The line finally tapered off around 4:45, which was perfect, because we usually close around five. We were counting the register and locking the food away in the storage cabinets when I heard a little cough outside the truck.
I spun around and glanced out the window, startled to spot Mrs. Rivers standing there, still in her Burberry raincoat. I’d never seen Asher’s mom at the truck before!
“Um, would you like to order a sandwich?” I asked clumsily.
“No, thank you,” she said politely. She gave me a small smile, then added, “Tessa Kostas, right?” I nodded, surprised that she knew my name; she must have remembered me from Asher’s birthday bash last year. “May I please speak to the owner of the truck?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said, feeling a little nervous as I turned to summon Cleo. I wondered if there was some sort of complaint coming.
Cleo hurried over to the window, and I pretended to be wiping off the counter while I eavesdropped.
“I have a bit of an odd request,” I heard Mrs. Rivers say after she and Cleo had introduced themselves. “I wanted to talk to you about my son, Asher. He and Tessa go to school together.” She paused, as if the next words were difficult to say. “He needs an after-school job, and I thought this would be a good place for him to work. I was wondering if you needed help.”
“Asher wants to work at our truck?” I blurted, before I could stop myself. Cleo and Mrs. Rivers both glanced at me, surprised.
Then Mrs. Rivers shook her head. “Not exactly, but he doesn’t have a choice. It’s part of a punishment I’m giving him, a lesson in learning to appreciate things a bit more.”
Suddenly, I remembered how Mrs. Rivers had scolded Asher outside the school earlier that afternoon. Having Asher work here was probably the fallout from that. But there was no way Cleo was going to hire Asher. The truck was a tight fit for three people, let alone four.
But then, Cleo shocked me by saying, “Actually, Gabe and I were just talking about hiring more help for the next few months.”
They were? I swallowed, and my heart hammered.
“This will work out perfectly,” Cleo continued. “When can Asher start?”
“After school tomorrow,” Mrs. Rivers said. She extended a hand to Cleo. “Thank you so much. Asher’s had a rough year, and I think this will be a wonderful change, and challenge, for him.”
Gabe nodded. “We’ll be glad to have him.”
Mrs. Rivers nodded once more, gratefully, and then hurried off toward her parked car.
The second she was gone, I spun to Cleo, a steady dread simmering in my veins. “But … but Asher can’t work here!” I sputtered. I quickly painted a picture of his personality for my aunt, hoping the birthday-party story would discourage her. Then I added, “There’s not enough room in the truck for four of us, and I’m sure he doesn’t know a thing about cooking or food, and we have so much to do to get ready for Flavorfest already….” And he’ll ruin everything, I almost said, but didn’t.
Cleo smiled. “It’ll be fine,” she said as she finished buckling the veggie containers into their seat belts for the ride home. “Like I told Mrs. Rivers, Gabe and I were talking about hiring some extra help anyway.”
Gabe nodded while he locked the cabinets so nothing would fly open. “I’m going to be busy working on my grad thesis for the next couple of months, and there’s an evening horticulture class Cleo wants to take at Berkeley.”
“Besides,” Cleo added, “having Asher around will give us more time to work on our Flavorfest menu.”
Doubt must have been all over my face, because Cleo laughed and tweaked my nose playfully. “Come on, Tessa. Just cut him some slack, and I’m sure your cooking instincts will rub off on him in no time. Okay?”
I sighed, but because I love Cleo and didn’t want to argue with her, I reluctantly bit into the inevitable. “Okay,” I said. “But if he gives all of our customers botulism, don’t blame me.”
Cleo laughed so hard she snorted, which is one of the things I love best about her. “Done,” she finally said.
Cleo’s reassurance didn’t help, though. I was sure of one thing: There were about to be way too many cooks in the Tasty Truck kitchen.
“I can’t believe you’re complaining about having to work with Asher,” Mei said the next morning before class. She grabbed her art history book, fluffed up her new pink skirt, then slammed her locker shut. “You know every other girl in school would die to be that close to him.”
