by J. J. Cook
Cornhusks from 10 ears of corn
Clean thread
Beat together eggs and buttermilk in a bowl. Combine flour, cornmeal, salt, and seasonings. Mix well.
Dip each fillet in the mixture. Shake off excess.
Heat the oil in a frying pan over medium heat until hot. Add fillets and cook about one minute on each side. Allow oil to drain.
Soak cornhusks in cold water for five minutes. Dry cornhusks carefully. Put one fillet into each husk and tie closed with thread.
Grill the wrapped fillets over a hot fire for 5 to 8 minutes. Fillets should be white when cooked through. Serve hot.
Spicy Peach Filling
For biscuit bowls or pies
5 pounds of fresh peaches, cut into small pieces, pits removed
1 cup sugar or sweetener
2 tablespoons cinnamon
½ cup brandy
3 chili peppers
Add peach pieces to a heavy-bottom pot and cook on low, or cook in a double boiler. Allow peaches to simmer and soften. Add cinnamon, brandy, and chili peppers. Continue cooking until all peaches are soft and easily cut with a spoon. Remove chili peppers. Chill to serve.
Keep reading for a special excerpt from J. J. Cook’s next Biscuit Bowl Food Truck Mystery . . .
FRY ANOTHER DAY
Coming in paperback February 2015 from Berkley Prime Crime!
Chapter One
“Can you really make a biscuit out of sweet potatoes, Zoe?” Delia asked.
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “I guess we’ll find out.”
It was four A.M. on the downtown streets of Charlotte, North Carolina. It was dark and quiet in the city. A line of food trucks with names like Stick It Here, Meggie’s Mushrooms, and my food truck—the Biscuit Bowl—were in place as though they were waiting for the lunch crowd.
Only extra early.
It was the first morning of the Sweet Magnolia Food Truck Race. Ten food trucks from across the Southeast United States competing for a fifty-thousand-dollar grand prize. Even if I didn’t win the cash, the race was being shown on national food networks, which would be good publicity for the Biscuit Bowl.
How great was that?
The organizers had made it clear the day before the race started that there would be plenty of challenges, and even a few tricks, along the five stops beginning in Charlotte and ending in my hometown of Mobile, Alabama.
They weren’t kidding.
We’d spent the night in Charlotte to be up early the first morning. Lucky for me, the race sponsors were footing the bill for the hotel and food. There was big money involved from businesses across the South, and for the charities that would receive donations from the race. The promotion was getting lots of media attention. I was happy to be part of it.
I hadn’t been sure if my old Airstream RV, which had been converted to a food truck, was up for the long drive, but it came through like a champ. Lucky I had Uncle Saul with me to work on it as needed.
The challenge for today had been announced the night before once all the food truck teams were in Charlotte. We were starting off with each food truck making their specialty item with sweet potatoes replacing one ingredient. Once the item was made, we had to sell at least one hundred of them in the heart of the city, and get twenty people to say they were delicious.
I hoped my team was ready.
“Yeah, you can make ’em,” Ollie said. “But what are they gonna taste like?”
“They’re going to be great!” I enthused to make up for my team’s lack of excitement. “You’ll see. Get the flour.”
My specialty was the biscuit bowl. A delicious, large biscuit made with an indentation in the middle, and deep-fried. My truck was named for it. My hopes and dreams were pinned on it.
I made my biscuit bowls fresh every day, filling the centers with either sweet or savory foods. It could be anything from chili to spicy apples. I tried to mix it up as much as possible.
Someday, I hoped to own a restaurant that brought people in from all over the world. I had the restaurant—well, a diner—but it needed about fifty thousand dollars’ worth of renovation to bring it up to code.
That’s why I’d started my food truck business. It was also a good reason to enter the food truck race.
“So you’re gonna use the sweet potatoes with the flour, egg, and milk to make the biscuits?” Uncle Saul was struggling to understand what he’d come to call food truck madness.
His frequent rant was: I owned a restaurant for years in Mobile. I had a standard menu. Customers ordered from it. I never went through crazy changes and looked for new kinds of food to make each day.
I knew that to keep food truck customers—my customers—coming back each day, I had to have a good mix of old and new foods. If I didn’t, they’d go somewhere else. There was a big jump in competition between when Uncle Saul had his restaurant and now.
“That’s right.” I pushed a curl out of my face. It had escaped the scarf I’d used to keep my curly black hair down. “My problem isn’t using the sweet potatoes. It’s baking one hundred biscuit bowls in this little oven.”
Normally, I would’ve baked my biscuits at home in the diner where I lived. I tried not to spread that information around too much. It wasn’t really legal to live in the diner. But I had to give up my apartment to afford the other payments.
You have to do what you have to do to find your dream, right?
I got up five mornings every week and made biscuits. I waited to deep-fry them in the Biscuit Bowl truck as I received orders for them. That way they were as fresh as they could be when my customers ate them.
It wasn’t an easy process, but it had worked for me. I was on the radar now. That meant a few food truck websites monitored where my truck was located each day, and a local radio station announced what my menu was. I had fans who followed me—at least thirty of them, by my last count.
