Simmer Down Page 3

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  My public spat-gone-viral with Callum is a distant memory two weeks later. That’s because almost every day since then, we’ve been bickering and pranking each other nonstop. The day after I posted my sign on the Hungry Chaps truck, Callum posted his own that said, “Tiva’s staff has been stricken with leprosy! Eat at your own risk!” A taste of my own medicine, I suppose. That scared off customers for a good two hours until I found the sign, tore it apart, then gave onlookers a panicked explanation that it wasn’t true. And then I promptly stomped to the Hungry Chaps truck and bitched out Callum. A few days later I got him back by letting the air out of one of the back tires. We of course had it out in front of every customer and onlooker in the vicinity. And of course it ended up trending on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook.

  You’d think customers would be driven away by our immature antics. Not so. In fact, business is booming. Every day both Hungry Chaps and Tiva’s have lines snaking all the way out to the road. I can tell by the look in people’s eyes, how they stare between our trucks as they order and eat, that they live to watch Callum and me lose it on each other. Drama has become our top-selling menu item, it seems.

  I even worked up the nerve to watch one of our public spats posted online. I made it exactly ten seconds before pausing it. Hearing my shrill tone of voice, spotting that bulging vein in my neck when I wagged my finger at Callum, the unhinged look in my eyes . . . it was all a whole new level of cringeworthy.

  As mortified as I am, I’m grateful for the uptick in business. This week we earned more than we have any other week prior. And recently, we’ve had a small crowd of customers milling around our trucks, waiting for us to open. So I guess there is an upside to all this ugliness.

  My cell phone rings, and Mrs. Tokushige’s name flashes across the screen. I put her on speaker.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Tokushige.”

  “Good morning, hon!” she says in her patented cheery tone. “Sorry to ask on such short notice, but could you whip up some food for mahjong tonight? It’s my turn to host, and I don’t feel like cooking.”

  I chuckle softly to myself. Whenever Mrs. Tokushige hosts her friend group’s mahjong game night, she places a carryout order from my food truck the morning of, even though she always promises to cook for them.

  “I’ll pay extra to make sure we get lumpia. I know how quickly it sells out,” Mrs. Tokushige says.

  “No need to pay extra. I’ll make sure you have some.” It’s the least I can do for how generous she’s been to us.

  “Oh, and can you tell your mom we’re doing it at seven tonight instead of six? Sally Nida has to watch her grandson late today.”

  The road turns bumpy and I slow down. “No problem at all.”

  “Such a good daughter you are, giving her the day off so she can rest.”

  If only Mrs. Tokushige knew that I practically have to order Mom to stay home. She’d work twelve-hour days every day if she had her way. But she needs at least one or two days of rest a week to do low-stress activities, like going for walks, playing cards, and reading. Since Dad passed away, she’s thrown herself into working at the food truck with me, which is good. It’s helpful for her to stay occupied, to have a focus other than missing him and worrying about money. But pacing herself is vital. I refuse to lose her to exhaustion after the horror of losing Dad.

  I swallow back the lump in my throat. “I can handle it alone just fine. You know how she is. She’ll push herself to exhaustion if I don’t watch her. Can’t have that.”

  “I’m sure she could use some time away after all that’s happening with that new food truck,” Mrs. Tokushige says. “The nerve of those boys to park next to you like that. And to argue with you all the time.”

  I pull into the clearing on Makena Road and park right next to the Hungry Chaps truck. Already, a couple dozen people mill around the area. I bite back a grin, the excitement coursing within me. I’ve never had a crowd of customers waiting to eat my food before I even opened for the day.

  “You should report them to the local authorities,” Mrs. Tokushige says, her voice booming with conviction through the speakerphone. “They shouldn’t get away with the trouble they’re causing you.”

