Page 43 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“Chef?” Her eyebrow arches. “I like the sound of that.”
“Better than short-order cook?”
“Much better.”
We load the rest of the supplies in comfortable quiet, both of us lost in thoughts about what this day mightmean. By the time we’re ready to head to the festival grounds, the morning sun has burned off the coastal fog, leaving behind one of those perfect October days that makes you understand why people fall in love with small towns.
Not that I’m falling in love with anything. I’m just... appreciating the weather.
The festival grounds are already buzzing with activity. Our spot is right between a kettle corn stand and a booth selling handmade soap that smells like it could double as insect repellent. Not exactly prime real estate, but it’s what was available when I called the other morning.
“This is it,” I say, pulling up next to our assigned space.
Amber climbs out of the truck and surveys our territory like a general planning a siege. “We can work with this. The foot traffic should be good, and we’re close enough to the main stage that people will find us when they get hungry.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Also, if this goes horribly wrong, we can always blame the soap smell for affecting people’s appetites.”
“Always planning for disaster. I like that in a business partner.”
Setting up takes longer than expected, mostly because Amber has very specific ideas about optimal food preparation workflow, and I have very limited experience with portable restaurant equipment. The propane connection on our main burner decides to be temperamental, requiring three attempts and some creative persuasion with a wrench.
“Is it supposed to make that hissing sound?” Amber asks, eyeing the burner warily.
“Probably not. But it’s not actively catching fire, so I’m calling it a win.”
“Your standards for success are refreshingly low.”
“I prefer to think of it as realistic expectations management.”
By the time we’re ready for our first customers, I’ve learned more about propane burner safety than I ever wanted to know, she’s rearranged our prep station four times, and we’ve both accepted that we’re operating on hope and some very expensive equipment we’re still figuring out how to use.
“Test batch,” she announces, sliding a crab cake slider across our makeshift counter.
I take a bite and immediately understand why she’s been so nervous. This isn’t just food. It’s something that could actually make people drive miles just to taste again.
“This is good,” I say, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“Good good or politely good?”
“The kind of good that’s going to have people asking when we’re opening.”
She grins, and for a second, all the nervous energy disappears. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. This town has no idea what’s about to hit them.”
The festival officially opens at ten, and by ten-fifteen, we have a line. By eleven, we have a crowd. By noon, I’m wondering if we should have rented a bigger trailer and invested in industrial-grade equipment.
Amber moves through the small space like she was born to it, flipping fish, assembling tacos, calling out orders with effortless efficiency. I’m handling the register and trying not to get in her way, which is harder than it sounds given that our prep area is approximately the size of a large closet.
“Two crab sliders and one fish taco!” she calls out.
“Coming up!”
“Behind you!” She spins around me to reach the refrigerator, and for a split second, we’re pressed together in the narrow space, her back against my chest, both of us trying to navigate around each other.
“Sorry,” she breathes, but she doesn’t move away immediately.
