Shopping Snafu

With a weighty burlap sack slung over my left shoulder, and a smaller brown paper bag tucked under my right arm, I shuffle along slowly, eyes attentive to the comings and goings in this bustling outdoor marketplace.

This bazaar is amassed in a renovated railway station here in El Paso, TX, the formerly frequent passenger trains now replaced by pick-up trucks.  These days on the open range, everyone wants their own vehicle.

The basic construction of the terminal, just a sloping sheet metal roof supported by a robust timber frame, allows a pleasant breeze to flow through.  The convective cooling is welcome, as the dry desert air is already verging on invasive, even before 9 AM.

On this zephyr, pleasant aromas from the various vendors are carried: roasting dark coffee, roasting hot peppers, roasting sweet corn.  But I’m not here for snacking, since there’s important work to do.  I much prefer shopping at these curated local stands, as opposed to navigating generic grocery stores, or bulk buying from big-box monstrosities.

This farmer’s market offers up a cornucopia of fresh bounty.

Granted, this terminology is somewhat disingenuous, popularized as part of the original American Thanksgiving, a conceived collaboration between the knowledgeable Natives and the naïve Foreigners.  In reality, nearly all the food on the table that Fall 1621 day in Plymouth was collected by the locals, and consumed by the visitors.

My own heritage is also Native American blood, albeit more of the Southwest than Northeast tribal lineage.  Which provides guidance of the type of cuisine I enjoy making and eating.  Authentic Mexican fare.

In fact, I have family member connections at several stalls here.  My ancestors have been involved in farming these lands for centuries, well before the state of Texas, or the southern border of America, were established.  Somehow, we’re still menial laborers, as opposed to proud owners, at the profitable produce conglomerates.

This is my second year in the food truck game.  I wouldn’t say it’s been a glorious success thus far.  However, the green shoots of late spring in the fields, will hopefully translate to green shoots in the register.  Granted, El Paso never gets enough rain to enjoy truly vibrant blooms, and most of my sales are credit cards as opposed to cash.

I’ve always wanted to be my own boss, and run my own operation.  So I thought.  The past 18 months have made me reconsider this strategy.  There’s an absurd number of ancillary elements to manage when running a food service business, however small it may be.

My former role as a sous chef at a fine dining restaurant in town is sounding better by the day.  I continually waffle back and forth between the benefits and drawbacks of normal employment.

Getting paid for every hour.  Working incredibly late hours.  Earning a steady weekly paycheck.  Income fluctuation based on the whims of events attended.  Relegated to dull and monotonous tasks.  Required to complete every single task.  Afforded marginally viable health insurance coverage.  Praying every day not to get injured on the job. Walking into a stocked pantry for ingredients as needed.  Having to shop for all my own items at multiple locations.

On that note, I just need to cross a few more key elements off my list, then I can get on to cooking tasks.  I have go-to stops for several of my most important ingredients.  Like my favorite seafood shop, positioned at the end of this row.

Living in a metropolis located in what’s essentially a high desert, equidistant to the Pacific Ocean and Gulf of Mexico, but over 700 miles from either large body of water, having a reliable supplier who pedals fresh fish is critical.  While the Rio Grande is much closer, situated adjacent to this building, this river, just a muddy trickle during the dry season, isn’t exactly known for its aquatic bounty.

As I walk up to the metal counter, I see the usually packed glass display is decidedly leaner than normal.  Most concerning is the small sign which reads “mahi mahi”, my favorite varietal, is sitting on an empty layer of ice, rather than a pile of plump fillets.  Where’s all the inventory gone?

To my culinary cart competitor, it turns out, after a brief chat with the owner of this stand.  Apparently, this weasel came by just 10 minutes ago, and cleaned out all the good white fish.  Foiled!

What’s even worse is that I know the kind of slop this character cooks.  He’ll undoubtably be covering this delicate, flaky protein with a thick batter made from stale beer, then frying in dirty oil, creating soggy and overcooked strips.  What a waste for a quality piece of seafood.

No matter, I can go with the gulf shrimp.  The citrus and cilantro flavors of my planned marinade will pair just as well with these succulent shellfish.  Good thing I’m a knowledgeable and adaptable chef.

Time to grab some veggies, then I’m finished with procurement.  Conveniently, the best local farm’s tent is on the way out of the pavilion.  I love perusing the fresh produce options, and using what’s in season.  However, there’s one signature sauce I always make, regardless of the time of year.  Salsa verde, combining the heat of jalapenos with the tanginess of lime, plus one other key ingredient.  Tomatillos.

Picking up the peppers and the fruit, both vibrant green in color, I transition over to the wooden crate where the special spheres are situated.  As I reach down to grab several of these green orbs, a hairy paw swoops in and snatches up my targeted items.

Startled, I look up, and come face to face with the person who had me muttering under my breath back at the seafood shop.  The proprietor of a rival food truck here in town.  I despise his ugly mug. 

