Just a Taste: Chapter 2

Author's Note:

        First, I made a couple changes in the first chapter that will make some parts of this chapter more clear. I added a new scene as the opening scene, where Ellena is picking Mable up from work at the food truck, so the reader gets the feature of the food truck right away. Ellena has an awkward little encounter with one of the food truck workers, and that's the Frisbee incident mentioned in this following chapter. It's not all that important, but just letting you know for clarity sake. I'm also adding in a scene before Ellena decides to take the shift at the food truck where she goes into her kitchen at home and toys with the idea of actually cooking. 

       For this second chapter, the focus is Ellena's first experience working at the food truck. Ultimately, I'd like to know if y'all are happy with the amount of description, or if you are having trouble imagining things. Should I amp up the chaotic factor? Do you get enough of the food truck staff characters or should they have more interaction/dialogue? This was such a tough scene to write because there were a lot of visual details, logistical details, and emotional details all going on at the same time.  As for emotions, does Ellena seem to be appropriately reacting to being in this environment again? Ultimately, what's working for y'all and what's not, because this chapter is super key to setting up so much of the rest of the book!

Chapter 2

            A couple days later on Saturday morning, I pulled up into the dirt-worn, grassy parking lot next to Quichey Keen.  The food truck stood on the fringes of the community park downtown, near the baseball diamonds.  The metal serving window was closed up, the slightly faded image of a steaming white coffee mug with the truck’s block-letter logo spread across the left side.  Even from inside my car I could hear music thumping from the burnt orange-colored truck.  Nervousness tingled in my stomach as I rubbed my lip-balmed lips together, retying my high ponytail for the fourth time.  I still wasn’t sure this was a good idea, if I was ready to be in a kitchen that wasn’t shrouded by the late night darkness of my home.  I looked at the truck through the windshield once more, not having any idea what awaited me inside, before finally getting out of the car. 

            Mable had been stingy with the details, only telling me to “dress casual” because she didn’t want to “spoil the surprise.” As if that was comforting or informative at all.  I looked at my reflection in the side of my car, smoothing the creases in my loose black khaki shorts and plain white t-shirt and trying not to think about how horrified my dad would have been that I wasn’t wearing long pants in a kitchen. The sound of a metal door slamming open jerked my attention from my reflection.

            “Seriously, y’all, I didn’t burn it! Brooke’s the one on coffee duty today, not me.”  I recognized Henry, the weird Frisbee guy, as he stormed out of the truck and down the few rickety wooden steps leading up to the truck’s entrance.  He was wearing the same “I’m the cheese” shirt, and had a half-full coffee pot in one hand and his round headphones in the other.  A muffled shouting came from inside the truck, and Henry proceeded to slosh out the, apparently, burned coffee onto the grass next to my car, barely missing my ankles.

            “Oh, sorry, didn’t see you.” Henry lifted his chin and squinted at me.  “Hey, weren’t you here the other day?  Picking up Mable?”

            I shifted my weight, eyeing the pool of coffee slithering across the grass. “Um, yeah, that was me.  I’m taking her shift today, actually.”

            “Whose?”
            “Mable’s…”

            “Oh, okay.  Does Coen know?”

            “I think so? Who is that?” I couldn’t remember who Mable told me I was supposed to talk to once I got here.  Henry stood looking at me and then turned and stepped back into the food truck, much like the strange Frisbee experience from the other day.  This time I followed him, careful to avoid the puddle of coffee in my path.

            As soon as I stepped into the narrow doorway, I was hit with the familiar scent of coffee grounds and bacon grease I’d smelled on Mable, along with fried egg, pancake batter, and, oddly, curry.  Then there was the heat.  It was like all the humidity in Virginia had been sucked up and spit out in this food truck, churned around by wafts of heat from opening ovens.  I had no idea how anyone could breathe properly when the door and serving window were shut.  Once my mind and lungs wrapped around the heat, I finally noticed the actual insanity happening in front of me.  The roughly 15x7 kitchen was a blur of motion.  A thin girl with too-short cut-offs and a bad ombre dye job that looked like she’d somehow dipped the lower half of her head in peroxide was mixing batter with furious circular strokes in an industrial sized mixing bowl.  Behind her, a lanky guy with intricate sleeve tattoos on both arms and long hair scooped up into a bun was chopping assorted vegetables and piling them into impressive mounds on the stainless steel counter.  Henry stood next to Man-Bun, grinding coffee grounds to the beat of the still-thumping techno-meets-reggae music.  The ultimate sense of chaos came from the guy standing across the kitchen by the driving cabin, who was shouting out orders rapid fire from a notebook over the cacophony of mixing, chopping, grinding, and thumping. 