  The thought’s tempting, but I can’t. As much as it pains me to admit, Callum is right. It’s not illegal for him to park his truck next to mine, no matter how much I hate it. He’s violated zero laws or policies. Even if I gave in and complained about him, it would be more trouble than it’s worth. Food trucks on Maui are required by law to move every thirty minutes, but most don’t to keep a steady business stream during the day. If I tattle on Callum, it could cause authorities to crack down on other foods trucks, costing them business. Getting back at him isn’t worth hurting everyone else.

  I politely thank her for the suggestion.

  “I’ve heard the food from those British boys isn’t even that great,” she says. “I wouldn’t know though. I’d never dream of eating there out of respect for you and Tiva.”

  I smile. “That’s very sweet of you, Mrs. Tokushige.”

  We say good-bye and I put the truck in park. When I step out, I spot a sign posted next to the Hungry Chaps food truck, right next to where we normally park. I park, get out, then scan the text.

  “. . . surpasses the daily nutritional guidelines for saturated fat and sodium. Though lumpia, turon, and other fried foods are delicious, they should be consumed in moderation. It is not recommended that you include them as a regular part of your diet.”

  Lava pummels through my veins. The bastard posted a phony health warning against the food I serve. I should have seen this coming. Shame on me for underestimating the enemy.

  I kick over the sign, then crouch down so I can rip it to pieces. It’s a good several seconds before I hear Callum’s angry shout.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  He darts from the door of his truck to me. We’re toe-to-toe once more, staring each other down.

  I crumple a chunk in my hand and chuck it at him. It bounces off his impressive pec. “You are so out of line.”

  He crosses his arms across his broad chest. Smugness dances across the straight line of his mouth. “Nikki, I’m merely giving customers nutritional information about the food they’re consuming.” The cheerful uptick in his tone sounds almost innocent, as if he isn’t trying to ruin my business. “Fried food isn’t the best option for a lot of people’s diets.”

  “You serve fried fish-and-chips, you dick!”

  A deadpan stare is all he gives me. “We have a grilled fish option.”

  Throwing my head back, I growl. “You have no right to mess with my business. You have no idea how hard my mom and I have worked to establish ourselves here.”

  He tilts his head down to me. “And you have no idea how hard my brother and I have worked either. It’s ridiculous for you to assume you’re the only one around here who’s trying to get their business off the ground. You think you have the right to monopolize this area?”

  A gravelly throat-clear causes us to twist our heads to the side. Again, we’re surrounded by spectators, and again, they film us with their phones. I choke down the urge to scream.

  “If I may interject.”

  The throat-clearer raises his hand. Matteo Roderick from Matteo Eats Maui stands at the front of the crowd. He runs the most popular food vlog on the island and gets thousands of views every day. He dines at our food truck weekly, always giving us positive reviews online and on his social media accounts. Tourists visit our food truck often because of him, and for that I have to be grateful. It’s why I resist the smart-ass remarks dancing on my tongue when he uses phrases like “flavor profiles” within earshot and when he offers unsolicited advice on how we should adjust our seasonings, why I ignore him even though he loudly chats while filming himself eating. It’s why I haven’t ripped his sandy-
blond man bun from his giant head and tossed it into the ocean.

  Matteo lifts an eyebrow. “As much as I love passionate discourse about culinary arts, I don’t think this style of conversing is conducive to a pleasant dining experience.”

  I cross my arms over my chest, hoping it gives me an extra ounce of patience to deal with Matteo’s long-winded and patronizing monologue. I notice Callum does the same. Matteo is maybe in his late twenties but talks like a snobby food critic who’s approaching retirement age.

  “I can only assume you two have heard of the Maui Food Festival coming up in May?” Matteo asks.

  Callum and I nod. Everyone—every food truck, every restaurant, every tourist, every local—knows about the Maui Food Festival. It’s the unofficial kickoff to summer, with every popular local place participating in it. Any eatery with any hope of making it on the island registers for the festival. Maui restaurants set up booths and food trucks congregate in downtown Lahaina to sell their dishes. People vote online for their favorite. Those that do well are guaranteed a boost in their business for the season, but the winner gets the sweetest prize: ten thousand dollars and a spot in a commercial for the Flavor Network.

