“He’s amazing. I don’t know if it’s his Basque blood, but he’s very talented.”
“Cool. You and I didn’t get a chance to talk at the reunion, but I run a restaurant, too.” A gull swooped down to scavenge on the ground under one of the tables. When two more tried to elbow in on it, the first one let out a menacing cry and raised its wings until they retreated. “It’s back in Indiana where I live.”
“Nice,” he said. “What do you feature?”
“Solid breakfast and lunch, but we offer specials every day and I try to get creative with those. Believe me, I’m taking home ideas from what Nacho Average Café offers. I want to try your bosillos, too. Hot pockets?”
He grinned. “Yes. Of course I couldn’t call them ‘hot pockets’ or big, bad giant Nestlé would slap a lawsuit on me faster than a herring gull snaps up abandoned Cheetos. And each of mine has a twist.”
“Well, I’m hungry. Give me two of your best twists.” I checked the menu on the side of the truck. “And a Mexican hot chocolate mini-cake, too, please.”
“Coming right up, amiga.”
Three minutes later I sat at a picnic table with a paper basket smelling like heaven. Hector’s truck still wasn’t busy, so I invited him to join me. He brought us each a cup of water and plopped down across from me, his eyes bright.
“This one is the Asian twist.” He pointed to the deep-fried turnover to the left. “And the other one’s Basque. I got the recipe from Paul.”
“I know nothing about Basque cooking,” I said, picking up that one. Hector had cut them in half, so I could see the contents.
“Taste it and tell me what’s inside,” he suggested.
The shell was light and crisp. I bit into an open end and chewed, rolling the textures and flavors in my mouth. I swallowed before speaking. “I’d say cod, olive oil, roasted sweet peppers, some potato?”
He nodded. “What else?”
I knew this was a game chefs played. I was happy to take part. “A garlic-tomato fusion.” I ran my tongue around the roof of my mouth, and leaned down to sniff the bosillo. “Maybe the peppers are an unusual variety, and I’d say the olive oil has to be some extraordinary local vintage.”
Hector snapped the fingers on both hands and pointed his index digits at me. “You got it, Robbie. The olive oil is made fifty miles from here on a small farm. It’s out of this world.” His face lost its luster and he frowned.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“It’s this cause of Paul’s.”
“He talked to me about his anti-fumigant campaign when I met him. My mom died two years ago, but she was working with him against the fumigant even then.”
“I’m sorry about your mom.” He gave me a sympathetic look.
“Thanks. So what about the cause?”
“A new strawberry farm has opened next to the olive ranch that makes the oil I use. The owners are super worried about spray drift from the fumigant Paul is fighting so hard against.”
I set down the pocket. “That’s bad. You can’t move trees.”
“No, you can’t.”
“Are you involved in the group, too?”
He shook his head as a couple of women on serious road bikes wearing brightly colored cycling outfits leaned their rides against the next table and stood in front of his truck, perusing the menu.
“No.” He stood. “Really nice talking with you, Robbie. Duty calls.” He held out his hand.
I shook it. “Same here. Watch out, I might be back. I’m around all week.”
“Do it.”
I bit into the other bosillo while it was still warm. This one was like a Vietnamese spring roll, with crunchy bean sprouts, tiny tender shrimp, and a light lime-soy flavor with an after-tease of hot pepper. Hector was a talented chef, no two ways about it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to get into deep frying in my restaurant, but for now? I was in foodie heaven.
Chapter 13
I strolled out onto the pier after I ate, waving good-bye to Hector as I tossed my food-stained paper trash into the can and deposited the empty paper cup in the recycling. California was way ahead of Indiana in that regard. I wasn’t sure I’d seen any public space outside Bloomington with recycling containers. I made short work of the mini-cake, a perfect small bite of spicy sweet after the savory lunch. It was like eating Mexican hot chocolate, a drink special I’d offered in my restaurant at Christmas two months ago.
Stearns Wharf had been an important addition to Santa Barbara’s economy when it was built in the 1870s. Deep-water ships could dock at it and unload cargo without having to shuttle it to shore through the waves. Since the 1950s it hadn’t been used for commercial fishing or trade, and now was a major tourist attraction instead. People still fished off the pier, but only for fun and their own use, and only in the prescribed areas, all of which were marked NO OVERHEAD CASTING. Good. The last thing strolling tourists needed was a hook in the head or worse.
I moseyed along until I came to the Blue Ocean Ice Cream Company. A tasty scoop in a sugar cone would make a perfect second dessert. The shop, which had been there forever, hadn’t had the greatest reputation for flavor or service when I was in high school. But I was on the pier, I wanted ice cream, and maybe they’d improved in ten years.
I walked out empty-handed a minute later. More than seven dollars for a single scoop? Nah. I’d hit up McConnell’s later. I knew they had high-quality product for less money. I popped onto a bench a little farther down and watched two men fish for mackerel over the side of the pier. Mom had brought me out here once when I was about eight and had been
