Chapter Text
Johnny should’ve known this day was going to be a bad one from the moment he woke up to discover he overslept. The alarm clock on his bedside table blinks 12:00, a sure sign that the power must have gone out and back on at some point during the night. He stares at it for a second then ponders the full bright daylight streaming in through the window, glinting off the aluminum beer can that sits half-full beside his alarm clock. Then he says, “Shit,” and scrambles up and out of bed.
He’s late to work, a diner in Reseda, for the third time in the past month he’s been working there as a line cook. The chef, Phil, a short but burly guy with tattooed knuckles, is predictably unhappy about this.
“Come on, Phil,” Johnny attempts to bargain. Phil chops an onion menacingly. “I’ll stay late today. Come early tomorrow. My power went out so my alarm clock didn’t go off. Just bad luck.”
“Why don’t you set an alarm on your phone?” interjects Luis, a twenty-year-old dishwasher who’s incapable of minding his own business.
Johnny glances to him in confusion. “An alarm on a phone? What are you talking about?”
The diced onion hits the hot range with a hiss. Phil wipes the blade of the knife on his apron and turns to Johnny. “You’re either not here or you’re drunk.”
“Luis is drunk!” Johnny points out.
“Luis is here,” Phil says. “This was your last strike.”
“Fine,” Johnny says. “This place sucks anyway.”
On his way out of the kitchen, he snatches a strip of bacon from the grill, scalding his fingers in the process, but it’s worth it.
Over the years, Johnny’s held a lot of different jobs at a lot of different restaurants all over the valley: a midrange steakhouse, beachside seafood, a handful of burger joints, a Mexican restaurant, diners and fast food to fill in the gaps. He likes the work and he’s good at it. He’s not as skilled at showing up on time, showing up sober, and not getting in fights when he does. At this point, with no good references and lots of bad blood, it’s harder and harder to find something new when he screws up his latest gig.
That day, Johnny stops by a gas station on the way home to pick up a newspaper and a six-pack of Coors. He cracks one open in the parking lot, sitting behind the wheel, while he pages through the classifieds. It’s a whole lot of nothing; a bunch of restaurants he’s already worked at, and is now all but banned from walking through the door. Some days it feels like the whole world is pitted against him.
He pauses and glances up because he smells something good wafting through the cracked windows of his Firebird. There’s a food truck parked across the lot, a small line of customers queued up for lunch.
Maybe not the entire world is pitted against him. Johnny hops out of his car and goes to get in line. The menu’s written on a chalkboard on the side of the truck, and there’s a jar stuffed with tips among some crusty barbecue sauce bottles. Three guys work inside, one at the grill tending to the sizzling meat, one assembling the sandwiches, the third taking orders. Johnny orders a pulled pork sandwich with coleslaw, hands over a few bills and steps aside to wait.
As he watches the three of them inside, he starts to get an idea.
“How much does a truck like this put you out?”
The cashier considers as he restocks napkins. “Maybe eight grand… something like that. Fifteen with all the equipment.”
Hell of a lot cheaper than renting retail space, just about anywhere in the valley.
“And you’re your own boss?” Johnny asks. “Free to work when you want, where you want?”
“No, he’s my boss,” the cashier says, nodding to the guy at the grill behind him, who laughs. The cashier reaches to hand Johnny his sandwich in a paper boat.
“Thanks.”
Johnny goes back to his car to eat, watching as customers come and go from the truck.
Later in the week, Johnny meets his stepdad Sid and—his nurse? Personal caretaker? Johnny’s still not sure what her actual job is, other than to argue with him—Rhonda at a Japanese place on Ventura for lunch. Johnny’s never been here, but the interior is minimalist and modern, wood paneled walls, and neatly trimmed bonsai trees everywhere—explaining the namesake of the restaurant, he supposes: Bonsai Sushi.
Johnny’s not actually a big fan of sushi, but he’s not paying and it wasn’t his choice. But when the waitress comes to take orders, it seems like Sid isn’t a fan either so maybe Rhonda’s really calling the shots. Sid and Johnny eventually muddle through their orders and they’re left alone to talk.
