Fry Another Day (15 page)

We scrambled trying to get the generator up and running again. It seemed as though it had been affected by the storm, but Uncle Saul said it was just a power surge in the generator.

The thunderstorm raged around us, soaking us as we messed with the generator trying to get it started. When we finally had power again, Ollie and Delia came back, drenched, no sales, and all the biscuit bowls soggy with water.

“What now?” Ollie took off his T-shirt and wrung the water out of it.

“Wow.” Delia admired Ollie's muscular physique when he'd taken off his shirt. “You work out?”

“Two hours most days.” He preened a bit for her to admire his arms and back.

“You're in
great
shape.” She touched his chest.

“Thanks.” He examined her carefully from her feet to her hair. “You, too!”

“Thanks. I don't work out but I'm careful what I eat.”

As she said that, I saw two members of the Chooey's Sooey food truck team passing by with umbrellas. Apparently they didn't believe the race organizers were going to shut down for the rain, either.

“I wish we had umbrellas.” I shook my head for not thinking ahead that the weather could go bad.

“I could take Miguel's car and go get some,” Delia volunteered.

“That's true. We could use GPS to find a store close by. It's too early for much to be open downtown.”

“What about a drugstore?” Uncle Saul asked. “There's always one of those open twenty-four hours, and they probably have umbrellas.”

“Good idea.” I gave Delia my credit card. “Hurry! We don't have much time.”

She took the keys to the Mercedes and my credit card and left.

“She's never gonna get back in time.” Ollie looked out the customer window.

I kept making strawberry filling. “What else can we do?”

Uncle Saul retained his equanimity. “They're gonna have to give everyone an extra hour or something. You'll see. No need to fret over it in any case. You can only do what you can do.”

Chef Art's assistant popped in from the back of the food truck. “He sent me with these umbrellas.” She began speaking before she could catch her breath. In her hands were two large red and white umbrellas with Chef Art's face and logo on them. “He says to tell you the challenge isn't changing for the storm.”

“Thanks, Lacie.” I took off my apron. “We're going out, Uncle Saul. You've got the kitchen. I'll take Ollie and the change with me. Call Delia and have her come back. Good luck.”

He laughed. “Good luck to you, too!”

The umbrellas were the huge beach-type ones. They weighed a ton but covered a large area. I couldn't balance one of them with the tray of biscuit bowls. It was a good thing Ollie was so much taller than me. He held the umbrella over both of us while I walked close to him.

“I was afraid of this.” Ollie inclined his head toward the nearly empty, rain-soaked city street. “No one wants to hang around and buy food during a thunderstorm.”

I knew he was right, especially when a lightning strike close by made me afraid we might become kebabs holding onto the metal umbrella.

As I was agreeing with him, I saw Patrick running up the sidewalk. His assistant was trying to hold an umbrella over his head. Lights came on, and the cameraman began taping another personal segment for the race.

“Zoe Chase, owner of the Biscuit Bowl from Mobile, Alabama, what is your next move during the thunderstorm? You only have”—he glanced at his watch—“ten minutes to meet the challenge of selling a hundred dollars in upside-down biscuit bowls for change.”

“Actually, we assumed the challenge would be postponed until the storm was over,” I said. “It makes more sense than all of us standing out here while the people we're trying to sell to are running into buildings to get away.”

He laughed. “Then why are you out here?”

“Because I realized making sense wasn't what the race is about. I don't know if any of us are going to make the challenge, but we're out here, Patrick. I guess we'll see where it goes from there.”

The camera followed my gesture toward the street where a few people were hurrying to get out of the storm.

“Thanks, Zoe.” He put down the microphone and shivered as the lights and camera went off. “Let's get in the RV,” he said to his cameraman. “It's nasty out here.”

Patrick gave us a salute and ran off again.

“We might as well take off, too,” Ollie said.

A city bus pulled up to the curb. It was packed with commuters.

I saw Sarah and Daryl run up to the door where people were making their way off. They immediately started selling their cupcakes for twenty-five cents each. A few hands reached out to exchange their quarters for cupcakes.

Brilliant!

“Let's do it,” I said to Ollie.

“We can't sell enough biscuit bowls here to make the hundred-dollar challenge,” he remarked.

“We can't, but we can stay good in the standings for trying. We'll take the back door.”

I knew Ollie was right. I also knew we could sell more if the weather cleared, but why waste this opportunity in case it didn't?

A few of the disembarking passengers were grumpy at being detained while Ollie made change for the biscuit bowls so they could pay with quarters, dimes, and nickels. A few pushed around our customers who wanted what we were selling. I was surprised when the bus was empty to find that we had sold all but one biscuit bowl.

“What are we doing about getting more?” Ollie asked. “I can go back and get them, but if I leave the umbrella with you, they'll get soaked on the way. If I don't, you'll get soaked.”

“There's no time left anyway.” Sarah and Daryl ran by us on their way back to their food truck. “Let's go back together.”

I saw other teams heading in with umbrellas. We'd made about twenty dollars. I knew Sarah and Daryl had probably done about the same. There might not be a winner for that one.

“We have to focus on getting the second challenge,” I told my team when we reached the Biscuit Bowl. Delia was back, and in an apron, wearing Chef Art's hat. She was helping Uncle Saul make chicken salad.

“I've got another tray ready to go and biscuits in the oven,” he said. “Are you going back out?”

