Ordered sparkling water because paying restaurant prices for beer felt irresponsible.
Watched.
The sauce came with wood-fired chicken.
Also as an optional side.
At first nothing happened.
People ate.
Talked.
Drank.
Nobody stood up and announced agricultural transformation.
Clara felt foolish.
Then a server came back.
“Table seventeen wants more pepper sauce.”
The bartender poured.
Ten minutes later another.
Then another.
A man bought a pint to take home.
They were not selling pints.
Julian sold him one anyway.
By closing, the restaurant had used almost twice the projected amount.
Julian walked over.
“Still think fifty cases?”
Clara smiled.
“How many?”
“Start with twenty.”
She frowned.
“You said fifty.”
“You’re still thinking like a farmer.”
“What does that mean?”
“You think more volume means success.”
“It does.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“Repeat demand means success.”
“We use twenty.”
“We order again.”
“Other restaurants hear.”
“Scarcity helps.”
“I don’t want fake scarcity.”
“Good.”
“Real capacity limits are enough.”
She stared at him.
“You enjoy making simple things irritating.”
“It’s my gift.”
Two other Cross & Ash locations ran the sauce Sunday.
By Tuesday Julian called.
“Twenty cases.”
Clara smiled.
“When?”
“Two weeks.”
Her smile vanished.
“That’s impossible.”
“Then three.”
“Maybe.”
“Good.”
She hung up.
Then screamed.
Not happily.
Operationally.
Three weeks was not much better.
She needed bottles.
Labels.
Approved process.
Kitchen time.
Ingredients.
A lot more peppers.
The original 291 pounds were nearly gone.
That was when the real problem appeared.
Clara returned to Barlow Family Produce.
Hank stood beside the wash line.
He saw her.
Grinned.
“Come to return my garbage?”
“No.”
His grin faltered.
“I need more.”
He laughed.
Then stopped when she did not.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“All the seconds you have.”
Hank stared.
“What are you doing?”
“Sauce.”
“The restaurant guy?”
“Yes.”
“He bought it?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Hank wiped his hands.
“You made money from my peppers.”