The Way You Make Me Feel(73)



“And humble,” added Rose.

Hamlet threw an arm around my dad. “You’re welcome, Adrian, although all I did was help today.”

My dad threw me a sly look. “You’ve helped in other ways.”

For Pete’s sake.

Suddenly, there was a rap on the window. We froze and Rose came to her senses first, rushing over with a huge smile, ready to charm. “Hi there!”

I scrambled to the stove and took the food out of the oven where we had stuck it to stay warm. My dad and Hamlet ferried the plates over to the window, and Rose handed them drinks.

“Here you go,” my dad said. “I’m gonna hop out to explain what you’re eating there.” We watched as my dad stepped out of the truck and shook hands with the three judges. One was the food editor for a local magazine, one a restaurateur from France, and the other was food critic Stephen Fitch. I held in a squeal at seeing him in person. Pai gave them the rundown on the menu, then stepped back to let them eat the food.

The food editor, a tall Japanese American woman in her fifties, took a bite out of the pastel, and her eyes lit up. The muscular, bearded Frenchman ate a forkful of the lombo and chewed thoughtfully, giving nothing away with his expression. And Stephen Fitch dug into the picanha with gusto, his eyebrows raised as soon as the spice hit him.

A pool of sweat was practically gathered at my feet. I turned away and drank some water to distract myself. Rose did the same. Hamlet kept his head close to the window, watching everything.

Finally, we heard them thank my dad and move on. We got out of the truck and joined him outside. The afternoon sun was dropping lower into the sky, and the hottest part of the day had passed. A jazz band was playing not too far off and a breeze rustled the leaves of the eucalyptus trees.

We sat down, tired and relieved to be done. With the judges still making the rounds of the next few trucks, we had a minute to cool off and catch our breath. It was then that I realized I was starving. I went into the truck to plate some food, and we ate in amiable silence. The last twenty-four hours of emotional turmoil had caught up to all of us, it seemed.

Another air horn blare startled us. The voice came over the megaphone again, “We have a winner! All contestants please meet in the middle of the lot for the announcement!”

Gah! We ran to where everyone was gathered. The crowd was filled with nervous energy, and I looked over at the line of people next to me and squeezed Hamlet’s hand really hard. Please, please, please. For my dad. He deserves it. Please. I didn’t even know who I was pleading with.

The hopeful expression on my dad’s face was unbearable, so I looked at the judges lined up in front of us instead. Stephen Fitch picked up the megaphone and cleared his throat before speaking. “Thank you so much to the contestants this year. As predicted, this was a really difficult task. The food of this city is better than ANY OTHER CITY in the world!” Everyone cheered. “It represents the beating heart of LA: the people.” I felt myself choking up—thinking about how my dad’s love for me had always been tied to food. How I identified with my city through the different flavors of the cultures brought over here by families around the world. By brave people like my dad.

And it hit me then—how much home mattered to me and my dad. How it had kept us anchored through so much uncertainty.

“And so let me just cut to the chase. The winner of this year’s LA food truck competition is—Chili Today, Hot Tamale!”





CHAPTER 35

I dropped Hamlet’s hand.

The winners were screaming and jumping up and down. Some were in tears. I’d be in tears, too. That was a boatload of money.

My dad took off his cap, ran a hand through his hair, then walked toward the truck. Rose cried, “What! That hunk of junk won over us! Completely unfair!” Several people looked over at us. Oh my God, Rose was the sorest loser on this planet.

My dad came over, put a hand on her shoulder, and said, “Hey. That’s enough, Rose.” She looked like she wanted to argue, but one look at my dad’s crestfallen expression made her stop. When he walked to the truck, she followed him.

My chest hurt witnessing this sadness, and I turned to talk to Hamlet. But he was a few feet away talking to Stephen Fitch. When Hamlet caught my eye, he waved me over.

“Are you Adrian Shin’s daughter?” Stephen asked me, his wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose a bit.

I nodded, not able to speak for a second. “Yeah. Yes. I am.”

“Your dad’s food is just excellent,” he said enthusiastically, reaching out for my hand. “I want to talk to him. Can you introduce us?”

Trying to remain cool and collected, I brushed a lock of hair away from my face. “Oh sure. Uh, he’s in the truck. Follow me, please.” Out of view, I shot Hamlet a look. His eyes were wide and he mouthed, What’s happening?

I shrugged and hurried ahead of Stephen to warn my dad.

“Pai!” I hollered as soon as I got to the truck.

He looked up from wiping down the counter, his expression grim and irritated. “What?” he snapped.

“Stephen Fitch would like to speak to you,” I said. “That’s all,” I hissed quietly, nudging him in the ribs.

“What?” Confusion clouded his features as he peered outside. Then he paled. Wiping his hand hastily on a towel, he stepped outside and I followed.

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