            “I need at least two more ham and spinach quiches in the oven before we open up, guys.  Brooke, that better be enough batter to cover the waffle sandwiches, too, okay?  Today’s special is gonna be the Tofu Curry Scramble Burrito, so be prepared to explain to people what’s all in it.  And Henry, for the love of God, will you calm it down with the coffee grinding over there?” Despite the lack of response to his questions and demands, it was clear everyone had understood their tasks.  He scanned his notebook once more and gave a tight nod before wiping his brow on his flannel shirt sleeve.  I had no idea how he could stand to wear flannel without sweltering to death, but his grey chino shorts must have compensated.  He had sandy brown hair shaved shorter on the sides and a normal length on top, the kind of edgy look you would see more in Portland than Alexandria.

            Everything about this kitchen felt at once so familiar and so foreign.  The shouting orders, intoxicating mix of smells, and general fast-paced whir of cooking were all elements I grew up with, and loved, at Augustine’s.  I could almost hear my dad bellowing out the number of fish and steak orders for the first round of dinner guests, which in his kitchen would have been promptly received with a “Yes, chef!” from the staff.  Here, though, was not Augustine’s.  The music was so loud, the kitchen was barely big enough to accommodate four people, let alone five if I ever made it past the threshold, and the space seemed to completely lack any organization at all.  Processing what was in front of me, I took a deep breath and swallowed hard.  I could do this.

            Then, finally, the guy who had been giving orders noticed my presence.  His face twisted in confusion, which lead me to believe neither Mable nor Henry had alerted him to my arrival.  The nervous tingle took over my stomach again. 

            “Who are you?” He shouted across the kitchen.

            “I’m—,” my voice cracked, “I’m Ellena, Mable’s friend? I’m covering her shift for her today.” I craned my neck over the people between us, silently cursing Mable for obviously forgetting to clue her workplace in to her change of plans.

            The guy looked down and shook his head before turning and passing through into the driving cabin.  I bit the inside of my cheek and remained standing frozen in the doorway, confused as to where he disappeared to.

            “Well, I guess you’ll be getting the crash course this morning.” I jumped and spun around to find him standing behind me at the bottom of the wooden stoop. “We open at 9:00, so you’ve got about five minutes to figure this joint out.  You can thank Mable for that.” His teeth clenched, emphasizing his jawline. Up closer, I was surprised how young he looked, only a couple years older than me at most.

            “Sorry, Mable can be a little all over the place.” I let out a nervous laugh and popped the hair-tie on my wrist. “But, I’m happy to help out.”

            “All right then. Well, I’m Coen.  Nice to meet you…”

            “Ellena.”

            “Right.  Ellena.  What’s your experience? Know how to cook?” Coen started up the few stairs to meet me in the doorway.  I found myself shaking my head, no.  No, I wasn’t ready yet. No, they didn’t need to know that I probably had more culinary skill than all of them combined. No, just being here was already almost too much to handle.

            “Well, hey, that’s all right. We can always use another dish washer,” Coen winked.  As he passed me through the doorway, I caught a whiff of wood smoke.

            I made my way to the deep stainless steel sink on the other side of the girl, who I assumed must have been Brooke, and who was still stirring the gallons of waffle and pancake batter with such tenacity she didn’t seem to register my existence.  The sink was already full of various sauce pans, baking tins, and utensils.  I hadn’t been delegated to dishwashing since I was 11, when my dad decided I’d reached the appropriate age to be his “apprentice.”  But now, I welcomed the sight of burnt oil and caked on crust.  This was something I could do just fine.

            “Okay, let’s crank her up guys!” Coen started tugging on a chain hanging on the wall behind me and the serving window began to roll open like a garage door.  A line of about five people had already formed outside. “Here, you’ll need this.” Coen tossed me a navy apron with the Quichey Keen logo screen printed in orange on the front. “Make sure you keep up the pace and you’ll be fine.  Have fun!” Coen flashed a smile before ducking out of the driver’s cabin door and into the small crowd of customers, handing out menus and wishing them good morning.