“I’m not every other girl,” I said. “And cuteness doesn’t count when he’s so full of himself.”
Just then, my cell phone buzzed. I checked the screen, then grabbed Mei’s arm and whooped. “Look!” I showed her the Facebook notification. “The Great Pillow Fight! It’s our first blast about it!”
“That’s … great,” Mei said, but her voice turned reedy at the end, like she might be trying for more excitement than she felt.
“It’s fantastic!” I corrected her. The Great Pillow Fight was my favorite San Fran tradition. Every year on Valentine’s Day, more than a thousand people pack into Justin Herman Plaza with their pillows. When the Ferry Building clock tower strikes six P.M., you beat the tar out of everyone you can with your pillow. Cleo and Gabe took me to my first pillow fight when I was nine, and for the last four years, Mei and I have gone with them. “Last year was so much fun, remember? All those feathers stuck to your lips … hilarious.”
“Not so hilarious.” Mei flipped her shiny black hair indignantly. “I was picking goose down out of my mouth for hours.”
I laughed. “Well, you’re the one who insisted on wearing lip gloss.”
“Of course I did,” Mei said. She raised an arm like she was preparing to recite Shakespeare. “To gloss or not to gloss … there’s not ever a question.”
I laughed. “Then maybe try a nonstick gloss for the fight this year.”
I expected Mei to laugh, but instead she dropped her eyes. I felt a funny twinge in my stomach. “Tessa,” Mei said quietly, “I’ve been thinking about Valentine’s Day, and maybe we can try something —”
“Hey there, Pretty-in-Pink!” Ben interrupted, walking up to us.
“Hey,” Mei said, giving him a smile. “I can’t believe you noticed!” She swiveled slightly, making her skirt twirl.
“Sure I did,” he said. “It looks nice.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Oh, come on, Ben.” I laughed, ribbing him good-naturedly. “You spend more time making gum sculptures in class than paying attention. Since when do you notice things like clothes?”
He shrugged, but continued to smile goofily at Mei. “So … my mom’s driving me to Vinyl after school to see if they have any new Rolling Stones LPs, if you guys want to come along?” I got the distinct impression that even though the invite included both of us, it was meant for Mei.
“That sounds great!” Mei said. “I can see if they have Yul Brynner’s The King and I. We’re putting it on in May, and I’m going to be Anna.”
I was about to say that I wouldn’t be able to come with them, but then the bell rang, and Ben and Mei were all smiles and waves saying good-bye to each other. Since it didn’t even seem to matter that I was standing right next to them, I let it go.
Mei glanced over her shoulder at Ben as she and I walked to art history. “He looks different this semester, don’t you think?” she asked. “Maybe it’s his new haircut.”
“Definitely,” I said. “Bed head is so in right now.”
Mei giggled. “I think it’s kind of cute. And you should have seen him with the twins last night. He let them finger-paint his face and he changed a diaper. It was adorable.”
“Wait a sec.” I stopped in the doorway and studied Mei’s face. “You realize you just described Ben as ‘cute’ and ‘adorable.’ Are — are you crushing on him?”
“I don’t know.” Mei shrugged, but then she smiled dreamily. “Maybe.”
“Wow,” I said quietly, my heart diving to my toes. I tried to smile
enthusiastically, but it didn’t quite work. Luckily, though, Mei was still in her Ben haze and didn’t catch on.
The final bell rang and we took our seats as Mr. Toulouse gave the morning announcements.
“Today we’re going to be discussing your upcoming artist projects,” he said. “You’ll be partnering up to study an artist of your choice. You’ll research the artist, and then you and your partner will put together a presentation for the class on what you discovered.”
Mei and I gave each other silent nods, which meant partnering up was a no-brainer. But as Mr. Toulouse droned on, I found it hard to concentrate. The new semester had only started yesterday, but suddenly Mei was “in like” with a boy who used to put glue in our hair in kindergarten. Neither one of us had ever even had a boyfriend before. My life was starting to feel slightly disorienting, like being in someone else’s kitchen and having no idea where anything was. This was all new territory, and I was going to be finding my way blind.
