How to eat from a truck or Benny’s Taco Wagon

I have to admit, I was a bit worried when my office moved into a new building recently. Sure, the new place is great -- spacious, modern (built just for us, don't you know), plenty of amenities, and ample parking. If it had condos on top, I'd sell my house and move in posthaste. It's even highly secure -- you need keys to get in, and there's a huge fence all the way around the building. That’s probably to keep all of the drunks from Eddie’s Sports Bar next door from passing out in our bushes after the big game. All we need is a little man in a uniform to stand in the front and shake his hand at you if you can't get in or don’t park in the right spot. This is a plumbing wholesale supply house and Home Depot has nothing on us.

Still, there was one concern: where the hell would we eat if we tire of Eddie’s?

The old building on our same lot was not too far from other restaurants. Eddie’s is kinda of an Irish pub, a Subway, a Thai joint, even a microbrewery 'n' grill were around the corner. Down the street a little further south, and there was Indian food, a Cajun, Chinese takeout, and more. A veritable cornucopia of bland, rubbery food like substances awaited us outside the walls of our corporate cubbyholes if we headed north. On particularly desperate days, the Artic Roadrunner provided a wide array of artery-clogging goodness. We loved it and the décor with old Alaskan pictures and the patron’s fishing and hunting trophies all over the walls and ceilings. Culinary kings, we were and the pictures of king salmon all over added to this great place.

Our new digs are, sadly, not so strategically situated. Sure, we've got The Peanut Farm up the street and some overpriced restaurants are close by for those times when we need to wine and dine visiting VIPs or clients on the company dime.

(I am never allowed to wine, nor dine, visiting VIPs on the company dime, by the way or on anyone else's dime, for that matter. When important people visit, they lock me in a supply closet with a cheese sandwich and a pail to pee in. It's something the business types around here call 'risk management' as they have all read my blog.) I’m just kidding as part of my job is to take clients out for lunch, maybe a round of golf, and if we are lucky a long day of fishing.

So if we're not dropping thirty bucks on salmon and lobster brunches -- and trust me, we're not; I don't even own the sort of pants it would take to adhere to those place's dress code -- what are we to do for food?

Enter 'the trucks'.

The trucks are our lunchtime loophole. These savory saviors are scattered all over town (semi permanent) or show up right across the street at around ten thirty in the morning, start cooking, and serve our food intake needs well into the afternoon hours.

The menu’s vary from “Chicago Dogs”, “salmon bake”, and “takeout Chinese” to name a few.

One of my favorites who have been in the same spot for years is called “Benny’s Taco Wagon”. Recently Benny’s had to move to another location as there is a new Embassy Suites going up on what had been a vacant lot for many years.

"Benny's Taco Wagon"

Most are run down retro fitted bread trucks or ice cream vans. Others are trailers that have been retrofitted into an eatery. Questions like: "Who made it? When? How? Are those peas? Was that a finger? Who knows? Who cares?”

"Chicago Dogs"

People stream from blocks around to play 'culinary roulette' with the hot meals served from the back windows of these repurposed ice cream trucks.

"Bathing suit chicks"

Do we know what we're getting, exactly? No. Can we see the food being prepared? Hardly! Do the proprietors understand any English, outside of the names of their dishes and enough numbers to ask for exact change? It's reasonably clear that they do not. In short, it's a little slice of heaven right on our doorstep.

"Burrito's to go"

See, there's something liberating about eating a 'burrito' handed to you by some stranger on the back of a dark shadowy truck. And if there's more liberation in believing the warm foil-wrapped mass in your hand really is a burrito only because you pointed to a picture of a burrito-resembling object on the wall when you handed over your five bucks -- well, I've been there, too. Three times a week sometimes!

And if the truth be known, you feel as though if you can eat that and live through your afternoon meetings or sales calls, then you can survive anything. For Christ sakes, you're eating lunch off a truck! From some guy! Who made it? When? How? Are those peas? Was that a finger? Who knows? You must beinvincible!

The best part is; there's not just one truck. Oh my, no.

"Pizza anyone?"

"Jerky Cache"

There are no less than five trucks in service, each with a different culinary specialty: the Chicago Dog’s truck, with various delights and dishes; the Middle Eastern truck, serving falafel, gyros, and kebabs; the Mexican truck, offering the aforementioned burritos; and the Italian truck, with pizza and subs.

Sure, they all start with the same mystery meat, and slather it with duck sauce, tabouli, Tabasco, or marinara, respectively, before nuking and serving it up to us. But it feels like variety. And the illusions of lunch options are plenty good enough for me. The heartburn's the same, regardless. Viva la vehicular cuisine!

Ice