official voting on Saturday. Most of the final five food trucks were serving lunch in the area around Clement Street Market. Only Brooke's BBQ and Soba Good had snagged the rented spaces in the parking lot, reserved months earlier, so the other trucks were on side streets and in other nearby businesses' parking lots.
She had a new appreciation for food truck crews. The truck's interior felt more like a steam room than a kitchen. Her hips hurt, and were most likely dotted with bruises, from slamming into counter edges, drawer handles, and stove knobs while navigating in the tiny space. After trying to make the polenta samples herself, she finally gave up and handed the cooking reins over to Brooke and Lara. After they expertly prepared full orders she divided them into small sample cups while huddled in a corner. The truck crews were making gourmet food at an insanely busy pace for hundreds of people in essentially a galley kitchen that was smaller than the one in her first apartment. Amazing.
Armed with some new ideas accumulated between talking with customers and chatting with Brooke, Amy headed into the market after stowing the empty cooler in her Mini Cooper. Deliciously cool air swept over her as she walked into the market. She needed jalapeño peppers and cheese curds. The barbecue sauce gravy on the polenta cubes was staying but would be augmented with a pile of Brooke's pulled pork, squeaky fresh cheese curds, plus sweet and spicy pickled jalapeño slices. A riff on poutine, the almost irresistible Canadian specialty that was usually made with French fries.
After wandering the aisles for twenty minutes, Amy shifted the blue canvas shopping bag to her other shoulder. It was heavy. Of course she had bought more food than she needed. Again. She just couldn't resist the baskets of marble-sized new potatoes, bins of adorable scallop-edged patty pan squash, and bundles of rainbow-stemmed chard that she found in the stalls. Her refrigerator would be groaning again from bloat.
When she stopped for a moment in the dining area, to make sure she wasn't forgetting something on the grocery list which was only in her head, Amy caught a glimpse of a grass green vehicle through the wall of windows. The Veggie Van was the only finalist food truck she hadn't spotted on her journey to the market that morning. That was because they were parked on a one-way residential street, which led into a subdivision, on the backside of the market. Most likely only people who lived in the neighborhood would pass by the truck. Not an ideal spot to attract customers.
Amy slipped out a nearby exit. She had never sampled anything from the vegetarian cuisine mobile restaurant, more because she had never seen it around town than because the food wasn't appealing. Since the truck made it to the last round of the Melee the menu had to be good.
There were no customers around the converted camper van as Amy approached it. Twenty minutes earlier the line outside Brooke's BBQ had been at least a dozen people deep. Overhead there wasn't a cloud in the sky, so the intense sunshine made the order window opening on The Veggie Van look like the entrance to a cave. However she could make out three intensely green shirts lined up next to each other in the murky darkness. Weren't the bright green snakes in jungles the most dangerous?
"Checking out the competition?" Candi asked as she leaned out the window and squinted at Amy. A headband with a pink satin bow kept her wavy, brown locks away from her face. The question was delivered with a sweet grin and an accusatory tone of voice.
"I've never tried anything from The Veggie Van, so I figured I would get some lunch before I head home. Don't worry. I certainly don't intend to copy your recipes or anything like that."
Candi rolled her eyes as she pointed at the menu written on a white board hanging on the side of the van to the left of the order window. "Oookay. I really believe you. We can take your order whenever you're ready."
There was nothing like feeling guilty, courtesy of an expertly constructed snarky comment, about something completely innocent. She really was hungry since she was too busy passing out samples to eat lunch. Well, she didn't like playing games. If she didn't take the bait hopefully the insinuation would drift away like a balloon in the warm, summer breeze. Amy studied the salads, wraps, and soups written on the board. One of the salads caught her attention. What an interesting pairing of ingredients. She had to try it. "I would like the lentil salad please."
"Coming right up," one of the owners of the truck said. Despite Brooke's tale about the truck's suspicious parking techniques, the woman was much more pleasant than her sidekick was.
Amy paid and took her Chinese take-out container full of tiny puy lentils mixed with golden raisins, chunks of juicy mango, and creamy avocado with a spicy citrus dressing. As she turned to walk away Candi's voice came from the dark interior of the truck. "Good luck on Saturday. Enjoy your salad."
