Page 8 of Best Friend Burden

The girl looked at the bill in her hand and back at me and realized I wasn't a typical customer.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Jackfruit.”

The girl nodded. “We have a truck coming in around 2:30,” she said. “The fresh fruit usually goes first. If you wait around a bit, I think you'll be happy with what you see.”

I checked my phone. That would be in a half hour or so. I had nowhere else to be.

“What do you need it for?” the girl asked.

I told her about the food truck. When I brought up Austin, I got a genuine smile out of her.

“I was out there for ACL last year,” she said. “Man, I got wasted.” She laughed at that.

I nodded. “We had the truck out for Austin City Limits,” I told her.

The girl looked at me skeptically. “What was it called?”

“Vegan Vaquero.”

“Oh my God,” she said, “that shit wastight. That was the best hangover food I'd ever had in my life.”

“I prefer to call it authentic Tex Mex.”

“Yeah, well, nothing takes care of a night of heavy drinking like a good breakfast taco.” She trailed off for a second and then bolted back to attention. “Hey,” she said. “Are you looking for anyone to work the truck out here?”

“It's going to be a few months minimum before we open,” I told her.

“Yeah, but when you do open, could I maybe...?”

Out of a sense of quality control, I had high standards about whom I hired. This girl must have seen the uncertainty in my face.

“I'm a real good cook,” she said. “I'm fast, and I don't let shit burn.”

“Tell you what,” I said. “Follow the truck on Instagram. Reach out to me when we're about to open. If you still need a job, I'll give you an interview.”

“Kalle,” she said, extending her hand.

“Melody,” I told her.

“Melody,” she repeated. “I'm not going to forget this. You'll be hearing from me.”

“I look forward to it,” I told her, fully expecting her enthusiasm to wane in the coming months. But, in case it didn't, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to have her share some of her energy and excitement. Assuming, of course, that she could cook as well as she said she could.

“I'm going to look around for some other ingredients,” I told her, “but if you could hold onto three jackfruits for me, I'll be back.”

“With pleasure, Melody,” she said, saluting me as I walked away.

* * *

I took my baskets of jackfruit, tortillas, garlic, tomatoes, onions, jalapeños, cumin, sugar, and chilis and brought them back to Kiefer's apartment. From there, I put in my earbuds, turned on a Dallas-based band called Old 97's as loud as I could tolerate, and got to cooking.

Granted, I was somewhat limited. Kiefer had a typical Los Angeles kitchen, which is to say it was small, and a typical bachelor's ability to organize his pots and pans within the cabinets, which is to say that it was completely nonsensical. Still, the joy of being back in my element was enough to push me through whatever difficulties I faced.

For me, cooking was a kind of dance, which is why it was essential to listen to music and drown out the rest of the world. I needed supreme focus in order to make sure I was giving every ingredient the attention it deserved. I ended up in what I referred to as “the zone,” a place where anything could be going on around me, and I wouldn't notice because all of my attention was on the cooking.

As I pureed the tomatoes, garlic, and onion into a sauce, then cut up the jalapeños — the spiciest I could find at the market — and put it all in a pot, which I allowed to simmer. I began to sweat. Kiefer's air conditioning wasn't great and I didn't want to set off the smoke detector, so I opened up a window. But it was pretty warm for March, and I was still in my presentation clothes for the meeting.

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