I have no idea what this goon plans to do with tomatillos, or if he even understands what this fruit turned vegetable is.  Both questions are answered with one terse sentence from this moron, slurred through crooked teeth.  “New menu item, fried green tomatoes.”

“Good luck with that,” I reply tersely, purposefully using Spanish, just in case this sarcastic line is heard.  At least there’s enough tomatillos for both of us, even if only one party has knowledge on this hybrid plant’s taste profile and typical usage.  Letting this lug clean out most of the pile, I’m left with just a few small, bruised items.  These should still be fine for my pulverized sauce.

I wait in line with diminishing patience behind the bloke as he empties change from his pockets to complete the large transaction.  Finally, I’m able to settle up on my modest bundle of produce, after a rapid exchange negotiating the total sale amount.  Bartering is a key element of getting a good deal on inputs, and improving my very tight profit margins.

Dropping the acquired loot into my shoulder satchel, I take leave from the farmer’s market toward my ride parked outside.  The large clock hanging over the arched exit, another relic of the timely trains, confirms I’m already half an hour behind schedule.  I feel a tinge of stress materializing, interspersed with anger at the man responsible for facilitating my shopping delays.

Hopefully I won’t have to interact with that jackass and his janky catering operation again today.  He and I differ widely on nearly every element of food service, from quality to taste to pricing.  I have no idea how he’s still in business.

Parking Pandemonium

Before owning this truck, I didn’t drive a lot.  Which makes my skills behind the wheel of this big rig decidedly marginal.  I’ve been learning on the fly, as evidenced by visible scrapes on the original pristine paint job.

I deliberated for weeks on the design, perusing all manner of imagery on the web, and pouring over paint swatches at the local hardware store.  The final artwork pays homage to meaningful hues based on my Pueblo roots: turquoise gemstone light blue, adobe home clay tan, setting sun burnt orange, wild stallion chocolate brown, bleached bone stark white.  Rather than presenting a traditional desert landscape where all these elements would be found, the geometric layout is more abstract, reminiscent of patterns adorning woven blankets or painted pots made by artsy ancestors.

The clever name emblazoned on both sides and the back, written in blocky script, using parallel thin lines of black and yellow, is also an ode to Southwest Native American traditions, popularized by the Hopi contingent of our peoples.  “Kachina Cantina”, referencing both the costumed dancers in lively ceremonies, and the carved wooden statues that mimic these characters.

I’m incredibly proud of this vehicle, and its branding, executed by a talented artist in my tribe.  Too bad the canvas is now dinged and dented.

An unforeseen road sign, an unanticipated sidewalk curb, an unruly taxi driver, and unidentified skateboarder.  All these distractions have thwarted my ability to keep my expensive ride unblemished.  Too bad collision insurance doesn’t cover aesthetic damage.  At least not when the incidents are of my own making.

No worries, the real value being provided to customers are the products pedaled out of this vehicle, as opposed to what the exterior looks like.  While the general focus is on traditional Mexican fare, there’s one specific item I’m known for.  Tacos.  Conveniently, this isn’t a specific recipe, but an entire category of scrumptious offerings.

Combining savory meats, herbaceous veggies, and melty cheese, all housed in a warm blanket of starch, then topped with a spicy sauce, is my strategy for success.  Granted, this generic description could represent almost any popular global cuisine, especially in the food truck ecosystem.

My destination for today is a common one, a bi-weekly occurrence I make sure to attend every Wednesday it’s happening.  The regional livestock auction.

Held at the county fairgrounds, in conjunction with a tack and feed flee market, this combo convention draws quite a crowd.  Including many a hungry ranch hand and cowboy, men known for their veracious appetites, with a predilection towards Mexican grub.  My culinary expertise.

During the typical half hour drive between bazaars, I’m able to take 5 minutes off this average duration through aggressive driving tactics.  Despite this speedy transit, I manage to avoid any rumble strips, speed bumps, and raised curbs, all hazards that can cause pans to topple and marinades to spill.  We’re getting this operation back on track.

The key to having a successful sales session is getting a prime parking position.  When possible, I try to arrive at this venue early, thereby having my pick of sites on the gravel lane allotted for food trucks, that I can simply roll forward into.

However, the unforeseen delays in shopping have left me late.  Thus, parallel parking will be required.  Not one of my specialties, especially when driving this huge boat.  First, I must find an opening big enough to accommodate my lengthy rig.

After two slow laps down and back along the narrow track, dodging throngs of pedestrians darting in front, and ignoring honking cars following behind, I’m ready to concede defeat and simply post up in the auxiliary lot.

Finding a space over there would be a breeze, but foot traffic is significantly diminished outside the grounds.  Based on all the ongoing activity, this is clearly where the action is.  I must be here to effectively pedal my wares.

