Mom knocks on his window, which he quickly rolls down to speak with her.

“Too much traffic getting here, senhora,” he says. “I’ve come to pick up the catering order for the wedding.”

I would have known if we’d rented a catering van. And it’s not like we have a gig lined up with everything going on.

Mom’s about to say something, but then Sugar’s door opens from directly across the street, and Dona Eulalia Molina—Seu Romário’s only daughter and Pedro’s mom—rushes out.

Dona Eulalia waves her arms at the driver, a white apron fastened around her waist.

“I hope this isn’t another of their pranks,” Mom says to the driver like a warning. She’s in no mood to be messed with tonight.

And I begin to understand the situation. The reason why Mom is so on edge.

She thinks the Molinas are up to something.

That family loves coming up with ridiculous ways to attack us. Some are mild and uncreative, like sending fake customers to come berate our dishes in front of real paying customers. Other times it can get bad.

Is it possible they sent this van here, today of all days, as a way to show off?! No wonder Mom is having a hard time containing her anger. Now my blood is boiling, too.

The driver just stares at Mom, waiting for instructions, totally oblivious to the fact that Dona Eulalia is trying to get his attention from her side of the street.

“You got the wrong bakery,” Mom says, sharply.

The driver glances from our sign to Sugar’s. He finally notices Dona Eulalia.

“Too many bakeries on this street,” he says as an apology and Mom raises an eyebrow at him.

The Molinas’ entourage of bakers streams through Sugar’s doors with trays brimming with lavender-colored surpresas de uva, brigadeiros, and bem-casados under protective plastic films, which they load into the back of the van.

And then they bring out a full tray of empadinhas! Even from my spot across the street, I see the dough flaky and golden like Grandma’s recipe.

The thing is, everyone knows that only Salt makes empadinhas on our street. That’s the deal our families made generations ago, when our great-grandmothers drew the battle lines:

Ramires only prepare savory foods.

Molinas only prepare sweets.

Sugar crossed the line baking empadinhas, and they know it. Those shameless, dishonest, garbage snakes!

“They’re doing this on purpose,” Mom says, gritting her teeth.

“Alice, ignore them,” Dona Selma urges. “Come back inside.”

But Mom’s frozen to the spot, watching the catering procession across the street.

Dona Clara and Seu Floriano step out of Salt to join us, both looking indignant.

“Tell me this isn’t for the wedding Julieta got fired from!” Dona Clara brandishes her cane at the van.