June fourth! The grand opening of Mr. and Mr. on Wheels!
For weeks, Steve had been blogging to his followers to save the date. And they had saved it! When Steve opened the serving window at 11:00 a.m., a line of impatient New Yorkers had already queued up in front of the truck.
On the first day, there was about an equal number of orders for meat loaf sandwiches and empanadas. Many customers wanted both. Bick made a mental note to add a combo plate option to the menu.
Bick and Steve agreed they would serve fresh, homemade condiments to their customers. Steve had created a spicy carrot salsa and Bick came up with a BBQ ketchup recipe from scratch. The condiments were a hit.
After the first few days of operation, when they ran out of everything before closing time, they learned on the fly how to manage the inventory.
At one end of the counter near the oven, Bick prepared meat loaf orders. At the other end, Steve hovered over the deep fryer with the empanadas. They took turns passing the orders to customers. Typically by noon, both chefs were hyper-stressed. Voices were routinely raised, and regrettable things were said. But customers kept coming.
During their second week of business, Steve got the idea to put Gracie and Jerard’s business cards on a small display stand next to the condiments tray. Bick was not happy about it.
“It clutters up the serving window space. And how will dog therapists help to promote the food truck?”
“It’s just a short-term way of doing outreach to potential clients,” Steve said. “I know some of our customers work at the senior centers around here. And there’s New York-Presbyterian Hospital over there on William Street.”
“We’ll see,” Bick said dismissively.
The display stand stayed.
By the time the daily lunch rush was over at 2:30, the two of them had usually succumbed to at least a few episodes of flash friction. These daily flare-ups intensified Bick’s tendency to obsess about personal hygiene.
“Don’t think I don’t notice you cutting corners,” he’d say to Steve. “I read about salmonella outbreaks. We could have one, if we’re not careful.”
* * *
One evening after work, Bick was in a nuclear state of paranoia about sanitation.
“Steve, when was the last time you cleaned your navel with rubbing alcohol?” Bick demanded. “I mean, really poked around with a cotton swab.”
Steve had just come out of the bathroom after a shower. It had been a long, sweaty day in the food truck and this was not a question he expected before dinnertime. Bick’s fearmongering was wearing thin.
“Ah … let me think, Bick … how many times have I cleaned my navel with rubbing alcohol … that would be … never! Why are you interrogating me about my belly button?”
Bick ignored Steve’s question and continued.
“Well then, are you at least scrubbing the mites from your eyebrows?”
Steve stared at Bick and saw that he was serious.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Tired and hungry, Steve was in no mood to listen to a rant about hygiene. “Mites? In my eyebrows? That is gross. No dinner for me. I’ve lost my appetite.”
He went to the bedroom and sent Jessica a text:
HE’S TRULY BECOMING UNHINGED ABOUT THIS HYGIENE CRAP.
Bick followed Steve into the bedroom. “All I’m saying is we have to be extra vigilant now that we’re serving food to the public. If the New York City Health Department comes in and shuts us down, neither one of us will be happy.”
“Well, I really doubt that swabbing my belly button or scrubbing my eyebrows will make any difference to the Health Department. You’re being ridiculous!”
To change the subject, Steve opened his blog on his phone.
“Check it out,” Steve said proudly. “Mr. and Mr. on Wheels is getting a lot of followers on social media.” He showed Bick some of the rave reviews.
Bick did not follow social media, but it took him only a second to notice the typo.
“Meat load? Really, Steve?” Bick’s voice oozed with sarcasm. “That does sound appetizing! Miss, we have a special on meat load today,” he mimicked. “How many orders of delicious meat load would you like?”
Steve grabbed his phone away from Bick. “You know I’m not the world’s best speller.”
“That’s an understatement,” Bick said. “Although I notice you always spell empanada correctly.”
“Because it’s the food of my heritage, that’s why.”
* * *
Bick monitored Steve discreetly—or so he thought—to see if his partner followed his instructions regarding glove use in the truck. He had placed a large box of surgical gloves on the counter next to the aluminum foil dispenser. One morning, Bick reminded Steve three times to change his gloves.
