So I’m posted up in my cubicle at Costco Travel. Therefore this story took place sometime from 2002-2015, however, an educated guess is narrowed down to 2008-2012. Regardless, I was noshing on some Flip-food. Rice, chicken adobo, and lumpia.

My co-worker, and friend, Franco Acuna, rolled up. He spots my lunch at my desk / cubicle. He quips, “Boy, I would pay money for that.”

With one hand up to gesture, “What’s that, cousin? Chicken adobo, lumpia?”

“Lumpia,” he replied emphatically.

“Really?” I questioned.

He grinned, “Oh, yeah. No Filipino restaurants, or food trucks in Issy.” I nodded in agreement. “What’s up, buttercup,” I continued. He asked a work related question while the ideas started spooling up in my brain.

Schemin’ and Dreamin’ of Money

Later that night, I called my little sister aka West Coast Playa (WCP). I asked her all my questions about creating, and producing lumpia on a batch basis. My high school business law class was my compass. Her cost of materials before labor, and transport, was $.62 per piece based on 24 rolls. Lastly, I asked her how much did she charge for folks that were not friends or family for lumpia.

She said, “Nothing.”

“Hm. How about $5 per batch? If a batch was 24 rolls?” I pressed. “Each batch costs about $15 however, you should include your time / labor. It’s your opportunity cost, because if you’re doing this task you can’t be doing anything else. 20 dollars for 24, besides the ATM in the work lobby dispenses a minimum of 20 bones.

“Sure,” she answered.

About a week later, I approached Franco. “Yo, bro. I have a deal for you. 20 bones for 24 pieces of fresh, ready to cook lumpia by your favorite Filipina, Charrina Bayne.” Without looking up from his monitor, he smiled, “Sold. Money now? Or money later?”

“Pay when goods and services are rendered.”

Oops… I Did It Again

WCP faithfully delivered the lumpia — the crack cocaine of Filipino food for non-Filipinos.
She packaged it in classic Filipino “luggage”: a Ziploc bag, complete with handwritten frying instructions.

Franco was delighted.

I handed the money straight to my sister without taking a cent. She earned it. I simply facilitated the sale.

That should’ve been the end of it.

It was not.

Franco, being Franco — friendly, talkative, and very good at his job — did what great salespeople do. Word traveled. One by one, coworkers appeared at my cubicle.

“Yo, Los. Franco said you can hook us up with lumpia if we paid.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, without hesitation, casually signing up my little lumpia maker… I mean, my sister.
“Got the money?”

Jesus fawking Christ.

In a single eight-hour shift, I had gathered ten orders.

That night, I handed the list to WCP.

She clapped back immediately.

“Yo, bro. You gotta help me with these lumpia orders. Even if I worked day and night on the weekends, I wouldn’t be able to fulfill them. And where the hell are we supposed to store all this before delivery? Since this was your idea… you oughta help.”

She wasn’t wrong.

I had opened Pandora’s Box. The monster was out. And we were not putting the lid back on.

Then things escalated.

Our first customers wanted to be repeat customers. Then new customers jumped in. This thing started spiraling without any boundaries. I finally sat down, looked at the receipts we’d been scribbling for ourselves, and thought:

How the hell am I going to manage this?

---

May You Have Memorial Day (Weekend)

We had to put guardrails on the madness.

So we limited orders to the month of May. We calculated how long it actually took to make lumpia — labor-intensive doesn’t even begin to cover it. Memorial Day weekend became the anchor: a three-day stretch neither of us usually traveled.

Perfect. Or so we thought.

For the next couple of years, May became Lumpia Month.

We gathered orders. We calculated timelines. Which somehow exceeded the available hours on the calendar. Not to mention refrigeration and freezer space.

Year three was the peak.

We sent out the bat signal for help. Only one person answered the siren call: our friend Cindy B. Bless her.

We started cooking the Monday before Memorial Day.

By then, it wasn’t fun anymore.

It wasn’t a side hustle rooted in love for food and family. It was a chore. Something we began to resent. And that broke my heart a little — because that was never the intention.

That’s when I called it.

Last call for lumpia.

---

Lingering Lumpia

Looking back, it was still a magical time.

My sister and I bonded over music, conversations, and endless rolling. If we’d had more resources — space, time, capital — I still believe it was a great idea.

But tonight?

Tonight I’m heating vegetable oil and frying up a batch just for myself.

Maybe I’ll even share some with Principal Jen.
wink