For the race, however, the judges required that everything had to be done in the food truck. I had to purchase a small camping oven for the task. We’d tried it out a few times at home. It had worked fine—as long as there were no other electric appliances running in the truck.
You see my dilemma.
“I don’t know how long it’s going to take to bake so many biscuits,” I explained. “It takes twenty minutes to warm up the deep fryer. We only have two hours before we start selling.”
“It’s gonna be fine.” Uncle Saul grinned. His wild, curly black hair was like mine, but streaked with gray. He lived in the swamp outside Mobile in a log cabin he’d built with an albino alligator named Alabaster. He seemed to like it that way.
“That’s why I brought you along.” I mixed the orange biscuit dough. “You’re the best cheerleader I have. And I appreciate you offering to leave the swamp for a few days. I know you hate being away.”
He shrugged his bony shoulders. “I’d pretty much do anything for you, Zoe girl. Leaving Alabaster isn’t easy, since she likes to sneak into the neighbor’s chicken coop for a few free snacks. But I think Bonnie will keep a good eye on her.”
“How’s it going with Bonnie?” I asked about the wildlife officer who was sweet on him.
He grinned. “Don’t worry about my personal affairs. I think you’ve got enough of your own to mind!”
“What about me?” Ollie towered above us in the food truck. He was a big man, an ex-marine, six-foot-six with a skull tattoo on the back of his bald head and neck. “Don’t I count as a cheerleader? I think I’m always cheerful.”
“Cheerful as a rock.” Delia laughed at him. “If I had to get up every morning with you as my alarm clock, Ollie, I’d probably go jump in Mobile Bay.”
Delia Vann had lost her job as a cocktail waitress in a sleazy dive back home. She’d been working with me in the food truck ever since. Not a big step up, but at least I respected and
envied her.
She was as beautiful as any model or actress you see on TV—tall and thin, long legs and gorgeous hair. I was short and on the plump side. Too much good food, I guess. It was hard not to taste when I cooked.
Ollie frowned. He had a secret crush on Delia and was trying to work out the details. The movement affected his whole face from forehead to chin. “I don’t know why you’d say that. I work well with others and maintain my cool. What more is there?”
I saw him ogling Delia’s long legs, now in tiny white shorts. Her cocoa-colored skin was flawless. The summer had put highlights into her long, dark hair.
Delia also had a way of handling things—mostly men—that I admired. She was so confident and poised. I was like Ollie—still trying to figure out the opposite sex.
I thought I knew what there was to know about relationships until I broke up with my boyfriend. I’d thought Tommy Lee and I were made for each other. Then I found out he was seeing someone else. It had dented my confidence a lot. If I couldn’t figure out Tommy Lee, who could I figure out?
“There’s a lot more to life, Ollie.” Delia smiled as she took the tray out of the small oven for me. “Sometimes I think customers run away because they’re scared when they see you.”
I knew Ollie might be big and tough looking, but he had a soft heart. Delia’s words had to hurt. I felt bad for him.
Ollie had been homeless and living at the shelter a few doors down from the diner when I’d bought it. He’d led me to the diner accidentally after helping me and Uncle Saul fix up the Biscuit Bowl.
We’d clicked right away, and he’d stood faithfully by me after I got started. He was still homeless and living at the shelter. He seemed to like it that way.
I thought that could be a drawback for him with Delia. She knew a few wealthy men from the cocktail lounge and frequently dated them. I knew she didn’t want to work in my food truck and sleep on a cot in the diner the rest of her life. I didn’t blame her.
I had to keep everyone working together for the next five days while we almost lived together during the race. I couldn’t let Delia hurt Ollie in case they had a future together. I had to keep Uncle Saul from becoming too depressed about the absurdity of the food truck world.
Hey! I was born for this. I was going to win that fifty thousand dollars—or die trying. The back door to the food truck opened. It was my sometimes attorney, Miguel Alexander. He was taller than me, but that wasn’t hard since I was only five-foot-two and three-quarters. He was darkly handsome, a little sad, and had a wonderful, sexy voice that I could listen to all night.
I’d somehow managed to talk him into coming along for the race. I wasn’t sure exactly why he’d agreed to be there. He’d helped me out of a jam once when I was getting started with my business. I still saw him from time to time. But food trucks really weren’t his thing.
I hoped he was there for the same reason that I’d asked him to come—that there was something more between us. He could be aloof at times, and I didn’t really know him well. He was older, worldlier than me. I knew he’d had personal problems in the past.
None of those things would have bothered me if I hadn’t been already smarting from my boyfriend’s betrayal. Sometimes I knew Miguel and I were meant to be together. Some days I thought the only thing I knew was biscuits.
But I’d been patient and cool. I was ready for the next step in our relationship—a real date. Just the two of us. Someplace nice.
“How’s it going in here?” Miguel asked. “Alex Pardini, the host of the food truck show, is interviewing at the truck back from here. He should be by anytime now.”
“It would be better if they’d given us bacon to work with instead of sweet potatoes.” Uncle Saul scowled as he monitored the biscuits that were in the little oven.
