Fat Tuesday Fricassee Read Online Free Page A

all the attention I could get while I was there. Tiffany was right—it was a fantastic opportunity.
    Suzette’s Crepes food truck was represented. I saw them regularly on Government Street at police headquarters where I normally parked Monday through Friday. Charlie’s Tuna Shack was there, too, along with Yolanda’s Yummy Yogurt. Yolanda had a great food truck with fake fruit hanging off. She always played Bob Marley music, which I thought was a big draw, too.
    Mama’s Marvelous Mojitos was there, as well. I was surprised, because they basically only served mojitos and not much food. But maybe that was their attraction. I never served anything to drink. There wasn’t enough room in the food truck to hold cold drinks.
    The other food truck vendors that had been invited were newcomers. Each week it seemed there was new competition on the streets. It was getting harder to find a good space on Government Street, South Royal Street, or even close to Mobile Bay where the cruise ships berthed.
    Not that I was worried. My deep-fried biscuit bowls had wowed crowds for almost a year. The publicity from last year’s Sweet Magnolia Food Truck Race had also helped. I hadn’t won the grand prize, but everyone knew me from the TV show.
    Tiffany finally pronounced us all fit to take part in food truck sales at the rally. I knew good sales in the next two weeks could mean adding to my savings account, too. That meant being able to remodel my diner into one of the best restaurants in the city more quickly. That had been my goal from the beginning. My plan was starting to unfold.
    My friend, and assistant in running the Biscuit Bowl, was waiting impatiently outside the meeting for me. Ollie—no last name—was about forty. He was well over six feet, a large man with a wicked skull tattoo on the back of his head and neck. He’d been a marine until some bad things had happened to him, but that was a long time ago. We didn’t talk about it.
    â€œWhat were they doing in there, tattooing
The Biscuit Bowl
on your back or something? Nothing should take that long that doesn’t have food or money involved. Did you eat without me?”
    â€œNo. But there were hundreds of rules and regulations to learn, and I had to sign a dozen legal documents. You don’t want to know the rest.”
    â€œThis thing better be worth some money, young’un, or you’ve exhausted yourself for nothing.” He scowled, but Ollie’s natural look is a scowl.
    It didn’t help that he’d broken up with my other cooking assistant, Delia Vann. It made for some unpleasant moments in the very small kitchen where we worked. People needed to get along in a four-by-eight-foot space inside an Airstream motor home.
    In the future I planned to ban romantic relationships between employees—and friends.
    â€œIt’s going to be great for business,” I enthused as we walked down Dauphin Street to meet our ride. “Look how many people come out for Mardi Gras each year. They’re all going to eat our biscuits and love them. The aftermath will be even bigger.”
    He stalked along beside me on the sidewalk. He managed to keep his much longer stride in check so my short legs could keep up with him.
    I was five-foot-two and three quarters—not exactly short, but compared to Ollie, everyone was short.
    February had brought rain and cool temperatures toMobile, Alabama. I hoped, as everyone else did, that sunshine would grace the parades and festivities. But weather was fickle and something we couldn’t control. It was the same for rainy days on the street with my food truck. Rain meant fewer customers and ruined biscuits that couldn’t be used. No one likes an old biscuit.
    â€œAre you all set on the food?” Ollie asked. “You know what you’re serving for the next two weeks?”
    â€œI think so. I’m working on homemade MoonPies tonight.”
    â€œThat sounds