Fortuitously, on the 3rd pass, I spot the distinct coloration of one of my colleagues.  Bright red and white hues, mimicking the Japanese flag, on this Asian fusion operation, which serves up sushi, ramen, and yakitori.  I often see this mobile market around town at gatherings; the elder couple who owns it, both understandably born in Tokyo, are quite friendly.

There’s a substantial gap between this flashy van and the vehicle in front.  Not wide enough to accommodate my elongated ride, but sufficient for a standard automobile.  Maybe if I can get these folks to inch apart, I’ll be able to squeeze in.  It doesn’t hurt to ask.

Pulling up adjacent to the opening, I put the flashers on, then alight from the cockpit.  My aunt, copilot for today’s adventure, doesn’t speak much English.  However, she makes amazing homemade corn tortillas.  As such, it’s better for me to do the negotiating.  I know the Japanese couple well anyways.

3 efficient minutes later, a few additional feet of space have been opened up.

Now, I just need the truck in front to scooch forward, and I’ll be golden.  It’s only as I approach this next piece of the puzzle that I realize who I’m forced to barter with.  My nemesis, who’s mobile “Chuckwagon” Tex-Mex BBQ shack is now blocking my way.  Of all the people to ask a favor from.

Approaching cautiously, I knock on the driver’s side door, but there’s no response.  Conveniently, the window is rolled down, likely on account of the heat.  Perched on the running board, rising onto my tiptoes, I can just peek into the back area.  My nose is immediately inundated with smoke, not the aromatic scent of mesquite barbeque, but the hard notes of pungent tobacco.

Peering through the haze, I’m able to make out a tall figure standing at the countertop of the kitchenette.  This debatable chef appears to be massaging some dark red paste into a huge slab of meat, without wearing any gloves. Even more concerning is the butt of a cigar protruding from the man’s mouth, fumes wafting upwards, and ash falling down, directly onto the raw beef.

Dirty dishware and food scraps are strewed haphazardly throughout the remainder of the interior space.  I’m so repulsed by this scene that I’m tempted to simply walk away.  But I need to get his machine moved, and my machine parked.

The only way I can think of to get this oblivious character’s attention is the honk the horn, not of my ride, but on his.  As with most large vehicles, the activation button is in the center of the padded steering wheel.  One firm tap does the trick.

My mark appears at the opening, stogie still lit, hands still coated.  I point at my stationary truck, explaining the situation in plain English, and taking care to note the multiple feet of space between his hood and the next automobile in line. 

However, all I get in return for this plea are mumbled excuses about having dirty fingers, being behind schedule, already having plugged in, and assorted other bullshit.  As a last gasp, I even offer to hop in the operator’s seat and nudge the vehicle ahead for him, as the keys are right there in the ignition.  This proposal is met with such a face of incredulity that I may as well have just demanded to steal his ride. 

Clear we’ve reached an impasse, I reach back through the window and hammer this jalopy’s horn one more time, then storm off.

The refusal to move forward, just a few measly inches, leaves me flabbergasted, and frustrated.  Us food vendors are supposed to help each other out.  Still fuming, I climb back into my rig, and hurriedly inform my aunt of the predicament, in a flurry of Spanish, with many exaggerated hand gestures, and a few choice words, interspersed into the dialogue.

I guess we’ll have to make the allotted space work.  My elder family member hops down to facilitate the parallel parking process, and I get to work, leveraging the side mirrors, as the rearview option only affords sight of the enclosed cooking space behind me.

It takes over a dozen excruciating forward and back iterations, incrementing closer to the curb each try, until I’m finally able to maneuver the truck in position.  That was a process!

If the bozo ahead had simply moved up, at no detriment to his own positioning, I could have been parked and prepping 15 minutes ago.  Curse that stubborn southerner.

Setup Struggles

Exiting the vehicle on the driver’s side, I check first the front, then the back, before realizing I can’t wedge through either gap.  Forgoing looping around the lengthy line of rigs, I simply decide to pass through the cab to access the dusty pedestrian thoroughfare opposite.  Which is fine, I belong inside anyways.  There’s a lot of food preparation work to do before we can open the passenger’s side panel and start pedaling our wares.

It’s already 11 AM, and early lunch seekers are starting to mill around.  I need to get this operation open as quickly as possible, so I don’t lose too many sales.

At these large food truck gatherings, there’s a constant battle for resources.  Water totes.  Electric power.  Garbage bins.  Not to mention physical space, a hot commodity which has already challenged me.

Extracting the extension cord from its stowage slot in the undercarriage, I contemplate my options.  The closest energy hub is conveniently just in front of my bumper, built into an accommodating light stanchion.  This multipurpose fairgrounds complex has some nice amenities.  However, as I approach the unit, I see all 4 available outlets are occupied.  That’s not very helpful.

Looking around, I don’t spot any other power supply options within my lengthy cord’s reach.  Who’s using all these circuits anyways?  Maybe one of these plugs isn’t required?

