street food is horrifying to me. seriously, i have nightmares during which i'm stranded fully clothed in the middle of a bustling modern-day metropolis full of reasonably attractive people who aren't homicidal zombies trying to chew my eyes out of their sockets, equipped with all of my teeth and mental faculties. i'm not being chased nor am i pregnant, and i have a bunch of valid credit cards all in my name. i have 20/20 vision, my hair is a windswept mane of desire, and i have a body like a mannequin. everything is perfect, except i'm surrounded on all sides by people who are eating food outside. they're everywhere: wiping grease on the sides of their pants as they fruitlessly search for a napkin, dripping barbecue sauce in their decolletage, unsuccessfully juggling a pop and a slice of pepperoni pizza, chasing that half-eaten bag of chips from where they set it next to them on the sidewalk, oozing lurid green relish from their hot dogs and dripping it on the sidewalk, licking the entire sticky dirty hand that holds the ice cream cone that melts down the side of it, shooing flies and other assorted vermin away from their picnic spread, trying to make eating an outdoor sandwich look even mildly appealing. and there i am in the midst of it all, frozen in place, the fear palpable as i search for a roof under which to safely enjoy my bucket of chicken. there's none to be found, of course, because this is summer and, "omg, let's eat outside!" has replaced baseball as america's favorite national goddamned pastime.seriously, there could be a patch of gravel the size of a pair of my period panties next to the dumpster behind a restaurant and guaranteed some asshole is camped out on it with a sunbrella trying to make eating a salad look manly. what is it about hot weather that does this to otherwise reasonable people? please tell me, what is so awesome about catching skin cancer at high noon under the scorching rays of the hundred-degree sun that makes you want me to drag my pan-seared antelope and woolly mammoth soup outside to eat it? take some vitamin D supplements if it means that much to you, but i'd like to enjoy my pterodactyl burger without sweating into it. I'M TRYING TO WATCH MY SALT INTAKE, BITCH. god, if i could do everything inside of a refrigerator i totally would. get on that, scientists.
so i obviously had no idea that there was some sort of food truck hysteria in chicago because 1 i only watch political news and 2 the words FOOD and TRUCK don't go together where i come from. i can barely explain the concept of a goddamned BARBECUE. that said, having lived my entire adult life in the urban siberia that is rogers park, when i first heard the uproar about food trucks i thought people were referring to the mexican elotes and paleteria la monarca carts that you can't walk five feet without tripping over. they're everywhere up here. freals, if you want some mayonnaise corn or green plaintains or a bag of fresh pork rinds or some mango slices or a hot churro or a tamarind jarritos: I GOT YOU. heaven help any walking errands i ever try to get done in my neighborhood; a tamale at the bank, a couple tacos in front of the library, a watermelon popsicle at the laundromat, vomit before i can even make it back to mi casa. and i was all, "wait a minute, they're trying to shut down LUPE?! the lady who always makes my churros extra cinnamony?! BASTARDS." but no, that ho is still in business, pretending she doesn't speak english when white people try to buy her guava nectar or whatever.
i'm too lazy to google so i'll speculate and make shit up because that's more fun: food trucks are illegal in chicago or something? and i guess bitches is all charged up about it? i don't know, you can feel free to educate me if you've got a valid point, but i don't understand why this is a citywide issue. are you people who work in fancy office buildings downtown just tired of eating chipotle? is that really what all the fuss is about? there's no panda express within walking distance of your offices? girl, i guess. or is everyone just excited that we have them now? no, i think people are mad because we can't have them. or something. WHO CARES. further "research" informed me that these are like giant brinks trucks outfitted with coolers and heaters that drive around the city and served bastardized versions of foods that probably should be eaten off of a plate while relaxing in some air conditioning. or heat, because they're out in winter, too.
all this to say that sarah texted me the other night and asked if i wanted to go to some massive food truck event with her, truckin' thursdays at ethyl's beer and wine dive to be specific, and my immediate response was, "you mean you want to eat food served from a TRUCK while standing OUTSIDE? i'm not doing that." no one whose apartment is as dirty as mine is can call herself a germaphobe, so let's just say that i have some very specific shit that GROSSES ME OUT. like handling money, then picking up something and putting it in my mouth. which is why my multiple attempts at prostitution have failed. also, because the loose change dudes were paying with kept falling out of my g-string and rolling into the sewer as i teetered home in my hooker shoes at three in the morning. anyway, i don't want to pay for food and then touch that food, but i also don't want to be one of those portable hand sanitizer people, wiping radioactive antibacterial goo all over everything in my path. which can be avoided when one eats inside. but i'm trying to be less rigid and terrible (can you believe it?), so i said YES. actually, my response was, "pick me up at work and if i hate it we're leaving immediately." hot damn, i wish i could underline and bold while texting. i could really get my fucking point across. what a peach.
always unnerved when i don't have a map of every available bathroom within a five-mile radius, i wasn't really excited to head into the unknown abyss of easily transportable food in the south loop. and when we got there? lo and behold, my worst nightmare COME TO LIFE. sweaty congregated masses huddled around leaking condiments all over themselves in the blistering heat, laughing and smoking cigarettes and letting their dogs get too motherfucking close to one another all while breathing in the exhaust from six or seven gigantic trucks. in a parking lot behind a restaurant. sure there were tables and chairs and outdoor couches (is that really a thing in real life?), and some domestic design sophisticate had even thought to include a couple games of BAGS. what is this, a frat house?! seriously, dude? BAGS?! too bad i left my white baseball cap at home.
so here's what i got: an overpriced pork taco with plaintains and pickled cabbage, a mini chicken marsala sausage, a mini morrocan lamb sausage, a chicken tamale with peanut butter mole, a cupcake that had rum and pineapple in it, tiny diet cokes that cost two dollars apiece, barked at by a nasty ass pomeranian, and nearly peed on by a bernese mountain dog. i also stepped in something gross and dropped my wallet in a garbage can full of half-eaten vaguely-ethnic yuppie truck food. omg so many cubs shirts! omg so many wraparound shades! omg so many pastel polo shirts! omg so many plastic cups of 312! the taco was good, but i could just wait for lupe to wheel that grocery cart past my apartment tonight and have a better one for half the fucking price. AND I WOULDN'T HAVE TO PUT A BRA ON.
so i'm never eating outside again, by the way. i tried it, and i don't like it very much. i might make an exception, but seriously you're going to have to offer to pay. i'm not fucking kidding.