“We have to try and find someone for the taste test if we want to go on.” I shook the water out of my shoes. “I don't want to go home from here.”

Uncle Saul handed me the next tray of biscuit bowls, half of them chicken and half of them strawberry. “We'll get the next tray ready. You all be careful out there. You're walking around in a thunderstorm holding a lightning rod.”

“Better than a trayful of soggy biscuit bowls,” I told him with a smile.

Ollie and I went back out on the street. The rain had become lighter as the morning had moved on. The sky behind the big downtown buildings was a swirl of storm clouds that didn't look as though it was about to move off. All we could do was keep going and pray for a miracle.

Ollie had found a way to put the rest of the change into a money bag that he'd stuffed into the pocket of his waterproof jacket.

“What now?” He looked around.

The streets were as devoid of foot traffic as they were before. People from the food trucks stood around us trying to decide how to get a customer to come back with them. The cameras were rolling, even though Patrick wasn't out there. I thought we must all look a little pathetic standing around holding our food and not finding anyone to sell to.

The rain had lightened to a drizzle. There were plenty of cars in the street, filled with curious people staring at us. An Atlanta police officer was out there keeping an eye on things. There wasn't much to see, but for the life of me, I couldn't think what else we could do.

“Give me two biscuit bowls,” Ollie said. “One strawberry. One chicken. Let's see if we can't drum up some business.”

I watched as he ran out into the street at a crosswalk as the light changed to red. He went from car to car with his captive audience. I couldn't tell if he was selling or not until he waved to me.

I ran out into the street with him. The police officer shouted, “That's what the crosswalk is for,” but didn't try to stop me.

“Give me a strawberry biscuit bowl for this lovely lady in yellow.” Ollie rolled his eyes at me, but he was smiling as he made change for the woman.

“Thank you. This is wonderful,” she said. “Now I don't have to go out for lunch.”

The light turned green. Ollie and I were stuck in the middle of the intersection with cars going by on both sides.

“This could work,” I enthused. “You're the best for thinking of it.”

“I'm not just good-looking, you know. I'm smart, too.” He took two biscuit bowls from the tray.

By the time the light had turned red again, all of the food truck vendors were in the street. Ollie was working car to car. I followed him with the rapidly disappearing tray of biscuit bowls. When the light turned green again, we were out of product.

“I'll run back and get more.” I was excited that we'd found a way around the problem.

“I don't think you need to.” He pointed toward the sidewalk where a woman in a green Honda was parked. She waved to him. “I think we have our product review for the taste test! I told everyone who bought a biscuit what we needed. She agreed.”

Ollie told the woman where to pull her car, and we walked her to the cool-down tent like she was precious cargo. I could see she was flustered and embarrassed, but she went through with it, giving us a glowing video review for our strawberry biscuit bowls.

“We met the extra challenge,” he said after walking the woman back to her car and giving her a chicken salad biscuit bowl to say thanks. “That's pretty good, right?”

“I don't know. I guess we'll see. It shows initiative, right? I think a lot of teams are going to be washed out.” I hoped so anyway.

We took our money to the cool-down tent as Roy Chow and Reverend Jablonski were taking theirs in, too. Some of the sponsors were there, along with the producers and Patrick Ferris.

I didn't know how this was going to come out, since we didn't make enough money but had completed the review.

After a few minutes of conferring and checking things out, Patrick announced what they'd decided. “Because of the bad weather, no team sold enough to meet the challenge. We had two teams who made the taste-test challenge, the Biscuit Bowl and Our Daily Bread.”

There was appropriate applause, mostly from the producers' assistants.

“We have a question for the Biscuit Bowl team and the Our Daily Bread team,” Patrick said. “You can take your thousand dollars now or use that win to improve your standing in the race. Your decision.”

It was a no-brainer for me. “We'll use the money to improve our standing.”

“So will we,” Reverend Jablonski said.

“Then it looks like we have a tie for the winner of the second challenge,” Patrick said. “No team will take home the thousand dollars for the taste-test challenge.”

“So what do we do in case of a tie?” Jablonski asked.

The sponsors conferred with the producers. They gave their decision to one of their assistants, who delivered it to Patrick.

“Come on. Come on.” Ollie urged them to move faster. “Who wins?”

“The decision has been made to break the tie using the taste-test videos from each of you. We're going to show the videos again, and whoever has the best compliments about their food wins.”

“Like what?” Ollie asked.

“Words.” Patrick fumbled trying to explain. “
Good. Excellent. Delicious.
That kind of thing.”

We watched our video again and then Our Daily Bread's customer video. I couldn't tell much difference. But Our Daily Bread was declared the winner of the tie.

Ollie and Chef Art protested the decision. It still put us in the number two slot, so I was happy. All we had to do was hang in there until Reverend Jablonski messed up and the race was ours.

Chef Art, immaculate as always in his white linen suit, winked and nodded at me. I knew he was pleased despite his protests. It had been a difficult challenge in the bad weather. We were still doing better than the other teams, which meant someone else was going to be sent home.

There were high fives between the two ministers representing Our Daily Bread. Everyone was excited and congratulating one another.

Now that the challenge was over, I was starting to worry about Miguel. I thought we would have heard something from him by then. I had hoped he'd be back already.

It made me feel guilty. I'd been so worried about winning the race, I'd forgotten all about him until that minute. I wanted to help him, but I wasn't a lawyer. I hoped he'd called someone who knew what to do. All I could think to do was to go to the police station and demand his release.