When I got to the Tasty Truck that afternoon, Asher was nowhere to be seen.
“I knew it,” I said, slipping my apron over my head. “He’s a no-show.”
“He’ll be here,” Cleo said. “Mrs. Rivers will make sure of it.” She tossed some diced chicken on the grill, then handed me a bunch of fresh cilantro. “Can you chop this while we wait?”
Normally, Gabe does the chopping, but he had to attend a grad seminar that afternoon. So I nodded and got to work, and before long, I’d forgotten all about Asher, and even about Mei and Ben. The tangy, greeny scent of cilantro wafted pleasantly from the cutting board, and my hands found their easy rhythm. I got so absorbed in my work that I didn’t even notice at first when Signor Antonio stuck his weathered face through the window of the truck.
“Buongiorno, signorine,” he said, tipping his fedora. He frowned and added, “I come bearing tragic news.”
I felt a tremor of worry, and then Signor Antonio slapped a newspaper down on the window ledge. He jabbed a finger at the headline. “It’s the Flavorfest. It’s rovinato! Ruined!”
Cleo and I gasped in unison, and I grabbed the paper. The headline read: RESTAURANT TYCOON PANS FLAVORFEST IN FAVOR OF FINE DINING.
“This Mr. Morgan,” Signor Antonio sputtered. “He owns a dozen five-star restaurants around the city. He plans to show them off at a Taste of San Fran Fine Food Festival, but he wants it to take the place of Flavorfest. He wants to kill Flavorfest!”
Cleo frowned as she read the article. “He wants to hold the fine-food tasting on Folsom Street, where we have Flavorfest every year,” she told us, her forehead creasing. “And he wants to have it on the same day.”
“So, the restaurants and food trucks do Flavorfest together,” I said. “That’s an easy problem to solve.”
“Mr. Morgan doesn’t think so,” Cleo murmured, still reading. “He says there’s not enough room for the trucks and the restaurant booths. So only restaurants will be invited to the Taste of San Fran. No food trucks will be allowed, and Flavorfest will have to find a new venue for that Saturday, or get canceled altogether.”
“What?” I cried, my stomach sinking. “He can’t do that! People from all over the city come to Flavorfest.”
“I don’t know,” said Cleo, sounding uncertain. “Mr. Morgan is like the Donald Trump of restaurants in this city. He’s got a lot of pull.”
Signor Antonio threw up his hands. “Flavorfest is finito!” he cried with gusto, then turned down the sidewalk. “No more gelato today. I’m going home to pack for Tuscany.”
“Oh boy,” Cleo whispered to me. “I’ll be back when I change his mind.” Then she hurried out, slipping a comforting arm around Signor Antonio’s ancient stooped shoulders as she walked him back to his truck.
I read through the rest of the article, and by the time the truck door swung open again, my mood had gone from sizzled to scorched.
“I cannot believe the nerve of this jerk!” I hollered, just before turning to see Asher in the doorway.
Asher raised an eyebrow at me. “Geez, I know I’m late already,” he grumbled. “You don’t have to yell at me.”
“Sorry,” I said, feeling my face get hot as I mentally kicked myself. “I didn’t mean you.”
Asher stepped all the way inside the truck. Up close, his pillowy lips and cinnamon eyes made it hard not to stare, and he smelled faintly of coconut, like a perfect day at the beach. I didn’t want to be affected by being this close to him, but my senses overruled my common sense.
“Um, you are late, though,” I mumbled, attempting to recover before he caught on.
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t really matter.” He glanced around, looking displeased. “Man, this is tighter than a cell at Alcatraz. How can you possibly move in here?”
“Oh, we manage,” I said coolly. He’d been inside the truck for all of fifteen seconds and he was already insulting it?
“Asher!” Cleo said, reentering the truck. “Welcome.” She glanced at me, trying to take a mood reading. She must’ve come to the conclusion that the new employee and I weren’t in danger of strangling each other (at least, not yet), because she added, “I need to run back to the house to get a few things from the garden.” Then a flash of concern crossed her face. “I’m also going to make a few phone calls to other food truckers, just to see if I can find out more about what’s happening with Flavorfest.”