Tracing the cables, I find the first line connects to the Asian fusion operation.  With raw fish to keep cold in the fridge, noodle broth to boil on the stove, and skewers to cook on the griddle, these old folks likely need their electrical linkage all day.  What about the remaining trio?

Following the interwoven snaking lines, two orange and one black, it doesn’t take me long to discover their terminus.  The wagon-themed monstrosity parked directly in front of me.  All three of them.  That’s clearly an unnecessary amount of voltage.  Is this guy putting on a rock concert?

Any rational person would simply consolidate their power needs, and share one of the outlets.  However, after the earlier stubborn interaction, I find it hard to believe that blockhead will be willing to compromise on this issue.

How am I supposed to create anything in the kitchen without electricity?  I was really hoping not to fire up the generator, which is annoying to get started, and loud while running.  However, that seems to be my only option.

Walking back to my ride, cord that failed to establish a linkage still hanging limp in my hand, I’m tempted to sever one of my rival’s lifelines out of spite.  However, I simply take the high road, wishing to avoid any further conflict.

Fortunately, our menu doesn’t require much on-the-fly cooking.  As with most Mexican fare, much of the preparation is done in advance.  My aunt and I are basically just setting up a glorified assembly line.

Tortillas.  Meats.  Veggies.  Cheeses.  Sauces.  There’s a trio of options for each, which individuals can mix or match as desired, if they don’t select one of my curated offerings.

All components are made using authentic Mexican ingredients, unlike the Tex-Mex swill being pedaled next door. He can keep his dry rub BBQ beef ribs, canned refried beans, and ketchup-like sauce.  I offer up chili paste coated char-grilled chicken thighs, black beans stewing in cumin all day, and freshly minced pico de gallo salsa.

There are clear guidelines from the FDA regarding food handling practices.  I pride myself on cleanliness and quality in my kitchen, unlike the casual competitor whose unsanitary space I glanced into a little while ago.  I’ve never been audited by government officials, but if they come by today, I know exactly where to point them.

I have no desired to risk giving anyone food poisoning due to poor treatment of ingredients.  Such an occurrence is not a good way to garner repeat customers.

I didn’t get as much preparatory work done as I planned last night, since my usually reliable sous chef was unavailable.  It’s becoming harder and harder to find good help these days, hence I use almost exclusively friends and family.  Like my aunt, who’s a wizard with masa, from tostadas to tamales.

The tortilla types, wheat flour, along with white and yellow corn, have already been made into proportioned balls, of descending size.  These disparate spheres will result in a trio of different diameters when pressed, offering a range of palette options to fill with fixings.

On that front, the carnitas is warm and shredded, pork shoulder having simmered overnight with aromatic spices until falling off the bone.  The chicken is already grilled and sliced, an important task I executed on Monday, my only day without a gig this week.  That just leaves the fresh and succulent shrimps as the only protein to prepare on a per-order basis. 

While my aunt chops and sautés the fresh veggies from the market, I handle the sauces.  Each of the trio is distinctly different in color, texture, composition, spice, and most importantly flavor.  Aided by the grumbling generator, I soon have multiple food processors going to mix and macerate the medleys.  I’m in my element, combining components using intuition and taste, as opposed to following a curated recipe.  I know these salsas by heart.

As our preparation progresses, I realize my huge tub of lard is nearly depleted.  With time of the essence, I can’t even think about heading out to the store.  I’ll have to improvise. 

There’s no way I’m borrowing anything from the dingy and despicable rig in front of me, but I’m sure my Japanese friends, adept at handling fresh fish, have acceptable sanitation practices.  I bet they’ll be happy to spare a few cups of neutral oil.  It’s nice to know at least some individuals in this industry are collaborative.  This chore also gives me an excuse to venture outside for a bit, after our lengthy culinary seclusion.

Food Fight

Before opening, I always like to get the lay of the land.  A few minutes of observation up front, can lead to many hours of productive service to come.  Plus, I need to stretch my legs, and get some fresh air, before going to battle in the trenches. 

Having been cloistered in the rear kitchen portion of my ride for a while, with limited view of the outside, I’m startled by how bright it is as I exit the vehicle, this time on the passenger’s side.  The Texas sun is out in full force, and the temperature is ramping up quickly.

Another change in the landscape are the crowds.  I thought it was busy when I parked a few hours ago, but now the entire thoroughfare is packed with people.  Hopefully they’re all hungry, as there’s a lot of food vendors packed in a narrow space.

Simply perusing the selection of offerings highlights the key elements of desire that dictate human sustenance purchasing decisions, be they rich or poor, sober or drunk.  Greasy, gooey, gluttonous glory.  Amateur cooks never use the sufficient amount of flavor, be it butter, lard, ghee, or tallow, to replicate restaurant quality cuisine.  I should know, having put my gloved hands in all sorts of slimy slop, washed this oily layer off all manner of dishware, and used all types of tools to unplug clogged drains.