Sid fixes him with a stern look, beady eyes under his wiry gray brows, and says, “So you lost another job? And now I bet you’re gonna ask me for more money.”
“No, actually–” Johnny starts on instinct before he remembers that his plan actually was to try to get some money. But not a handout. An investment. He pauses and starts again. “No, I left that job because I’m sick of working for the man. I’m gonna be my own boss.”
Sid and Rhonda exchange a glance, clearly amused at Johnny’s expense. When the hell did they get so chummy?
“So you need money,” Sid says.
“I have an investment opportunity,” Johnny begins, fumbling for his papers. He brought papers. He researched the cost of the truck, supplies, how quickly he could make it back… Typed it all up and printed it at the library. “I just need a little start-up seed and I’ll pay you back… with interest.”
Johnny can’t help but smile a little proudly while Sid flips through the proposal. “Why don’t you go to a bank with your little business plan? Get a loan?”
His smile falters. “Well, my credit is…”
“Terrible.”
“Yeah, I can’t get a loan like this, but if you look at–”
“Bad credit means the bank won’t trust you to pay them back,” Sid says. He hands the papers back to Johnny. “Why should I?”
“The plan’s all there.” Johnny feels scolded, a little childish, as he takes the papers back. “I watched another food truck for an hour, saw how much business they did, and so if I get the same–”
“What if you don’t get as much business?” Sid asks, scowling. “What kind of food are you selling?”
Johnny feels deflated. “I haven’t totally decided yet, but probably–”
“You haven’t decided yet?” Rhonda cuts in, laughing.
Johnny considers walking out—he doesn’t need this shit—but he still wants the free lunch so he folds up his business proposal, tucks it into his pocket, and pouts.
“Maybe this place is hiring,” Sid suggests.
“I don’t like sushi,” Johnny says right as the waitress appears to slide a bowl of edamame onto the table. She graciously does not acknowledge anything and slips away.
“What are these, beans?” Sid asks skeptically. “A bowl of beans?”
Johnny takes one and pops the entire slightly-furry pod into his mouth. He chews it until the actual food arrives. He ordered a California roll because it seemed patriotic.
He’s stabbing one of the rolls with a chopstick when he hears someone behind him say, “I’ll tell Chef LaRusso you’re here.”
What.
Johnny glances over his shoulder and watches the waiter head back toward the kitchen. “LaRusso?” he mutters to himself. No way.
“What’s that?” Sid asks, not interested enough to look up from the sushi roll that he picking apart with a fork.
“Nothing, I have to… bathroom,” Johnny says and shoves up from the table.
He makes a beeline for where he imagines the bathroom might be, down a hallway past the bar.
LaRusso? That little twerp works here? Seriously? Johnny hasn’t seen him in over thirty years.
Unfortunately he misjudged which hallway led to the bathroom. This one leads directly to the kitchen, and he’s only just figured that out when the door swings open and he comes face to face with Daniel LaRusso.
Daniel stops in his tracks, clearly surprised, looking back at Johnny. He’s wearing a buttoned-up chef’s coat, wiping his hands on the apron around his waist. He looks alarmingly fresh-faced, bright-eyed, tan arms against the white of his coat.
Johnny knows he looks like shit right now: scruffy days-old beard, hungover a little worse than usual, wild-eyed, wearing a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans.
“Johnny Lawrence?” Daniel says and he smiles.
“Hey,” Johnny says slowly, still frozen in front of him. “LaRusso. You work here? I was just looking for the…”
“For the bathroom?” Daniel guesses, still smiling. He steps closer and then past Johnny with a pat on his arm. “Other side of the bar. This is the kitchen.” Johnny thinks that’s the end of it but then he turns around and adds: “And I own the place.”
With another flashed smile Daniel heads off onto the floor to greet a family sitting at a table by the windows. Johnny watches a moment, staring openly as Daniel chats with the mother and son; he crouches down to show the kid how to use the chopsticks.
Johnny turns on his heel and goes to the bathroom. Stays there for a few minutes, long enough that he figures Daniel must have returned to the kitchen. The coast is clear when he peeks his head out so he goes back to the table and chokes down the rest of his California roll.