“You think you’ve got it bad, Pizza Papa has to use them for topping.” Miguel chuckled. “The Dog House either has to put sweet potatoes in the buns instead of sausages—or he has to put the sausages into the sweet potatoes.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.” I took a moment to smile at him, hoping there wasn’t flour on my face. I could feel our gazes meet and cling. At least I thought I could. I hoped I could.
I’d convinced Miguel to come along as our “outrider.” Every food truck team could have one outrider with another vehicle. That person could pick up supplies or do other odd jobs along the way.
“Do you need anything?” he asked.
“No. I think we’re fine for right now. Thanks, Miguel.”
“I hope everything is ready for the interview. I’ll be outside if you need me.”
“All right. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” he called out before he left the back of the crowded food truck.
“Hats on,” I told my team.
“Oh, Zoe,” Ollie complained. “Do we have to?”
“Chef Art gave us a five-thousand-dollar stake so we could participate in the food truck race. We’re promoting for him, and for ourselves. Put the hat on.”
“You know, I got this tattoo for a reason,” he continued to grumble. “I don’t want hair or a hat to mess with.”
“At least you don’t have my curly hair that you have to try and stuff under the hat. I had to wear this scarf to hold it down long enough to even try and put the hat on.”
The hats were oversized white chef’s hats with Chef Art Arrington’s name, face, and logo printed on them. They were almost too big to fit in the food truck at one time, with us and all the equipment jammed inside.
The oven chimed and Delia took out the first ten biscuits. “They look good.”
“We have to try one,” Uncle Saul said. “How are we gonna know what they taste like if we don’t?”
I knew he was right. I hated to lose even one biscuit when we were trying to make a hundred. I usually didn’t make that many for breakfast and lunch together on a busy Monday morning at home.
“Okay. Do it. I need some lipstick to talk to Alex Pardini. Delia, you saw the way I mixed that batch. Can you start another one? Ollie, get the next batch in the oven, please.”
My lipstick was fresh and my team was humming when the TV host came to visit. He only peeked in for a moment before he disappeared and his assistant took his place.
“Alex only has five minutes for your pre-race interview.” He looked at his clipboard. “Joey. You’ll have to answer his questions as quickly and thoughtfully as you can. Don’t forget to pour on the charm. Be as cute as possible, but don’t look right at the camera. Got it?”
“That’s Zoe,” I corrected, but he was already gone. Hopefully Alex wouldn’t make the same mistake.
I looked into the tiny mirror I’d put up near the door. A little racy red lipstick helped with my already pink face. There wasn’t time for eye makeup. Lucky for me, my eyelashes were naturally dark.
“All right. I’m going out there. If I’m not back in five minutes, someone come and get me.”
Chapter Two
Alex Pardini’s assistants had set up a little café table for two with an umbrella that boasted his network’s affiliation.
I usually had a few small tables and chairs with me when I went out each morning. They were for my customers when I had to park where there weren’t places to sit. I thought people liked it when you gave them some extra consideration.
I’d had to leave them at home for the race. No furniture outside the food truck. There was a whole book of rules to follow. I had to keep reminding myself—fifty thousand dollars.
“Come on over and let’s get started,” Alex invited. He was a photogenic thirtyish man with thick blond hair and remarkable blue eyes. I’d noticed, watching him on TV, that he always wore blue to emphasize them.
“I’m Alex.” He shook my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Joey.”
I smiled. The names did sound a lot alike. Just think h
ow many names he had to remember, bless his heart.
“My name is Zoe Chase. Thanks for having me here.” I sat down in the chair opposite him and crossed my legs.
“Fair enough, Zoe.” He grinned; another man who realized how handsome he was. “Let’s talk about your life as a food truck vendor, shall we?”
Before a word could come out of my mouth, my sponsor, Chef Art Arrington, came around the corner of the Biscuit Bowl.
His assistant, Lacie, a nervous little woman with huge glasses who wore her skirts too short, managed to make it to the table right before he did. She quickly put out a chair for him.
“All right! I love interviews, don’t you?” Chef Art was famous in Mobile. He was like Colonel Sanders and Papa John rolled into one short, round body and white linen suit. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
“I’m sorry,” Alex said. “I wasn’t expecting a sponsor.”
“That’s quite all right, my boy. No harm done.”
“I mean, this interview is supposed to be between me and the vendor.”
“Not a problem. I’ll sit back here and take it all in. Zoe, you give the man the answers he needs now, you hear?”
Chef Art had always been a larger-than-life figure in my hometown. He lived on an old estate called Woodlands outside Mobile where he entertained famous people from across the world in his mansion.
His wreath of white hair, bright blue eyes, and closely clipped gray beard were well known throughout the South. He’d once owned a famous restaurant back home. It was so famous that investors had asked him to open another one just like it in New York City.
That one had failed, but it hadn’t tarnished his legend. Everyone knew him and admired him. Someday, I wanted to be just like him—except for the beard and the linen suit.
“Okay.” Alex nodded to the cameraman who was to my left. “Let’s get started.”
There were several adjustments that had to be made because the light wasn’t good for Alex. I tried to wait patiently.
