Page 41 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“What about it?”
“Johnson’s Seafood just backed out—some kind of family emergency—and the committee’s scrambling to fill the spot.” She pauses her drilling to look down at me. “Mom asked if we might be interested. I told her we don’t exactly have a restaurant yet, but she said they’re desperate.”
“Desperate enough to let a non-existent restaurant set up a booth?”
“Desperate enough to waive the usual application process if we can prove we have proper permits and insurance.” She grins with that bright optimism that both irritates and intrigues me. “Plus, Tommy Hartwell would cut us a deal on fresh crab if we mention Mom’s name.”
“Local suppliers are smart thinking,” I admit grudgingly.
“Dad knows every fishing captain from here to Beaufort. We could get day-boat fish, probably still fresh enough to fight back.”
That familiar tightness starts in my chest. The one that shows up when I’m getting too invested in a place, in people, in plans that stretch beyond my usual timeline. This is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid.
“Sounds like we’d have serious local connections,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
“The best kind.” She climbs down from the ladder, wiping her hands on a rag. “What do you think? Are you up for testing some recipes on an unsuspecting public?”
“Call it market research,” I say, because that sounds safer than admitting I like the idea of building something together.
“Market research.” She’s trying to look skeptical, but I can see the excitement building. “What would we even serve?”
“What do you want to serve?”
“Stop answering my questions with questions.”
“It’s your menu, Amber. What sounds manageable?”
She starts pacing, which means she’s about to get that slightly manic look she gets when she’s problem-solving. I lean against the work table, trying to stay focused on logistics instead of the way her eyes light up when she talks about food.
“Okay,” she says, “if we’re doing this—and I’m not saying we are—but if we’re doing this, it has to represent what The Salty Pearl will be about. Fresh, local, elevated but not pretentious.”
“Keep going.”
“And it has to be portable. Festival food. But not corn dogs.”
I watch her think out loud, building ideas like she’s engineering the perfect workflow. It’s impressive, even if her enthusiasm makes me nervous.
“Crab cakes,” she says suddenly. “But small ones. Sliders. With a remoulade that actually has flavor instead of just mayonnaise and hope.”
“That sounds... practical.”
“And maybe fish tacos. Real ones, not the frozen fish stick abominations most places serve.”
“Even better.”
“What about permits? Insurance? Health department approval? And where exactly are we going to cook all this food?”
Finally. The practical questions that might talk her out of this before we get in too deep.
“Leave the paperwork to me. As for cooking...” I pause, considering. “What about a portable setup? Propane burners, folding tables, and a canopy tent? Jack’s got most of that equipment.”
“You want us to cook festival food on camping equipment?”
“High-end camping equipment. The kind that could handle a small catering operation if we’re smart about it.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Have you ever actually catered anything on camping equipment?”
“No, but how hard can it be? Propane is propane, right?”