Fatty feasting cannot be replicated at home.  Hence the proclivity of fast food chains across this country.

Culminating my hasty inspection of the amassed fare, I make an intentional detour to my nearest neighbors. Hungry people are inherently lazy, rarely venturing too far down the line, when they make the commitment to deviate from their shopping pursuits to intake some sustenance.  As a result, it’s important to stand out relative to the adjacent competition.

Remaining discrete, fainting an interested patron by taking my place in the lengthy line, I use the time in this sluggish stream to read the available offerings.  Positioned 20 feet back from the ordering opening, I make my first of what will undoubtably be many critiques regarding the entire western-themed operation.  It’s hard to be objective, especially considering our contentious personalities.

The paint job on this rig is so childish I can’t help but laugh.  This cartoonish depiction of a pioneer wagon is more befitting of a kids’ carnival ride, as opposed to a parental procurement stop.

The overstimulating panorama of horses and reigns, canvas atop boards, and saddlebags lacking substance, makes it hard for me to even find the menu.  The presentation of products turns out to be conveyed via a scrolling light board.  Are we at a food truck, or a convenience store?  Who would spend extra money on such tacky signage.  At least that explains the absurd power requirements for this hungry hog.

It takes me 3 full minutes to go through the entire list of offerings.  Fried green tomatoes, with the wrong veggie base.  Burnt brisket ends, smoked as much by stale tobacco as dried wood.  Loaded baked potatoes, adorned with assorted slop atop. 

As the display continues to scroll, with both annoyingly-slow speed, and seizure-inducing color changes, my heart sinks, as I take in each consecutive letter, moving from left to right.

“T . . . A . . . C . . . O .”  I don’t even need to read the remainder of the dull description to figure out the product being pedaled.  Fried fish, using the mahi mahi I should have at my own station right now.   Chuckwagon.  More like Jackwagon!  This poacher stole one of my signature dishes.  The ubiquitous taco.  What a scam artist.

I know his bland gruel won’t match my own flavorful fare, but a taco is a taco in the eyes of the customer.  How little some naïve patrons know about the nuances of simmered protein, fresh vegetables, and savory sauces.  Not to mention a homemade, hand-pressed and oil-seared, yellow corn tortilla, as opposed to the generic, mass-produced and store-bought, processed wheat version.

No worries.  I’ve got a secret weapon to lure customers over to my stall.  Precise penmanship, outlining the multitude of tasty menu options.  And, if my creative skills don’t to the trick, I can simply hand out a few samples. Everyone likes free stuff, especially food.

Considering the incredibly hot weather, I decide to employ another marketing trick today.  A complementary bottle of water or can of soda with any meal purchase.  Per city ordinance, we can’t sell booze, but any other liquid hydration options are fair game to pedal.  When purchased in bulk, these drinks cost less than a quarter each.  Thus, this should be a profitable ploy, without cutting into profits.

Now, I just need to hope the ice in the cooler doesn’t melt on this sweltering day, with the insulated lid being frequently opened.

Having completed my sign, I hang this artistic work prominently, using the hooks on the side of my rig.  The font is large enough, and the letters clear enough, that passersby can peruse the list from far afield.  It’s an impressive menu, in terms of both presentation and flavor.

Stealing a glance to my right, I see a lengthy line at the adjacent fake wagon, my adversary’s operation.  There must be 20 vendors here, pedaling all different types of cuisine, yet somehow the pair of taco preparers ended up right next to each other.  I relish a challenge, and would enjoy nothing more than stealing some sales from this impostor.

Let’s take some orders, put a dent in that demand, and feed the masses traditional and tasty tacos.

Cooking Challenge

With everything in place, it’s finally time to sell some product.  My favorite part of the entire process at an event is officially opening for business.  No sooner am I back in place, with the side window fully raised, that our first customer appears at the portal.

Evidently hungry folks abound here.  Good, because I have plenty of flavorful fare to offer them.

Early on, it becomes clear there’s a lot of tourists at the livestock market today.  These out-of-towners often seek out authentic Mexican flavors, mimicking a common experience just across the border, without needing an official passport, or lengthy security screening.  Such desire for the real deal is exactly why I started this Kachina Cantina venture.

There are a few key elements which give us an advantage over every other mobile kitchen parked nearby.  The high quality of the food, the low cost of the inputs, and the speed of meal assembly.  We can sell an incredible number of profitable plates, in an impressively short amount of time.

Never run out of food is a tenant I learned early in this trial-by-fire business.   As soon as something gets crossed off the menu board, patrons start to feel like they don’t have sufficient choices, or missed out on the best dish concept.

