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Every time I come up for air, I see more people waiting.
Uh-oh.My eyes jump from the food to the line. There’s no way I have enough food to feed them all.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the next customer. “I’m sold out.”
She pinches her eyebrows together. “But I see rice in there.”
“Yes, that’s called ‘rice bun’.”
“Bun? As in the pastry?”
“Not exactly. It’s a Belizean Kriol term for ‘burnt’. It means it’s not the best part of the cooked rice.”
“I don’t care. I didn’t wait this long for nothing.”
“But it won’t taste the same.”
She gives me an ‘are you stupid?’ look and rolls her eyes. “I still want it.”
If you insist…
I get to work. Thetsk, tsksound of my iron spoon scraping against the iron rice pot clangs loudly in the air. I scrape the rice that burned off the sides of the pot and serve it.
The customer behind her asks for the same. There’s barely enough ‘dregs’ for one more plate, but the woman insists. So I dish out the burnt rice, ox tail mashings, and plantain until there’s not a grain of rice or a drip of stew left.
“I’m all out,” I tell the next person in line. Leaning over, I call out to the others. “The food is finished!”
The customers grumble and shoot me evil eyes.
“Sorry! Sorry!” I call out as they disperse. “Follow me at ‘Nardi’s Belizean Meals On The Go’. I’m on all the social media sites. You can pre-order too.”
Finally, I’m alone.
With a sigh, I flop into the little plastic chair and check the time. My eyes bug. Is this real?
I sold out in less than five hours.
That’s insane.
Eventually, I’ll have to think about expanding, renting out an actual kitchen and not just using my stove, hiring help to deal with the customers, buying more pots so I can double my output.
But not right now.
The heat is getting to me.
The apron sticks to the sweat on my neck.
As I sit and fan myself with a hand, the adrenaline rush fades and exhaustion sets in. My legs and arms ache, not just from setting up and selling the food but from stirring a giant pot of rice in the wee hours of the morning. Black spots dance in front of my eyes and I put my head down.
Note to self, don’t work overtime and then wake up at four am to cook.
“Miss Nardi, you okay?” The question is followed by a whiff of an awful scent. I don’t need to look up to know who’s approached my table.
“Thanks, Ebidiah. I just need a minute.”
The stench gets even stronger and I figure Ebidiah’s tiptoed closer.
In a low voice, he asks, “You want a blunt? It’ll help with the headache.”