With no other options for procuring start-up seed, and after an unproductive trip to the pawn shop, Johnny decides to sell his Firebird. It’s the only thing he owns of any value, but as he soon finds out most of that value is personal. Still, it helps scrape together what he needs for the truck. It’s a clunker but pre-furbished, already outfitted with a grill and a fridge and a generator, a window that opens up on one side to take orders and serve.
He drives the truck home—it’s his only mode of transportation now—and adjusts to the wider turn radius, the slower acceleration and braking, the big blind spots. Probably shouldn’t drive this one drunk for a while.
He’s not sure exactly what food he’s going to serve yet… but definitely something badass. He should paint flames on the side of the truck.
By the end of the week, Johnny has decided on tacos. Quick and easy to make a few variations, delicious, popular, and totally badass. He paints flames in orange and yellow and red on the side of the truck, fanning up around the name, which he spray paints in bold black, using a stencil: JOHNNY’S ALL-AMERICAN TACOS. A bald eagle bares its fangs above the lettering.
Then he has to get started. He drives around for a while, in search of somewhere to set up shop, and soon decides on a supermarket parking lot. He pulls up, parks, gets the generator going, and starts frying meat. If you cook it, they will come.
A few people do come; it’s lunch time, and he gets a modest line going, churning out tacos. It’s a lot of work by himself, taking orders and then spinning around to man the grill. He’s busy, mind in a lot of places at once in a way that feels focused and like he’s hitting a groove. It feels good, not like most of the jobs he’s had recently where he felt bored and incompetent. He’s good at this.
His back is turned, tending to the carnitas on the grill, when someone approaches the window and says, “Sir?” Johnny calls back, “Just a sec,” because he’s busy chopping up the tougher pieces of meat.
“Sir, can I see your permit?”
Johnny turns around. It’s a cop in uniform, looking up at him, eyebrows raised.
“Permit?” Johnny repeats dumbly.
“If you don’t have a permit you need to pack up and go.”
Johnny stares back at the cop for a few seconds but he doesn’t seem like he’s joking. “Seriously?” Johnny tries.
“Seriously. Pack up.” The cop takes a step back on the sidewalk to wait and watch.
“Where do I get a permit?” Johnny asks, to no answer. “Dick,” he mutters, turning around to start packing up.
Johnny’s back to his apartment complex by the afternoon, with not much money, a lot of food, and nowhere to sell it. He parks the truck out front to start carting everything back inside. He’s taking the first stack—a vat of salsa and bag of shredded lettuce—toward his apartment when he crosses paths with a neighbor kid he’s seen a couple times before.
The kid’s in high school, tall and skinny with braces, a backpack hanging off his shoulders. He holds the gate open for Johnny.
“Thanks,” Johnny says.
“No problem. Cool truck.”
Johnny looks at the kid for a second. “Hey, you wanna help me with something? I’ll give you five bucks.”
The kid shrugs. “Sure.”
The kid’s name is Miguel Diaz and Johnny fishes out a five dollar bill from the till to pay him for his trouble. He helps Johnny carry all the leftover food back into his apartment and into the fridge. It takes a few trips, giving Johnny enough time to explain his situation with the permit.
“And then this cop shows up,” Johnny says, piling plastic containers of cooked pork into Miguel’s noodle-arms, “asking to see my permit. Nobody told me I needed a permit.”
“I mean, I don’t think you can sell food anywhere you want,” Miguel says, a little out of breath from the trips they’ve taken so far. “You probably need a health inspection.”
“How do I get that?”
“Dunno.” Miguel’s arms are shaking a little under the weight so Johnny sends him on his way without making him carry anything else.
Back in Johnny’s apartment, when they’ve finished packing everything away into the fridge, Johnny asks Miguel if he wants something to eat. “I’m not gonna finish all this on my own, anyway,” he says. “Might take a few days to get this paperwork together.”
“Sure.” Miguel takes a seat at the kitchen table, clearing away some empty beer cans to make space in front of him.
Johnny gets a pan ripping-hot on the stove, heats up the meat, gets a few tortillas nice and warm and throws it all together on a couple plates. He brings himself a beer and grabs a can of soda for the kid.
