Page 43 of Best Friend Burden

“Kalle,” I said. “Ring him up for a breakfast taco.” That was the cheapest thing on the menu. I looked back at him. “Kalle'll take care of you here, then go take a seat. I'm gonna make you something good.”

He paid what we charged him and didn't leave a tip, then sat down alone at one of the benches and fiddled with his phone.

I heated up a tortilla on the comal, then flipped it when it was a nice, light shade of brown. As the other side was warming, I piled on some peppers, onions, and greens, then added some small fried tofu cubes and covered it all in a light oat cream and our mildest verde salsa.

Then I wrapped it up into a burrito, put it in some foil, and dropped it on a tray along with tortilla chips and a small cup of red salsa. I brought it all to his table together with a bottle of water.

“Buen provecho!” I said to him with a smile in the accent my father used to make fun of, then headed towards the trailer, wishing there were eyes on the back of my head.

“Don't stare,” I said to Kalle as I passed in front of her and she averted her eyes.

I, of course, did not follow my advice, but at least had the good sense to hide in the corner and make sure my face was covered by a shadow.

It was a similar situation to back in the meeting all those weeks ago. The man started with the chips, dipping one gingerly into the salsa. He then took a bite and gave a little shrug as if to say to himself, “Not bad.”

I was not worried about the chips. Those were easy. If you couldn't manage to make decent tortilla chips, you had no business offering food to anyone.

When he began unwrapping the burrito, however, my jaw clenched, and I could feel myself getting nervous.

By this point, I should have had faith in myself. We'd shared samples with other people in the food truck community, who all gave it rave reviews, and the investors were also very much on board.

But at this moment in time, it didn't matter what any of them thought. All that mattered what this man in the ill-fitted blue suit thought. Because that's how my mind worked when it came to my food. The only customer I cared about was the one I was currently serving.

He put his nose up to the skin of the burrito, didn't detect anything wrong, and then took a bite.

The next second lasted a lifetime as I waited for his verdict. Fortunately, I could see it almost immediately in his face. It was a success. I watched as he demolished that burrito, taking bite after bite in rapid succession, barely giving himself a chance to swallow between each one. Before too long, he was licking what remained of the salsa off of his fingers with an almost childlike smile on his face.

When the chips were gone and he wiped his mouth off with his napkin, I could see him pause for a moment before standing up and walking back over to our truck.

“Can I get another one of those?” he asked.

“Was it not enough?” Kalle asked.

“Oh, it was more than enough,” he said. “I just know I'm going to want another for dinner.”

“No problem,” Kalle said, then looked at me and whispered, “How should I ring him up?”

“Sir,” I told him, “we gave you a little opening day discount, and, umm...”

He shook his head and removed his wallet from his back pocket, then took out a twenty-dollar bill and put it in the tips jar.

“I'm more than happy to pay full price.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “And be sure to tell your friends.”

The uncertainty from before had completely vanished, and he laughed. “Of course.”

Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was the way his tone completely changed after eating the meal, but from that point on — even though he was only one customer — I had a good idea in my head that our truck was going to do quite well out in California. We weren't going to have anything to worry about.

CHAPTER18

***KIEFER***

If I was someone else, maybe I would have been happy with the arrangement. I was showing up for work every day, and Natasha was essentially doing all the work that I would have done. There were days where I'd play on a track, but that was usually just to get something down and she'd go over what I did in a future take — after all, even if she could play multiple instruments, she couldn't play them all at the same time.

If I were someone with too much pride, I would have pushed back against this. But I was realistic enough to admit that her versions were invariably better. She would tell me it was because she had my track to play off and improve, but I knew that was just her being kind. As a musician, she was just better than I was. It wasn't a matter of opinion, either. Anyone with the least bit of taste could have heard it.

My recordings weren't bad, per se. They just died in comparison.

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