I saw a heard of people standing around a food truck today like they were lining up for Mecca. I have this thing with food trucks. At first I was super excited about them. The concept of a pimped out truck inspired by burritos, donuts and lettuce wraps suddenly became fierce and interesting, edgy and urban ideas about dining. I was on board. Let me climb through your window sir, over your lap, yes, and serve myself a plate of your fresh idea. I mean seriously, this tapped into all my innate desires. I went straight retro and all nostalgia like in love with memories of food from a truck, and that damn bell. You can ring your bell anytime long haired man with a pony tail, and Chester the molester stash. I will come running to you. Is your van white? Does it roll tight with sliding doors, bubbled out windows, or perhaps a clown? If so, the faster I’ll come. I’ve got two, twenty-five cent pieces in my pocket, my bra is stuffed, toilet paper trailing behind. Look out, ya’ll, I’ll take the bomb-pop and a fudge delight.
This burns me up the way the food trucking business exploits, and abuses nostalgia. They should know I was an inner-fat, yet skinny kid. I could’ve been large the way I hoarded my sweets and devoured many a cones. Thank the Lord Jesus we were too poor for snack foods. Every chance I got I chased packaged dessert with Fanta grape under a shade tree, far from home and away from the fight.
There were times when we couldn’t afford the coveted ice-dream treat from the neighborhood kid-dope-dealer. That dude was like the pied piper with a horn. There was just something about his damn truck. For a kid, he had it all–a van blasting Oreo, I mean REO Speed Wagon, and ice cream. I’d imagine sleeping on a lounge chair in the back of his free-wheelin, ice cream dealing, scream-machine, hand constantly digging around inside that freezer bin for a sundae scoop, or bubble-gum bottom pop.
So what the truck? What’s next, titty-bar trucks, liquor bar trucks, coffee bar trucks–yes, now we’re talking? I think a strip club on wheels would do as well any old lunch wagon. Isn’t the lunch cart the original gravy train? I wish prostitution was legal. I’d serve woman and food to starving men. (pun intended) Don’t laugh, you know I’d be one rich bitch. I’d be the talk of the town amongst the feminist. I can hear them now, “What? You mean to tell me she’s a lesbian-Madam for straight men? That’s ludicrous, such un-lesbian, un-lady-like-behavior.” (And yes, I’m that much of a narcissist.)
Seriously though, back to food trucking, why is the idea of food being served from a truck so exotic to us? Why do we believe the hype that tells us it must be better? Yes, food from a moving vehicle is way tastier, fresher, and cleaner running on fumes from 4 wheels. Like sex. Why is sex in the backseat, steamed up windows, shocks knocking so tantalizing?
Actually, fried food from the gas station is where it is at–fried in a large vat, yep. Gas station food, not gas station sex. I guess that would be called, convenient sex.
So I still haven’t tried food truck, food. I’m almost anti-food truck at this point. Why? I don’t know. I think it’s a shame. I hate standing while eating, it’s uncivilized. I dislike eating outside too, there are flies, bugs, and then there’s the weather. Take it to my car, I don’t think so, relaxing I’d say not. I want to dine people, and dine well. I want an experience to follow my dollar, not just a blue belly. I want the happy ending.
Keep on trucking, and ——-
Love ya, mean it, hug ya tight,