“You need to put on a fresh pair of sterile gloves before each new task,” he told Steve. “Biofilm is caused by a buildup of bacteria. We cannot allow biofilm in our truck. Proper glove rotation is necessary,” Bick said in his pronounce-y voice.
“You keep talking about the damn biofilm. Where is it? No, don’t tell me. Just please stop with the spying. I do notice that you watch me.”
Annoyed, Steve stepped outside for a quick breath of fresh air. The squabbles with Bick wore him down. He decided to confront Bick about his nagging. The issue was not just the gloves. It was the continual scrutiny and criticism about his clothes, his spelling, his photography and dog therapy interests. These were sparks from Bick that stoked embers of resentment.
Steve took a few deep breaths and watched the honking downtown traffic crushing its way toward the bridges. He was about to step back into the truck when Jessica called.
“Hey, Jess. What’s goin’ on?”
Jessica breathed heavily into Steve’s ear.
“I’m working out on the elliptical.”
“Uh, huh.” Steve listened to his sister while he absentmindedly pressed his index finger along each eyebrow, then examined his fingertip up close. He made a mental note to tell Bick he was mite-free. “How’s your yoga class?” he asked.
Jessica took a deep breath.
“It’s fine, for now. I’m not sure if I’ll keep going. There’s a skinny chick in my class who is soooo disruptive. When everyone is doing their cat-cows, she stops and does push-ups and squats. Who does that?”
Jessica’s breathing was louder and heavier now, but she pressed on.
“After class, she gets on the phone with her boyfriend, covering her mouth with her hand. It’s stuff I don’t care to hear. Last time I stared at her and said, ‘Just so you know, I can hear every word you’re saying.’”
“Uh, huh.” Steve checked his watch. “Jess, I have to …”
“Wait. One more question. How’s it going in the truck? Is Bick driving you bonkers yet?”
“Ah, let’s just say we haven’t embraced the concept of confined cooking yet.”
“Oh,” Jessica said. “You’re still fighting, then.”
“Jess, I really have to go. Later, okay?” Steve shoved the phone in his pocket and stepped back inside the truck.
“I was just about to come out and get you,” Bick said. “You’ve touched your phone, so put on fresh gloves.”
Bick took a large pan of meat loaf from the oven and inhaled the hot, beefy aroma.
“It was Jess,” Steve said, grabbing gloves from the glove box. “Nothing important, as usual.”
“By the way, I posted some rules by the deep fryer. As a reminder,” Bick said casually.
Steve scanned the poster. A hygiene manifesto.
“Yeah, okay.” He brought a batch of empanadas to the fryer. What will he think of next …
* * *
By the time they got home from their long hours in the truck, Bick and Steve were exhausted. When they kicked off their clogs by the front door, and snapped the dogs off their leashes, Gracie, Jerard, and Oliver hurried to their bowls to wait for the kibble bag to come out. Dogs ate first.
There was a package addressed to Bick waiting in the mail room. He had ordered several more boxes of gloves and three more gallons of laboratory-grade isopropyl alcohol.
“This stuff is great, 99% pure. It’s the cheapest way for us to keep everything germ free,” Bick declared. “I’ll pour some into smaller spray bottles to keep handy in the truck.”
“Sure,” Steve said. I can hardly wait.
Steve’s blog had more than a thousand followers, none of whom seemed to care about seeing a smattering of typos. Bick never read Steve’s blog. Steve had corrected the meat load typo but was now advertising a daily Meet Loaf Sandwich.
New Yorkers were known to be fastidious devourers of the latest food trends. Bick planned to expand the meatloaf menu to include vegetarian and vegan options. He had three new meat loaf recipes in the works—buffalo, tempeh, and turkey—variations that his mother would not recognize and certainly not condone. But, you had to adapt or die. That’s what people said.
Every day, Steve posted new food photos and a list of the daily menu specials. He was supposed to be working on a gluten-free empanada, as well as a keto version, but hadn’t gotten around to it.
“I’ve added a watch this space section to my blog,” Steve said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “That’s a start.”
Bick made no effort to conceal a fake smile.
“And by the way,” Steve continued, “I quit the posture class. It was a waste of time. I’m too busy.”
“The posture class was for your benefit,” Bick said.
Steve turned away, rolled his eyes, and raised a middle finger where Bick couldn’t see it.
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