Afternoon Delight by Anne Calhoun Page B

funny, he has eighteen thousand followers, and he followed us.”
    â€œWe’re next to the largest station in New York, right? There must be hundreds of emergency personnel working out of that station. I can’t see Tim taking the time to tweet jokes or funny stories.”
    â€œI’m going to follow him back.”
    â€œGood.”
    â€œAnd ignore the review. I was an analyst specializing in distressed assets for the third largest investment bank in the world,” Trish said, her voice resolutely optimistic. “I’ve been screamed at by traders on four continents. This is nothing.”
    Sarah recognized a pep talk when she heard it. “It’s confirmation of what we knew,” she agreed, “and we’re in the process of fixing it. Tweet that we’re working on new sauces, tasting event coming soon, blah blah blah.”
    â€œSocial media isn’t your favorite thing, is it?”
    â€œNot by a long shot,” Sarah said. “Look, just chuck everything in the back of the truck and head into Manhattan. Let’s do a trial run of the chipotle sauce. I’ll finish prep while you handle the Internet.”
    â€œDone.”
    ***
    Despite the relentless optimism, the sunny day, and a new social media push, foot traffic was slow. Sarah tripped over a stray box and spilled an entire container of sauce on the street, they ran out of change and Sarah had to dash for the bank in the middle of the rush, someone pulled on one napkin and sent the entire container fluttering into the park, and Trish was certain she saw the food critic for
Time Out New York
in the line, and then again, dumping his half-eaten bowl into a garbage can at the park’s exit. At three o’clock they rolled up the awning and looked at the leftovers.
    â€œNo DMs, no at-replies, three retweets. Not good.”
    â€œWhat’s the correlation between social media and actual foot traffic?” Sarah mused.
    â€œNo one knows. It’s something you have to do, like sacrificing a goat to keep the gods happy. If your village survives the earthquake, then the gods liked your goat. So far the gods reject our goat.”
    They drove home and cleaned up the truck. Sarah prepped ahead for the next day while Trish cross-checked inventory. Then they caught the bus to the apartment, where Trish immediately opened a bottle of wine.
    â€œFuck me,” she said.
    â€œSideways,” Sarah said in reply, and poured two glasses.
    â€œIt’s not supposed to be like this,” Trish said as she grabbed a glass.
    â€œWhat’s not supposed to be like what?”
    Trish swallowed half her wine. “Following your bliss.”
    â€œEasy there, girlfriend,” Sarah said. “That’s a really nice Bordeaux.”
    Trish swirled the remaining liquid in her glass, inhaled it, and sipped more slowly. “It is quite nice.”
    Sarah slumped in the big armchair and stretched her feet out on the ottoman. Some days not even red patent leather clogs kept her feet from aching. “You’re following your bliss?”
    â€œThat’s why I opened the food truck. I’d been at Cooper Bensonhurst for four years. Promotions, bonuses, all the perks, everything a Harvard MBA is supposed to have. And want.”
    â€œOkay,” Sarah said.
    â€œI got my bonus two years ago. It was over two million dollars and it wasn’t enough. I pitched a fit in my boss’s office, then called my mom to complain. We’d never talked amounts before, and when I told her it wasn’t enough, she lit into me like the Fourth of July. But I know the definition of insanity: doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. Around the same time a friend of mine had her first baby, quit trading, and opened a shop specializing in fine leather goods. Her grandfather immigrated from Italy and made shoes and bags in Georgia. He taught her the business when she was a girl. She