Miguel eats one bite and his eyes go wide. “This is so good.” He eats the rest in a few big bites, leaning over the plate so the salsa and juices don’t drip everywhere. “How’d you make this?”
“Top secret recipe,” Johnny says, feeling self-satisfied as he digs into his own plate.
“Hey, I searched for…” Miguel licks his fingers off and wipes them on his shirt before sliding his phone across the table toward Johnny. “How to get a permit for your truck.”
He’s got the county website pulled up, a page specifically about the requirements for operating a food truck. This kid’s incredible. “Mind if I…?” Johnny’s already reaching to take the phone before Miguel answers, taking a scroll through the page. He takes note of what he needs to get done: register as a business, get a food handler’s permit, complete a health inspection… Lots to do. He thanks Miguel and slides his phone back. “Hey, do you have an after school job?”
It takes a couple weeks to get everything sorted. Miguel’s helpful. He lives in the apartment just across the courtyard from Johnny, with his mom and grandmother, and he apparently doesn’t have much of a life because he’s home every afternoon by 3:30.
“When do I get to learn how to cook?” Miguel asks, looking up from the laptop he brought over to help fill out the requisite forms. He’s sitting at the kitchen table in Johnny’s apartment.
“You want to learn how to cook?” Johnny raises an eyebrow as he tips back his bottle of Coors to take a sip.
“Well, yeah, that’s why I said I’d take the job,” Miguel says. “Not to… fill out paperwork for you.”
“It’s called a job for a reason, Diaz.”
“I don’t really… need a job,” Miguel says. “I just want to learn how to… D’you ever watch Food Network?”
Johnny stares at him blankly.
“It’s really cool how these chefs can take a bunch of ingredients and figure out how to make something with no recipe,” he goes on. “I really wanna learn how to do that. Or, like, food from all around the world. I usually just eat what my grandma makes and it’s good but I want to try… you know, like, new stuff. Like there’s that sushi place in Encino that’s–”
“Sushi is disgusting,” Johnny says flatly.
“No it’s not,” Miguel says. “I mean, I’ve only had, like, California rolls from the gas station, but it’s good so real sushi is probably even better. And the chef, he’s from here, but he studied in Japan.”
“You know the chef?”
“No, I read something about him though.” Miguel reaches into his backpack to pull out a copy of the local newspaper. Sure enough, there’s Daniel’s stupid smiley face just above the centerfold. The headline reads: LOCAL CHEF GIVES BACK. “He’s starting an apprenticeship program for kids to get culinary training. I might apply for it.”
“Give me that.” Johnny snatches the newspaper. He flips it open to scan the photo: Daniel in his chef coat, arms crossed, in the shiny stainless steel kitchen. A colorful platter of sushi before him, bowls of ramen. “I know this guy,” he mutters, and tosses the newspaper onto his kitchen counter.
Miguel’s eyes are wide and admiring. “You do?”
“Yeah, he’s a real jerk,” Johnny says and Miguel’s face falls. “And he’s not a good chef. You don’t want to be his apprentice. I used to work with him so trust me.”
“When did you work with him?”
“A long time ago,” Johnny says. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll teach you.”
The kid’s face lights up again. “Really?”
“Yeah, whatever, finish that form and we’ll get started.”
“Thanks, Mr. Lawrence,” Miguel says, immediately turning back to the laptop screen.
“You call me chef,” Johnny says. “When we’re in the kitchen, you call me chef.”
“Yes, chef,” Miguel says.
“If you’re gonna learn how to cook,” Johnny says, “first you need to learn how to taste.”
He rolls up a dish rag and holds it out to Miguel who stares questioningly back at him.
“It’s a blindfold,” Johnny says. “Put it on.”
“Yes, chef.” Miguel dutifully wraps it over his eyes, tying it behind his head.
“I’m gonna mix up some stuff and you’re gonna tell me every ingredient you can identify. Capisce?”
“Got it.”
Johnny raids his fridge for a few old condiment bottles and mixes up a few concoctions, most of which turn into a muddy grayish sludge as he stirs. He gives the first one to Miguel, handing him a spoonful of it.
