by Lila Monroe
“Great,” I sigh, straightening up. Somehow, that won’t be a consolation when I go out of business.
“Whoa, you’re really bummed.” The guy holds his burrito toward me. “Want a bite?”
“No thanks—” I start to reply, then pause. I should know what I’m dealing with here. maybe the bandit is all flash and no substance and will fade away once the initial excitement is gone. “Actually, yes. What is it?”
“Pork belly and bourbon,” he replies. “With extra hash.”
I take a bite. It’s meaty, and flavorful, and surprisingly sophisticated—given what I’ve just seen of the operation. The pork belly is rich and tender, and the bourbon glaze gives the whole thing a sweet, boozy kick.
“Good, huh?” the guy says.
Good isn’t the right word. Foodgasmic might be. “Yes,” I agree sadly.
Because the Brunch Bandit isn’t just a passing fad. He’s serious competition.
And I’m in trouble now.
3
Zoey
I spend the day stewing over my competition, and not just in culinary terms. If I was annoyed before, now I’m plain pissed. Not only is the Bandit ripping up the rulebook, but he’s doing it serving good food. Not good food—amazing and delicious, drool-worthy food.
I need to step up my game, and fast.
To hell with light and healthy, I need to bring out the big guns. Carbs. My whiskey gingerbread waffles, and double-chocolate-chunk pancakes, and maybe even some kind of BBQ brisket hash . . .
“Hurry up, Zo,” Gemma interrupts my thoughts. She and Eve are planted on the couch for our regular Chick Flick Club movie night. “I’m starving over here!”
I look up from the popcorn bowl. “You just came from dinner!”
Gemma bites her lip. “Uh, that was the plan, but . . .”
Eve laughs. “You had sex instead of dinner, didn’t you?”
Gemma gives a smug grin. “Guilty.” Though she hardly looks guilty. More like satisfied.
“Oh sure,” Eve groans. “Rub it in.”
“Don’t!” I yelp as Gemma opens her mouth. “Don’t even. Eve and I are single. We do not need to hear about your sexcapades.”
“Speak for yourself!” Evie cries. She looks at Gemma and does a gimme gesture with both hands. “Details. We need them. Let us live vicariously through your sexcapades that I’m sure are epic. Please!”
I set down a tray of snacks and join them on the couch.
Eve’s eyes light up as she takes in the spread. “Ohhhhh. Is that your zucchini bread?”
“Yep. Go nuts,” I say, sliding the container toward her.
She takes a slice and pops it in her mouth with a sigh of satisfaction. I try to focus on how much she’s enjoying it and not think about the fact that they usually sell out. Today I was left with three whole loaves.
Damn Brunch Bandit.
Gemma pulls the goodies toward her and reaches for a Danish. “I’m not telling you all the sordid details about me and Zach,” she says. “Let’s just say we’re happy. And happy showing each other just how happy.” She takes a bite. “Regularly,” she adds through a mouth filled with pastry. “Often.”
“Yes, all right! We get it,” I say in mock exasperation. “You two are fucking like bunnies.”
“Very happy bunnies. With birth control. But yeah.” She grins at me and I smile back because I’m happy for her. Eve and I both are. No one deserves happiness and sexual bliss more than Gemma.
Except, maybe, us too.
“What about you?” Gemma asks.
“Tumbleweeds,” I reply.
“Whatever happened to your Halloween guy?” Eve asks. “Didn’t you call him?”
I shake my head. “No. I didn’t get his number.”
“What? Why not?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It didn’t feel like the right moment.”
I don’t say it’s because I was too busy kissing him.
That kiss was the stuff dreams are made of. Literally.
“The right moment doesn’t just come along,” Eve protests. “You have to make it. By getting his number and going out on a date!”
“Says the eternal romantic,” I tease her with a smile. “You try dating guys who think romance is sending you dick pics at three a.m.”
“Maybe he’s one of the good ones.” Eve glances at Gemma. “Like Zach.”
“We should track your Halloween Hottie down!” Gemma suggests. “What’s his name?”
“Uh, Guy?” I say.
Gemma frowns. “His name was Guy?”
