I was weak these days. Maybe I had always been weak. I had never thought of myself as a pathetic person growing up… but the decisions I’d made in and after culinary school… the way I’d been taught to feel about myself and my inability to find my confidence again was disheartening.
I spent a year traveling around Europe trying to “find myself” again, and I came home dejected, whimpering and ten pounds heavier. If Dad hadn’t needed me, I’d probably still be hopping from job to job trying to find the girl I’d been before. Before I became the girl that traded in her bright future for an illusion because it had promised instant gratification.
A dirty look from a hamster could send me into a tailspin of self-hate and tears these days. My self-confidence was fragile.
Until James Q. His words lit a fire that had been dormant for way too long. I glanced at my knives wrapped up like a Christmas present on my desk, feeling something stir inside me, feeling my old ambitions come to life with the ferocity that sent me to culinary school in the first place.
I could cook. I could really cook. I had proved it by being at the top of my class in culinary school and as I worked my way through Europe last year, hopping from one great kitchen to the next. I proved it with every dish I made. I proved it with the hours I poured into perfecting my craft. I proved it by not giving up. By not letting other forces make me give up.
And Foodie wasn’t just going to serve greasy tacos and french fries. I was going to revolutionize the whole damn late night dining scene in this city.
Watch out world, or at least Durham, I’m coming for you.
Chapter Four
I spent the entire next day cooking in my truck’s tiny kitchen. I got up with the sun and made myself presentable, knowing I would have to interact with other humans. Humans that weren’t related to me or obligated to love me because they were my best friend.
I started the day by transferring equipment out of my dad’s house to the truck. Even though Vann had great security and surveillance gear guarding the bike shop inside and out, I had been nervous about moving my expensive pans and knives to the truck, but I needed to test recipes and the workspace. I realized somewhere in the middle of the night that I wouldn’t be able to execute all the dishes from my repertoire in the limited space of the truck’s kitchen. That significantly narrowed my recipe playlist.
After I left the equipment in the truck, I headed to the supermarket and spent the next couple of hours rifling through mediocre meats, and overpriced and under-ripened vegetables.
Belatedly, I realized I should have done more research on where to buy fresh ingredients. But I’d been crazy busy since I got back to town. First with Dad’s treatment, and then learning what it would take to get him healthy. Followed by opening the business and everything that entailed putting a food truck together. The cooking part was almost an afterthought.
Still, I should have found a good farmer’s market by this point.
Even though Durham was my hometown, I hadn’t been back since shortly after graduation over two years ago. I’d attended culinary school in Charlotte. For the last year, I’d polished my skills by jumping from job to job in cities all over Europe. Working in Durham was going to be a completely new experience.
Finding my place here would be difficult, but not impossible. Every decent sized city had hidden treasure troves that grew the freshest produce and butchered the best meats. It would take time to hunt them down.
But currently, I didn’t have the time or patience to search for greatness. Today and this weekend, I would work with what I could find at the supermarket. And pray it would be good enough.
By the time I got back to the truck with my grocery finds, it was after lunch, and the summer sun burned hotter than Hades. I had to crank the AC in my old Taurus on the way to the truck to feel anything but sweltering.
I parked my car behind Cycle Life, so I didn’t take up any more of Vann’s parking lot and got to work unloading the groceries. My stomach dipped at how much everything cost, not just because my funds were severely limited, but because I wasn’t going to make any immediate profit on what I cooked today. This was a test run. I needed to nail down my opening dishes and decide on a cuisine aesthetic for Foodie.
Hopefully, Vann was hungry. At least I would be paying him back for lunch from yesterday.
His shop was surprisingly busy for a late Thursday afternoon. If I were honest, I didn’t understand how he stayed in business. How many people needed bike parts on a regular basis? But Vann made it work.
He’d skipped college and went straight to owning his business. Well, not straight there. He’d worked at a bicycle shop all through high school. The store was ancient and a pillar of my childhood neighborhood. Vann had gotten the job to make extra money, but fallen in love with the sport once he started. He continued to work at the shop for a few years after high school.
When Vann started talking about opening his own business, doing the same thing except in a trendier, more hipster-cluttered part of town, dad offered him the same deal as me. Vann took dad’s startup cash, filled in the blanks with a business loan and voila, Cycle Life was born.
Things had been rocky for Vann at first, so he ended up taking a few night classes in business management. The classes had helped, plus he’d managed to grab some real estate in a downtown hot spot. He’d been slowly growing his name and reach ever since.
I knew he stressed about money all the time, but he was still successful. He just had the kind of personality that couldn’t relax. His apartment was trendy and close to his shop, and he’d bought an almost new car last year with cash. So maybe he wasn’t rolling in cash, but he worked hard. And he was bound and determined to make his business work.
Basically, he was my role model in everything, but especially for owning a small business. I hoped for just a small slice of the success he’d managed to grab.
I smiled at Foodie, balancing my grocery bags precariously in one hand and unlocking the door with the other. I nudged the drop-step down with the toe of my flip flop and propped it open to let the breeze in.
She—because obviously, my gorgeous truck was a girl—looked so pretty in the sunlight, all clean lines and smooth surface. I wanted to take a thousand pictures of her and post them online, but I refused to be one of those annoying new parents.
That thought stretched my grin even wider. “Hey, baby,” I cooed to her as I swung my bags ahead of me and squeezed my way through the narrow door.
I set my ingredients down on an empty counter and quickly unloaded everything that needed to be refrigerated or had the potential to wilt in the blazing heat. Grabbing the keys, I decided to keep her locked up until I could return with the second round of bags.