One day last week after another hungry morning and meager lunch, I decided to go to Subway for a sandwich. I was glad to see a familiar, colorful truck parked nearby: the Fojol Bros were back in the neighborhood. I’d rather patronize those spunky guys in their carnival lunch truck, than spend money at a chain restaurant any day.
A colorful welcome sight
Today the line was long: at least thirty people in line over the fifteen or twenty minutes I was there. As people were served, new customers replaced them in line. I was glad business was brisk for the Fojols. Today, they weren’t speaking falsetto but in gravelly, gruff voices, as if they’d each smoked a couple packs a day for the last forty years, though no Fojol seems over thirty. Two wore turbans as before, but one sported a bright, green bowler and matching mustache. Another wore a cute, two-piece number: bright yellow top with shiny gold pants, as if genie-like he had popped out of some lamp. I ate tasty lentils (dal) and curried cauliflower and potatoes.
Splash of color in a monotone city