As such, I always prepare extra, especially as many items can be repurposed; meats into soups, and veggies into sauces.  With tortillas made to order, and cheeses stable in the fridge, there’s very little waste generated.  Margins are quite tight in the restaurant industry, so efficiency is key. 

With incessant yelling from the auctioneer, interspersed with unnecessarily loud country music blared over the powerful speakers during downtime in the paddocks, it’s hard to hear the incoming orders.  I make sure to double check each request, as I pride myself on customer service.  Plus, there’s a lot of customization options each patron gets to choose from.  However, such diligence takes time, that I don’t have right now, as our overburdened galley rapidly starts getting into the weeds.

Taco requests are now coming in and going out at an absurd rate.  One of the benefits of having family, on multiple dimensions, living in town, is I’m able to recruit reinforcements.  My quick perusing of the attendee landscape earlier, motivated me to call in the cavalry.  Somewhat literally.

I knew my teenage nephew, a helper at a ranch outside of town, was on-site today.  The more cows sold from the pen, the less chaperoning required.  Plus, this lad is one of the only individuals in our close-knit Pueblo community to fully embrace technology.  He can make social media posts, and take digital payments, way more efficiently than me or my aunt.

Now, we have a productive young person to run visible point of sale up front, while also presenting an alternative persona to a pair of older ladies slaving away in the hidden kitchenette zone behind.  A scheme that works most of the time, but isn’t completely without setbacks.  There’s a complex dance required in the made-to-order food service realm.

It’s incredibly hot in the bowels of this truck, between the scorching griddle inside, and the searing heat outside.  We’re just hitting our stride, and it’s not much past midday, so the temperature will only continue to increase.

Despite sweating profusely, I somehow still have enough fluids in the system that my bladder is now calling for relief.  It must be all the iced tea, steeped in the sun the traditional way, I consumed from my travel mug throughout the morning.  Unfortunately, the permanent restroom complex is located all the way across these expansive fairgrounds.

The organizers bring in a few porta-potties to support this culinary truck row, but these are not sufficient to handle the hungry hordes.  I don’t have time to wait in line, with orders piling up.  I guess I’ll just have to hold it.  Or start wearing diapers.  I should have stopped for relief earlier, when I took my quick stroll.

As the day plays out, a pair of mobile restaurants clearly rise to the top in the eyes of the patrons.  Mine and my archrival.  At least based on my narrow view of the outside world, via intermittent glances through the airy opening in our cloistered cave.

Unbeknownst to me upon arrival, there’s an impromptu series of attendee polls surrounding this entire event, meant to spur visitor turnout.  Best bovine.  Best band.  Best costume.  Best crafts.  And, most relevant to my pursuit, best food.

Apparently, this entire contest is playing out online, a realization I only grasp after the 5th patron returns to the window well after their order has been fulfilled, to check the name of my operation. Maybe if the person simply looked up from their cellphone for more than 15 seconds, they would realize the branding is emblazoned across the entire rear panel of this box truck, on both sides.  Observation is clearly not a prioritized skill in the modern age.

My special savory snacks speak for themself.  No need for web posts, photoshopped images, curated outfits, or silly names.  I rely on word on mouth, social chatter as opposed to social media.  Maybe I should start embracing this internet engagement, but don’t have any free time for such ancillary tasks.  Quality cuisine takes commitment.

Soldiering on relentlessly, I lose track of the clock, intently focused on frying up corn tortillas, searing off citrus shrimp, melting down peppery cheese, and portioning out spicy salsas.  All the sudden, I look up and realize there’s no paper slips hanging from the magnetic strip above the plating station.  This must be the home stretch.

Finally coming up for air, I take a few minutes to check inventory and tidy up, as my aunt continues her diligent execution of additional requests still trickling in. 

Nearly 7 PM, an hour after the last auction, the thinning crowds outside make me comfortable sending my helpful nephew home, so he can tend to his stableboy tasks, which are inevitably piling up.  I present him with a nice pile of cash, as many elements of this small business are executed off the books.

Just as I’m about to close, I hear a noise.  Looking up, I see a brown-skinned girl with long, braided, black hair, similar to my own presentation 3 decades ago, running towards my raised perch, waving her arms wildly.  Reaching the sheet metal side of my ride, this apparent tweenager comes to an abrupt stop, breathing heavily, then offers me a piece of paper, apparently unable to breath from the recent exertion.

Focusing fatigued eyes, I read the words written in cursive Spanish, on a rectangular swatch of cardstock, clearly a repurposed bidding sign.  Processing slowly, I realize this is a food order, for what adds up to more than 2 dozen tacos.  Apparently, there’s some famished folks who still have work to do, and need an energy boost, well after the visitors have left.

As it turns out, most of the other culinary options are shut down for the night.  My resolve to stay open late, and prepare extra items, is paying off yet again.  This lengthy list will take a few minutes to crank out, but I’m confident from the prior inventory check we can fulfill every ask.    

