Page 8 of Simmer Down
“I can only assume you two have heard of the Maui Food Festival coming up in May?” Matteo asks.
Callum and I nod. Everyone—every food truck, every restaurant,every tourist, every local—knows about the Maui Food Festival. It’s the unofficial kickoff to summer, with every popular local place participating in it. Any eatery with any hope of making it on the island registers for the festival. Maui restaurants set up booths and food trucks congregate in downtown Lahaina to sell their dishes. People vote online for their favorite. Those that do well are guaranteed a boost in their business for the season, but the winner gets the sweetest prize: ten thousand dollars and a spot in a commercial for the Flavor Network.
“It’s only the beginning of March, but you both plan to partake, I assume?”
Again, we nod.
Matteo clasps his hands together, as if he’s about to pray. “Then I suggest a bit of friendly competition to settle this obvious dispute you two are having.” He gestures to the clear blue ocean in the background. “This is a coveted spot, certainly. Why don’t you let your customers decide? Whichever one of you scores the highest at the festival is the winner of this spot. How does that sound?”
Neither of us speaks. All we exchange is an uncertain glance between us before turning back to Matteo.
It’s actually a solid idea. A hell of a stressful prospect though. I thought I hit the jackpot when I stumbled upon this open area months ago. I swallow back the urge to state my case, balling my fists at my side instead. I came across it first fair and square, and now I have to fight for it. I don’t have a choice though. One steady, even breath and the muscles in my neck loosen from their tension knot. I’m not willing to leave this spot. I’ll earn it all over again if I have to. It’s absolutely not what I want to do, but our livelihood rides on this.
The crevice between Callum’s eyebrow deepens. He almost looks amused. “So this is what it’s come to?”
Something soft rests at the edges of his tone. It sounds a lot like hesitation.
“You clearly have no intention of backing off,” I say.
“Not a chance in hell.” All trace of doubt has left his voice, leaving behind that hard tone I’ve come to know so well.
“Okay, then,” I say.
Matteo closes his eyes and smiles. “Splendid. And the prize is even bigger this year, since last year’s winner was disqualified after it was discovered that they were secretly working with a chain restaurant to get free ingredients. Can you believe that? Such blatant cheating.” Matteo tsks. “Festival officials are being even stricter about contest rules this year. The winner has to win on their own merits, which means no help from anyone. I hear that if there’s even the slightest hint of eateries fraternizing with each other, you could be disqualified. That certainly won’t be the case with you two.”
Matteo chuckles, clearly pleased at his joke. I turn away to roll my eyes.
“They’re taking the money forfeited by the disgraced winner last year and adding it to this year’s prize,” Matteo says. “That means twenty thousand dollars for the winner. That’s really quite something, isn’t it?”
Callum and I shoot identical WTF expressions at Matteo. On the inside, I’m pumped. Twenty thousand dollars is a game-changing amount of money. We could fix up our food truck, invest in some new supplies, and put whatever’s left over into Mom’s savings.
Callum pivots to me and sticks out his hand. “Shall we make it official?”
He wants to shake on it? I nearly scoff, but we have an audience. Best to be sportsmanlike for the cameras for a change.
When I slip my hand in his, there’s a jolt. Electricity? Shock? The surprise comfort of skin-to-skin contact with the British hottiewho can’t stand me? Probably. The feel of Callum’s hard, rough, warm hand against mine is a treat. I’m surprised. It’s exactly the same firm, respectable grip he employed when he first shook my hand the morning he mistook me for the health inspector. I thought he’d for sure opt for a limp fish or douchey iron grip since our every interaction from that point has been hostile.
In these few seconds though, I’m not shaking the hand of the most disagreeable human being I’ve ever met. No, this is simply a hand on another hand, a small part of his body on mine. A devastatingly beautiful and cut body that I wish would show me a smidgen of kindness, like I showed him the day we met. Maybe if he had, we could have sorted this out and shared a laugh. My mind wanders some more. There would have been no arguments, no glares, no hurtful words exchanged. In my perfect world scenario, Callum would have agreed to move his truck elsewhere, but not before asking for my number. I would have given him a cute compliment about his accent and told him that my aunt and uncle live in London, which would have further broken the ice. Flirty texting would have most definitely ensued.
And then I catch him giving methatlook again. That same split-second once-over he gave me the day we met, when we were arguing and I was incensed that he would dare to check me out in such a heated moment. Only this time, it doesn’t enrage me. It sets me simmering, on fire in the best way. Like when you finally catch eyes with someone you’ve been gazing at from afar, and in that one look they give you, you know they want you just as much as you want them.
But then he furrows his brow and it’s gone. When he releases me from his grip, my hopeful thoughts drift away with the gusts of salty ocean air. A million dollars says I was mistaken. He wasn’t checking me out; he was sizing me up. I bite the inside of my cheek. Shame onme for fantasizing. It’s pathetic, especially when the object of my fantasy so blatantly wants to destroy me, and the only thing Callum’s dreaming about is taking this prime parking spot from me.
I breathe in, square my shoulders, and look Callum straight in the eye. “Okay, then. Bring it.”
Chapter 3
A pyramid oflumpiarests on the counter of our condo’s kitchen, right next to the stove. Carefully, I maneuver one from the bottom of the pile and take a bite. It’s a burst of all of my favorite flavors: the rich, well-seasoned ground pork, the tender rice noodles, the crispy shredded cabbage and carrots, the even crispier fried flour wrapper holding everything together, and the tangy sweet chili dipping sauce.
“Mom, I think you’ve done enough experimenting. All of these batches have been delicious.”
I dip the other, unbitten end into a small dish of sweet chili sauce.
“You never know what people will want,” she says. “Some like it with pork, some like it with chicken, some like it with shrimp.”
Our post-work evening has been spent testing out different batches oflumpiafor the upcoming Maui Food Festival. Ever since I told her we’d be competing to keep our spot on Makena Road, she’s been in a food-prepping frenzy. Every night after work for the past week she’s spent hours testing out new dishes, tweaking ingredients to get the flavors just right. Yesterday it was adjusting the level of fishsauce in thepansit, then attempting to perfect the ratio of rice noodle to meat and vegetables. Today it’s coming up with different fillings forlumpia.
“Don’t forget that batch you made with ground beef and raisins,” I say after another bite. “That one was my favorite.”