As she strolled along the sidewalk Amy contemplated the words. She looked down at the white cardboard container. Was the salad Candi's contribution to the vegetarian menu? As she entered the bustling market parking lot another thought whizzed through her mind. Had Candi made the salad? In the dark interior of the van. With a special ingredient, like a big spritz of spit?
She dropped the unopened container into a trashcan as she passed by. The salad wasn't appetizing anymore. Amy was confident in her own cooking. There was no reason to analyze her competition this time.
* * *
Amy took a deep breath as she guided her blue Mini Cooper between tire-swallowing potholes in the gravel parking lot. The scent of smoke had already invaded her car. She sneezed. No matter how appetizing the aroma of smoke-roasted meat was, it still flared up her allergies. Another sneeze rattled her as she pulled into an open parking spot in front of the battleship gray cement block building. Despite his pompous personality, apparently Harold Estie didn't believe in making his restaurant as flamboyant as he was.
She felt a tingle of guilt for visiting Brooke's competitor, but Amy was trying to help figure out who was causing the exasperating problems in the truck. There were too many things happening to chalk up as run of the mill bad luck. Someone was trying to harm Brooke's BBQ, and Amy wanted to know who. So she came up with an excuse to visit Estie Barbecue. Brooke had suggested the loaded poutine variation of the polenta, to incorporate the truck's signature pulled pork into the formerly vegetarian snack. Since Amy had forgotten to request any of the tender meat from Brooke, she opted to get some from the famed restaurant and make two pies with one recipe of crust. The end product wouldn't taste quite the same, but for testing both the recipe and the surly pit master's tolerance for competitors, it would work.
Inside the restaurant the atmosphere was as stark and plain as the exterior. Scarred wood tables were topped with rolls of white paper towels and squeeze bottles of barbecue sauce labeled with the varieties messily written in permanent marker. A couple patrons sat at the tables, gnawing meat off rib bones or eating sandwiches piled with slices of brisket. The menu was above the order counter. No fancy electronic screens or even a chalkboard. A sheet of plywood covered in an uneven layer of white paint with black, block letters listing the various meats and sides. A woman in jeans and a baggy black T-shirt stood next to the cash register. Harold Estie's drift of white hair was visible through the pass-through window into the kitchen.
Amy stepped up to the order counter. She needed a pound of pulled pork for her recipe. A chat with the self-proclaimed top dog of Kellerton barbecue wasn't absolutely necessary. Her plan to nose around didn't seem so brilliant anymore. She wanted to assess whether he was capable of damaging Brooke's business, but she didn't really want to be on the receiving end of his ire, not that close to the end of the Melee. New dings in her confidence were particularly troublesome when she didn't have the time to ment
ally hammer them out.
As she placed her order, Estie turned around. He squinted at her through the rectangular window. "I know you. You're in the cooking shindig at that fancy market, aren't you?"
Was Candi related to Estie? They had the same style of adding a dollop of menace to innocent statements. Amy didn't come in looking for trouble, but she wasn't going to stand there and let him steamroll her either. "I am. I'm one of the sidekicks who made it to the finals."
He disappeared from view in the kitchen window. The black painted wood doors behind the cashier slammed open. Mr. Estie was well over six feet tall. Deep crevasses traced over his face. He stepped up to the other side of the counter and stared down at her as if she were a cockroach. One corner of his mouth crooked up in a sneer as his almost black eyes locked her in a stare down. He was the most intimidating senior citizen Amy had ever encountered. His nostrils flared as he said, "You're teamed with that sorry excuse for a barbecue joint. A bunch of women towing a smoker around and slinging slop in parking lots. I hope you aren't expecting to win. There's no way you will since you're saddled with them."
Amy adjusted her mental armor, making sure the nasty remarks couldn't find a crack to burrow between. She was a good cook. Brooke and Lara were incredible chefs. She envisioned the razor sharp remarks scuttling out of her mind like water droplets on a hot skillet. "I'm not sure who will win. That's for the customers to decide on Saturday. Whatever happens I'm sure all of us will be cooking our hearts out."
He nodded at the foam takeout container full of pulled pork that the cashier had retrieved from the kitchen pass-through. "Researching what real barbecue tastes like? Send me out a pint of potato salad," he barked at the kitchen staff. Then he turned back to Amy. "Now that my great niece left here to join the female pit master wannabe my side dishes are back to the way they used to be. The only thing Lara did well was complain about me not letting her touch my smoker. She didn't even bother to learn how to make a decent batch of tater salad."
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