You're Bacon Me Crazy Page 12

  I smiled, tucked the note into my jeans pocket, then hurried outside to the curb, where Mom was waiting.

  “Did you get everything?” I asked Mom as I climbed into the car.

  Mom nodded to the backseat. There were delivery bags full of the BLTs Cleo and I had made last night, our bacon-bits brownies, and our bacon-peanut-butter cookies.

  “Operation Bacon Bust is underway,” Mom said. She hit the gas, and my heartbeat accelerated right along with it.

  After wading through midday traffic in the financial district, we finally pulled up in front of 555 California Street. It was the second-tallest building in all of San Francisco, and headquarters to Morgan Food Enterprises.

  I grabbed the delivery bags out of the backseat, feeling slightly nauseous for real this time.

  Mom blew me a kiss. “I’m going to find a parking garage, but I’ll meet you right outside the building when you’re finished. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.” I shut the door, gulped in air, and started walking.

  Through the gleaming glass doors of the building, there was a sleek marble security desk with an intimidating-looking security guard behind it.

  “Lunch delivery for Mr. Morgan,” I said, giving the guard an über-friendly smile.

  The guard’s expression stayed as still as stone. “One moment, please,” he said, picking up the phone. After a series of low grunts, he finally nodded to the elevators. “Fiftieth floor.”

  I hurried to the elevators, afraid that at any second he’d recognize me as an imposter and yell for me to stop. But the elevator shot upward, and a minute later, I was walking up to Mr. Morgan’s receptionist, who was blessedly busy on the phone. She glanced at my delivery bags impatiently, then pointed to a conference room at the end of the hallway.

  My heartbeat was a booming cannon in my ears as I approached the glass-walled conference room. Then I saw him. Mr. Morgan was there, just as Asher had said he’d be, sitting with a dozen managers from the finest restaurants in San Francisco.

  Asher had explained the whole thing to me yesterday. Asher had overheard Mr. Morgan telling his mom about a big lunchtime meeting he’d be having to plan the Taste of San Fran. Mr. Morgan mentioned having sandwiches brought in for everyone from Baughman’s Bread, one of San Fran’s poshest downtown cafés.

  In an act that was about to be proven completely genius or utterly stupid, I’d called Baughman’s last night and, posing as Mr. Morgan’s assistant, canceled his entire lunch order.

  Which meant that the Tasty Truck, and not Baughman’s, would be filling the lunch order today for Mr. Morgan. Now the rest was up to me and the Bacon Me Crazy BLTs.

  I tried to calm my racing heart as I swung open the conference-room door and stepped inside with my bags. Mr. Morgan looked up and frowned, and for one terrifying moment, I thought he recognized me from my twenty-second sound bite on the evening news. But then his eyes settled on my delivery bags.

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Morgan said. “Lunch. Thank you.” He nodded toward the door. “My receptionist will pay you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I managed to say over my pounding pulse as I set the delivery bags on the table. I didn’t care about getting paid. I just wanted the plan to work.

  I walked very slowly toward the door as the men and women around the conference table unwrapped the sandwiches. I glanced over my shoulder as they all began taking bites out of their BLTs. One woman smiled, and I heard several “Mmmms.” I got to the doorway just as Mr. Morgan took the first bite of his sandwich.

  And that’s where I stopped, unable to take another step until I saw his reaction.

  He chewed for what seemed like forever, then closed his eyes. He was smiling. And then he said it.

  “Mmmm.”

  His eyes flew open and instantly found mine. “Young lady, please come back!”

  Now my heart was performing somersaults. “I-is something wrong?” I stuttered.

  “This sandwich …” he mumbled around a second bite. “I’ve never had anything like it before from Baughman’s. It’s … it’s fantastic!”

  A mile-wide grin broke out on my face.

  “Actually, the Bacon Me Crazy BLT didn’t come from Baughman’s,” I said triumphantly. “It came from the Tasty Truck, the food truck that sits on the corner of Hyde and Lombard. It was nominated for the Flavorfest Best Award this year but, as you know, there won’t be a Flavorfest.” I sighed forlornly, drawing on the few things Mei had tried to teach me about stage acting. “Without the Flavorfest award, the Tasty Truck might not be around much longer, and neither will this BLT.”

