Chapter 4
“That is not how you prepare a proper slider!” comes a voice with a dramatic projection that evokes images of Shakespeare in the park. “Your technique is an insult to American cuisine!”
Watson’s ears swivel toward the noise like furry radar dishes as he tries to understand why humans insist on making so much noise when there’s perfectly good food going uneaten.
I’d like to know the very same thing.
Niki, Aunt Cat, Carlotta, our new friend Julia, and I all turn that way as we see a tall, lanky man, mid-forties but trying to look thirty, standing beside the rocket ship truck like a culinary superhero posing for his action figure.
His black hair is greased back. He’s donned aviator sunglasses that look pricey and a leather jacket that makes him look as if he’s auditioning for Top Gun: The Culinary Edition.
His food truck gleams like a silver bullet, complete with actual rocket fins welded to the back and racing stripes down the sides.
“Here we go,” Julia mutters, her maternal warmth evaporating faster than water on hot asphalt.
The target of his critique appears to be a petite woman with bright purple hair twisted into two buns that are giving strong Princess Leia meets farmers’ market energy. She pops out of a tie-dyed VW bus like Woodstock had a catering department and decided to get aggressive about it.
She looks to be in her late thirties, though her youthful energy and the way she bounces on her toes makes her seem younger.
Her arms are covered in vegetable tattoos—carrots, broccoli, and what appears to be a very detailed eggplant—and she’s wearing a tie-dyed chef’s coat that somehow manages to incorporate every color in the visible spectrum.
Multiple piercings catch the sunlight as she moves, creating tiny rainbows across her face.
Watson watches with fascination, and if his face is anything to go by, he’s absolutely convinced this is going to end with him getting fed.
“Listen here, Rocket Man,” the woman shoots back, her voice carrying a mellow aggression that says she practices yoga but could kick your rear if necessary. “My consciousness-raising cuisine is about nourishing the soul, not filling the stomach with processed mystery meats.”
“Consciousness-raising?” The man snorts, adjusting his aviators because he really does seem to think he’s starring in his own action movie. “You’re serving overpriced rabbit food to trust fund kids who think organic means expensive.”
Niki chuckles, and I swat her.
“Forget the fireworks; this is the real entertainment,” Carlotta says, rubbing her hands. “Who wants to take bets?”
Niki raises a hand, and I sink into my shoes.
Watson barks as if offering his own commentary, then returns to the serious business of trying to convince Julia to share more chicken. I’m about to convince her to do the same.
“They seem delightful,” I mutter, watching the argument escalate as other vendors start to gather around like spectators at a car wreck.
“Oh, that’s Larry Rocket from the silver truck,” Julia explains as if she’s witnessed this performance one too many times before.
“And the woman with the hippie bus is Sunshine Crumpet. Larry used to be a food critic before he decided to become the hothead of mobile cuisine. He’s not popular with the other vendors. ”
“I can see why,” I observe, as Larry’s voice rises another decibel.
“Let’s just say he’s made more enemies than friends since launching that gourmet food truck,” Julia sighs, refilling our chicken basket with a generosity I can never properly thank her for. “There are plenty of people who wouldn’t shed a tear if he choked on his own pretentious attitude.”
Watson looks up at Julia with those sad puppy-dog eyes of his, hoping the chicken refill comes with additional sampling opportunities for well-behaved pooches. She drops a piece of chicken his way, and he growls with relief as he gobbles it down like a raccoon on a trash can bender.
“Well,” Niki announces with glee as she continues to stare at the chaotic couple, “I’m going to go sample some of that consciousness-raising cuisine. Anyone else curious about whatever Sunshine’s selling?”
“I’ll check out the rocket ship,” Carlotta says, “and see what all the fuss is about.”
“And I’ll go mingle,” Aunt Cat adds, eyeing the crowd for potential entertainment options that happen to be male. “This place is full of interesting characters, and by interesting characters, I mean tasty men.”
“You mean interesting men,” Julia replies.
“I said what I said.” Aunt Cat winks her way.
Before I can protest that we should stick together, they scatter like pool balls after a hard hit, leaving me standing next to Julia, along with Watson, who’s acquired what appears to be a tiny flag on a toothpick and is wearing it like an antenna on the side of his hat. I have to admit, the kid has style.
“Well, your aunts seem energetic,” Julia says with a laugh.
“That’s one way to put it,” I agree, watching Aunt Cat sashay into the crowd with enough hip action to light up a strip club. Although at her age, she won’t be garnering too many dollar bills.
Watson nudges my hand with his cold nose, reminding me that I still have half a piece of chicken that requires proper disposal—preferably into his mouth.
The argument at the other end of the culinary chaos goes on undeterred, as Larry and Sunshine draw even more spectators to them.
I’m debating whether to intervene or just enjoy the show when I spot Larry breaking away from the group, his face flushed with anger beneath his aviators.
Watson lets out a soft whine, his little flag antenna drooping like even he can tell something’s about to go spectacularly sideways for me—and probably soon. I’m about due.
Larry stalks toward a quieter area near the lake, and I watch as another figure emerges from the crowd—a man I don’t recognize but who’s clearly agitated about something.
The man is short and round with a stocky build that assures us he’s spent decades sampling his own cooking and that of others.
He’s somewhere in his seventies, based on the silver threading in his handlebar mustache that dominates his weathered face.
His thinning hair is mostly hidden under a vintage trucker hat, and he’s wearing what appears to be a grease-stained vintage bowling shirt stretched tight across his substantial belly.
Despite his rotund appearance, he moves with the confident stride of a man who’s spent considerable time lifting heavy objects—possibly other people who’ve annoyed him. His meaty hands look like they could flip a burger or flip a person with equal efficiency.
“I should probably...” I start to say to Julia, but she’s already distracted by a customer asking about her colonial cornbread catastrophe, leaving me free to drift closer to where Larry and the mystery man are having a very intense conversation about something that involves a lot of pointing and aggressive hand gestures.
Watson follows along, his festive accessories making tiny jingling sounds as we move. He seems less enthusiastic about this particular adventure, staying closer to my legs than usual.
I’m pretending to examine a nearby display of patriotic popsicles when Larry suddenly staggers, his aviators sliding down his nose as he clutches at his chest with all the subtlety of a bad medical drama.
Watson immediately backs up, his tail tucked and his ears flattened. Dogs always know when something’s wrong before humans figure it out. Although in this case, I may have had him beat.
“What the—” Larry’s eyes go wide with a reaction you’d expect from a love letter from the IRS, or finding out your ex-boyfriend is dating your sister. Okay, so that last one was me. And after discovering what a cheat he was, I penned her a thank-you note.
Larry Rocket, food critic turned gourmet food truck owner, staggers forward and collapses at my feet like a marionette whose strings have been cut, hitting the ground with a thud that somehow manages to be both final and accusatory.
Clutched in his right hand is a half-eaten ramekin of what appears to be Julia’s Paul Revere’s patriotic corn pudding, the tiny Liberty Bell design still visible on the ceramic despite the pudding scattered across the grass.
Watson gives a sharp and alarmed bark, his flag antenna wobbling as he backs away from the suddenly still figure. He looks up at me with worried brown eyes, as if asking what we should do now.
The mystery man has vanished into the crowd like smoke, leaving me standing over Larry’s body with what I’m pretty sure looks like guilt written across my face in permanent marker.
“Well,” I mutter to Watson, whose Uncle Sam hat has slipped completely over his eyes, “there goes our peaceful festival. And I didn’t even get to try the enlightenment eggplant.”
Watson whimpers in agreement, and I realize that once again, I’m about to become the prime suspect in a murder I didn’t commit.
Some traditions never get old.