“No,” I grin. “He was dressed like Guy. Fieri, from Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. Which is the only thing I know about him.”
“Oh.” She deflates.
“If it’s meant to be, you’ll see him again,” Eve says with a determined nod. “Just like in Serendipity, it’ll happen. You’ll find each other.”
“I’m not Kate Beckinsale,” I laugh. “And he wasn’t John Cusack.”
“Speaking of,” Gemma says, grabbing the remote. “I need me some hot guy action. Are we going to watch this movie or what?”
She cues up our pick for the night, Crazy Rich Asians, and we settle back to watch.
“What would you do if your guy kept a secret like that from you?” I wonder. “That he’s ridiculously, famously rich.”
“Celebrate?” Gemma says with a grin.
I laugh and toss a pillow at her. “We already know Zach is loaded, you don’t need to rub it in.”
“Not that rich,” Evie says, nodding toward the TV. “But I don’t like secrets. You need to be honest from the beginning. They’d been dating for like a year! How could he keep that from her?”
“Not to mention she should have googled him,” I point out. “How can you date a guy without googling him first to find out if he’s married, or like, runs a heavy metal fan club?”
“I didn’t know Zach was rich at first. I actually thought he was an unemployed schlub.” Gemma shrugs. “But even if he’d intentionally kept it from me, I’d let it go if the secret was billions.” She looks down at her cleavage. “I mean, my push-up bra is probably a lie, if you’re going to be really strict about honesty.”
Eve and I laugh.
“I think you’ll see your Guy guy again,” Eve says to me.
“How do you know?” I ask, even as I hope she’s right. There were some serious sparks between us, and not just because of the food connection.
Eve beams. “Call it a hunch. But leave it to fate. He’ll come to your truck and will order something decadent and your eyes will meet and . . .” she sighs. “True love.”
“You are such a sap,” Gemma smirks.
“Says the girl who giggles and gets googly eyes when she just thinks about her guy,” Eve shoots back.
“Shut up, you two,” Gemma says, tossing another pillow. “We’re watching a movie here.”
* * *
After the credits roll, Eve and Gemma clear out, splitting the rest of the pastries between them to take home. It’s barely eight p.m., but I’m still operating on food truck time, so I put on my pajamas and get into bed, pulling my laptop in with me.
Usually, I like to browse online, researching new recipes, and—OK—spending way too much time on Pinterest planning my fantasy vacation eating my way around Italy. But tonight, I find myself bringing up a search page and typing in the Brunch Bandit to find out the deal with my new rival.
I scan through the search results. He’s all over social media, with #brunchgasm, #bandittime, and #brunchyourassoff hashtagging people’s snaps of their food, but nothing about the man himself.
Hmm, mysterious.
There isn’t any official press, but the Yelp page is exploding with five-star reviews, calling the food “fearless” and “wildly creative,” and worse still, ‘”hands down, the best brunch in town.”
That’s my crown!
I click through to my favorite foodie forum, needing some distraction. It’s a message board for f
ans of The Truck Stop—my favorite TV food show right now. Hosted by the flame-haired chef/personality Ricky Rollins, each episode hits the road profiling new and crazy food trucks. It’s my secret dream that one day, The Little Red Wagon will win a spot on the show.
I started posting in the online community a few months back and found my tribe: foodies all looking to trade stories and recipes. Already, it feels like I’m part of the crew.
I log in and check for new messages on the forum. Mamabear79 is still looking for ways to sneak vegetables into her kids’ food . . . Paris2020 is cooking her way through Julia Child to prepare for her big trip to France next year . . . I stop in and type a few quick replies under my screenname, Wafflegirl7, then see BetterWithButter has posted about a new recipe he’s trying for bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers. Is there such a thing as too much bacon? he asks. Because they’re winding up way too greasy.
I smile. I’ve run into the problem myself on recipes, and I know just the solution. Try starting the bacon on a sheet pan + rack, I comment. You can drain off most of the fat before you get to the wrapping.
A moment later, a direct message box pops up.
BetterWithButter: Thanks for the tip!
