Page 13

“I’ve been dreaming about that damn oxtail.” Ebidiah rubs his belly and sighs as if a food genie just appeared to grant him three warm meals. “You haven’t made that one in a while.”
“Because oxtail is expensive out here. It’s cheaper to make stewed chicken.” I walk away from Ebidiah and return with a small folded table.
By this time, Ebidiah already has the tent set up. The spacious grey awning covers us both from the sun.
“I prefer oxtail,” Ebidiah says firmly, as if he’s the one buying my ingredients.
“Noted.” I step into the cover of the tent, put the table down, and wipe my sweat with the back of my hand. “I won’t be handing out any free plates of stew chicken then. I’ll respect your preferences.”
“I didn’t say that, Miss Nardi. I didn’t say that.” Ebidiah’s eyes fill with fright.
I chuckle. “I’m just messing with you. Thanks for setting up the tent. I’ll see you in…” I check my watch, “four hours?”
Ebidiah and I have an agreement. He’ll make himself scarce during the lunch rush and won’t beg my customers for spare change. In exchange, I’ll serve him a plate of food when everyone is gone.
It’s a subtle way to set up boundaries. As much as I want to help Ebidiah and others like him, having him around doesn’t necessarily convey the right image. It was already an uphill battle convincing people to give a street stall a chance. I need to be extremely clean to maintain my customers’ trust.
“I don’t think you’ll need four hours,” Ebidiah says.
Laughter bubbles within me. “You think so?”
“I know so! Anyone who tastes your delicious Caribbean food,” Ebidiah kisses his fingers, “immediately falls in love.”
“I appreciate the encouragement.”
Ebidiah steps back. “Alright, Miss Nardi. I’ll see you later.”
I wave goodbye to him and get busy setting out my rice and beans, stew oxtail, fried plantain, and gravy pots. Next, I make a plate, snap a photo and upload it to my social media page.
“What should I say?” I mutter. After a few seconds of contemplation, inspiration strikes and I tap out a message.
Belizean-style rice and beans, savory ox tail with lots of gravy, and Caribbean coleslaw. Come get it while it’s hot!
I tag my location, add a few emojis to sell the message and then click ‘post’.
Not long after, a few likes and comments roll in.
That looks soooo good!
I want a plate!
Save one for me, Nardi!
“No, I won’t,” I mutter, putting the phone away. When I first started selling, I believed every message I got online. I even set food aside per people’s request. Guess how many social media followers paid for those plates at the end of the day?
Zero.
Now, I only put plates aside for Ebidiah and customers who pre-pay.
Twenty minutes after setting up, my first customer arrives. He peers at the food and asks me what I’m selling. Since I don’t have a sign, I’m used to these kinds of inquiries and I give him all the information.
He takes two plates.
A few minutes later, more people start walking up to my tent.
Then a line forms.
I’m on my feet, hustling to spoon out rice and beans into takeout boxes for almost two hours. The longer the line gets, the more attention my tent seems to draw.