This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,25

Brain on Sales

WILL

At six AM on the Friday before the Boilermaker, we load up the Wus’ van with the big stuff—the stove on wheels that can be hooked up to a portable tank (a remnant, Jocelyn says, from its former life as a component in a Mexican food truck), the food warmer, and boxes upon boxes of serving supplies, soy sauce packets, and water bottles. That leaves my car as the dumpling-mobile, with over a thousand dumplings crammed into my trunk and back seat.

When we get to the Expo area and start putting up our A-Plus Chinese Garden banner, Jocelyn steps back to make sure it’s level. “Are people really going to come?” she asks when she returns to help me zip-tie it to the booth’s awning.

“There are more than twenty thousand people registered. The foot traffic is going to be beyond anything we’ve ever seen.” There’s no way to predict how much we’ll sell, but Jocelyn’s hoping for a profit of $400 that we can use toward a booth next year. Privately, I think that our goal should just be to break even. Even if we lose a little money, it’ll still be worth it for the publicity and exposure.

“What if people don’t stop to eat? What if they just pop in to get their bibs and leave?” Jocelyn waves over at the other food trucks setting up. “There’s so much competition already.”

“Wait until we start giving out samples,” I reassure her.

We make short work out of setting up the cooking area. As I’m emptying ice into a cooler for the water bottles, a plump, shortish South Asian girl walks up.

“Good-looking booth,” she says, eyeing our banner.

“Priya!” Jocelyn’s entire demeanor changes when she sees her. She practically tackles her in a hug. “Will! This is my friend Priya. She’s our social media consultant. Her Instagrams are the ones you put on the new website mock-up—that is literally her picture up there,” she says, pointing to the dumpling banner.

“Nice to meet you,” I say. “You’re a great photographer.” She is. I’ve scrolled through enough student galleries—including Javier’s—to appreciate what she does with lighting and composition.

Priya shoots a few candids of us setting up and then pitches in herself. With another pair of hands, we’re ready to go in no time. Because of the volume we have to cook, Grandma Wu came up with a shortcut that only marginally affects the flavor—we preboiled the dumplings and will panfry them to get the all-important crisp.

Jocelyn takes over video duties and livestreams Priya biting into her first dumpling.

“Mmmmghhhh,” Priya moans. It doesn’t even seem exaggerated. “Oh my God.” She barely pauses to wipe some juice dribbling down her chin before inhaling her whole serving.

“Hashtag Boilermaker. Hashtag Expo Eats,” Jocelyn declares. “This is awesome! Okay, Will, you’re next. This can be our thing. Dumplings on the street.”

Priya gets out her phone. “I’ll live-tweet it, too.” She types furiously on the phone.

If you’re gearing up for @boilermaker #ExpoEats, make sure to get some killer pot stickers from the @apluschinese booth. It’s a religious experience.

She attaches a picture of herself gazing rapturously at a dumpling. Then she turns to me and cocks her head to the side like she’s looking right through me. “Okay. Stand with your back to the booth so I can get the signs in the shot.”

I do what I’m told and try not to feel too self-conscious as I stage my own first bite.

“Don’t look at me,” Priya barks. “Pretend I’m not here.”

Easier said than done. The sun’s coming up higher, and we’re exposed and out in the open at the edge of a large field. With the kitchen area already generating heat, I’m beginning to feel dampness in my pits. Thank God I wore a dark shirt.

Priya misreads my hesitation. “Do you want to use a fork?”

“No, that’s okay.” To prove that my family ordered Chinese takeout as often as any other working American household, I grab a pot sticker with my chopsticks and dunk it into some soy sauce mixed with vinegar and ginger. Because I’m not allowed to look at Priya while I eat, I look at Jocelyn instead. She’s looking at me, too, with an intensity that kicks my heart rate up a notch.

There’s a moment before the food hits my mouth when I’m suddenly afraid that we have screwed it up. That the two-stage cooking method isn’t going to hold up to the traditional way of panfrying them all at once. What if my memory of the