First, I need to keep this motivated messenger happy and entertained.  Handing the big ticket, condensed into our abbreviated order lexicon, off to my elder culinary colleague so she can get started, I rapidly assemble a couple of custom tacos, thinking back to what flavors I enjoyed around my 12th birthday.

Tender pork, easy to chew, deep in flavor, yet not too spicy.  Veggies are an acquired taste, but who doesn’t like fire-roasted corn, coated with agave syrup?  Extra cheese of course, using both the cheddar-jack and cotija types.  With a small dollop of the mildest sauce, just minced tomatoes, onions, and fresh herbs.  On a white corn tortilla, the middle size and density choice available, representing the perfect carrier for this combination.

I have this invention plated as a symmetrical pair in just 45 seconds.  This child-inspired creation is on the house.

Extending my entire frame out the open window of my truck, I’m just able to reach this slight patron.  The grin on the young lass’s face is priceless.  I bet she’ll be even happier after consuming the duo of terrific tacos I just handed her.  Satisfying customers, especially kids, is what keeps me slaving away for long hours, at this barely profitable endeavor.

7 minutes later, the entire order is complete, neatly placed in recyclable cardboard containers, as opposed to the ubiquitous white styrofoam bins most take-out spots default to.  Instead of passing this package out the window, I carry the weighty load down to the ground, and hand the bagged parcel off to the adolescent courier.

Hopefully that substantial snack will provide this girl with enough energy to heft the remaining sumptuous sustenance back to her extended family, so they can enjoy a few moments together after a tiresome day, which likely rivaled my own significant exertion.  On that note, I need to complete my final closing tasks, then get home, for a much-needed shower.

Cleaning Contention

I don’t usually drink, especially when working, but this has been quite a session.  I swirl the abrasive pad across the metal griddle with my dominant hand, while swirling the lime wedge in my stubby bottle of Mexican lager with the other appendage.

Teetotaler tendencies aside, this evening, there’s reason to celebrate.  My tasty truck’s wares won the peoples’ choice award in the favorite food category here at this bustling livestock market.  Along with contest acknowledgment accolades, which can be used for future marketing endeavors, we earned a physical trophy.

This tacky plastic item, appropriately topped with a proud miniature steer, even though I didn’t serve any beef today, is covered in gold paint that’s already flaking off.  Clearly, the prize budget was quite meager.  As a result, this newly acquired item is stashed on the floorboards of my work vehicle’s cab, well away from the food preparation zone.

Praise and plaques aside, there’s a more important element of this impromptu victory that really has me excited. Whooping my rival.

There are numerous food truck options in town, but the recent results prove real Mexican meals are still king in this region.  By late afternoon, with the title in the balance, and the closeness of the contest completely unbeknownst to me, the wishful wagoneer adjacent made some bold, poorly conceived, moves.

Breaking out a costumed donkey mascot, creating a real clown show.   Reducing prices, while getting increasingly sloppy with presentation, and skimpy on portions.  Even sinking to the point of slinging racial slurs my way.  I could care less about any language barriers between us pair of combatants; my food speaks for itself.

Taking a deep pull of the frothy concoction, housed in clear glass, and approaching room temperature in this heat, I concede defeat on the cleaning efforts.  Time to get off my feet for a bit.

I’m not a big fan of exercise for fun, but would challenge even the most fit individual to a day in my shoes, which are made for protective traction, as opposed to responsive running.  A normal gym workout lasts an hour or two; I’ve been on the move for half a day straight.

Based on my fatigued and fragile frame, it feels like I just completed a boxing match.  A service session is akin to brave banditos operating in caves, a common occurrence as my ancestors defended their homeland from frequent oppressors.  Maybe that perpetual posture explains the short stature of both myself, and most of my family.  And my own diligent commitment to any cause undertaken.

One more physical task, then I can head home to the comfort of my bed, at least for a few short hours.

It’s amazing how much trash gets generated when running a culinary operation; especially a mobile one.  The upstream food waste, chicken fat, shrimp shells, pepper innards, mushroom stems, onion skins, tomatillo husks, can all be repurposed for future stocks, or at least composted.  While our vessel runs a tight ship, with reusable storage containers, washing utensils as we go, and cleaning surfaces via fabric towels, the average consumer operates with a much lazier mindset.

I’ve sourced recycled cardboard plates, recycled wood silverware, and recycled paper napkins, to serve our wonderous wares.  However, once these containers get contaminated by other organic material, albeit vibrant and delicious, that becomes the end of the line for these pulp-based products.  Which is why every garbage can put out around the venue, including my own voluminous vessel, meant to keep folks from ditching their dishes onto the ground, is completely overflowing.

It’s like wrestling a calf to the dirt, an experience I have some familiarity with from rodeo participation in my youth, but I finally get the thin plastic bag out of the thick plastic tub.  Only once the bulbous balloon is freed from its restrictive retainer are the leaks in the dam revealed.  In the form of an unknown, unfathomable slurry, leaking onto my pants and shoes.  What a sloppy mess.

