Ilet him see my eye roll. “Dad, a late dinner to you is like four-thirty. Thatgives me all of three hours to run my errands and stop by the truck for a bit.”
Hewaved me off again. “Go on then, get out of here.”
Ikissed his cheek and grabbed my purse off the counter. “Love you!”
“Loveyou,” he called back. “And don’t forget your brother!”
Ipromised to invite him and headed out. The city felt sticky with summer heat.The tar on the street had started to melt, and the air smelled like metal andsweat. I blinked at the aggressive daylight, groaning in resignation. Coffee wasat the top of my list today.
BeforeEurope, I had a decent size savings account. It wasn’t anything to retire on,but it got me to Amsterdam and helped fund my journey to self-discovery. When Igo there, I had convinced myself that I would work my way through the bestrestaurants in the best cities and keep my savings padded so there would benothing to worry about.
Thereality was a crash course in foreign work visas and my ignorance of thelanguages—all the languages. So instead, I ate my way through the most mediocrekitchens in cities that had reputable hostels and worked wherever anyone waswilling to pay me cash under the table. Still, I saw and experienced a ton.
Sleepinginskeezydorms and working in even worse kitchenswasn’t what I set out to accomplish, but I wouldn’t trade that year for anything.
WhenI got home, Dad put up some capital for me to start Foodie. He’d cashed his401k since he claimed he no longer needed a retirement and told me it was myearly inheritance. I used what remained of my bank account and a decent sizebusiness loan to fill in the gaps. I’d made money over the weekend, but I hadstudent loans and bills and expenses to pay.
Basically,I couldn’t afford to buy coffee.
Andyet, I needed one.
Blameit on poor impulse control.
Igrabbed my favorite latte from my favorite local coffee shop and headed intothe heart of downtown.
Theheat only blazed hotter here. The humidity sat in the air like a wet pillow,trying to suck all the air from my lungs. I wasn’t planning on cooking today,so my breezy, floral maxi dress was supposed to combat the high temps. And yetit stuck to my back and stomach as I tried to pretend I wasn’t melting.
Imet with a butcher I thought could help me out with better meats than thegrocery store. He was an older guy, built like a truck, and thick,caterpillar-like black eyebrows. I’d read about him in an online forum. A lotof the nearby restaurants used him, so he knew popular cuts of meat and alwaysoffered his most interesting proteins to his favorite customers.
WhichI planned to be soon enough.
Hewas polite, even though I had a feeling he wasupchargingme. Still, he would be cheaper than the supermarket. And he agreed to dobusiness with me even though I was a tiny account compared to the other venueshe worked with.
Next,I stopped at two bakeries, hoping to find one that was willing to partner withme. I wanted to offer something in the way of sweets, but I wasn’t a baker. Imean, I could bake, but it wasn’t my specialty. Plus, I didn’t have the timefor it.
Myhope was to find a local shop that wanted to team up with me. I would selltheir product and advertise their bakery, and in return, they would make enoughof a sweet offering for me to stay stocked. And ideally, they would alsoadvertise my food truck in return.
Ileft a note at one of the bakeries for the owner to call me and was flat outrejected at the other one. Not even a possibility there.
Iwanted to shake off the rejection. I knew I was asking a lot. Besides theydidn’t know me. I didn’t have a reputation. Or experience. Or any redeeming resume-relatedqualities. But I wasn’t expecting a decision or anyone to lock in today. I justwanted to start a conversation.
Myspirits dipped even further after tracking down the farmer’s market. It was onthe edge of downtown where a lot of art galleries and hipster secondhand storescould be found. I had gone there hoping for fresh, organic veggies, but foundorganic flowers instead.
Itwas a cool place filled with original art and jewelry. I picked up a pale pinknail polish that was supposed to be better for me than my store-bought ones.But there were no vegetables in sight.
Bythe time I left, I was cranky and disappointed. It wasn’t until I was halfwayto the plaza that I realized I should have asked one of the vendors if theyknew where I could go for better produce.
Ibounced my forehead on my faded steering wheel and ignored the frustrationbiting underneath my skin.
Thiswas my hometown, but I had been gone awhile. Culinary Art Institute ofCharlotte was in Charlotte, only a few hours’ drive from here. But afterschool, I’d stayed there with my boyfriend playing house and designing a life Ididn’t want.
Ithad been almost impossible to find an excuse to get home to visit Dad and Vanneven though it was so close. It wasn’t until the tail end of my Europeansabbatical that my dad had emailed about his failing health. I’d finally comehome to Durham and came clean to Molly. Dad and Vann got only the darkhighlights, but those were enough. This city was the only place for me after Ilanded back in America.
Ididn’t know the city of Durham at all. I knew the familiar childhood hauntsaround my house and enough about the city to drive to most areas withoutgetting lost. But I didn’t know the ins and outs of the city that you learnwhen you’re an adult. And I didn’t know all the little secrets that someone inmy profession would need to survive.
Iparked behind the bike shop and grabbed my notebook. I needed to take inventorybefore I decided on this week’s menu. Plus, I was hoping my beloved truck and staringdown the devil across the street would spur some much needed inspiration.
Pokingmy head in the bike shop’s door, I smiled at Vann. “Hey. Are you alone today?”
