Page 7 of Best Friend Burden

The man in the middle looked back and forth between the two men to his side, who, again, responded with a simple nod, as if they could communicate telepathically.

“Do you have any market research data on the success rate of Tex-Mex cuisine in Los Angeles?”

Crap. This is where I was going to lose them.

“Not explicitly,” I said, “but...”

“We have a large Latino population,” he said, “who want authentic Mexican cuisine. They're not going to have any interest in what you have to offer.”

“And vegan on top of that,” the man to his right said.

“Plant-based diets are on the rise,” I said.

“They were,” the man said, “but the trend is beginning to level out. The fad is dying.”

He was wrong. I knew he was wrong, but it didn't matter because there was nothing I could say to convince him otherwise.

The man in the middle shuffled the papers in front of him and said, “I don't want to take up any more of your time, Ms. Cruz.”

“Sorry?”

“I'm afraid we're not interested, but we wish you the best of luck.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off.

“Be sure to talk to Cecily on the way out so you can get your parking validated.”

By then, the three of them had their backs turned to me and were already halfway out the door.

I'd blown it. Another meeting wasted because these three men didn't have the vision to take a chance on something new.

But could I blame them? I was describing food to them. How were they supposed to be won over just on a description?

It was so silly of me that I hadn't considered it before — obviously the solution wasn't a better presentation, it was to offer them what I'd be selling. One bite of a spicy jackfruit taco would send them to heaven as would the crunch of a tortilla chip dipped in my specialty queso, using a secret recipe so good that I'd been told it was better than the “real” thing.

If I was going to have any hope of winning these people over, I didn't need to worry about a PowerPoint: I needed to get in the kitchen and offer them some highlights from the menu.

* * *

There was a farmer's market only about a mile and a half from the office building. Unfortunately, in traffic, that still amounted to a solid half hour in a ride share with a man who leered at me through the rearview mirror without saying a word. If I had better shoes with me, I would have just walked.

Once there, however, I realized how out of my element I was.

Back in Austin, I knew who to trust in terms of my food suppliers. We were all on a first-name basis, and their reputations guaranteed they wouldn't give me subpar ingredients. This market left much to be desired.

It wasn't bad per se, but I was shocked at how mediocre the selection was in terms of quality, especially since California was known for its farming. The other shoppers didn't seem to mind, most of them too busy on their phones to take most notice of the produce. If there was one thing I'd learned from my time in the food industry, however, it was that actually talking to someone could get you what you needed to be faster.

A girl in sunglasses who couldn't have been older than 20 sat on a stool at one of the fruit stands, playing on her phone.

“Hey,” I said, and she looked up at me with an expression that dared me to win her over. “Do you have anything that you haven't put out yet?”

“What you see is what you get,” she said, gesturing to the pineapples, oranges, and lemons in the crates in front of her. Her voice was monotone and almost irritated that I dared ask her a question.

I leaned in and said, “Work with me, here.”

Her expression didn't change, but when I pulled a twenty out of my purse and put it in her hands, her expression lightened up.

“When does the fresh supply come in?” I asked, almost like I was participating in a drug deal.

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