“Try it.”
Miguel takes a taste, putting the entire spoonful in his mouth, and immediately starts gagging. “Oh my god, that’s awful,” he sputters, ripping the blindfold off as he turns to spit into the sink. “What’s in that?”
“You tell me, Diaz,” Johnny orders. “Think. Blindfold on. Only what you can taste and smell.”
Miguel gives him a dirty look but he obeys, putting the towel back over his eyes. He takes another cautious taste and grimaces. “Ugh, god. Is that… pickle juice?”
“Yes. And what else?”
He smacks his tongue a few times. “Horseradish, definitely. And is that… chocolate syrup?”
“Yes!” Johnny claps him on the back in celebration. “Well done. Time for the next one.”
They go on like that for a while, Johnny mixing up terrible things for Miguel to try, but the kid does pretty well. By the fifth one, he knows the drill. He sighs and sticks his tongue out to get the smallest taste possible. But this time he doesn’t immediately erupt into a coughing fit. Instead he hums with interest and puts the rest in his mouth.
“Mm, that’s actually good. What’s in that?”
“Really?” Johnny picks up the bowl he mixed it in and gives it a sniff.
“Yeah, it’s really good.”
Johnny swipes his finger through the rest of the sludge in the bowl and tastes it. It feels immediately like his soul leaves his body—not in a good way. He pushes Miguel aside, who’s already laughing, and spits into the sink.
“Diaz! That tastes like shit!”
Miguel’s laughing so hard he’s out of breath. He’s slipped his blindfold off and when he catches a sight of Johnny he just starts laughing harder. “Your face!”
“Okay, okay, very funny,” Johnny says. The acrid aftertaste still burns on the back of his tongue; he holds back a gag. “Enough with the taste tests. We’re moving onto knife skills.”
At the end of the night, after Miguel leaves, sporting several bandaids on his hands, Johnny gets another beer and sits down to read the article about Daniel’s restaurant.
He feels an uneasiness stirring in his stomach, but it might just be lingering indigestion from the shit that Miguel made him eat.
The New Jersey-born chef moved to Reseda in high school, where he began working in restaurants. “It was just a job at first,” LaRusso says. “But I had a great friend and teacher when I was a teenager. He opened my eyes to a whole new world. That’s what I want to try to do for other kids.” Bonsai serves more familiar Japanese fair—sushi, ramen—alongside dishes traditional to the island of Okinawa, where LaRusso lived and studied in his twenties.
“Prick,” Johnny mutters and tosses the newspaper onto his coffee table, where it knocks a few empty cans over with a clatter.
Daniel thinks he’s such a great guy, huh? Trying to teach kids? He’s probably just running a scam to get cheap help in the kitchen.
Johnny spends the rest of the night drinking, soon breaks out the Jim Beam, and gets on his new smart phone that Miguel helped him connect to the internet earlier that day. He searches for Daniel’s restaurant, looks at pictures from the opening five years ago, an award it won last year—then he starts scrolling through reviews. Five stars. Great food, friendly service! Daniel is a gift to our community!
Johnny gets angrier the more he reads, and the more he reads the more he drinks. Eventually he leaves his own one-star Yelp review (“The sushi tastes like dick and LaRusso would know”) before he passes out on his couch.
On the first (official) day of JOHNNY’S ALL-AMERICAN TACOS, Johnny is determined to make up for the time and money lost to bureaucracy. What’s this country coming to, anyway? All these regulations. No wonder small businesses are dying. But Johnny’s no quitter and he persevered and now he is legally permitted to sell tacos from a truck in Los Angeles county. Dreams do come true.
He starts the morning with food prep at home before he packs up the truck and heads out in search of a good spot for the lunch rush. Soon he sets up shop in a strip mall parking lot and opens for business. It’s not busy but it’s steady; people coming and going from errands, on their lunch break, happy to find quick cheap food. He serves beef slow-cooked to tenderness the night before, then quickly seared on the range and topped with salsa. Five bucks for two street tacos; it’s solid, respectable food. Unpretentious and honest, not concerned with the presentation or being fancy.
