Watson’s nose goes into overdrive, and he sits with perfect posture, hoping his good behavior will be rewarded. It will be.
We’re all sampling the chicken now—which is legitimately amazing—when a commotion erupts from the direction of a gleaming silver food truck that looks like it belongs in a NASA hangar.
Whatever’s going on over there, I should stay out of it.
But I tend to gravitate toward trouble like a moth to a very chaotic flame.
Let’s hope this time, I don’t get burned.
CHAPTER 4
“That isnothow you prepare a proper slider!” comes a voice with a dramatic projection that evokes images of Shakespeare in the park. “Your technique is an insult to American cuisine!”
Watson’s ears swivel toward the noise like furry radar dishes as he tries to understand why humans insist on making so much noise when there’s perfectly good food going uneaten.
I’d like to know the very same thing.
Niki, Aunt Cat, Carlotta, our new friend Julia, and I all turn that way as we see a tall, lanky man, mid-forties but trying to look thirty, standing beside the rocket ship truck like a culinary superhero posing for his action figure.
His black hair is greased back. He’s donned aviator sunglasses that look pricey and a leather jacket that makes him look as if he’s auditioning forTop Gun: The Culinary Edition. His food truck gleams like a silver bullet, complete with actual rocket fins welded to the back and racing stripes down the sides.
“Here we go,” Julia mutters, her maternal warmth evaporating faster than water on hot asphalt.
The target of his critique appears to be a petite woman with bright purple hair twisted into two buns that are giving strongPrincess Leia meets farmers’ market energy. She pops out of a tie-dyed VW bus like Woodstock had a catering department and decided to get aggressive about it.
She looks to be in her late thirties, though her youthful energy and the way she bounces on her toes makes her seem younger. Her arms are covered in vegetable tattoos—carrots, broccoli, and what appears to be a very detailed eggplant—and she’s wearing a tie-dyed chef’s coat that somehow manages to incorporate every color in the visible spectrum. Multiple piercings catch the sunlight as she moves, creating tiny rainbows across her face.
Watson watches with fascination, and if his face is anything to go by, he’s absolutely convinced this is going to end with him getting fed.
“Listen here, Rocket Man,” the woman shoots back, her voice carrying a mellow aggression that says she practices yoga but could kick your rear if necessary. “My consciousness-raising cuisine is about nourishing the soul, not filling the stomach with processed mystery meats.”
“Consciousness-raising?” The man snorts, adjusting his aviators because he really does seem to think he’s starring in his own action movie. “You’re serving overpriced rabbit food to trust fund kids who think organic means expensive.”
Niki chuckles, and I swat her.
“Forget the fireworks; this is the real entertainment,” Carlotta says, rubbing her hands. “Who wants to take bets?”
Niki raises a hand, and I sink into my shoes.
Watson barks as if offering his own commentary, then returns to the serious business of trying to convince Julia to share more chicken. I’m about to convince her to do the same.
“They seem delightful,” I mutter, watching the argument escalate as other vendors start to gather around like spectators at a car wreck.
“Oh, that’s Larry Rocket from the silver truck,” Julia explains as if she’s witnessed this performance one too many times before. “And the woman with the hippie bus is Sunshine Crumpet. Larry used to be a food critic before he decided to become the hothead of mobile cuisine. He’s not popular with the other vendors.”
“I can see why,” I observe, as Larry’s voice rises another decibel.
“Let’s just say he’s made more enemies than friends since launching that gourmet food truck,” Julia sighs, refilling our chicken basket with a generosity I can never properly thank her for. “There are plenty of people who wouldn’t shed a tear if he choked on his own pretentious attitude.”
Watson looks up at Julia with those sad puppy-dog eyes of his, hoping the chicken refill comes with additional sampling opportunities for well-behaved pooches. She drops a piece of chicken his way, and he growls with relief as he gobbles it down like a raccoon on a trash can bender.
“Well,” Niki announces with glee as she continues to stare at the chaotic couple, “I’m going to go sample some of that consciousness-raising cuisine. Anyone else curious about whatever Sunshine’s selling?”
“I’ll check out the rocket ship,” Carlotta says, “and see what all the fuss is about.”
“And I’ll go mingle,” Aunt Cat adds, eyeing the crowd for potential entertainment options that happen to be male. “This place is full of interesting characters, and by interesting characters, I mean tasty men.”
“You mean interesting men,” Julia replies.