Wafflegirl7: No problem. If you want them to really pop (pun intended), try a blue cheese stuffing.
BetterWithButter: That sounds amazing. I was thinking brie . . .
Wafflegirl7: OMG, stop. Now I’m hungry.
BetterWithButter: lol. That’s what 24/7 delivery is for. Karma House Indian food around the clock.
Wafflegirl7: Wait, is that the place on 4th street? are you in SF?
BetterWithButter: Yup. U?
Wafflegirl7: Same! Best food scene in the country.
BetterWithButter: *virtual high five*
BetterWithButter: Have you tried the new dim-sum place, Jade Charms? Let me grab you the link… char sui to die for.
Wafflegirl7: Better than Crane?
BetterWithButter: You know your stuff!
Wafflegirl7: Always. Thanks for the rec. I gtg. Early start for work.
BetterWithButter: Sweet bacon-y dreams
Wafflegirl7: lol. You too.
I log off, yawning, and set my alarm even earlier than usual. If I’m going to beat the bandit and get back on top, I need every available hour in the day.
Who needs sleep, when I have a brunch empire to build?
4
Zoey
If I want to show someone a good time, then I just take them to the produce market. I’m not talking your fancy veggie store, selling tiny bunches of this and over-priced baskets of that. Nope, this is the real deal: a massive warehouse full of the best fruits and veggies around, fresh from the farm. Think every restauranteur in town up at the crack of dawn, hunting down their dishes for the day, a chaos of crates and bushels, and vendors haggling their wholesale prices.
Forget Nordstrom, this is my happy place.
Today, I step through the doors, a girl on a mission. I’ve got my dorky wheeled cart, a long list of supplies for the week, and cash to burn. Well, almost. I start with my veggies, greeting Sarah, the vendor at my favorite tomato stall.
“What are we thinking?” she asks, as I browse the boxes. “Plum? Heirloom? I just got a new crop of baby cherry toms, so sweet, they’ll make you swoon.”
She offers me a sample, and sure enough, they’re delicious. “Mmmm,” I sigh, my mind already racing. “I could do some homemade ricotta . . . drizzle with honey . . . maybe infused with fresh thyme . . .”
“Sounds amazing.”
“Sold!”
I take a crate and load it on my cart. Already, I’m veering way off my planned menu, but that’s half the fun: switching things around based on what’s new and good and in season.
After the tomatoes, I hit up my corn guy and herb hookup, and I keep shopping. My cart is full to breaking point and I can barely drag it across the floor by the time I circle back to fruits. Plums maybe . . . Apples for sure . . .
“Any blood orange?” the guy beside me asks.
“Sorry,” Julio replies. “I’m hoping to get some next week. Will tangerines do?”
The man shakes his head. “Not for what I have planned. Top secret,” he adds with a wink.
Top secret citrus shenanigans? Now I really have heard everything.
“Let me guess,” I can’t help piping up. “If you tell us, you’d have to kill us?”
He laughs, turning towards me. He’s dressed casual, in a dark sweater and jeans, with dark rumpled hair, and blue eyes, and—
That’s when my breath catches.
Wait a minute . . .
Because add some chunky jewelry, frosted tips, and two-tone facial hair, and this guy’s a dead ringer.
“Guy?” I ask, my heart suddenly racing. “I mean, were you Guy Fieri? At Halloween?”
“Yes,” he frowns, and tilts his head as though trying to place me. Then his eyes widen. “Wait. Julia?”
I nod, somehow not leaping for joy. Because OH MY GOD!
It’s him.
Hot makeout guy.
Sizzling sparks man.
Here. In the flesh.
The very attractive, clean-shaven, broad-shouldered flesh.
Hello, lover.
“Hi!” I blurt, certain I’m blushing as bright as those tomatoes. “Umm, hi.”
“You already said that,” Guy grins at me. I catch him doing a quick up-and-down scope of me, and I’m super-grateful I wore jeans and a cute red sweater this morning. It’s not exactly super-model material, sure, but at least I’m hotter than the last time he saw me.
Because he definitely is.
Eve is going to have a legit field day with all this fate stuff.
