When the narrator says, “This doesn’t look promising,” it shows that she is expecting:

a. to be disappointed in the place.
b. to get lost trying to find the place.
c. to have trouble finding a parking place.
d. to be late getting there.

Here is the story:

A little after 5:30 p.m., Serena and I hop into Jayson’s car. “Where are we headed?” I ask.

“A little place I know downtown. But it’s a surprise, so you’ll just have to wait and see when we get there,” Jayson replies.

We live in a part of Los Angeles called Baldwin Hills, tucked between the 405, the 10, and the 110. To get pretty much anywhere, you’ve got to hop onto a freeway. We get onto the parking lot that is the 110 freeway. It’s only a few miles to downtown, but we all settle in for a long ride. Jayson turns up the radio, so we don’t hear the noise of the other cars, and I turn my attention to our traveling companions in the cars next to us.

We are all just a few feet from each other, but we are in our own little metal and glass compartments. I can’t help but wonder what is going on in their world. There’s a guy in a black sports car who is clearly texting while driving. You can tell by the way that he looks down toward the bottom of his steering wheel and then looks back up at the traffic ahead of him. There’s a mom driving a minivan, talking to her kids in the back seat and eating fast food. The fast food isn’t making her trip any faster. On the other side, a grandpa sings wildly and plays the drums on the steering wheel. Now that’s a happy man! Does anyone wonder about me, Serena, and Jayson? Can they tell we are on our way to a celebration dinner?

As we leave the freeway, I see the tall skyscrapers of downtown L.A. and the bright lights of Staples Center. In front of me, I see more traffic. I am pretty excited because some of L.A.’s hottest restaurants are located just outside of the Staples Center; maybe this is Jayson’s surprise.

But soon, we pass the bright, fancy restaurants. I tap Jayson on the shoulder, and he turns down the radio and asks, “What’s up?”

“I’m kind of wondering where we’re headed. We just passed up a bunch of nice restaurants.”

“Don’t worry. I’m taking you to L.A.’s most popular dining hotspot. You won’t be disappointed.”

But the farther we drive, the less promising the streets look. We have left the bright lights behind and are now traveling in an area with strip malls and warehouses, a lot of them abandoned. Serena peers out the window and points at a large flat parking lot between two warehouses. “Park there,” she tells Jayson. This doesn’t look promising.

We get out of the car, and I am overwhelmed with the aroma of cooking foods. I can’t figure out what I am smelling, but before you know it, Serena, Jayson, and I are walking through massive warehouse doors.

I can’t believe my eyes. Inside the warehouse, there are hundreds of people from every part of L.A. There are 20 or 30 food trucks, painted with crazy signs advertising Korean tacos, deep-fried macaroni and cheese, pizza with curry, fruit smoothies, and homemade cupcakes. The choices are mind-boggling. Most people either stand and eat or set up lawn chairs that they brought with them. The live music in the background is like a soundtrack for the laughing, talking, and eating.

“How did you know about this?” I ask Jayson.

“One of my friends owns the truck called ‘Spicy Q.’ They sell pulled pork, ribs, and smoked chicken. He told me they’d be here tonight.”

“Aren’t they always here?”

“No. These food trucks go all over the city. People use the Internet or Twitter to find out where they are parked. Most of these guys went to cooking school or business school, but can’t afford a permanent restaurant.”

“What are you two waiting for? I’m starving,” Serena interrupts us.

“Let’s eat!” I reply, and we head for the long line in front of Spicy Q.