I had lunch at a carnival one day this week, yet was within sight of my employer’s stodgy edifice, a venerable, stuffy agency of the U.S. government. Passersby wouldn’t have recognized it as an actual carnival but rather a colorful lunch truck, one of a growing number of eateries on wheels that drive around town parking here, there, and yonder to serve hungry Washingtonians.
Fojol Bros of Merlandia the sign on the side of the truck read. The menu: butter or curry chicken, chickpeas and eggplant, spinach and cheese (paneer, a cubed Indian cottage cheese), and lentils. The prices: one small serving, $2, two regular servings, $7, and 3 servings, $9. Three men manned the lunch truck, one taking orders, one managing money, one serving the food. The energetic, joking trio wore turbans, fake mustaches, and brightly colored clothes of green, red, blue, and yellow. They spoke only in falsetto voices, high, squeaky, perky. “What would you like to eat?” “How are you doing today?” “What’s your name?” I thought they’d give it up after awhile, but they only spoke to customers in falsetto. Their shiny, steel-gray truck was decorated with bright bits of purple, red, and green. The wacky little festive scene brightened its spot on the predictably serene, prissy Washington street.
I had already eaten a chicken sandwich from home but wasn’t satisfied. Besides that, I had wanted to patronize a lunch truck ever since my wife and I first saw one several months back. I think they are a growing trend here in Washington. A web site provides current information about where any of thirty or more trucks will be parked on any given day. When we first saw a truck several months ago, we chatted with a local public television reporter and cameraman on the scene getting information for a report on this trend. Apparently they’re legal but just barely. They are allowed to park anywhere and sell food, but there’s gotta be a line of customers, the reporter told us. She explained that operators of a lunch truck parked but with no customers could be fined. Many of the trucks are colorful, interesting, and fun like the Fojol Bros’.
I walked up to the window and in a cheerful, high-pitched voice the turbaned Fojol Bros squeaked, “What would you like to order?” (I wish I could write in falsetto… alas, written words have only one tone). “Curry Chicken and Spinach and Cheese,” I replied. “What is your name,” he falsettoed? “Gary.” “Last name?” I tried to quickly come up with something clever. “The Fisherman,” he shrilled? “Yes. Gary The Fisherman. O.K., that will be five dollars.” “Five dollars,” I asked? “but the sign says seven.” “Our Basmati rice wasn’t the quality we were hoping for today, so we’re giving everyone a discount,” he squeaked in reply.
Five dollars for a meal?! It struck me they must be able to make good or at least good enough money at this to be able to take off two dollars and still, I suspected, turn a profit.
In only a few minutes another mustached, turbaned, falsetto voiced guy called out, “Gary the Fisherman? Your meal is ready.” I stepped up to the serving window and as he handed me the dish, said, “The Fisherman? Gosh, we’ve been waiting a long time for you!” I took the food and walked to a nearby park bench to sit and eat and watch the truck. The food was good, not unlike the chicken masala and palak paneer I ate all the time in India. When the Fojol Bros had served the waiting customers and there was no one else in line, one of the guys stepped out of the van, walked around, and called out to me and to a few of their other customers sitting out and eating: “Thank you for sitting outside and eating the food.” A nice touch. I loved their ad-libbing. They had fun interacting with customers and each other, yet served well-cooked food and managed a well-run operation. Their consistent style, their shared mission and vision, showed.
As I sat and ate, I heard them joking together in the truck, now speaking in loud, gruff, deep voices, polar opposite their customer voices (there was still no line), laughing and obviously having a good time. When I had finished I went back to the van and chatted with them a bit (they reverted to falsetto). What do you like best about this gig? Working with these guys. Least? Getting up in the morning. Are there always customers? Yes. More and more over the last two years we’ve been in business. Do you need a license to do this? No. We can park and serve food as long as there’s a line. If there are no people, we’re supposed to go.
I wish I’d asked how often a cop tells them to move along or even fines them while they’re parked, waiting for more customers. I wonder if Washington is the kind of place that has to have rules, but tolerates and needs little escape hatches like colorful lunch trucks, bits of emotional and culinary freedom and joy, to give the Important People doing Important Work an opportunity to stop getting too caught up in themselves and their tasks.
(Here is a DCist Blog article about Fojol Bros being ranked in the top 10 of national food trucks. I only include this because of the great photo of the truck and one of the Fojols.)