“Nice to meet you . . .”
“Zoey,” I blurt quickly. “Zoey Rafferty.”
“I’m Cameron,” he says with a rakish, come-to-bed smile. Or is that just my hormones talking? “But my friends call me Cam.”
I press my lips together to keep from asking, What does your girlfriend call you?
“So,” I say instead. “Come here often?”
I immediately want to dive head-first into the nearest bushel of plums for the dumb line, but luckily Cam laughs.
He laughs. “Yes. It’s the best place to find produce. Well, usually,” he adds, giving a mournful look at Julio.
“Sorry, man,” Julio laughs. “It’s tangerines or nothing at all.”
“Cruel man,” Cam quips. “One of these days, I’ll go to Kellerman for his citrus, and then where will you be?”
“Doing just fine without your business.”
“Ouch!” Cam clutches his chest dramatically. “You need to watch out for this one,” he warms me playfully. “He’ll break your heart.”
“Oh, Jules and I have an understanding,” I smile. “Isn’t that right?”
“Always.” Julio gives me a wink and passes over a box of his best oranges. Regular ones, but still juicier and sweeter than anything around.
Cam shakes his head. “Betrayed at every turn. A man just can’t catch a break.”
He smiles at me, and WOW. It’s a good thing I’m holding on to the crate of fruit, because otherwise I swear I’d swoon at his feet and beg, Take me now!
“I’m actually glad I ran into you,” he says to me. “You left so fast, I didn’t have a chance to get your number.”
Double wow.
“Umm, sure. Let me . . .”
I juggle the crate, trying to reach my phone.
“Let me,” he says, and moves in to grab the crate. He loads it into my cart and whistles. “Hey, big spender.”
I groan. “Don’t remind me. Somehow, I always get carried away here.”
Which is probably why it’s so hard for me to turn a profit, but I’m not going into that here.
I pull out my phone, and he takes it from me and programs in his number. “There. Maybe we can grab a drink this week?”
“Sure,” I reply, a little breathless. A drink . . . A wil
d night together . . . A marriage license . . .
“Where are you parked?” he asks.
I nod towards the exit. “Just out in the lot. But you don’t have to haul it over,” I add, even as he starts walking, pulling my cart behind him.
“It’s fine, I’m headed that way myself.”
I try to contain my delight.
Play it cool, Zoey. No panting, or drooling, or spontaneous makeouts—
Crap. I’d almost forgotten the sexy elephant in the room. I gulp, sneaking a glance over at him. But Cam doesn’t seem awkward, he’s effortlessly hauling all my produce—and looking good while doing so.
Be still my heart.
“I’m over there,” I say, as we exit the warehouse. “The red truck. You can’t miss it.”
“Truck?” he echoes, pausing.
My heart sinks. Damn. He doesn’t seem like a snob. But some people can be real snooty about the truck world. “Yes,” I say warily. “The Little Red Wagon.”
Cam laughs. “Wait, that’s your truck?”
“What’s the problem?” I demand, defensive now.
“Well . . .” Cam says, with a rueful grin. “That’s my truck.”
He points in the other direction . . . to where a black food truck is parked. With red-and-orange flames emblazoned on the sides.
Is he saying . . . ?
Yes. Yes he is.
“I’m the Brunch Bandit.”
Goddammit!
I try to keep my cool. This is funny, right? OK, not funny ha-ha, but funny like those wry sitcoms guys always tell me to watch. After all, my big rivalry with the bandit has thus far been totally in my head. All he’s really done is park where he shouldn’t, and that can be cleared up right now.
“Wow. Small world!” I try to keep a bright smile on my face. “I actually wanted to talk to you.”
“A fan of my food, huh?” Cam flashes me a smile.
“Not exactly . . . There’s kind of a code between us in the food truck game,” I explain. “We try to stay off other people’s spots. But I’m sure you didn’t realize, since you’re pretty new to the game.”
“Is that so?” Cam folds his arms.
“It’s just an agreement we have,” I reassure him. “We don’t overlap on other trucks’ turf, not if we’re making the same food. And since I was at Madison Park first on weekends . . . ”