            I turned to look at the other trucker staffers.  Man-Bun was now filling quiche tins with his chopped veggies with the same quiet concentration as Brooke with the batter.  It seemed a little strange to take food truck food preparation so seriously.  Henry saw me staring and gave a stern salute before abandoning his coffee post to flip the pieces of bacon on the oven range.  I gave a little smile and turned back to my own work, grabbing the sponge and dish soap.

            The rest of the morning was even more hectic then I could have imagined.  The flurry of orders and quick turn-around time for dishes was impressively fast compared to what I was used to.  I didn’t know how Brooke and Man-Bun, whose name I learned is Asher, kept up, especially since I hadn’t been able to work out any sort of ticket system for keeping orders straight.  It was like they had sponges for brains, absorbing every word Henry called out from the service bar.  And I felt like I had sponges for hands after three straight hours of scrubbing pan after bowl after pan, as well as all the flatware and plates and bowls used by customers “eating in.”  Apparently Quichey Keen promoted a “green standard” that tried to minimize the paper and plastic throw-away serving products by encouraging customers to stay and eat at one of the few picnic tables in the surrounding area.  Which also meant my fingertips were prunes and my shirt was almost entirely soaked through with soapy water and sweat.  I was more than thankful for the apron covering up my white, now see-through, t-shirt.

            Once it hit the noon mark, things began to die down.  Quichey Keen’s breakfast/brunch themed menu catered mainly to morning joggers, commuters, and dog-walkers, and only stayed open later than 3:00pm for special catered events.  So by 12:30pm, everyone in the truck was able to take a break.

            “Whoo!  I am so never making pancakes again.” Brooke slapped a hand towel against the counter. She’d finally loosened her concentration once the batter was mixed and could start flipping pancakes in rhythm with the music that still thumped even after opening up for service.  Her only mishap was at the fault of Henry who tried to jump in with his Frisbee in order to reattempt his flipping technique. Needless to say, Brooke was furious when several ladles of batter ended up on the rubber floor mats. 

            “You say that every day, but then you don’t like the way any of us make them,” Asher said into his chest, his head tilted upside down to re-pile his man-bun.  Brooke didn’t respond, too interested in filing her acrylic French manicure. 

            “She says that every day because she knows she’s the pancake-master and just wants us to beg her to keep making them.” Coen nudged her with his elbow.  He’d spent almost the entire morning outside the truck acting as a sort of informal host, and passing back customer compliments and complaints. (Apparently it’s possible for eggs to taste too “eggy.”)

            Coen opened the fridge and pulled out a jug of chocolate milk, taking a giant swig before passing it to Asher.  “So, you’ve been real quiet.” Coen raised his eyebrows at me with a smile.

            “Oh, you know, I’m just taking it all in.” I looked at my grey sneakers with neon orange laces.  I didn’t know why I was feeling so sheepish since my initial nervousness had faded away with the safe and methodical assignment of dish washing. “I’m not sure my hands will ever un-prune, though.” I held up my wrinkled fingers for them to see.

            “Oh, just go stand in the sun for about four seconds, you’ll dry out quick.” Asher offered me the chocolate milk jug before heading out the side door, Brooke following.  Asher handed off the jug to Henry sitting at one of the picnic tables, bobbing his head to whatever was playing in his headphones.

            “It’s all right, working in a kitchen isn’t for everyone, especially working in a portable one.” I blushed at Coen’s remark.  If only he knew how comfortable in a kitchen I used to be. “But, you know what, things will be pretty slow the rest of the day if you want to take off.  There won’t be much washing to do from here out today.” My stomach dropped as I realized I didn’t want to leave yet. Not after finally getting used to being in this environment, however different from my old norm, again. “But you can keep the apron as a souvenir.  Unless you’d want to come back.” Coen smoothed the longer middle section of his hair back.

            My heart skipped thinking about returning. I just thought it would be a one-time deal. “I don’t know, y’all are pretty cramped already so I don’t know if there’d really be room with Mable here, too,” I shrugged.  “This was fun, though, I’m glad I got to be back…here for Mable.”  I almost let slip I’d been in a kitchen before.

            “Just think about it.  You never know, Mable might need another shift replacement.” He rolled his eyes and laughed.

            I didn’t know how I really felt about working more at Quichey Keen.  The chaos had been exciting for a few hours, but what if they found out I’d lied about my cooking experience?  Would they force me to cook? What if Mable tells them during her next shift? The nervous tingle sprung up in my stomach again. “Okay, I’ll think about it.”