I nodded. All the food truckers in our part of the city knew one another, and they’d formed an unspoken alliance, trying not to serve competing foods and throwing business one another’s way whenever they could. Cleo says it’s the best way for food trucks to survive: by sticking together.
“Tessa, you get Asher started, and I’ll be back soon.” She gave us a wave, and then she was gone, leaving me and Asher alone.
“I want to set the record straight.” Asher leaned against the counter, arms folded. “I don’t really want to be here, but I don’t have a choice.”
“So why are you here?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest as well.
“I was tossing a ball around with some friends at my mom’s house and broke a vase.” He shrugged. “She wants me to pay for another one.”
“And you don’t think you should have to,” I said matter-of-factly.
His amber eyes flashed angrily. “She has a ton of vases. One doesn’t matter.”
“Maybe it does to her,” I snapped. Did he have any idea how spoiled he sounded right now?
Clearly he didn’t, because he gave a disgruntled sigh and added, “Just don’t expect me to be the smiley ‘Can I take your order?’ guy, okay?”
I couldn’t believe anyone could be so obnoxious, and I wanted more than anything to wipe that proud look right off his fine face. But I figured I’d take the high road. Cleo would want me to. “Okay,” I managed to say through gritted teeth. “So if customer service isn’t your thing, then you can be the garde-manger, our pantry chef. You’ll restock ingredients as we need them, and you’ll buckle up all the food and cabinets before we move the truck at the end of the day. It’s really important so things don’t go flying.” I showed him where the belts were in the cabinets for strapping down the food containers. “Oh, and you’ll be in charge of the cold line, too.”
In response to his blank look, I added, “The cold line is the area where we prep all of our cold ingredients, like our fresh veggies and herbs.” I pointed to a two-foot countertop that had stainless-steel containers of tomatoes, peppers, and herbs lined up. “I can show you some of the basics,” I said, picking up a knife. “We can start with mincing and work up to julienning….”
“Whatever,” Asher said, rolling his eyes. “Isn’t it all the same, anyway? Chopping up a bunch of rabbit food?”
I clenched my teeth again. Rabbit food? Seriously? I tried to channel calmness with deep breathing, something Cleo had been trying (and failing) to teach me. But then I glanced out the window and saw the regular horde of after-school customers marching down the hill. And any calmness coming my wa
y swiftly vanished.
“Call it whatever you want,” I said briskly, “Just … try cutting some of it up, okay? Please?”
I didn’t wait for him to answer. Instead, I whirled to the window and began taking orders. For the first few minutes, I held my own, filling the orders with the fresh diced veggies and meat we’d already prepped. But when I started running low on some of the cold ingredients, things started to get ugly. I glanced at Asher and saw him carelessly mutilating a poor onion and tossing it, flaky skin and all, into one of the steel containers. On the cutting board were the sorry remains of three pulverized tomatoes and a pile of cut carrots that looked like jigsaw pieces.
“Here,” I said, swiftly stepping in front of him, “just let me take over for a second. We’re getting completely backed up out there.”
“Fine by me,” he said, moving out of the way.
My fingers flew as I minced and diced and restocked the cold containers. “Can you please toast some eight-grain bread?” I asked, thinking that toast was something he couldn’t possibly mess up. “I’ve got four orders of BLTs to fill.”
He shrugged grudgingly, then popped a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. Two minutes later, he handed them back to me, charred. “I guess I left them in too long,” he said indifferently.
I blew out a frustrated breath, then grabbed new slices of bread and muttered, “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”
I knew that Asher would be a disaster.
I finally handed off the four BLTs to Nick, Liz, and some friends of theirs. Then I felt a jolt of shock when I saw that Tristan and Karrie were next in line. This was the first time any Beautiful People had ever graced our truck with their presence. From the sour look on Karrie’s face, I guessed that this visit hadn’t been her idea.
You're Bacon Me Crazy Page 2