  “It’s only the beginning of March, but you both plan to partake, I assume?”

  Again, we nod.

  Matteo clasps his hands together, as if he’s about to pray. “Then I suggest a bit of friendly competition to settle this obvious dispute you two are having.” He gestures to the clear blue ocean in the background. “This is a coveted spot, certainly. Why don’t you let your customers decide? Whichever one of you scores the highest at the festival is the winner of this spot. How does that sound?”

  Neither of us speaks. All we exchange is an uncertain glance between us before turning back to Matteo.

  It’s actually a solid idea. A hell of a stressful prospect though. I thought I hit the jackpot when I stumbled upon this open area months ago. I swallow back the urge to state my case, balling my fists at my side instead. I came across it first fair and square, and now I have to fight for it. I don’t have a choice though. One steady, even breath and the muscles in my neck loosen from their tension knot. I’m not willing to leave this spot. I’ll earn it all over again if I have to. It’s absolutely not what I want to do, but our livelihood rides on this.

  The crevice between Callum’s eyebrow deepens. He almost looks amused. “So this is what it’s come to?”

  Something soft rests at the edges of his tone. It sounds a lot like hesitation.

  “You clearly have no intention of backing off,” I say.

  “Not a chance in hell.” All trace of doubt has left his voice, leaving behind that hard tone I’ve come to know so well.

  “Okay, then,” I say.

  Matteo closes his eyes and smiles. “Splendid. And the prize is even bigger this year, since last year’s winner was disqualified after it was discovered that they were secretly working with a chain restaurant to get free ingredients. Can you believe that? Such blatant cheating.” Matteo tsks. “Festival officials are being even stricter about contest rules this year. The winner has to win on their own merits, which means no help from anyone. I hear that if there’s even the slightest hint of eateries fraternizing with each other, you could be disqualified. That certainly won’t be the case with you two.”

  Matteo chuckles, clearly pleased at his joke. I turn away to roll my eyes.

  “They’re taking the money forfeited by the disgraced winner last year and adding it to this year’s prize,” Matteo says. “That means twenty thousand dollars for the winner. That’s really quite something, isn’t it?”

  Callum and I shoot identical WTF expressions at Matteo. On the inside, I’m pumped. Twenty thousand dollars is a game-changing amount of money. We could fix up our food truck, invest in some new supplies, and put whatever’s left over into Mom’s savings.

  Callum pivots to me and sticks out his hand. “Shall we make it official?”

  He wants to shake on it? I nearly scoff, but we have an audience. Best to be sportsmanlike for the cameras for a change.

  When I slip my hand in his, there’s a jolt. Electricity? Shock? The surprise comfort of skin-to-skin contact with the British hottie who can’t stand me? Probably. The feel of Callum’s hard, rough, warm hand against mine is a treat. I’m surprised. It’s exactly the same firm, respectable grip he employed when he first shook my hand the morning he mistook me for the health inspector. I thought he’d for sure opt for a limp fish or douchey iron grip since our every interaction from that point has been hostile.

  In these few seconds though, I’m not shaking the hand of the most disagreeable human being I’ve ever met. No, this is simply a hand on another hand, a small part of his body on mine. A devastatingly beautiful and cut body that I wish would show me a smidgen of kindness, like I showed him the day we met. Maybe if he had, we could have sorted this out and shared a laugh. My mind wanders some more. There would have been no arguments, no glares, no hurtful words exchanged. In my perfect world scenario, Callum would have agreed to move his truck elsewhere, but not before asking for my number. I would have given him a cute compliment about his accent and told him that my aunt and uncle live in London, which would have further broken the ice. Flirty texting would have most definitely ensued.