  Mr. Morgan looked down at the sandwich as if he was witnessing some sort of great tragedy.

  “Well, I have a lot more deliveries to make,” I added breezily, giving him a friendly wave, “but there’s a Tasty Truck menu in the bag. My advice is to get the BLT while you can, before it’s gone forever.”

  And after giving him that food for thought, I walked away.

  I didn’t know what would happen now. That was entirely up to Mr. Morgan. Still, though, I couldn’t help feeling a sense of victory as I hurried outside to Mom’s waiting car.

  Mom and I played legitimate hooky together for the rest of the afternoon, going out for frozen yogurt in Nob Hill and then making the trek on the Bart train to Vinyl to browse LPs. It turned out Mom was an even bigger Beatles fan than Cleo (shocker).

  We had a great time and, miraculously, didn’t fight once. Mom did have to shake me out of daydreaming a couple times, mostly because I kept thinking about the bliss on Mr. Morgan’s face when he took his first bite of that BLT. I know a true bacon lover when I see one — the relish in their eyes as they catch the first scent of it sizzling, the smile sweeping across their face as they bite into a crisp strip fresh off the skillet. And I knew beyond a doubt that Mr. Morgan was a bacon lover.

  But I still wasn’t sure that would be enough to change anything.

  Just before school got out for the day, Mom dropped me off outside the Bayview entrance so I could walk to the Tasty Truck with Mei and fill her in. The instant she came out of the school doors, we were back in our daily routine, as if our fight had never happened. Except it wasn’t just the two of us anymore. Asher, Tristan, Ben, Leo, and Ann came with us, too, forming a posse of moral support around me. As we turned down Hyde Street, laughing and talking about my bait and switch with Mr. Morgan, I realized how much livelier and fun my after-school walk had suddenly become. When I’d started this semester, I’d been happy to have Mei as my only really close friend. But over the last few weeks, my circle of friends had grown, and now I couldn’t imagine what it would be like without any of them.

  When we were half a block away from the Tasty Truck, Asher nudged me and pointed ahead. “Guess who came back for a second helping?”

  I looked up to see Mr. Morgan standing at the Tasty Truck, chatting happily away with Cleo as he finished off another BLT.

  “He’s brave to show his face at the truck,” Tristan said. “I’m surprised Cleo’s actually feeding him.”

  “Maybe he comes in peace,” I said hopefully.

  “Do you think that’s possible for the Grinch Who Stole Flavorfest?” Mei asked.

  “Watch it,” Asher said half teasingly. “That may be my future stepdad you’re talking about.”

  There were groans and laughs, and Ben said, “Just what you need, another penthouse.”

  Then everyone was laughing, even Asher. But the laughter died down as we got to the truck, and Mr. Morgan came toward me.

  “Ah, the person I was looking for,” he said, extending his hand. “The savvy business girl after my own heart.”

  I shook his hand firmly. I hoped I could pull off a no-nonsense business-girl look while my knees were knocking.

  “Your aunt just gave me a tour of your Tasty Truck, and I have to admit, I’m impressed. It was spotlessly clean both inside and out. Even some of my own restaurant kitchens could take a lesson from that truck.”

  “Tha
nks,” I said nervously.

  He nodded. “But I’m even more impressed with the bravado of your little sandwich change-up at my office earlier,” he said. “At first, I couldn’t figure out how you timed your performance so perfectly with my schedule. But now …” He wagged a scolding finger jokingly at Asher. “I know.”

  Asher met Mr. Morgan’s eyes squarely. “We just wanted to give you a taste of what you might be missing if Flavorfest gets canceled.”

  “And,” I added, “to prove to you that food trucks can make food as delicious as any restaurant can.”

  Mr. Morgan nodded. “Well, it worked.” He straightened the lapels of his suit, as if he was prepping for a speech. “You don’t have to worry about Flavorfest anymore. It would be a downright sin to let that BLT lose its chance at the Flavorfest Best Award. So, I’m going to postpone the Taste of San Fran festival until next fall.” He smiled. “Flavorfest is back on for this Saturday!”