I could easily concede defeat, leaving this package, and its former housing, here for the morning clean-up crew. However, completion of task has been instilled in me since my childhood schooling in Juarez, Mexico, just across the southern border of the nation I now call home.

Returning to my rig, still trying to get the greasy goo off my hands, I making one last sweep of the area. Unexpectedly, I find an additional pair of garbage sacks, leaning against the light pole I was never able to connect to for electricity.  The plastic sleeves, black in color, unlike the transparent version I use, are nearly hidden in the growing darkness.

Even without looking inside, I know where these stragglers came from.  The operation previously parked adjacent, which wasn’t shy about its own power usage.  As with wooden wagons traversing the grassy plains back during the pioneer expansion era, this more modern metal machine has left a similar tarnished trail across the landscape.   

Again, these packed parcels could easily be left where they are, relying on sanitation services tomorrow.  However, who knows what clawing critters will be wandering the grounds tonight, seeking out beef bones, potato peels, and any other savory scraps.

I don’t want to risk any chance of being associated with my de facto neighbor’s wacky wagon, cluttered kitchen, and misguided menu.  That guy is a bumbling hack, while I’m a consummate professional.  However, I was parked just as close to this stanchion as my counterpart, so, without additional context, the source of this waste is up for debate.  I’ll do his dirty work, yet again.

The duo is too heavy to carry at the same time, so I’m forced to make two additional slogs all the way to the dumpster.  While very tired, it’s important to leave no trace anywhere near where I was parked, thereby maintaining my spotless reputation in this small community. 

Final physical endeavor outside complete, the moon has now fully replaced the sun in a cloudless sky.  It’s still quite warm out.  Or potentially, I’m just sweating profusely from the extensive exertion.

Completely spent, reeking of grease, garbage, gasoline, and God knows what else, I slowly climb back into the driver’s seat of my truck.  My aunt is passed out on the passenger’s side; she’s too small and frail to support the heavy lifting associated with getting an unruly package into an industrial dumpster.

As I fire up the diesel engine, and look forward to navigate the road ahead, I spot a neon piece of paper stuck under the windshield wiper.  Great, a parking ticket, adding insult to injury.  Apparently, while doing my good Samaritan garbage run, I overstayed my welcome in these temporary spaces, which apparently have an 8 PM cut-off, to avoid overnight camping.  This gravel track could certainly use a good hose down.

Too fatigued to climb back towards ground level, I simply stretch my frame out the door, stressing every strained muscle and joint in my body.  The furthest extent of my middling left arm allows me to grasp the corner of the slip with my fingertips, pulling at least a few internal elements of my torso in process.

Bringing this flimsy item back into the vehicle, I immediately realize this notification doesn’t have the typical format of a local law enforcement notice, a presentation I’m quite familiar with, based on big rig parking challenges throughout town.

This swatch, vibrant in color, has clearly been pulled off a pad of square adhesive notes, now ubiquitous in modern society, adoring cluttered desks of secretaries, and strategic walls in boardrooms, a pair of environs I’m completely unfamiliar with.

The writing is clearly visible, capital letters in black permanent marker on the bright pink background.  The terse text simply reads “Bumper Damage = $500”, with an initialed “CW” signature at the bottom.  It only takes me a few seconds to determine the originator of this message.    

It feels like we’re back on the plains, Cowboys and Indians battling it out.  More accurately in this instance, the invasive U.S. Army, with their guns and wagons, against the Native Americans, with our bows and horses.  Everyone knows how that lopsided conflict played out.  But, in these modern times, I’m not yielding easily.

There’s no way I’m taking any responsibility for a ding or dent on the monstrous machine formerly parked in front of me.

Of all my stressful life experiences, from discreetly recrossing the invented U.S. border as a teenager, to slaving away late nights as a menial dishwasher, to birthing and raising a pair of rambunctious boys on my own, to plopping down most of my net worth on an ambitious food truck gamble, this has been the most trying day of my life.

“Coño!”  “Mierda!”  “Cabrón!”

This verbal outburst surprises even me, but fortunately doesn’t wake up my elder family member slumbering adjacent.  I feel like I was a lot calmer before starting this venture.  Or at least before I met and started tussling with a specific other local owner.

My nemesis cannot be escaped.  Putting the rig in gear, then jamming on the gas, the jolt is so aggressive it startles my inert aunt.  Whoops.  Back to sleep señora.  It’s only Wednesday, so we need to run this operation back tomorrow.  And beat that bozo again.  Fate intervened today, connecting us combatants.  Tonight, I may check the website of my enemy, to see his planned location, then head out early to thwart the setup.

I can’t wait to talk some trash, and serve some tacos.  After a warm bath, then a soft bed.