It’s after 1pm when there’s a lull and he stares out over the parking lot. When the high school lets out, around 3, he’ll go and pick up Miguel. He should take a break before then, make something to eat himself.
He’s contemplating this, staring out over the parking lot, when his eyes land on three young guys, gathered over by the dumpster. They’re smoking cigarettes, holding skateboards, laughing with each other. One of them, the blond one, actually looks a lot like…
The kid turns around and Johnny’s stomach sinks.
“Robby?” he mutters. He’s so preoccupied staring that he accidentally leans back against the stove. The heat on the heel of his hand registers as a burn half a second later and he jumps back, hissing. “Shit… goddamn it.”
Holding his burnt hand to his mouth, Johnny turns down the heat and stumbles out the open back door of the food truck.
Robby, obviously, sees him coming. He and his two friends stare as Johnny jogs across the parking lot toward them.
“Hey! Robby!”
“What are you doing here?” Robby asks, taking a step forward, away from the other two guys. One of them snickers and says, “Cool t-shirt, man,” to Johnny.
Johnny glances down, having forgotten he’s sporting his new merch. The fanged eagle is front and center, framed by flames. He shakes his head, getting back on topic. “I could ask you the same thing, Robby. Aren’t you supposed to be in school right now?”
“Ooh, you’re in trouble,” the other guy taunts, laughing.
“It’s a day off,” Robby says, smirking.
“It’s– no it’s not a day off,” Johnny says. He nods back toward the truck. “Come on, I’m taking you back to school.”
Robby raises his eyebrows and shoots a look back at his friends. “That’s your new ride?”
“Yeah, it’s– it’s my new business, but–”
“Did you get fired again?” Robby asks. “Was it the drinking?”
“Hey, we’re not talking about me,” Johnny says. “You’re the one skipping school, come on, let’s go.” He reaches for Robby’s arm but barely gets a hand on him before he’s slapped away.
“Don’t fucking touch me.” Robby says it with such venom, his voice trembling with rage, that Johnny freezes, shocked. “I got expelled, okay? The dean tried to call you but you didn’t pick up. Eventually got ahold of Mom. I guess she didn’t tell you.”
“You got expelled? Robby, what did you do?”
“Like you care,” he says, shoving roughly past him to take off across the parking lot. He drops his skateboard to the ground and kicks off.
“Hey, come on!” Johnny yells after him.
“See ya later, Dad!” one of Robby’s friends yells as they run after him, still laughing, the little creeps.
On his way past the food truck, Robby reaches up to grab the tip jar—half full after a good lunch hour—takes all the money and tosses the jar carelessly over his shoulder. The plastic bounces off the pavement.
“Robby, seriously?”
At 3pm, Johnny’s got the truck parked outside the high school, ready for business as the kids start to spill outside. He figures as long as he’s picking up Miguel anyway, might as well try to sell some teenagers an after school snack. Soon he has a short line, taking and filling orders, but some blond chick asks if he has anything “vegan.”
“Vegan?” Johnny repeats. “No, I only serve real food. Do you want beef or pork or do you wanna keep being a special little snowflake?”
“Ew, never mind,” she says and walks away.
“Ew yourself!” Johnny calls after her. He spots Miguel walking by, flanked by two miserably geeky looking boys—seriously this kid is right on the edge of hopeless—and calls to him. “Hey, Miguel! Over here!”
Everyone in line turns to stare at him, and Miguel goes wide-eyed. He slinks over behind the truck and hisses through the open door, “I thought you were just gonna pick me up and go.”
“There’s money to be made,” Johnny calls back. “Get your ass in here, I need help. Oh, I got you a t-shirt.” He grabs it and tosses it to Miguel, who catches it and gives it a critical look.
“This is the t-shirt?”
“Yeah, pretty badass right?”
“I just.” Miguel’s still standing outside of the truck, acting shifty, speaking in a voice almost too low to hear over the whir of the generator. “It’s kind of embarrassing to work here serving food to all my classmates.”
Johnny turns to look at him, taking in his expression for a moment.“What’s embarrassing about this?”