  A deafening cheer exploded from all of us, and everyone was high-fiving and dancing on the sidewalk. In my delirious joy, I grabbed the closest person in a fierce hug, then pulled away, flustered, when I realized it was Asher.

  “S-sorry,” I stammered, my cheeks burning.

  But Asher grinned. “Don’t be,” he said, looking pleased instead of embarrassed. I could feel someone else watching our exchange unfold, and when I glanced up, I saw it was Tristan. He was wearing a thoughtful, almost serious expression.

  Asher must’ve seen it, too, because he instantly stepped away from me self-consciously. Tristan dropped his eyes. I studied Asher and Tristan, trying to figure out what had just happened. Did Asher think Tristan liked me? Was he afraid of making Tristan jealous? I didn’t have any time to figure it out, because Mr. Morgan was clearing his throat and checking his cell phone.

  “I have some important meetings to get to,” he said now, “but I’m planning on being at Flavorfest next Saturday, and I expect the BLT to win.” He gave me a mock-serious look. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  I smiled. “I’ll do my best.”

  “See you later, Asher,” Mr. Morgan said to Asher a little stiffly. But there was something sweet about it, as if Mr. Morgan was nervous about Asher liking him. Maybe he wasn’t the worst guy in the world after all.

  Asher said bye to Mr. Morgan. He started to walk away, then turned back to Cleo and Gabe.

  “You know,” Mr. Morgan said. “I’ll take one more BLT for the road.”

  After he left, I let out an earsplitting whoop and Cleo leaned out the window to give me a high five. “We did it!” I cried.

  “You did it,” she said, grinning. “But, oh my god, do we have work to do now! We’ve got to get the word out to the other trucks that Flavorfest is back on. And now we only have five days to prep, and we’re not even close to ready.”

  “I’ll send out an e-mail blast to the other trucks right now,” Gabe said, his fingers already flying over his phone screen. “And we need to decide on our menu….”

  “About our menu,” I started. “Should we make it all bacon-themed for Flavorfest? I mean, it’s what everyone loves the most about our truck. And all the other food trucks in town have their specialties, like Signor Antonio’s gelato, and the Bisratis’ falafels. Why can’t our specialty be bacon? Bacon on everything, all the time?”

  “I’m totally into that,” Tristan piped up. “I’d eat my way through every single thing on the menu.” Ben nodded enthusiastically.

  Cleo and Gabe looked at each other, and wide grins broke out on both their faces.

  “A theme menu is a great idea,” Gabe said.

  “We can try it at Flavorfest,” Cleo said excitedly, “and if the menu gets a good response, then we can keep it permanently. But that means we have even more to do to get ready.”

  “So what are we waiting for?” Asher said. “Let’s get to work.”

  “Wow,” I said, staring at him in mock shock. “I never thought I’d hear you say those words.”

  “You finally corrupted me,” he said teasingly. “I’m ruined for life.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I replied with a grin. “But before we start, there’s something I need to do first.”

  I pulled out my cell phone, and she picked up on the first ring.

  “Mom?” I smiled into the phone. “You’re not going to believe what happened….”

  For the next few days, Cleo, Gabe, and I worked frantically to get the truck’s menu ready for Flavorfest. Our kitchen became bacon central. We tried over a dozen different bacon-themed sandwich and dessert recipes. By Friday, we were exhausted, but it was the satisfying kind of exhaustion that comes from working hard at something you love. Our menu was a masterpiece of bacon cuisine, and I thought we were prepared for anything and everything.

  But I wasn’t prepared for what happened after school on Friday afternoon. When Asher and I got to the Tasty Truck, Gabe met us at the back door, his face tight with worry. Gabe was usually so laid back. Just seeing him like this filled me with sudden dread.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “It’s Cleo,” Gabe started. “She wasn’t feeling good this morning….”

  “I know,” I said, my pulse quickening. “She said she didn’t want any breakfast because her stomach was bothering her.”

  Gabe nodded. “Well, it got worse, so your mom took her to the ER.”

  I gasped. “The hospital? Why?”

  “It’s appendicitis.” Gabe’s voice quavered. “Your mom just called a few minutes ago to tell me.”

