waiting on food. Many take the food to go, headed back inside to their air-conditioned offices.
At least one truck has already pulled away and many have closed up their windows. Crowfoot takes the money envelope to the radio station that puts on the event. Entercom Communications takes 10 percent of the day’s sales as the cost of parking and cooking for DTCers.
“Today was a good day; today was busy,” Crowfoot said. “In winter we work twice as hard for half as much money. We’re literally trying to make as much money as we can now.”
Ronnfeldt and Hales finish cleaning up and turn off the generator. They put away the two fans that fought the losing battle of keeping the temperature bearable.
We pull out. On the drive back we talk about our favorite nonmobile restaurants. Like all of us, Crowfoot finds it hard to keep up with all the new openings. I ask her if she thinks the food truck market is as crowded as the brick-and-mortar scene seems to be these days.
“I think the market is overly saturated in Denver,” she said. “It used to be a novelty, but now you can go to any brewery on any day and find a food truck, so that novelty has worn off. All of us have to work harder to differentiate ourselves from the crowd.”
We’re back at the commissary. Some trucks let a crew member off at the gate to race in and claim the sink for dishwashing. Everyone in this truck is too tired to race anywhere.
Crowfoot pulls into J Street’s designated parking spot, and Ronnfeldt and Hales jump out to load up a cart with leftovers and dirty dishes.
Everything is packed and cleaned — nine and a half hours of work for less than two hours of real sales time.
I get into my own fully-doored vehicle and drive back around the clown car of a commissary kitchen. Working the food truck was sort of like that circus-act illusion — there’s so much more to it than meets the eye.