Miguel just raises his eyebrows for a moment, as if trying to telepathically communicate something. When Johnny doesn’t react, he sighs dramatically and steps up into the food truck. “Fine. Whatever. I’m already a loser.” He pulls on the t-shirt over what he’s already wearing, briefly glancing down at the fanged eagle with a look of solemn resignation.
“Not for much longer,” Johnny assures him, stepping aside to let him take over at the register.
“Nice shirt, Diaz!” someone calls from line.
“See?” Johnny says, nudging Miguel with his elbow. “Everyone loves the shirts.”
Johnny’s working the grill a few minutes later when Miguel says, “Hey, chef, there’s some guy who wants to talk to you.”
“What?” Johnny reels around, wielding a spatula. “I actually have a permit this time if that’s what you’re–” He stops in his tracks when he sees Daniel LaRusso standing in front of the truck, looking up at him.
“You passed the health inspection?” Daniel says. “That’s surprising.”
“What are you doing at a high school, LaRusso?”
“Picking up my daughter,” Daniel says, nodding back at a teenage girl who’s preoccupied staring at her phone. Miguel, meanwhile, is preoccupied staring at her and has stopped taking orders. “Is this your gig these days? Selling… tacos?”
Johnny doesn’t appreciate the long pause before ‘tacos’; sounds kinda judgmental. He says, “I guess we’re both entrepreneurs now.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Daniel laughs a little, tense. “Nice to see you at Bonsai the other week.”
Johnny nods warily.
“Did you enjoy your meal?”
“It was alright,” Johnny says stonily.
“You didn’t happen to leave a Yelp review or anything did you?”
Daniel narrows his eyes and Johnny stares right back at him. “No. No, I didn’t, I don’t even know what Yelp or Yell or whatever that is, but– I did read an article about you. Best sushi in the valley, it said. Not bad for an Italian guy from Jersey.”
Daniel scoffs, crossing his arms. “I studied in Okinawa. Remind me where you got your taco recipes?”
“At least I have a real Mexican working for me,” Johnny says, thumbing at Miguel who’s still standing there staring at Daniel’s daughter.
Miguel glances up and says, “Ecuadorian… chef.”
“Ecuadorian?” Johnny repeats, confused. “You still eat tacos, right?”
Miguel blinks. “Well–”
“You got him calling you chef?” Daniel says. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Johnny. This is some power trip for you, huh? Hey, kid–” He speaks directly to Miguel now, who glances rapidly between Johnny and Daniel like he’s not sure he’s even allowed to look at Daniel. “This guy? Not a real chef. He’s wasting your time.”
With that, Daniel turns on his heel says, “Let’s go, Sam,” and the two head off for the parking lot.
Johnny watches him go, anger simmering under his skin.
“What a jerk,” Miguel says with a short, uneasy laugh and he goes back to taking orders. “Hi, sorry about that, what can we get for you?”
At the end of the night, they’re parked back in front of the apartment. It’s late, but Miguel stays to help clean up and move the food inside; he’s a good kid like that. Johnny sorts through the tips collected during the day and pockets it. He has expenses, debt; Miguel’s getting paid and trained so he doesn’t feel bad about keeping the tips all to himself. It’s not much anyway.
While they’re cleaning up, Miguel asks him, “That guy, LaRusso. You said you worked with him? Where was that?”
“Oh, yeah,” Johnny says, huffing a laugh. “It was at the country club, Encino Oaks, I worked in the kitchen the summer before my senior year. Worked there the summer before too, it was my usual gig during high school. My girlfriend worked there, waitress, but we were going through a rough patch when LaRusso shows up. He’s this shrimpy little busboy, thinks he knows everything and he starts hitting on my girlfriend. I tell him, y’know, back off. Right? He gets testy with me and we… fight a little. You know, two guys, the testosterone…” He makes a gesture like butting heads, knocking his knuckles together. “You know how it is, Miguel.”
Miguel shakes his head. “No, chef.”
“Right, all you kids are pansies these days. Get in a fight, okay? A real one. That’s your assignment for the week. It’ll make you a better cook. Anyway, we tussled a little. I thought that was that, that we handled it like men, but LaRusso couldn’t learn his lesson. He kept poking at me at work. Turning up the heat on my stove if I had my back turned, hiding my knives around the kitchen. I knew it was all him.”
