Food Trucks

Everyone has heard of food trucks; those mobile kitchens that roam the streets and alleys of our cities looking for a place to park and bestow upon a hungry customer their gourmet delights. I, myself love food trucks and to use a rather arcane phrase, I think they are the cat’s meow. Though, in no way am I implying that cats are involved in any of their succulent dishes, which leaves one purring. I love to cook and even consider myself an upscale gourmet and would love to one day own a food truck. By the time I get to the point where I could even consider owning one they would surely have become as passé as the TV dinner.

But, the other day on my way home from work it occurred to me that the very vehicle that I was driving could easily be converted into a pizza oven, albeit one that is only useful during the summer months when the temperature inside car hovers between that of melting tungsten and the interior of the sun. I could covert that backseat into a larger platform onto which I could affix a large pizza stone and via the modern convenience of cellular communication I could take orders that by the time I arrived at the delivery address would be delightful hot gourmet pizzas. Of course the service would only be available between sunrise and sunset on most summer days. I could even high an assistant that would have arrayed in front of him or her, a variety of the most popular and some of the more exotic pizza ingredients and pre-made pizza dough from which to build my round masterpieces. Once formed the pizzas are put onto the stones and allowed to bake at a toasty temperature somewhere north of the core temperature of Chernobyl.

Somedays, after an especially hot day I often get out of the car and smell the sweet smell of roasted flesh. Thinking that there is a new steak house nearby, I then realize that it is me. Ah the smell of baked on sweat and burned flesh! Usually my clothes are so soaked through that I often wonder if it would be a good idea to add some detergent, which would allow my clothes to at least get a partial washing. Just to keep the temperature below that melting point of the metal inside I have to run with the windows full open – and only two of them work – that to hear the radio even slight I have to turn it up full blast. When I come to a stop at a traffic light people honk at me to turn down my radio because I am drowning out the lowrider next to me with is 10000 watt subwoofers going full bore. Apparently they appreciate the sound of techno-base to NPR. Go figure!

The other thing about traffic lights and stop signs is that once stopped there is no longer any cooling effect from moving at 100 mph. The temperature inside the car begins to rise, right alongside my temper when nothing moves when the light changes green for at least 15 minutes while the lead car's driver finishes the novel-of-a-text he is sending to his girlfriend. My honking is usually drowned out by the blaring NPR on my radio.