Lone Star’s deal would have transferred more control than Clara understood.
She declined.
The representative became colder.
“Small brands usually regret turning down distribution.”
Clara replied:
“Then I’ll regret it independently.”
Julian laughed when she told him.
Winter arrived early.
Cold rain.
North wind.
Pepper supply declined as field production ended.
Clara had anticipated some of it.
Not enough.
She had roasted and frozen pepper puree in October, but freezer capacity was limited.
Restaurants kept ordering.
Clara rationed.
Not theatrically.
Literally.
Four cases.
Two cases.
No, she could not supply twelve.
No, she would not dilute the recipe with cheaper imported pepper puree.
No, she would not change flavor to meet volume.
Scarcity created attention.
A chef posted a photograph online.
WHO HAS FIVE DOLLAR FIRE? MY DISTRIBUTOR CAN’T GET IT.
Another chef replied:
WE BOUGHT THE LAST CASE IN AUSTIN.
Then:
I’LL TRADE TWO CASES OF HOT HONEY.
Someone else:
STOP HOARDING IT.
Julian sent Clara screenshots.
She called.
“This is your fault.”
“How?”
“You told chefs about it.”
“Chefs talk.”
“They’re fighting.”
“They’re joking.”
“One offered cash above wholesale.”
“Don’t take it.”
“I know.”
Clara paused.
“Should I raise prices?”
“Yes.”
She stared at the phone.
“That was fast.”
“You’re underpriced.”
“How much?”
“Wholesale seven fifty.”
“That’s twenty percent.”
“Your costs changed.”
“Not that much.”
“Your value did.”
Clara thought.
“I hate pricing.”
“Everyone does.”
“You don’t.”
“I own restaurants.”
“I hate food costs more.”
By December, Five Dollar Fire had accounts in twelve restaurants.
Then eighteen.
Then twenty-three.
Some ordered only one case at a time because Clara rationed.
She started a waitlist.
That sounded absurd even to her.
The same peppers Hank once planned to dump now arrived at Dawson Farm with signed lot sheets.
Other farmers began setting aside cosmetically rejected ripe peppers instead of discarding them.
Clara’s cost rose from practically nothing to a respectable secondary-market price.
That was intentional.
Hank challenged her.
“You could still get these cheaper.”
“I know.”
“Then why pay?”
“Because I want you to keep sorting them.”
“I would for less.”
“Maybe this year.”
“What about next?”
He stared.
Clara continued:
“If growers make money from seconds, they preserve the stream.”
“If I squeeze everyone because I can, they stop caring.”
Hank looked amused.
“You’re paying farmers extra because you’re worried about supply?”
“Yes.”
“That is the most farmer thing you’ve said.”
She smiled.
Then the bank called.
Not because the farm was failing.
Because it suddenly looked interesting.
Clara had avoided telling the bank about the sauce until revenue became material.