“What an asshole,” Miguel says.
“Right? In the end I got fired for fighting, when LaRusso started the whole thing. If he could’ve left well enough alone… So, I lose my job, he gets promoted. He’s only been there a month. And he starts dating my girlfriend.”
“Geez,” Miguel laments, shaking his head. “That sucks.”
“Yeah,” Johnny agrees, buoyed by the sympathy. “And now he’s rubbing his success in my face. Saying I’m not a real chef. I’m just trying to make a living, y’know?”
“We’ll show him,” Miguel says confidently.
Another week passes, and they fall into a routine. Johnny preps in the mornings and handles lunch by himself; he picks up Miguel from school, and they find a place to park for the evening. Miguel’s a fast learner; he helps prep food when it’s slow and he’s still a pussy about the burns and cuts, but Johnny told him that comes with the territory. Besides, does he want soft little baby hands forever? No, of course not! Chicks love men with rough hands. That pep talk seems to help lift his spirits each time he burns himself. When it’s slow, he works on homework or, more often, pitches marketing ideas that Johnny barely bothers to humor with a ‘yeah, uh-huh, maybe.’
One afternoon, after the school rush, Johnny’s driving down Ventura Boulevard, scoping out a good place to park for the evening, and Miguel’s sitting shotgun, talking his ear off about making a Twitter account to broadcast the truck’s location.
“Sure, whatever,” Johnny says. “Make the tweeter page.”
“It’s Twitter,” Miguel says, tapping away on his phone. “Johnny’s Tacos is available for the at.”
“Uh huh.”
Johnny scans the street ahead, looking for a good place to park when he sees a familiar storefront approaching on the right. Bonsai Sushi, glass windows, black awnings—and an empty stretch of curb right out front.
“Perfect,” Johnny mutters as he slows down and pulls into the spot.
Miguel glances at him. “Uh?”
“We’re parking here for the night.”
“Right outside of…?”
“Did I ask for your input, Diaz?”
“No, chef.”
“Good, then stop staring at me and start setting up, chop chop.”
They’ve barely started getting set up—the grill’s heating, and Miguel’s updating the chalkboard menu out front—when Daniel steps out the front door.
“Johnny…” he says, not quite friendly but not confrontational. Dressed in his starched white uniform. “I heard we had company. What’s going on out here?”
“You got a great spot out here,” Johnny says. “Ventura Boulevard. Prime location.”
“Yeah, and you’re parked…” Daniel gestures from his front door to the truck. “Directly in front of my restaurant.”
“It’s not personal, LaRusso, just business. This is a public street, I have a right to be here.”
“Oh, it’s not personal. Yeah. I’m sure it’s not personal.” Daniel crosses the sidewalk in a few determined strides until he’s right at the window, pointing up at Johnny. “Just like you didn’t write that Yelp review.”
“That got under your skin?” Johnny asks, smirking.
“I knew it!” Daniel throws his hands up, always the drama queen. “And who’s under whose skin here, Johnny? You’re the one showing up at my restaurant, at my daughter’s school, writing a nasty review, and now this? What did I do to you?”
“I didn’t know it was your restaurant and I didn’t know it was your daughter’s school and… this isn’t personal.” It’s two truths and a lie, but Daniel doesn’t call him on it. Johnny shoos him away with a wave of his hand. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, you’re holding up the line.”
Daniel takes a step back, but stands there seemingly frozen and staring while Johnny turns his attention to the customers. Miguel gets to work beside him, confidently manning the grill.
“We got a couple carnitas, a barbacoa,” Johnny says a minute later, handing them to the customers. “Help yourself to salsa, hot sauce. And tell your friends. Johnny’s tacos. We have an app, right, Miguel?”
“Not an app, a Twitter account.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Johnny thanks the customers again, and one of them stuffs a dollar into the tip jar before they walk away. Then he shoots a smug smile at Daniel who’s still lingering outside the front door, watching.
Daniel scoffs and turns away to go back inside his restaurant.