  “Omigod,” I whispered, a cold clamminess shooting through me. “Will she be okay?”

  Gabe nodded, checking his watch. “She’s going into surgery right now, and I have to get over to the hospital. I was hoping you guys could close up the truck for me? Your dad’s on his way, too, and he can park it after you’re finished.”

  “Okay,” Asher said before I could manage to get the words out through the thick clouds of worry in my head.

  “There’s something else, too.” Gabe sighed. “We’re completely out of Cleo’s special sauce. I’m at a total loss. I don’t have the first clue how to make it, and I can’t exactly ask Cleo now that she’s about to be operated on. I’ll probably be at the hospital all night, so I don’t even have time to try to make the sauce. And there’s no way we can pull off Flavorfest without it.”

  “Doesn’t Cleo have a recipe for it?” Asher asked, glancing from me to Gabe.

  “She’s never written one down,” I said. “She keeps it all up here,” I added, pointing to my head.

  Gabe paused, seeming to think things over. “Maybe it would be better if we just dropped out.”

  “No!” I cried, so loudly that Gabe and Asher both stared at me. “We are not dropping out,” I continued, my heart racing. “We can’t do that to Cleo. The Tasty Truck needs Flavorfest too much.” I started pacing the length of the truck, feeling my worry transforming into fierce determination. “I’m going to fix this.”

  Asher raised a skeptical eyebrow. “How, exactly?”

  “I’m going to make the special sauce,” I said staunchly. “I’ll re-create the recipe.” Gabe and Asher shook their heads, but when I glared at them, they froze. “I can do it. I’ve watched her making it before, and I remember most of the ingredients she used. I just have to get the combo right….”

  “I don’t know,” Gabe said. “The judges will know if it tastes wrong….”

  “It won’t taste wrong,” I said adamantly. “It’ll be perfect, and we’ll have it in time for tomorrow. We’ll close up the truck, and then I’ll start working on the recipe.”

  “I’ll help,” Asher volunteered. I glanced at him in surprise, and he smiled. “Well, I’m not about to let you crash and burn alone.”

  “Thanks, I think,” I said with a laugh, and a sense of relief. “And we are not crashing and burning.” Then I turned to Gabe. “So?”

  The silence dragged on as I stared at him, waiting. Then, finally, Gabe gave a reluctant nod
. “Okay,” he said. “Give it a shot, and we’ll see what happens. But if the sauce isn’t perfect, we put the kibosh on Flavorfest. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Gabe grabbed his keys and headed for the door. “I’ll call as soon as I have news!” he yelled over his shoulder as he stepped off the curb to hail a cab.

  “Tell Cleo I love her!” I called to him.

  I took a deep breath, my fear and worry for Cleo threatening to turn me into a quivering wreck. But instead of giving in to it, I pushed it away and squared my shoulders. The best thing I could do for Cleo right now was find a way to make her sauce.

  “I’m sorry about Cleo,” Asher said, his brow furrowed with concern. “Are you okay?”

  “I have to be,” I said firmly. Cleo had always been the one person in my family who had faith in me. There was no way I could let her down now. Not when, for the first time ever, she needed my help more than I needed hers.

  “So,” Asher said, glancing dubiously at the small city of spices and condiments on my kitchen counter, “what do we do now?”

  “We blend,” I said. Even my worry and stress couldn’t keep the grin from my face as I put on my apron and grabbed my mixing bowl. This was my absolute favorite thing about cooking. Starting with the great unknown, then tossing dashes and sprinkles of spices haphazardly in a bowl until you slowly winnow them down into the perfect combination of flavors.

  Asher picked up his own bowl hesitantly. “Um, aren’t you going to tell me what to start with?”

  “Nope,” I said. “That’s the best part. It’s trial and error. A combination might be brilliant, or completely putrid. You just have to mix, then taste.”

  “But don’t you at least know some of what goes into the sauce?” Asher asked. “You said you’d seen Cleo make it before.”

  “Um, I might have exaggerated slightly when I said I knew what Cleo put in the sauce.” Asher’s frown deepened, and I tossed my hands up helplessly. “I couldn’t just tell Gabe that I didn’t know what I was doing. He would’ve given up! Now at least we have a chance.”