Page 31 of Best Friend Burden

“You don't, uhh, happen to have another one, do you?” the secretary asked.

I smiled.

* * *

The secretary gave me a bit of necessary confidence before I walked into my meeting, but this was a tough crowd. None of the five men in suits looked like they'd smiled at any point during the last fifteen years or so.

“Miss Cruz,” said the oldest of the five men, “what have you got for us today?”

“A Tex-Mex vegan taco truck,” I said with as much positive energy and confidence as I could muster. “So authentic that you'll be able to taste the 'Yee-haw!' in every bite!”

Nothing from this crowd. Not a laugh. Not a smile. Not even the slightest hint that I said something that anyone could have construed as a joke.

I was doubting myself.

“Now I could talk to you about the growth of the vegan industry,” I said, “or point out the dearth of Tex-Mex options in your lovely, sunny city. I could give you numbers and figures about the success that we experienced in Austin, a town with demographics quite similar to those of Southern California. But, ultimately, we all know that there's only one metric that matters, and that's whether or not what I'm selling can make people say, 'Yum!'”

Still nothing. It was as if none of them spoke the same language as I did. Fortunately, food was a universal language.

I opened the tin up and handed two tacos to each of the men along with a napkin. They eyed these aluminum cylinders with some curiosity, lifting them up and examining them, but nothing more. They looked at each other, and I realized they'd need some guidance.

“I gave each of you two tacos. One is shredded jackfruit — a kind of pork substitute — and the other has a soy version of chorizo. Give them both a try. My guess is that one bite is all you'll need for me to gain your confidence that The Vegan Vaquero represents a good investment for you.”

Nothing. They didn't open up the foil and take a bite. It was as if they were robots, unfamiliar with the concept of food.

And then a thought occurred to me: Was it possible these men have never had a breakfast taco?

I'd have to show them.

I took a taco out and peeled the top of the foil off slowly, demonstrating it for them, then took a bite.

I'm modest about nearly everything in my life, but it's impossible when it comes to my cooking: these tacos were damned good.

After chewing and swallowing, I continued. “Now we'll have different levels of spice once we get going, ranging from mild to diablo, but these are all very mild just to play it safe.”

The old man who introduced me was the first to open up his taco, and the others watched him intently. He took a bite, chewed for a bit, and mulled it over a bit. Then he took another.

“What did you say this was?” he asked.

“Soy chorizo,” I said. “Traditionally a cured, smoked meat, though this is made with tofu.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he said as the others continued to look at him for further instruction. “Go ahead, boys, he said. Give it a try. It won't hurt you.”

Did that mean that he liked it?

One by one, the others opened up their meals and gave them a taste. While they were, the older gentleman pulled out the other taco and removed the foil from the outside.

“And what's this one?”

“Shredded jackfruit,” I said. “It's somewhat unfamiliar to a lot of people in the West, but it's a very meaty fruit that's often used as a substitute for pork or chicken.”

He nodded and took a bite of that one, too.

By this point, all of the men were chewing in front of me and exchanging looks with each other. Whatever was going on in their heads was clear to them, but it wasn't at all to me. I supposed I could take it as a good sign that they weren't spitting the food out in front of them.

The man in charge finished his jackfruit taco and licked some of the juices off of his fingers before dabbing his mouth with the napkin.

“Miss Cruz?” he said.

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