By the time Vincent arrived at the park the next morning, it wasn't just a handful of curious onlookers waiting.
It was a crowd.
At 11 a.m. sharp, before he had even unlocked the truck, a thick line of people stretched across the plaza. Some held backpacks, some work bags, others had brought folding chairs as if they'd been waiting for a concert. The murmurs and excited chatter made his stomach twist.
"What the…? Vincent muttered. "They're actually waiting for me?"
His hands trembled as he fumbled with his keys. He'd half expected yesterday to be a fluke, a one-off burst of luck. But this? This was different.
The moment the lock clicked and he opened the stall, the crowd broke into cheers. Actual cheers.
"Finally!"
"I thought he wasn't coming today!"
"Man, I skipped breakfast just for this!"
Before he could even get his apron tied, a few people from the front of the line stepped forward.
"Hey, chef—want us to help set up?" one asked eagerly.
Vincent blinked. "…Huh?"
"You've got too many customers waiting," another chimed in, already grabbing one of the folding tables. "We'll handle this part, don't worry."
In the next heartbeat, the crowd moved like a well-oiled machine. Students dragged benches into neat rows. A middle-aged uncle slapped his son on the back and barked, "Wipe that table properly, don't leave streaks." Someone produced napkins and began dusting down chairs.
It was chaos—organized chaos.
Vincent stood frozen for a moment, spatula in hand, watching strangers transform the space in front of his stall into something resembling a pop-up restaurant.
"You guys don't have to—" he started.
"Of course we do!" a girl laughed, tossing a rag to her friend. "If you don't open faster, we're all going to starve."
The line erupted with chuckles. Another customer called out, "Yeah, stop arguing and start cooking already! Leave the grunt work to us."
Vincent's chest tightened—not with panic this time, but with something warmer, heavier. He'd never seen customers act like this. They weren't just hungry; they were invested.
Within minutes, the tables were set, the benches aligned, the makeshift dining space buzzing with chatter. And all the while, the crowd kept sneaking glances at the grill, eyes glittering with anticipation.
Vincent swallowed hard, turned back to his ingredients, and thought:
Alright… I better make this worth it.
It felt surreal. Yesterday he was just another vendor. Today, it looked like he was running the busiest joint in the city.
As soon as the first waft of sizzling garlic and butter escaped the pan, the crowd's anticipation broke into chatter. Some debating, strategizing, even arguing over what to order.
"What should I get this time? Truffle burger again?"
"No way, you tried that yesterday! Go for the fried rice today. That chef's special, remember?"
"I'm getting both. I don't care if it kills me."
"Dude, I barely slept last night thinking about that bulgogi bowl."
One man, clearly torn, rubbed his chin like a philosopher. "Hibiscus tea… or lemonade? Hibiscus… no, lemonade. No, damn it, hibiscus. Forget it, I'll just buy both."
Laughter rippled down the line.
The orders came fast and loud. Truffle burgers flew off the grill, trays of loaded fries disappeared seconds after hitting the counter, and steaming bowls of bulgogi and teriyaki chicken spread through the tables like wildfire.
And then came the real kicker—people came back for seconds.
"You weren't kidding when you said this was top-notch," a young man groaned happily, holding a second bowl of fried rice. "I thought you were exaggerating yesterday, but nope. Dead serious."
"Bro, I told you," his friend shot back with a grin, already halfway through his truffle chicken burger. "We're coming back tomorrow too. Count on it."
Vincent, wiping sweat from his forehead, silently thanked his own paranoia. Yesterday he had spent every last dollar restocking, loading the truck with ingredients until he worried he'd overdone it. Now, seeing bowl after bowl vanish into satisfied hands, he realized it was the smartest move he'd made.
Then something unexpected happened.
From across the plaza, one of the older dumpling vendors slipped into the line, earning a few surprised looks from regulars. He waited, ordered a loaded fried rice, and sat down. The moment he took a bite, his brows shot up.
"…No way," he whispered, chewing slowly. Then louder: "This is—this is amazing." His spoon moved again. And again. Soon, he was hunched over the bowl, eating with single-minded devotion.
The hotdog seller from two stalls down caught sight of him. "Oi, old man, you actually bought from him? That good, huh?"
The dumpling vendor didn't even look up. He just jabbed his spoon in the air like it was proof of divine revelation. "Better than good. Try it, or you'll regret it."
That was all it took.
That was all it took. The hotdog man joined the line next, endured the long wait, and returned clutching a truffle burger like a sacred treasure. One bite, and he froze, eyes widening.
"…Worth. Every. Second."
Meanwhile, not everyone was amused.
At the far end of the plaza, the skewer seller scowled, watching as not one, but two fellow vendors now ate happily from Vincent's stall. His own grill smoked idly, unattended. His hands clenched around the tongs, knuckles white.
"Unbelievable. One new guy shows up and suddenly nobody wants a skewer? What's so special about a stupid burger with mushrooms on it?"
"Truffle," his helper corrected gently.
"Don't care!" he snapped. "I've been here five years! Five years, and not once has a line formed in front of my stall like that. This isn't right."
As if the universe wanted to spite him, a young couple wandered past with Vincent's signature truffle fries, moaning in delight between bites.
"This is insane," the girl said. "Better than the diner downtown."
"I know, right? And he's just a street vendor!"
The skewer seller's face reddened like a chili pepper.
"This isn't funny anymore," he hissed under his breath. "He's stealing all of us blind."
He slammed his tongs against the grill, scowling at the swarm of customers. "Enough! Enough of this!"
And with that, he stormed toward Vincent's stall.
The skewer seller's sandals slapped angrily against the pavement as he pushed through the crowd. Customers shifted, some muttering under their breath as he shouldered past them, his apron streaked with grease and his face red from both the sun and his temper.
Vincent barely noticed him at first—he was too busy flipping patties, the sizzle drowning out most of the background noise. The butter hissed, garlic seared, and the smoky aroma curled through the air like a spell. People leaned forward, hypnotized.
But the sudden hush that rippled through the line pulled Vincent's eyes up. The skewer seller was standing there, arms crossed, chest puffed out like a bull ready to charge.