“No substitutions, sir,” Marlene insists. “I’m sorry, but it says so right there on the sign, in six different languages. Do I have to tell you in Pig Latin?”

Oh, boy.

I’ve had enough arguments with my ex-wife over the years to know when she’s about to blow her top. That’s the last thing our business needs right now. I turn down the flame and hurry over to play peacemaker.

I stand next to Marlene and call down to the line outside. “Okay, everybody, are we having some kind of little issue here?”

“Da-damn right you … I mean, we are!” the man slurs.

It’s starting to get dark out, but I can see he’s wearing a sweat-soaked blue polo shirt, a crumpled masquerade mask on his forehead, a single muddy flip-flop, and I can smell the booze on his breath from inside the truck.

“I said I wanted an egg sandwich, okay?” he slurs out in a loud voice. “None of that seafood crap. But this old bitch said y’all don’t do that. Didn’t you ever hear of ‘the customer is always right’?”

I give Marlene a sympathetic look. The vast majority of the people we feed—even the drunk ones—are usually pretty cool. But like every business, once in a while we get a bad apple. Normally I’d politely but firmly turn a belligerent fellow like this away, then physically escort him off the premises myself if I had to.

But seeing so many phones recording, and worried that he’s gearing up for a fistfight, I get another idea.

“Sir, I’ll tell you what,” I say, turning back to him. “You seem like such an upstanding young man, just relax, give me two minutes, and I’ll make you the best egg sandwich you ever had. Deal?”

Before Marlene can stop me, I scurry back to the stove.

I spoon some glistening duck fat into a fresh frying pan, then drop in some onions for a quick sauté. Next I crack in a pair of eggs, add a splash of cream, sprinkle liberally with my homemade blend of Cajun seasonings, then whisk and fold until everything is cooked through.

When the eggs are done, I slide them onto a freshly toasted baguette, top with a handful of diced scallions, then wrap the sandwich in wax paper.

“Order up!” I say, handing my unique creation down through the service window to the waiting man, who somehow seems to have gotten even tipsier and angrier in the past few minutes. “One Cajun-style duck-fat scrambled-egg po’boy. Enjoy.”

The man grunts thanks, then suspiciously unwraps the sandwich and takes a bite. Instantly, his eyes widen in ecstasy.

“Ohmph ghhhd thygt ghrhd!” he exclaims, spewing chunks of chewed egg and bread everywhere. He swallows hard then says again: “Oh, my God, that’s good!”

The other customers in line—their phones capturing the whole thing—start to cheer and applaud.