  And then I catch him giving me that look again. That same split-second once-over he gave me the day we met, when we were arguing and I was incensed that he would dare to check me out in such a heated moment. Only this time, it doesn’t enrage me. It sets me simmering, on fire in the best way. Like when you finally catch eyes with someone you’ve been gazing at from afar, and in that one look they give you, you know they want you just as much as you want them.

  But then he furrows his brow and it’s gone. When he releases me from his grip, my hopeful thoughts drift away with the gusts of salty ocean air. A million dollars says I was mistaken. He wasn’t checking me out; he was sizing me up. I bite the inside of my cheek. Shame on me for fantasizing. It’s pathetic, especially when the object of my fantasy so blatantly wants to destroy me, and the only thing Callum’s dreaming about is taking this prime parking spot from me.

  I breathe in, square my shoulders, and look Callum straight in the eye. “Okay, then. Bring it.”

  Chapter 3

  A pyramid of lumpia rests on the counter of our condo’s kitchen, right next to the stove. Carefully, I maneuver one from the bottom of the pile and take a bite. It’s a burst of all of my favorite flavors: the rich, well-seasoned ground pork, the tender rice noodles, the crispy shredded cabbage and carrots, the even crispier fried flour wrapper holding everything together, and the tangy sweet chili dipping sauce.

  “Mom, I think you’ve done enough experimenting. All of these batches have been delicious.”

  I dip the other, unbitten end into a small dish of sweet chili sauce.

  “You never know what people will want,” she says. “Some like it with pork, some like it with chicken, some like it with shrimp.”

  Our post-work evening has been spent testing out different batches of lumpia for the upcoming Maui Food Festival. Ever since I told her we’d be competing to keep our spot on Makena Road, she’s been in a food-prepping frenzy. Every night after work for the past week she’s spent hours testing out new dishes, tweaking ingredients to get the flavors just right. Yesterday it was adjusting the level of fish sauce in the pansit, then attempting to perfect the ratio of rice noodle to meat and vegetables. Today it’s coming up with different fillings for lumpia.

  “Don’t forget that batch you made with ground beef and raisins,” I say after another bite. “That one was my favorite.”

  She frowns. “I’m not sure everyone will like the raisins.”

  “But that’s the recipe you and Auntie Nora came up with. She cooked it for Uncle Nigel on their third date, and that was when he said he knew she was the one for him—because he cou
ld eat her cooking forever, remember? Customers will love it too.”

  “Maybe. But Uncle Nigel will eat anything,” Mom says with a wave of her hand.

  Every time she whips up a batch of this lumpia, it always makes me miss them. If only we had the time—and money—to visit them in London.

  I finish eating and begin packing the rest of the lumpia in a Tupperware container. When I start to put the unused lumpia wrappers back in the fridge, she stops me.

  “Don’t. I’m going to make more.”

  “Mom,” I groan and shove them in anyway.

  Suddenly, I’m thirteen years old again and whining because she told me to go clean my room. But now I’m trying to convince her not to exhaust herself in the kitchen to no avail. We already spent two hours at the commercial kitchen this morning prepping food for today’s service, then put in eight hours at the food truck. It’s pushing almost ten at night, and she’s been on her feet all day.

  I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s always been someone who needs to be doing something. She’s up at dawn most days, prepping for the day’s work. On her days off she power walks and does calisthenics in the living room before most people finish their coffee. Sitting on the couch relaxing is never an option for her. It was one of the things about her that drove my couch-lounging dad crazy. Still, though, she needs to rest.

  Gently, I grab her arm and turn her to face me. “When has anyone ever complained about your lumpia? Every kind we’ve ever served sells out. The same thing will happen at the festival, I promise.”

  She shrugs out of my grip. “You never know. Customers can get finicky.”

  She pulls the package of wrappers back out of the fridge and sits at the kitchen table with a bowl of egg wash. When she starts dolloping meat mixture on the wrapper, I know I’ve lost this battle.

  I take the seat across from her. She blinks slowly, a telltale sign that she’s tired. “Mom, look at me.”

  She refuses, still studying her assembly line of ingredients.